Title: Nothing Harsher Than His Reflection

Summary: Fred and George – once upon a time inseparable, were forced apart in the war though the impenetrable barrier of life and death. Loss is all about acceptance and adjustment, but how can George move on when his very existence is a reminder of their defeat? Written for the Emotion Challenge.

Sometimes, he found himself lying in bed until the early hours of the morning, cursing his red hair. Why was this hair color a Weasley trait? Surely, he wouldn't have minded being the odd one out, to be born with plain black or even pink hair for all he cared (well, maybe not pink. Pink was too close to red) but no, his cursed genes decided to be common and to grant him to ability to look the exact same as the rest of his family. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen any of the other Weasleys for quite a long time. Not surprisingly, since he had spent the past two months locked in their room (his room, not their room) only apparating once in a long while to relieve himself. He only ate or drank when his mother pushed food through the (recent) gaping hole in the door – and even then not until it was col and almost off. Mrs Weasley had learnt that her son only needed food every few days.

George Weasley was a wreck, that much he knew for sure. His hair had grown longer than was acceptable, and he was quite certain he hadn't changed out of his robes since coming home from the battle.

It was this battle that haunted him so.

Whenever it crossed his thoughts, and that was common, he could feel the clenching of his chest, as though a death eater was still cursing him. But he knew it wasn't a death eater, it was just plain death.

"Cheer up, mate!" a voice seemed to speak in his head. Sitting abruptly, he scanned the room frantically. Who was talking to him?

"What? Forgotten me already, brother?" Suddenly, George could see him. He found feel the slight weight on his bed as his identical twin took a seat, his smile just the same as always, "Not looking your most dashing there, little man. Ever heard of a scrub? You could do with getting mom there to buy you one."

"You're here," George gasped. He reached to touch his twin's hand, but went straight through him. His eyes dropped; of course it was too good to be true. His brother was gone, dead, deceased, buried. Fred was never going to reappear in his life. He was never going to be whole again.

When people told them that twins were psychologically conjoined, he used to laugh. Not that him and Fred were much different, or that they fought at all – well, they did, but not seriously.

Not that they were ever very serious.

However, it was their love for life and laughter that sometimes left George wondering if he knew his twin very well at all. There were moments when they were fighting alongside that he could feel Fred's eyes on him, and when they met, it seemed that they kept asking each other the same thing.

"How much time did we waste taking the mickey out of each other?" The invisible being spoke again.

"Fred!" George exclaimed, "It is you!"

"Well, what does it look like, you dingbat? Of course I'm here."

"But, I can't touch you. You're dead."

"Thanks for stating the obvious," a smiled curled on his lips, identical to the one George remembered wearing a few months back, "I'm just visiting, just wanted to check up on you, brother."

George fell backwards onto his bed, collapsing from fatigue once again, "It's been tough," he stated, biting back his tears, "No, you know what? It's been complete hell. Nothing's right anymore, you're gone. I mean, goddamn it, even when you look like you're right next to me like now, I can't even tough you."

"Geesh, never thought you wanted to touch me, hey?"

"Fred," George held his hands out, trying not to notice the identical pair sitting beyond his tangible reach, "Look, we spent our whole lives just kidding around with each other for everything. Can't we be serious for once?"

The smile on his twin's ghostly face disappeared to be replaced by one of absolute solemnity, "Okay."

Tears started to run down George's face almost immediately as the sudden change in mood and tension levels broke him barriers down. The pain he had been holding back for an entire two months came pouring straight out and he mumbled apologies over apologies through his heavy cries, "I'm sorry, Fred. I'm so bloody sorry."

"Why?"

George looked up, and the expression of confusion was almost too sincere on his face. He really had no idea. "Fred, you died out there, don't you get it?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I'm a ghost, right? I figured that much, enough."

"Fred, it could've been me. We're twins, we've always had the same fate, always done the same things together. I wasn't with you when that happened. Instead you had stinkin' Percy at your side.

"Don't you get it?" George asked in exasperation as he glanced into his brother's still blank eyes, "I could've save you. I could've died for you. It's my fault you're stuck as a ghost!"

Fred laughed, "So you're drowning in all this guilt about you not being at my side when I died? George, for all you know, I would've died anyway. And plus, even if you tried to take it for me, I would never have let you. You know that right?"

The living twin buried his head into his hands, trying to block out the mix of feelings within him. He was mourning the loss of his closest relative, he was angry at himself for letting him die, but over all things, he was guilty for not having died with him. It didn't seem logical at all for him to still be able to breathe and walk the earth, while his other half was left to be floating around. Untouchable.

"If there's anything to feel guilty about, it's how you look. Young man, when was the last time you showered in real water?"

George looked up, seeing the smiling expression on Fred's ghost again. So much for serious.

"You're a darn attractive guy, George. No joke, I would know, you're basically me. Go get yourself cleaned up for the ladies, won't you?" as he spoke those final words, his spirit started to fade gradually, going into oblivion.

George gasped, reaching out, desperate to pull him back towards him, "No! Where are you going?"

"Where I should be. Move on, mate. I'll see you again when you're all old and wrinkly!" his all too familiar laughter drifted away into the silence, until there was nobody left to accompany George anymore.

Alone, once again.

Finally gathering the strength to move, George stepped and stretched his old legs, an effort he had long forgotten how to make. He wanted to move on with life, he knew there was nothing he could do for his brother, but still the strings pulled at his chest. Just as he was about to make it out the door, he stopped in front of his old mirror – with full-length view it showed him for exactly what he was; matted red hair, stubble, old pajamas and lifeless eyes. A broken smile on a broken child.

His reflection looked familiar.

George broke down again, crying and screaming harder than he had ever before. What was the pain tearing and tearing at his chest, what was the strong urge to hit himself with a killing curse? To be done for one and for all, to get rid of all the excessive pain and to just feel like he was whole again.

With his twin.

The person he may have known the least.

Suddenly breaking his sobs, he glanced and stared into Fred's eyes in the mirror – who was he into?

Did he fancy the lady in the shop next to theirs or was that really just a humorous flirtation?

Why did he carry that silly book around where ever he went?

How did he come up with the idea for the Puking Pastilles anyway?

Who was Fred? Fred – the boy outside of the jokes and the games, the real twin with the demons and the ghosts in his head, the one with the hopes and the dreams, the fantasies and the romances. George realized that his guilt wasn't just for living when Fred died, but rather never having given to time or well…seriousness, to truly understand whom his twin was, apart from the childishness.

They would be forever strangers.

It was the night of the war. Voldemort's followers were nearby and Fred stood next to his twin brother, George. He glanced sideways, their eyes meeting in a silent gaze. They were psychic to an extent, they knew. After all, they were 'psychologically conjoined', right? However, Fred knew all too well that George could never imagine what was going through his head at the moment. A serious thought that he could probably never share with his twin brother.

Who are you, George?