A/N: The credit of the Harry Potter plot and characters belongs solely to J.K. Rowling. I own nothing of it but my own words.
Sorry for the long wait. I know I say this a lot, but things have been hectic. I should have a lot more free time soon.
Abandoned: In Defense of George Weasley
He remembers the yelling, the uproar of their enraged mother. He remembers the panting, the running as fast as their chubby little legs can go. He remembers the crying, the howling of poor, traumatized Ronniekins. Most of all, he remembers the laughter, the two cackles sounding identical, mischievous, happy.
He remembers their first switch. A simple exchange of names. They only lasted ten seconds, and Mum punished them swiftly, without mercy, but they'd do it again in a heartbeat, just to see if they could get away with it the next time, and they do.
He remembers the way they worked. Fred came up with the ideas; he made them functional. Fred was unbridled chaos; he softened the blow. Fred got them into trouble; he made sure they didn't get caught. (He didn't always succeed.)
He remembers the pecking order at home. Bill, the logical one. Charlie, the adventurous one. Percy, the responsible one. Ron, the friendly one. Ginny, the fierce one. And they were the life of the family, the ones who brought the laughter and excitement and kept everyone on their toes.
He remembers their first train ride to Hogwarts. He'd been awestruck, but Fred just bounded into the fullest compartment like he'd been there all his life. Like he belonged there. (He did.)
He remembers getting the Marauder's Map. He dropped the Dungbomb; Fred grabbed the map. He figured it out; Fred mastered the art of using it help them. They memorized it like the backs of their nearly identical hands.
He remembers joining the Quidditch team, second year. Beaters had to work in perfect tandem with each other, and who better for that than a pair of twins? Fred may have been the more extreme in life, but he was more aggressive on the field.
He remembers the experimenting. Trial, trial, and try again. He remembers the first success, and he remembers the many — many — explosions. Fred always laughed after each one, uncontrollably and contagiously; he'd crack a wry smile, and think of another way to do it.
He remembers Fred thought of the joke shop idea first. He came up with the name, the design, and the boring stuff. Fred was the showman; he was the behind the scenes guy. ("I'm just more handsome," Fred would claim. "We look exactly the same," he always pointed out. "Well," considered Fred seriously, "I guess I just pull it off better.")
He remembers Percy leaving. He remembers how Mum cried and Dad looked angrier than he'd ever seen him. He remembers the look of pure betrayal on Fred's face, and he remembers hating Percy right then and there.
He remembers the moment the war got real, for him at least. Lying on the couch, blood gushing from his head, his brother and mum absolutely terrified for him. He remembers the fear of getting hit. He remembers thinking he didn't want to die. He couldn't leave his twin.
The joke was on him.
He remembers seeing his dead body, surrounded by the dead bodies of everyone else he knew or didn't. He remembers the frozen laughter on his brother's face, like he knew some grand joke the rest of them didn't. He'd always been a part of those jokes, before.
He remembers because it's all he can do anymore. Because he can't laugh and he can't smile and he can't live, not without Fred. He was one half of a whole, but the other half had left, and he'd never felt so alone, so betrayed. He's angry, and he's bitter, and he hates Fred, but mainly he hates that he can't hate him. Because Fred was the one who left, but he was the one who paid.
He avoids mirrors for two years after. He doesn't leave Charlie's room at the Burrow for four months. He definitely doesn't go into their room. He doesn't do anything on April 1, and he doesn't even get out of bed on May 2.
He's subjected to speeches, pity, and interventions. He sits through laughter, tears, and voices, but never the one he truly wants to hear.
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes almost goes bankrupt, and for a long time, he can't bring himself to care. What was the point? (Harry and Ron and Bill keep the place running in his absence.)
He hates himself for falling in love with Angelina. He really, really does. He tries to run from it, but fate is cruel, and it has a strange sense of humor, and he can't help but be drawn to his twin's ex-girlfriend. Sometimes he thinks she sees Fred when she looks at him, but he can't even see himself anymore.
When Angie gets pregnant a second time, it's a boy, and she wants to name him Fred II. He objects; it feels too much like replacing him. But he holds his newborn son, and really, it's the only name that could ever fit.
He lives a happy, lovely life, surrounded by his wife and kids and brothers and sister and nephews and nieces and Mum and Dad and, regrettably, Great-Aunt Muriel, and he feels guilty that Fred never got this chance. Every day. It's a cruel twist of fate, but he can't help being glad he was the one who lived. And he hates himself for that.
He dies an old man, and he's buried next to his brother. He wakes up in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. But there are mirrors everywhere. And he's young. He's got both ears and everything. And the store's empty. (It's never empty.)
And this reflection behind him speaks, and it's not a reflection at all.
"Hey, Georgie," says twenty-year-old Fred, with that same dumb smirk on his face (the one he's always had), "How you feelin'?"
He grins and says, "Holy," and means it.