Here is the next updated chapter. Please enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, just the plot of this story. All rights stay with J. K. Rowling.
Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you. - Professor Dumbledore
Chapter 1 - Explanations
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"Hermione?"
The single word cracks through the silence like thunder, and Hermione's breath catches in her throat. Her wand slips from her fingers, clattering uselessly against the wooden floor, forgotten.
She stares.
Her heart pounds so hard it echoes in her ears.
There, standing just inside the doorway, is a ghost she hadn't expected to see. Not him. Not George.
He looks like a shadow of the man she once knew—taller than she remembers, thinner too, like the weight of the world has carved away pieces of him. His once-vibrant red hair, though still unmistakably Weasley, hangs a little lower over his forehead, dulled and unkempt. The slim angles of his face are unmistakable, mirroring the one that has haunted every corner of the Burrow since the war—Fred's face. The resemblance is so striking, so painfully identical, that it makes her stomach twist.
But it is his eyes that truly break her heart.
They are hollow, sunken deep into his face, the skin beneath them bruised and purple with weeks—maybe months—of restless nights. The usual glint of mischief, of the twin who once turned every moment into something worth laughing at, is gone. Replaced with a dull ache, a weary silence that feels far heavier than any words.
"G-George?" she finally manages, her voice a broken whisper. "What are you doing here?"
George blinks slowly, his eyes flickering up to meet hers for the briefest of moments—just long enough for her to see the grief behind them, the pain that no spell could ever heal. Then, without a word, he shakes his head and averts his gaze, stepping past her like a ghost through fog.
Hermione turns with him, watching silently as he walks into the kitchen. His arms are full of grocery bags—simple, Muggle-style paper bags packed with food containers and supplies. He places them on the counter with care, as if he is afraid that even the smallest noise will shatter something invisible in the room.
She slowly follows him in, slipping onto one of the stools across from him, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her heart still beats wildly in her chest, uncertain what to say, what to feel.
George doesn't speak. He doesn't look at her. He simply keeps moving, mechanically pulling things from the bags—tea tins, soup cans, dry goods—and putting them away in their proper cabinets like it is the only thing keeping him grounded.
The silence between them grows long and heavy, settling over the room like a thick fog.
Hermione swallows hard, staring at him. At the way his shoulders slump slightly. At the quiet, distant expression on his face. There is something so unbearably hollow in his every movement. Like each one costs him a little more energy than the last.
And still… he doesn't look at her.
Not yet.
Not until he is ready.
It stings more than she cares to admit—how he walks right past her without a single word, like she is no more than a wisp of air drifting in his path. Hermione sits frozen in place, the echo of his steps still heavy in the hallway, her heart caught somewhere between confusion and sorrow.
She has always believed she shares something special with the twins—Fred and George have been her family in every way that matters. Even when their jokes make her groan or when their pranks get under her skin, she's known—known—they care for her just as deeply as she does them. But seeing George now, so withdrawn and unreachable, she realizes that perhaps none of them truly grasp just how deep the wound runs in him.
Fred and George have always been two halves of a single whole.
They finish each other's sentences, craft jokes with a single glance, understand each other on a level no one else can touch. The world knows them as the comedic duo, the troublemakers, the bright sparks in even the darkest days—but Hermione sees now what is left when one of those sparks is snuffed out.
George's silence isn't cold.
It's grieving.
Haunted.
As Hermione stays rooted to her seat in the kitchen, she watches the lines of tension etched into his frame, how his shoulders remain rigid, how his jaw clenches as he carefully arranges jars and boxes on the shelves as if it's the only thing tethering him to the present moment. His hands move on their own, but she can tell his mind is elsewhere.
And then, just for a flicker of a moment, she sees it—the way his eyes flick down, the faint tremble in his fingers as they brush over a tin of tea Fred used to love. His breath catches ever so slightly in his throat, just enough for Hermione to see that he isn't really here with her.
He's back there—on the battlefield.
She doesn't need Legilimency to know the memories that have come flooding back at the sight of her. She had been there that night too. She had seen the broken body, heard the sob that tore from George's throat, the one that hadn't sounded like him at all, because it came from a part of his soul that had been ripped open.
Hermione swallows hard, her chest tightening as she looks at him—this shadow of a man who once lit up every room with laughter, now consumed by the ghost of his twin.
And still… he says nothing.
But the silence between them isn't empty. It's loud with the grief that clings to him like smoke—impossible to outrun.
And all she can do… is sit with him in it.
FLASHBACK
The night Fred Weasley is killed, time shatters.
The chaos of the final battle has barely ebbed when the Weasley family, along with Harry and Hermione, gather around his lifeless body. Sprawled on the cold stone floor of the Great Hall, Fred's face is still caught in the last breath of laughter—a smile frozen in time. But there is no warmth left in him.
Molly's cries of anguish echo through the cavernous hall like a mother's curse against the universe. Arthur clutches her trembling shoulders, his own face crumpling under the weight of his son's death. Ginny sobs into Bill's chest. Percy kneels on Fred's other side, whispering something between broken breaths. And George—George sits silently beside his twin, unmoving, his world tilted off its axis.
Tears carve silent rivers down his cheeks as he stares at Fred's face, waiting for it to twitch, for his eyes to open and tell him it is all a mistake. But nothing happens. The longer he looks, the more wrong it feels. He has never looked at Fred and not seen a spark of mischief behind his eyes, never known a moment where he couldn't feel his twin's energy humming beside him.
That night, George doesn't speak. He doesn't scream. He doesn't break.
He simply breaks apart.
When the sun begins to rise, casting gold through the broken windows of the castle, the Weasleys make the decision to take Fred home. They bury him in the field behind the Burrow, beneath the sprawling limbs of the ancient oak tree that has been the twins' favorite since childhood—a place of laughter, mischief, and whispered secrets.
The ceremony is quiet. No words can capture the storm of grief that hangs in the air.
After the others have gone inside, George remains frozen for a long time, standing at the edge of the freshly turned earth. His eyes are dry now, the tears long gone. He turns and walks silently back into the house, up to the room they once shared. Without hesitation, he opens Fred's wardrobe and pulls out the worn Dragon-Skin coat that Fred has always loved—dark, slick, slightly singed from one of their many shop experiments.
He takes it back out to the grave.
With trembling hands, he lays it over the mound of dirt, smoothing it lovingly, fingers brushing over invisible wrinkles. Then, he presses the tip of his wand to the hem and murmurs an enchantment that ensures it will never rot, fade, or decay. It will remain just as it is—forever protecting the spot where his brother rests.
Next, he conjures a ring of Titan Arums—corpse flowers. An odd choice, perhaps, but it makes sense to George. They are wild, outrageous things, just like Fred. But he alters them—shrinking them so they only peek gently above the soil, their thick green stalks circling the grave like sentries. He removes their infamous stench and replaces it with a scent only he could have crafted: the scent of butterbeer and smoke, the tang of summer grass and the warmth of laughter shared under the oak tree. A scent made of memories.
He layers charm after charm, preserving the flowers in full bloom, holding their life in place with the same desperation he wishes he could do for his twin. The air shimmers briefly, then calms.
Finally, he sits.
He lowers himself cross-legged before the green and red-veined headstone the family has chosen—simple, but striking, carved with care.
Fred Weasley
April 1978 – May 1998
Beloved Son, Brother, and Prankster. Rest in Peace.
A few more tears slip down George's cheeks, tracing silent paths through the grime and sorrow that cling to his skin like a second layer. He doesn't bother wiping them away. Instead, he lets them fall, hot and aching, as memories begin to flood his mind—uncontrollable and vivid.
Laughter ringing through the halls of the Burrow as they turn the kitchen into a miniature swamp. The way Fred used to wink just before unleashing a perfectly timed prank. The shared smirks across the Gryffindor table when one of their inventions goes off spectacularly in a professor's face. Midnight whispers of plans and dreams under a blanket fort built in their room. Detention after detention, side by side, always smirking, always together.
Fred has been the spark in every flame. And now, George is left with the smoke.
Before he realizes it, he's talking—words tumbling out in a quiet murmur, almost a whisper. His voice cracks as he begins to share his thoughts with the grave as though Fred is still sitting beside him, arms slung around his shoulder, grinning.
"I don't know what to do without you, mate," he confesses, voice barely louder than the rustle of the leaves. "You always had the best ideas… the guts to actually try the crazy ones."
He chuckles weakly, then swallows hard. "I've been thinking of going away for a while. Maybe travel, see what the rest of the world is like. Start fresh. I thought about reopening the shop—turning it into something in your honor… but I can't even look at the place without seeing you behind the counter. Laughing."
He looks down, hands curling into fists in the grass. "I miss you, Fred. I miss you more than I thought was even possible. And I don't think it's ever going to stop hurting."
After a long silence, George exhales slowly. "Goodbye, brother. Watch over us, yeah?"
He finally stands, joints stiff and reluctant, his body heavy with exhaustion and grief. His eyes linger on the grave, on the jacket laid carefully over the mound and the delicate ring of enchanted flowers. The calm scent of their childhood memories floats on the breeze, wrapping around him like a ghostly embrace.
Then, without another word, George turns and walks away, his heart dragging behind him like a second shadow.
Dinner that night is as quiet as the graveyard. The family gathers around the kitchen table, but the usual warmth of the Burrow has gone cold. Plates clink softly, silverware scrapes without appetite, and no one says a word. George sits among them, pretending to eat, pretending to smile, pretending that something vital inside him hasn't been ripped out.
But the silence is unbearable. Every single one of them wears the same hollow look—red-rimmed eyes and tight jaws, shoulders sagging under the weight of loss.
Ginny's fork slips from her fingers, clattering to her plate, and she quickly gets up, rushing away with her face hidden. George doesn't follow. He can't. If he tries to comfort her now, he knows he will break. And he can't bear to show them just how broken he really is.
When the meal is over, the family scatters to their rooms, the house echoing with the quiet creaks of weary footsteps and softly closing doors.
George retreats to the bedroom he once shared with Fred. Every inch of it screams of his twin. The shelves crammed with half-finished joke products, the bunk bed that George hasn't touched since returning home, the smell of their combined mischief still lingering in the air. Even the worn posters on the wall seem to whisper memories.
As the minutes tick by, he lies awake, staring at the ceiling. The night presses down around him like a suffocating blanket. From down the hall, Ginny's sobs echo through the silence, raw and unfiltered. Each one makes his chest clench tighter.
He can't do this to her. To any of them. But he can't stay either. Not here. Not in this room, with these memories clawing at his mind.
So, just before dawn, when Ginny's cries have faded into exhausted sniffles and the rest of the house has slipped into uneasy sleep, George quietly rises from bed.
With a flick of his wand, his trunk packs itself—neat, mechanical movements, folding clothes and sealing compartments. He adds a few of Fred's things—small reminders, pieces he can't bear to leave behind: a mismatched pair of socks, a favorite old quill, a cracked photograph of them grinning at Zonko's.
He shrinks the trunk with a whispered charm and slips it into his robes, wand tucked securely beside it.
Moving like a shadow, he creeps out of the room, past the creaky spots on the stairs, and reaches the front door. There, he pauses.
He turns back, eyes sweeping over the worn furniture, the peeling wallpaper, the photos on the wall that move with gentle life. This house had been filled with love and chaos and laughter. It had been everything. They had been everything.
His chest tightens. His throat burns.
"I love you all," he whispers into the silence, the words barely audible.
Then he steps outside into the cool pre-dawn air. The grass is damp beneath his feet, the sky slowly shifting from indigo to pale grey as the horizon begins to stir.
And without looking back again, George Weasley disappears into the breaking dawn—alone.
END FLASHBACK
George gives his head a sharp shake, as though he could physically dislodge the avalanche of painful memories that begins creeping in again. The weight of the past clings to him like fog, thick and stubborn, but he shoves it back—at least for now.
With steady hands, he places the final can of food on the shelf, aligning it perfectly before gently closing the cupboard door. The soft click of the latch echoes too loudly in the quiet room. He stands there for a moment, frozen, one hand resting on the smooth wood as his eyes remain fixed on it—unmoving, unfocused. The silence stretches, heavy and unnatural, filled with everything unsaid.
Then, from behind him, Hermione's voice cuts through the stillness like a blade through silk.
"Please speak to me, George," she says softly, the tremor in her voice betraying how hard she is trying to stay composed. "I know it's a shock to see me here. It's a shock for me too… especially since no one has seen you since that night."
That night.
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
George's shoulders go rigid at first, the mention of it triggering a flash of emotion too sharp to name. He hasn't heard anyone say those words aloud in a long time—not since he's left the Burrow under the cover of darkness, leaving behind his grieving family, a broken home, and the ghost of his twin.
But he quickly forces himself to relax, releasing the tension from his muscles in a slow, deliberate breath. He can't let it show. Not now. Not when the one person who might see right through him is sitting just a few feet away.
He turns around slowly, every movement measured. His eyes meet Hermione's, and for a fleeting second, something flickers behind his gaze—grief, maybe, or the faintest hint of guilt. But just as quickly, the expression is shuttered, masked behind a neutral calm he has spent years perfecting.
She is sitting in one of the worn down stools at the bar counter, her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white. She looks older—wiser, maybe—but the concern in her eyes is achingly familiar. It's the same look she used to give him and Fred when they were pushing the boundaries too far. Except now, it isn't laced with exasperation—it is filled with sorrow.
"There isn't much to say, Hermione." George's voice comes out low, roughened like weathered stone—firm, but not unkind. "I left the Burrow for good… and I'm not going back."
He doesn't look at her as he speaks. His eyes remain fixed on a distant point just beyond her shoulder, as though the weight of his words would be too much if he meets her gaze. The dim light from the overhead fixture casts sharp shadows across his features, deepening the tired hollows beneath his eyes and the tightness around his mouth.
"I have my reasons," he continues, more quietly now, "for leaving… and for staying away. I didn't want to talk to anyone. If I did, I would have contacted my family."
Hermione flinches at the subtle sting in his words. He hasn't raised his voice—he doesn't have to. The emptiness in his tone is enough. It isn't cold, not entirely, but it is distant—guarded. A far cry from the warmth and mischief she once associates with George Weasley. This isn't the voice of the twin who used to fill corridors with laughter and chaos. This voice carries weight. Grief. Finality.
Each syllable jabs into her heart like a needle threading guilt and helplessness together. She blinks back the sudden sting in her eyes, her throat tightening. She has known, of course—everyone has known—that Fred's death has hit George harder than anyone. But hearing it now, hearing how utterly broken he sounds… how unreachable he's become… it hurts more than she is prepared for.
She has always thought that maybe—just maybe—if they gave him time, he'd come home. That he'd write, or floo in, or at the very least, let someone know he is alive. But now, hearing the quiet certainty in his voice as he declares he isn't going back, it feels like a door slamming shut. And she is on the outside.
Hermione looks at him, her heart aching. She hasn't been as close to Fred and George as she is to Harry or Ron, but that never mattered. The twins have been part of her world for years—smirking in the common room, blowing things up in class, defending her from taunts, dragging laughter out of even the darkest moments. And George… George has always treated her like a little sister, even when she nagged or scolded or lectured him.
And now he is sitting just a few feet away, yet he feels farther than ever.
"Will you at least tell me why you decided to come here?" Hermione's voice is soft—careful, like stepping onto ice she isn't sure will hold. Her brown eyes study George's face, searching for any flicker of anger or discomfort her question might've stirred.
But George gives no such reaction.
He simply shrugs, a lazy, indifferent roll of his shoulders that doesn't quite match the tension clinging to him like a second skin. Without offering her an answer, he turns away and walks around the counter, his footsteps steady but heavy, like someone moving through water. Hermione's eyes follow him as he disappears into the living room.
A beat passes before she slides down from the kitchen chair and trails after him.
He is already seated on the couch, the television glowing softly in front of him as he flips listlessly through channels. His thumb taps the remote without rhythm, pausing on nothing, not seeming to register what passes over the screen. A cooking show. A war documentary. Static. He doesn't blink.
Hermione hesitates for a moment before lowering herself onto the couch beside him. She leaves a respectful distance between them—not far enough to seem distant, not close enough to feel intrusive. The cushions shift beneath her gently, but George doesn't acknowledge her presence. His eyes remain fixed on the screen, the flickering images painting pale shadows across his features.
The silence stretches between them like a thread pulled too tight.
Hermione sits quietly, her hands folded in her lap. The urge to speak gnaws at her, but she forces herself to wait. To let him come to her in his own time, if he ever does.
Finally, after several long moments, George lets out a sigh that is barely more than a breath. With a slow, almost reluctant movement, he clicks the television off, plunging the room into a muted hush.
He stands, stretching his arms high above his head until his joints give a soft, satisfying pop. The fabric of his shirt pulls taut across his back as he exhales, letting his arms fall limply to his sides.
Then, for the first time in what feels like hours, he turns to Hermione.
His expression is unreadable—not cold, not open—just... tired. The kind of exhaustion that comes from too many nights without sleep and too many memories that refuse to stay buried.
"I'm going to bed. Feel free to stay as long as you would like." His words are short, his voice carrying the weight of finality. Without waiting for her response, George turns on his heel and strides towards the stairs, his movements quick and purposeful. His footsteps echo through the stillness of the house, the sound growing fainter with each step. The soft creak of the stairs is soon followed by the click of his bedroom door closing with a gentle but firm finality.
The quiet that follows is almost suffocating. Hermione sits there for a moment, her fingers wrapped loosely around the edges of the couch cushion. She can't quite figure out what to do with herself. Part of her wants to follow him, to press him for answers or at least some acknowledgment of the pain she can feel simmering beneath his calm exterior. But another part of her is reluctant—afraid to push too hard, to pry into something he isn't ready to share. The air between them is thick with unspoken words, and she isn't sure where to go from here.
Sighing softly, Hermione slowly stands up, feeling the ache of exhaustion tug at her muscles. She needs space to clear her mind. But the emptiness in the house seems to stretch all around her, the silence pressing in on her as she makes her way toward the stairs.
Her feet move slowly as she ascends, each step feeling heavier than the last, as though her legs are weighed down by the weight of her own thoughts. The hallway at the top of the stairs feels unusually long, the faint light from the window casting shadows on the walls that seem to shift as she walks. Turning left at the top, she heads for the room she has chosen earlier, a small space near the back of the house. It is cozy, simple—nothing extravagant, but it feels like her own for the time being.
She closes the door behind her with a soft click, shutting out the world for a moment. The familiar feeling of being alone in a room washes over her, and she feels a quiet sense of relief. After a day of uncertainty and awkward conversations, this solitude feels like a brief respite.
Hermione quickly gathers a set of clothes from the small dresser in the corner, her movements slow and deliberate. She heads to the bathroom for a quick shower, the warm water washing over her like a balm, helping to loosen the tension in her muscles. As the steam fills the small space, she closes her eyes, trying to focus on the rhythm of her breathing, trying to push away the endless questions that cling to her thoughts.
When she returns to her room, the silence of the house is still absolute, the only sound the soft rustling of her sheets as she climbs into bed. She pulls the covers up to her neck, the soft fabric feeling like a comfort against her skin. She tries to quiet the thoughts that swirl in her head, forcing her mind to stop running, to let the stillness take over.
But the weight of the day—of everything that has been left unsaid—still lingers in the air. Slowly, her eyelids flutter shut, and despite the quiet ache in her chest, sleep finally begins to claim her, pulling her into the darkness of dreams.
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Until next time,
HL