Aftermath – Before the Funeral

George

He cannot do this. He simply cannot do it. When he has had to face anything difficult in the past, he has not done so alone. He has never done anything alone, right from the moment he was born. He has always been half of a whole. Now he feels like less than nothing.

Fred is dead.

Fred is dead.

He knows it is true. He knew the minute it happened, even though he wasn't there. (How he wishes he had been there.) He felt as if half his soul was ripped away in a second, and he hasn't been able to breathe without it hurting since. How can he go on breathing when Fred can't? How can he be when Fred isn't?

He sits by Fred's body, and tries to memorise his face. He is scared he will forget what Fred's voice sounds like. (He knows that would sound stupid to anyone else. How can he forget his own face, his own voice? But it is not the same. He knows it is not.)

When he sees himself in the mirror, he can fool himself for less than a second that it is Fred he sees. Fred never looked like this – white-faced, red-eyed, with black shadows under the eyes. Fred didn't cry. (Well, he did, but not like this. George can remember every time he saw Fred cry over the last few years. When Ginny was taken into the Chamber of Secrets and they thought she was dead. When Cedric died. When Dad was hurt. When Bill was hurt and Dumbledore died. When he lost his ear last summer.) But Fred never cried like this. He never had reason to.

Part of him wishes that it had been him who had died. But that would have meant leaving Fred alone, as he is alone now. How could he wish grief like this on anyone, least of all the person he loved most in the world? So he changes it to wishing they had both died. That would have been better. Tidier. Bearable. (Because he would not have had to bear it. He shies away from the thought of how it would be for his family, for Ginny, for his mother.)

They try to help. They hold him when he cries. They bully him into eating. They sit with him, and try to let him know he is not alone. But he is alone, and they know it. His parents have lost their son. Bill and Charlie and Percy and Ron and Ginny have lost their brother. But none of them have lost their twin, their other half, part of themself. None of them are torn in shreds as he is. And they know it. They are there for him, but none of them is the one person he wants and cannot have.

Will never have again.

He cannot do this. He simply can't. Not without Fred. Not on his own. He can't.

Eventually, the knowledge that he cannot do this leads him to the one inescapable conclusion. He goes to their – his – their room, sits on Fred's bed, and points his wand at his own face. He wonders detachedly if it will hurt, but he doesn't care much. It cannot hurt more than what he is going though now.

There is a knock on the door, and Bill's voice calling his name. This is one reason they will not leave him alone for long. They are afraid that they will lose him too. They do not realise they already have. He ignores Bill.

"George! Open the door, or I will."

Damn. Bill is a curse-breaker. There is nothing he can do to the door that Bill will not be able to get through. He flicks his wand at the door to open it, then turns it back to his face. He does not look up as Bill comes in and sits opposite him on the other bed, but he is aware that Bill has pulled out his own wand, and is no doubt wondering if he has time to disarm his brother before he does anything.

"Can you do Avada Kadevra on yourself?" he asks, as if he were asking about a spell to clear up the mess on the floor or to clean the windows.

"I wouldn't know. I've never tried it." It would be a lame joke in normal circumstances, and these are far from normal. Neither of them smiles.

There is a long silence, and eventually he finds that he has to raise his eyes and look at his older brother. It is the first time he has seen Bill cry since they came home.

"I assume you're going to try to stop me?" he asks. His voice is flat. He doesn't seem to be able to manage to be angry or resentful.

"I won't, on one condition."

He can't believe he's heard right, and he gazes at Bill blankly.

There is another silence.

Then: "Go and tell Mum what you're going to do first, and I'll not stop you."

He lets out a long breath. "That's not fair, Bill."

"None of this is fair, Georgie." Bill is biting his lip, trying to speak evenly, but failing. There are tears on his face now.

Another long silence, then he holds out his wand to Bill. "Just take it. And go."

Bill stands, and takes the wand. His hand is shaking more than George's own. He turns back when he reaches the door. "Where's Fred's wand, George?"

George cannot speak, but he opens the drawer in the bedside table and pulls out Fred's wand. It is very like his own – oak with a dragon heartstring core – but shorter and thicker, less flexible, more pointed. It feels warm in his hand, familiar, comfortable. He holds it out to Bill, who takes it and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

(He does not hear Bill descending the stairs two at a time and going out through the seldom-used front door, or see him running across the yard and the garden to the orchard where he can hide until he stops shaking.)

He sits on Fred's bed for what seems a long time, and then the door opens again and Ginny comes in. She sits down beside him and holds his hand, but does not say anything. He sighs, and lies down on the bed, and she lies beside him, curling her body into his. He is glad she is there.

He keeps breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

Perhaps one day he will be able to do it without it hurting.