a/n- Originally, this was posted as a seperate oneshot. But now it's here, and more will follow.

Harry's hand is in his and the only thing keeping him anchored to the moment. Standing in a small, quiet square of land, under a gray sky - a neutral pocket of the world, outside of which nothing exists.

At least that's what it feels like.

It's not right that his brother's here. Lying under the ground, tucked away so quietly, out of sight and out of mind, just another name in a row. No one would think to look for him here, in a place like this. His brother deserves something...better. Something bright and wonderful. Something verging upon inappropriate, ostentanious and distracting in this place of peace and mourning - because something like that would make his brother laugh and what else matters?

What else matters at all? What could possibly be more important than the fact that his brother is gone?

How dare they tell him to move on, to pull through? How dare they expect him to forget even an ounce of this monstrous ocean of hurt? Who do they think they are, to tell him to forget?

His breath catches and his eyes are stinging.

It's not fair that he can cry this much. He would never have thought years ago that a person could shed this many tears.

But years ago he'd never have thought -

"George?"

Crawling agony ripping through him again, again and again, the way it always does anymore, slowly, carefully, leaving him feeling hollow and sick and shaking and wishing impossible things. He sinks into a crouch, curling forward and trying to force the clinging thoughts away and keep his violent sobs as quiet as he can.

He's scared the pain is going to kill him.

He's scared he wants it to.

I miss him.

I want him.

"George," Harry's voice is so quiet, but the undercurrent of fear is there, plain as the uncaring world around them. He pulls himself in tighter, unwilling to show or share. He's pathetic enough, half-person that he is, he doesn't need Harry seeing this.

And Harry already has the whole world's problems on his shoulders. He doesn't need Harry seeing this. But -

"I'm right here." Harry's words are close and so is he. He's pressing against George's side, leaning against him like he's strong. He knows not to say it's okay. George wants to cry harder with relief that Harry won't say it's okay.

It isn't okay. It will never be okay.

Something like this - it isn't okay.

"I want him," George whispers, feeling cold and shivering. For the first time, he puts his voice behind the bottomless desperation. "I want him. I want him."

"I know." Harry's voice is trembling, about to break under the weight of understanding. "I know you do." He looks like he has no idea how to embrace someone, even as he brings his arms around George.

And the weight of them - so slight, like they're barely there - sends an ache through him. Because he's so small, so much like a little brother and so in need of the same comfort he's giving away.

And George remembers, somehow, in this ink-black darkness that clings and binds and suffocates, how it feels to be a brother as he unwraps himself and pulls the scarred boy in close. He wonders at how twisted he is, that Harry could remind him of what his family couldn't.

But it's not blood that's important. It's not.

It's closeness. And understanding, and - how could he push away Harry, who looks at him with hooded green eyes, waiting for anger and rage and hurt because Harry blames himself for every casualty, every death weighing on his heart; how could he push away Harry, who looks at him like it's just what he deserves?

So he holds him tighter and pretends he's still human enough to comfort and protect. He pretends—for just a moment—that he's not too lost to his own drowning despair to save Harry from his.

And maybe that's what works a sob loose from the younger boy, who immediately tries to muffle it, to pull away and hide.

"It's...I'm sorry, George. I'm sorry, I'm—"

"It's not your fault." The words are almost lost, he can't trust his voice yet. But he trusts Harry to hear him.

Harry's good at hearing him.

So he'll repeat it over and over and over again until somehow Harry starts believing. And maybe that'll help ground him, help chase the scary purposelessness away. He has to have a reason, a distraction, something, anything to keep him on his feet. He doesn't have the strength to stand on his own. He's never had to before.

He looks at the embarrassed young wizard in his arms, and feels a lightness he hasn't felt in months.

Harry. Giving meaning to the worthless.

The polished stone draws his eyes, and he smiles at the name he can't bring himself to speak.

If I'm going to stay here, away from you, he imagines telling his brother gravely, resting his chin on Harry's head, it's gonna be for a damn good reason.

He imagines Fred laughing and, for a few minutes, all the darkness is gone.