George sat numbly in the front row, eyes wide and unblinking. It was Fred's funeral. He didn't remember why he'd been so afraid of this day, so absolutely horrified of it, filled to the brink with dread. He'd paced his room shaking for hours, his arms wrapped around himself for any little comfort he could muster. He'd cried, screamed, sobbed, begged but nothing had helped. He'd even go so far as to walk up to his dad with the intention of pleading for him to call of the funeral but when he'd gotten to him he had simply opened his mouth silently then burst into tears. His father had taken him gently into his arms and been with him until he'd collapsed with exhaustion. He had felt the most bitter agony for days, he could barely keep still or silence his screams as he couldn't have peace from it, not for a second. But then he had found the solution.

He'd been alone in his room at the time; which was not surprising, he spent most of his time in his room alone these days. He'd been so angry, so bitterly angry at the world and at himself. All it would have taken was one person to be there for one moment to save Fred, it could have been anyone. And that was why he was angry at every single person in the whole wide bloody world. Then there was that stupid mirror that insisted on showing him what he couldn't have. Fred's beautiful eyes, Fred's flaming hair, Fred's constellation of freckles, Fred's everything right there in front of him. He'd reached out in a desperate trance, letting out a sob when his fingers hit glass.

He glared at the thing, how dare the glass keep him from his twin! Then he looked back at his reflection and saw in despair that what lay there was nothing like his twin. Those eyes were cynical and empty, that hair was limp and uncut, those freckles looked more like a disease against grey skin. He laughed hysterically at how he looked far more dead than his twin. The smile fell from his face, replaced with a heavy glare. How dare he mar his twin's features in such a way! How dare the mirror attempt to imitate his twin! In depressive rage he lashed out, punching the mirror right where his face was so he didn't have to lay his eyes on the sight for a moment longer. The mirror shattered into pieces, scattering around the room, some shards even digging into his arms and legs but he didn't notice any of it. The pain was excruciating, his fist was on fire. It burned at the very core and spread through the limb and to the rest of him. His vision faded and there was nothing he could think of but the all consuming pain.

When his vision cleared he was on the floor. There was a bloody handprint on the wall, a trail of it sliding down to the floor where he now lay. He looked at his hand curiously and yes it did seem to fit, it was the right size, right hand and certainly had enough blood gushing out to make such a print and yet he didn't remember doing that. The room was a mess, the broken mirror was swinging on it's side, his arm was oozing blood and probably fractured if not broken, and there was absolutely no way no one else in the house had heard that; they were probably rushing to help him that second. And yet he didn't care, it didn't worry him; his mind was fixated on the burning pain as he slumped back against the carpet, stray shards of glass digging into his back. The pain was all consuming, demanding every bit of attention his mind could provide. It ebbed and flowed, edging away to an almost bearable ache then pouncing back.

It was actually quite… nice? It wasn't like the cruciatus curse, as if someone was grating his nerves raw. It was more… clean? straightforward? hearty? Somehow he couldn't find the word to describe it. Probably because there was no word to describe pain as good because it wasn't and he was just fucking insane, said a distant voice in the back of his mind; he paid it no heed. Well, the pain certainly wasn't any less than the pain of a cruciatus curse, it wasn't any less damaging to his body if the blood pooling around him was anything to go by and yet somehow it was… enjoyable? It felt warm, like chocolate after a dementor attack, or hugs. It felt crisp like drinking water when you were dying of thirst. It felt… orgasmic, did that make sense? Was he crazy? No, it did make sense, he decided.

It was a sudden rush of feeling, a harsh nerve reaction, a release from the numbness, the anger, the pain. Could pain give you release from pain? Apparently so, he was distracted from all his thoughts and worries, he could no longer feel it he was too busy feeling this. It wasn't like the numbness when he had also been unable to feel everything, because he really actually was feeling something. The numbness had been plastic wrapped over his face, blinding and suffocating him. The pain was a knife cutting through that, setting him free, letting him gasp in the fresh air. And it was so punishing too, he deserved that after all. It was positively cathartic.

Panicked voices and footfalls could be heard to get closer and closer to the door.

That was two days ago. Now, he was sitting in a crowd of family and friends gathered to mourn the death of Fred. He could do it, he could get through this day; he knew how to now. That morning before coming, before even putting his suit on, he'd… gotten ready. At first he had gone to the kitchen to find a knife or other sharp tool that could be of use but Ron had been sitting right there watching him, insisting on small talk and not bloody going away. He'd left with an irritated huff, digging his nails into the unhealed wounds on his hand to keep calm. It was okay, he'd find something. He'd then walked briskly up to the bathroom, there were always stray blades around there. But Bill was in there brushing his teeth! It was like they were all ganging up against him, like they wanted to steal this little piece of peace away from him. But no, they couldn't be; they didn't even know he was doing this.

With a desperate sob, George fell down onto his bed then gasped, recoiling in pain and surprise. Something sharp had dug into his hip. Hands trembling eagerly, George fumbled around on the blanket until his fingers brushed against something small, rugged and cold. He picked it up gently and brought it up to his eyes for inspection, the sight made a grin break onto his face. It was a shard of glass from the mirror, it must have escaped his family's cleaning by being nestled between the wrinkles of his sheets. This was perfect! Hands clumsy with haste, George brought the thing to his skin then paused; where should he cut? He could not be discovered, they'd take this away from him if they found out! He couldn't lose this, it was all he had, it was the only thing keeping him alive.

So he had to cut somewhere unseen. That'd be hard considering his family had taken to bathing him or at least being there when he bathed himself, he didn't know why really. He was such a fucking burden to his family, he should just die, die, diedeaddie… George shook himself and quickly dug the shard into his upper thigh, the soft area that was hidden when his legs were together. This place was close enough to his groin that no one looked there except fleetingly, and he wasn't far gone enough to actually cut his genitals so his thighs would do just fine. The pain was instant and perfect, the cut was swift and clean, blood dribbled sluggishly down his thighs. He let his eyes flutter close as he was washed away with the stream of blood, his mind blissfully blank as the feeling of painpainpain overcame him.

He fell from the giddy high far sooner than he'd have wanted, far sooner than he had last time. He curled up, pulling his legs to his chest with a gasp, panting softly as he frowned in confusion. He just needed to do it more, he decided. He started cutting his thighs with a rhythm, line under line under line of red until he had to stop, no longer being able to see where the cuts were through all the blood. He went limp on the bed and allowed himself a moment to… not enjoy, savour it perhaps. He couldn't let himself fall asleep, he couldn't risk being caught like this, so, to his dismay, he soon had to drag himself back up. He ripped a stray t-shirt in two and wrapped a part around each leg before pulling on his suit trousers then the rest of his ensemble. George closed his eyes and pressed his thigh to spur on another wave of pain, letting out a ragged breath as he did so. When he opened his eyes, his face was cold and emotionless. He turned on his heel and made his way out to the funeral.

And there he sat, glass shard gripped tightly in his pocket, like a lifeline or an escape button, there when he needed it. Now he was there he could no longer cut his thigh, it'd be rather noticeable if he out of the blue pulled down his trousers and started slicing up his skin. No, he had decided he would cut his arm, the one that he'd injured the other day; there were still remaining cuts and bruises that hadn't been able to be healed, and he had indeed broken a few fingers as he'd expected. So all in all it looked a mess, who would notice a few more cuts? For now, however, he was still able to make do with the relatively new cuts on his thighs if he aggravated them every now and again.

So it was okay that Fred's dead body was lying there unmoving and pale at the front for everyone to see and mourn. George dug his nails into his thighs. And it was okay that there was a big hole in the ground dug to put Fred's body into. George scratched at his leg until he felt that all the wounds had reopened. It was all fine. Everything was all perfectly fine.

A loud crash echoed through the whole house, causing Charlie to jump to his feet in panic. The others had too but Charlie paid them no note as he ran in the direction of the smashing noise, panic bubbling within him. That was George's room. They'd decided to let George have some space, if that was what he wanted, to deal with Fred's upcoming funeral. It'd made Charlie uneasy, letting him be alone when he was in this state, but he'd reasoned that it was probably best to let George have time to come to terms with things. He was certainly regretting that now.

Trying very hard to fight back his up and coming panic attack, Charlie ran the final distance to George's door, pulling it open swiftly. The sight that befell him made him freeze in the doorway. George was lying on the floor motionless in a growing pool of blood, shards of shattered glass scattered around him. Charlie let out a stifled sob and fell to the floor next to his brother, desperately feeling for a pulse. He found one, thank Merlin, but there was so much blood… He was hyperventilating by then, a cold sweat overcoming him as panic took full reign. There was so much blood! Where was it coming from? He couldn't tell, every inch of George was covered in so, so much blood; it seemed to be coming everywhere.

He heard footfalls behind him then swearing. He silently, for his voice would no longer respond to him, prayed that whoever it was would help, call a doctor, anything! George was gonna die, he couldn't die, right now he looked so much like Fred…

Someone pulled him to the side, lifting him up and dragging him away from George and the crowd that had formed around him.

"No!" He protested weakly, desperately. He couldn't be away from George, George was dying! He had to… he couldn't… Charlie shook his head in frustration, holding it in his hands. This'd be so much easier if he could breath! There was no oxygen left, no matter how hard he tried to breath, that just caused him to panic more. He, too, was dying; his lungs weren't working, maybe the death eater that had murdered George had stabbed him in the lungs!

"-lie, Charlie? Char, you have to slow your breathing for me, kid." a voice said, barely audible through the rushing in Charlie's ears.

He panted and shook his head, screwing his eyes shut. He couldn't breath slower! He didn't have enough oxygen already without breathing even less, he'd die if he did that. This man wanted him dead, he must be the death eater that killed George! Charlie struggled weakly against the firm grip on his shoulder. That caused the man to curse, which Charlie smiled smugly about. He opened his eyes to see what was happening but his vision was covered in black dots. Charlie's breathing hastened, he was going blind!

"-uck! Charlie, listen to me, it's Bill. You have to slow your breathing. Please?"

Charlie frowned, Bill? Why would Bill want to kill him? Simple answer: he wouldn't, he always wanted what was best for him. So… maybe he should listen? With all the effort left in his suffocating, trembling body, Charlie tried to slow his breathing.

"That's it, Char! You've got it. Slow, deep breaths. There you go, it's just a panic attack, you're just fine."

It took a few tries for him to actually start breathing slowly, it was torturous. He felt like he couldn't breath, like he was tied to an anchor at the bottom of the sea, on his last bit of oxygen yet he was still letting out air bubbles.

Slowly, the room came back into focus, along with his mind. He let out a relieved, exhausted breath and let his head fall back, hitting the wall behind him with a light, satisfying bump. He felt Bill wrap his arms around him and opened his eyes, looking up at his brother. Bill smiled back at him, encouragingly, though there was definitely sadness there. Shifting, Charlie looked across the room where Mum along with Hermione were doing something to George, he couldn't see what. But probably tending to his wounds and cleaning him up. Judging from the way that people weren't panicking anymore, the situation must be under control. Charlie bowed his head in shame. He should have been doing that too, he should have been helping George and instead he only made even more of a problem himself.

"Don't." Bill said firmly, making Charlie jump slightly.

"What?" He asked confusedly, looking at him. Bill fixed him with a stern look.

"Don't think that." He elaborated.

Charlie frowned "You know, bro, I might be fabulously insightful but I'm not actually psychic."

Bill rolled his eyes "I mean, don't think that; that you're a problem, that you deserve to be hated for not helping, that you should be embarrassed, that it's not okay. It's a panic attack, there's nothing wrong with it. It's certainly not surprising after what we've been through. There's nothing you can do to stop it."

Charlie huffed and let his head fall onto Bill's shoulder "Yeah. I hate it, though, I hate it utterly and completely. Being so… so… helpless! And… broken! I just… It's not fair." He finished lamely.

Bill nodded "I know. It's bloody shitty but it's the way it is, I suppose. You're alright, though and that's what matters.

Charlie only snorted in response which caused Bill to frown.

"You know we care, right? That we love you so much and that if anything were to happen-"

Charlie nodded vigorously in response "Yeah, I know, I know!"

Bill let out a huff of breath "For a moment there I thought…" he laughed humorless "I know you can't die of panic attacks but with your eyes rolling back and the way you went all pale… It scared me, y'know?"

Charlie felt a new wave of guilt overcoming him "'m sorry." he murmured. Bill frowned and smacked him lightly on the thigh.

"Ow!" he exclaimed "What was that for?"

"Don't apologise! What'd I just say?"

Charlie rolled his eyes "There's nothing wrong with having panic attacks and I shouldn't be ashamed… mum."

"Oh so you want me to play mum? I can play mum if you wa-"

"No, no, I'm good!" Charlie said hastily.

"Sweetheart, can you move those two fingers?" Molly was answered by only silence. She sighed softly, a new bit of sadness filling her already bursting soul. George was okay now… relatively. They'd carefully removed the glass and healed his injuries, wrapping the ones too deep to heal. His index and middle finger were broken, she'd healed it to the best of her abilities but they'd been broken in so many places, there was really nothing to do other than wait. She was binding them carefully, setting them so they'd heal right.

George was lying in his bed, staring vacantly at the ceiling. He had been unable to sit upright, as if he had lost the energy and conviction to even do that small action. Molly felt herself tearing up, she remembered when Fred and George first sat up without support as babies. No one knew who'd done it first, she'd just walked out for a moment and when she walked back in they were sitting up, giggling gleefully as they painted the wall with chalk. Her poor babies! Back then she never knew… She never even entertained the thought that…! That… this could happen. Molly sobbed heartfully, pulling George's limp body into a hug.

"Oh, my poor baby! My poor, sweet child!"

As George watched Ginny finish her speech and refind her seat, he was aware of all of the looks shot his way. Surprised, judging and concerned looks earnt by the fact that he had not made a speech of his own. Everyone had told him he should make a speech, said they knew he may not be up for it but he might regret it if he didn't. He was, after all, Fred's twin. If anyone should make a speech it was him. He bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood, gritting his teeth as if he was being tortured. 'I can't make a speech,' he thought 'I'd be accepting that you're dead then, that this is the end. I can't, I can't, I can't, I-I… I'm sorry, Fred, I'm sorry. Please don't hate me, please understand! I won't say goodbye, I won't accept it!' He was crying now, in despair he realised that the pain wasn't going to stop it.

He let out a horrified gasp; this was everyone saying goodbye to Fred, this was everyone letting go. They were giving up, they were going to put him in that big hole in the ground and close the lid, they were sending him away. This was goodbye whether George accepted it or not, and he wasn't even giving a fucking speech. George screwed his eyes shut at the unbearable flood of emotion drowning him, he let out a whimper of despair and blindly stabbed down with the glass, his eyes shooting open and his mouth opening in a silent scream. His thoughts and the unendurable feelings dissolved to black.