A/N: The first chapter is kind of shorter than I would have liked it to be. It's a bit serious. A bit more serious, actually, than the rest of this should be. I'm looking to change the tone more, but my stories kind of write themselves, so who knows what will happen. is putting random symbols on my stories, I'm not sure if it's happening to you, too, but they're there for me, please try to ignore them.

Chapter One

Undoing Family Ties

It wasn't until much later that George woke up. He was in the flat above his and Fred's joke store. In the flat was a kitchen, large living area and two small rooms. The flat was strangely lit. A green glow as of the sea was everywhere, and the flat seemed to rock back and forth, almost like a ship. In fact George realized, as he went to get out of bed. The flat was filled with water. He opened his mouth and three bubbles came out, ascending to the ceiling, George found he could breathe.

Walking in water made no sense, so George made the awkward motion to swim. He had never been a good swimmer, but found it rather easy. As if he were riding a broom rather than being immersed in sea water filling his home. Out into the hallway and to the door to the left. Looking at the drenched pictures of friends and family. His Aunt Muriel glared at him and tapped on the frame of her picture.

Fred's room was even more strangely lit than the rest of the place. There was only one light on, a lamp next to the bed. Still George could see Fred's outline, lying on the bed. It was too dark to see much else. Somehow the weird greenish glow didn't penetrate this part of the flat.

George found the light switch. As soon as the lights turned on the flat was waterless and everything was completely dry. Fred lay on the bed. George couldn't tell, but ti looked to him that he was breathing, steadily. Whether it was his imagination or not he ran to the side of the bed, grabbed Fred's arm a shook it. "Fred, Fred! Are you…is it really?"

Bright red eyes, a snake like face, Voldemort rose from the bed, his wand pointed straight at George. "And what a shame is this," he said, a chuckle or something like it, rising off the end of his statement. "The brother of one of them struck dead? Tragedy follows you where you walk, boy. You will not be with us for long."

"George, sweetie? Are you alright?"

George bolted up in bed, breathing hard. His mother sat beside him, looking concerned. He was in his old room, back in the Burrow. The walls were empty, devoid. Several boxes lined the wall to his left, unfinished projects that were to be left unfinished. "I'm f-fine, mum, why?" he asked. He realized his hands were shaking something awful and clutched the sheet as he pulled himself up to sit.

"I was checking in on all of you, making sure you were okay, dear," his mother said, looking at him with that look. The pity look. The one George always got whenever he told people he was Weasley in first year. As if the name was a burden to carry. "You were shaking like mad, and muttering something about…about, well, never you mind. Some tea, then? Harry can't sleep either, perhaps the two of you can talk."

"Mum, I-" George began.

"Tea, now," she said, her eyes narrowing. "I'm still your mother, legal age or not, you're having tea."

Remembering his mother's turn on Bellatrix Lestrange George thought it best to follow her orders. They trooped down the stairs, into the kitchen. Harry sat at the large dining table, his tea looking quite untouched. He had an odd expression on his face. Happy and yet sad. It must be how they all looked. How George was trying to look. Sure, Voldemort was gone. But his dream had scared him, whether or not it had happened.

Because Fred…well, Fred has happened. Who was to say whether Voldemort was really dead, after all? Hadn't he surely been dead seventeen years ago when Harry had been The Boy Who Lived? Hadn't everyone in the Wizarding World felt he, as a baby, had saved them? And now he had saved them again, at seventeen. But he hadn't saved Fred. i Don't think that, George. You know if Harry had had it his way no one would have died that night. Don't think that. /i

"Now, you sit here, George, sit!" his mother barked, pointing to the seat across from Harry, who jumped. Indeed it seemed the first he was even aware of their presence in the kitchen. He smiled faintly at George' mother, then at George, who in turn nodded. He sat down and looked at his mother, who made a face at him.

"Er," George said, half looking at Harry, half looking at his mum. "Thanks for…saving the world, Harry?"

"Oh, for goodness sakes, George, that's not what I meant!" his mother fumed. Harry, on the other hand, grinned at his tea, and George's mother slammed down a cup for him. "Tell him it wasn't his fault," she muttered in George's ear.

"Sorry, mum, can't hear you, that's my bad ear, you know, the one that's kind of, not there?" George quipped. He received a slap on the back of his head. "Alright, alright, geeze, mum. I would've told him, you didn't have to tell me too."

His mother flushed a violet red of anger and embarrassment. "Well, maybe you should…just talk to Harry, then," she said, looking hurried. "And don't you dare laugh at me George," she said as trailed up the stairs.

"Oh, but Harry laughs, and he gets a special dorky sweater, does he?" George called after her. Harry laughed again but George's mother seemed to far away to hear his comment.

"What did she…ah, what did she say to say?" He asked after a moment of silence, pushing the tea around in front of him, not quite looking at George.

"Some mental stuff about it not being your fault whoever died," George said, struggling to stay calm. "I know it's not. It's like she thinks I'm out to avenge Fred's…I mean, why would I blame you? We were there on our own choice, if anything-"

"It's not your fault, either, though, George," Harry said, looking at him. Why were people so afraid to look at him? Like th death of his twin had changed him into some kind of monster they couldn't bare to see? Suddenly George realized what it must have been like for Harry. One day the center of unwanted attention, the next shunned and whispered about, but never looked at by your peers. "It's no one's fault, you can't blame yourself for people dying. Dying…dying isn't so simple as someone's fault or someone's grief. It's, just, it's so much more than that."

"Then why do you blame yourself Harry?" George said, realizing what was going on, what had gone before. "When Sirius died, it seems like forever ago, it was only about two years ago. You blamed yourself then, I know you did. You still do. You blame yourself for Fred and Lupin and Tonks and then preach to me about how I shouldn't do the same thing. Harry, you're brilliant, and all mate, but get a grip. You probably still blame yourself for…for them. Your parents, right?"

Harry looked down at his tea again. "If Professor Trelawney…if she hadn't made that prediction. If I hadn't been born, it wouldn't have been me, George. They died for me. Do you know what that's like? Nobody knows what that's like."

"You can blame people, Harry. You can blame yourself. You can blame Professor Trelawney or Professor Binns for all I care. The point it, Harry, it's like you said. Death isn't someone's fault, it's more than that. People aren't as simple as when they live and die, or what you see every day, okay. Nothing in life is that way." Sudden Harry seemed like a kid. He may have been through more than George, but he had always been sheltered, somewhere. His aunt and uncle made for poor parents, George knew. And Mrs. Weasley was no substitute. But for two years Fred and George had lived on their own without ever really being on their own. And now George was on his own, He wasn't going to stay at the Burrow until he got old. There was no way he would shelter himself from life.

"I understand what you mean," Harry said, standing up. i No, you don't, /i George thought. "Things aren't so one sided as what you see. I'm going to head up to bed, George, good night, and, er, I'm sorry, I suppose."

"Alright, well, good night then," George said. He sat at the dining table as he listened to Harry head up the stairs. Harry was a good person, George knew, and he meant well. He was just as much a part of the family as anyone else. Still, the house seemed empty without someone to always talk to. George often wondered what people thought Fred and George did when other people weren't around. Sure, they were the same old people, cheery usually and joking. But what you see everyday is not what you always get. Despite not even graduating Hogwarts George theorized he and Fred knew a lot more than those working in the Ministry.

The Ministry. George could only imagine the hell that was going on there. Whoever was in charge must be going crazy. With Scrimgeour dead, though, who was heading things over there? Certainly Fudge wasn't back? It seemed unlikely. But obviously things were still running from what Audrey had said. Ah, wait! That was it. Audrey Ryan would know who was heading things at the Ministry, after all, she worked there.

The Burrow, completely void of luxury was still not a fond place to leave. George got up and went to head for the door, but instead found himself thinking that he wouldn't be back for quite a while. But, nah, it was just one of those feelings. One of those things that meant nothing and felt like everything. Or was it vice versa? Too late to think of now. Had to walk a good distance away as to not let anyone realize he had left earlier than they should know. Common courtesy dictated a note but common sense dictated an immediate leave.

Once outside the house George took a firm stand not to look back. If he looked back he'd get second thoughts. And second thoughts would lead to third thoughts and those always ended up in the plan to fail. He'd run back to his home and sit there the rest of his life, mourning. You can't mourn by sitting alone in some room. In fact, George figured, you can't mourn at all. You can remember, but mourning is the easy way out. It's just being sad.

Remembering is much harder. It's memories and seeing that you're alone without that person that are much harder to face. Every memory is a slap in the face to what should be, but isn't. Every memory is also a whisper of what won't be and shouldn't. Death separates us for wrong reasons and for good reasons, but it is never quite a happy thing for everyone. Even Voldemort's demise, while wonderful, was causing turmoil in and of itself.

Once he was out to the field where he and Fred used to practice Quidditch George reckoned he was far enough away to break his firm stand on not looking back. The Burrow stood, decrepit and beautiful in the distance. The sun was just peeking over the hills, in but a few hours everyone would wake and realize he was gone, but not know where he had gone. The light was on, George could see, in his parent's room. He was sure it was his mother, probably crying something awful. It hurt to do this to her, it really did. But it would hurt George more not to go. He wasn't going to sit around all day wishing Fred was back. He would go to Audrey, see what she knew. After that? Who knew. He'd figure it out.

George raised his wand. He now realized he was still shaking. That stupid dream...he couldn't get it out of his head. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of the glowing red eyes, of the cloaked figure that had replaced his twin's dead body. With open eyes he once again raised his shaking hand and with a loud i CRACK! /i he disappeared into the night.