The very first few days were spent crying and screaming and raging in his old bedroom at the top of the Burrow. After seeing the rest of his family secure, George had escaped and locked himself away. Those days were a blur and even in his darkest reflective moments, George couldn't recall all the details. He remembered sweat and vomit and tears dampening pillowcases. He remembered the smell of gunpowder and old leather as he collapsed inside Fred's side of their childhood closet. He remembered the shrill sound of his mother screeching. She had sounded just like a wounded animal. Remembered the jagged sound of his father weeping in the bathroom. And of Ginny curled up into a ball on the sofa, pressed against Hermione and Ron. All with blank, sorrowed expressions. He remembered a vague conversation with his mother as she hovered over him with a wobbling tray of soup.
George remembered seeing Bill and Charlie outside in the garden, lit only by the dim light of a Lumos spell. They had passed an amber bottle of Firewhiskey back and forth for some time, neither speaking. Other than that, George remembered certain pieces of the days leading up to Fred's funeral with piercing clarity. It had been Bill and Charlie who broke through the Wards and Charms on the twins' bedroom door the night before the funeral. Charlie was the one to shove George in an ice-cold bathtub, stripping him of his clothes with brisk hands. George had done nothing and said nothing. Just stared ahead as Charlie scrubbed his scalp and shoulders. He had explained in quiet and even tones that everyone was downstairs, rearranging the last of Fred's funeral plans. George had stirred at that, blinking and licking his chapped lips.
It was Bill who plucked George out of the bath, toweled him dry, and slipped trousers up his legs as if he were a child. Bill's voice had cracked when he whispered, "We need you, George."
And so, George had helped plan his twin brother's funeral. He hadn't spoken, just wrote down Fred's known preferences. The casket. The plot. The headstone. The flower spread. Afterward, he had wordlessly left the Burrow and Apparated to the shop. His mind was scattered enough so that he ended up in Knockturn Alley, which had never before happened to him. Still, George wasn't bothered by it. In fact, he found his issues with Apparating very fitting.
George had entered their- no, his- dusty shop, walking only halfway through the storefront before his legs gave way. There, on the old floorboard next to a purple stain from a Love Potion mishap, George had cried. And cried. And cried. Silent tears. The kind that tightened his throat and burned his eyes and made the tip of his nose run like a leaky faucet. It had taken some time to gather what he needed, but George stumbled about in the dark. He couldn't bare to turn on any lights. After Warding the shop once more, George had walked to the very edge of Diagon Alley before Apparating away.
On a warm and sunny morning in the second week of May 1998, Fred Fabian Weasley was laid to eternal rest. A multitude of people showed up. Most George didn't know, but plenty of them were friends and associates and old classmates. Seats had been Conjured by Bill, Harry, Charlie, and Arthur all morning long.
It was Kingsley Shacklebolt that offered a sermon in his deep, somber voice. George heard the words, but couldn't comprehend them. His eyes were on the handsome mahogany casket and not on Shacklebolt. George stayed still; knees locked in place even as his body trembled like a fragile leaf in a harsh breeze. All of his family stood at his side on the knoll under the biggest apple tree in the Weasley Orchard. The Weasley Family Plots were just over the next hill, surrounded by a white-picket fence and plenty of protective magic, but all had agreed Fred deserved his own space. George had been the one to write down on a piece of parchment a simple sentence: The big apple tree on the hill.
Many people spoke of Fred in wobbly voices and watery laughter. Arthur. Bill. Charlie. Harry. Lee. Angelina. Katie. McGonagall. Flitwick. And many more, but George could hardly pay attention. He felt as if he were in a trance as he stared at that polished wooden box. He knew people expected him to stand before everyone and speak, but he had no words. There were no words strong enough to describe his twin and the life they had led together.
It was George who had been the once to dress Fred's body in magenta robes and dragonhide boots in a cold hospital room at St Mungo's earlier that very same morning. He hadn't slept at all, waiting until half past four o'clock, only to find his father shuffling into the kitchen with a lost expression. George had croaked, "I'm going to St Mungo's." His father had nodded, blue eyes shining horribly with tears.
George was thinking of magenta robes the entire time people spoke publicly. Eventually, he realized the last speaker was walking to his seat once more with his head ducked down. An older man. He had been a regular costumer of theirs for some time. Always bringing in his grandchildren to WWW. Until the war had forced them to shut down.
Swallowing heavily, George's hand tightened on his wand within his pocket. Just a slight flick and muttered word under his breath. Then, the memory of Fred's voice was amplified and echoing along the gentle breeze.
"If I kick the bucket, Georgie, you have to make it a riot. Light off fireworks. Throw Dungbombs at Aunt Muriel. Plant one on Granger and watch Ron go off his nut. If you do that, I'll be laughing in the afterlife, I swear to Merlin."
There were gasps and murmurs and sobs becoming increasingly louder from his mother just behind him. George glanced up, the corners of his mouth pulling up just slightly, as lights burst across the bright-blue sky. Orange and purple and pink and yellow. Green and blue and red. There were booms and grumbles and whistles from far above. Rude hand gestures and sparks popped about, causing a great many of wet laughs. Just as planned. George, who had not looked behind or beside him for the entirety of the funeral, turned abruptly and slid quickly between Bill and Charlie's bodies.
There was only a split second for him to take in the pale, tear-stained faces and then he grabbed Hermione Granger by the face and planted a firm peck right on her trembling lips. She was blushing and laughing and wiping fitfully at her eyes as George whirled back around. He glanced to the left, pulling his hand out of his pocket and expertly tossing a Dungbomb right at his ancient, grouchy old aunt. She was shrieking and the laughter coming from his family was stunning in its sorrow.
George glanced up once more at the colorful sky and Apparated away. "See you later, Freddie."