A/N: Another sad chapter. WARNING: Suicidal thoughts! I have never tried my hand at this before, so please give me constructive crit. R&R!

Enjoy

UPDATE:

Thanks to hjvfbgdfhjgbfk for the advice :) Is it any better?

George stood by his open window, eyes closed. Tears were flowing down his cheeks, like a silver river of silent torment.

"Fred…" he said softly. His voice caught in his throat, and for a moment, George could hardly breathe. He heard a soft tune carry on the breeze, and the tight band around him loosened ever so slightly. Fred had always loved the nightingale's song, though he would die before admitting it.

He had died before admitting it.

Sinking to his knees, George rested his head on the windowsill. His breath was choked, trapped in his chest, and the black walls rushed in on him. The empty upper bunk jeered in his direction, mocking and cold. Casting his eyes up to the stars, George was filled with endless despair.

"You up there, Freddie?" he croaked. The points of distant light just looked unflinchingly back. After no response (had he really expected a response?) George laughed feverishly, his eyes and heart bursting with pain.

What if he joined Fred? What if he joined him, right now?

Looking out the window, George assessed the height. Would it be enough to kill him, or would he just be badly injured? That would be unfortunate.

George, old boy, you've gone mad! Fred would be laughing at you if he saw you right now…

But Fred isn't laughing. That's why I've got to do this! He can laugh when I've reached wherever he is.

That is logical… But you can't! What about Mum?

Forget Mum. Forget them all! They have each other. I only have Fred… I only had Fred.

George couldn't hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears. His body was slick with sweat; his heartbeat so fast that the separate beats seemed connected. A steady buzzing rolled around his head as he contemplated the drop. Before, he had associated heights with Quidditch, and happiness; always dreading reaching the ground. That had changed. Now, this one height would be his welcome last. George braced his hands on either side of the window, and set one foot on the sill. He looked at the darkness looming out before him; the darkness that his life had become. Well, no longer… He was crouching on the sill like a cat prepared to spring, when he heard her voice.

"George," gasped Ginny. "Please, come back from there," she begged. Her voice pierced through the noise in George's mind, like drowning man's first breath of air. He remained unresponsive, however, so she pulled him away from the window, and onto his bed. He came easily, and sat, puppet-like, under her anxious stare.

"Ginny?" George found himself saying. The girl wrapped her arms around him.

"George, tell me you weren't. You weren't!" Her voice was borderline hysterical. George could not meet her eyes.

"Oh, George," Ginny whispered. The two redheads sat with their arms around each other, trembling, for what seemed like an eternity.

"I don't know what came over me, Ginny. Honestly, I'm sorry," apologized George.

"Sorry? Sorry? George, you need my support, not my forgiveness," said Ginny fiercely. Her brother looked at her with mild surprise. "You're not alone, Georgie. You'll never be alone."

"I suppose. It doesn't feel that way, though." George looked at the ceiling. Ginny unwound her arms from around him, and took his hand.

"It might not feel that way now, but it will," she reassured him.

"I… I just feel like I need a sign. Something to let me know that Fred's still listening- or, that he's still with me- I don't know. I just need a sign," George confessed almost sheepishly. Ginny nodded.

"You should get to bed now, it's late. We can talk in the morning, after you've rested. Do you want me to stay?" she asked gently.

"Go on," he said quietly.

"Okay." Ginny kissed him on the cheek and left. George curled under his blankets and closed his eyes, relaxing in the warmth they offered. His mind cleared slowly, and in his last moments of lucidity before sleep, he smiled.

He smiled because, outside his window, he heard the nightingales singing.

A/N: I think it might be kind of cheesy that Fred likes nightingales… But oh well, I thought it was sweet. How was my creepy suicidal bit? It felt a little funny; I've rewritten it a lot.