Title: This Is What Remains After War

Pairing: None

Fred Weasley was dead.

George Weasley Apparated into the living room of the Burrow, straight from his twin's funeral. The hem of his black robes had mud on them. Mother Magic herself was crying for Fred. Rain pounded on the roof, sounding muffled. It was a roar outside. The water on his face was a mix of raindrops and tears.

"George?"

He glanced over at Bill Weasley. His oldest brother stood behind him, his arm wrapped around Fleur's waist. The sight of them side-by-side made him sick. Fred was supposed to be at his side; George was never meant to be alone. Mother Magic had given him a twin for a reason! George was never supposed to be alone, cut off from Fred. It was wrong—all wrong.

"Are you . . . all right?" Fleur asked.

George was tired of people asking him that. Didn't they understand what a stupid, cruel question it was? His magic was trapped within his own body. Fred wasn't alive, welcoming George's magic through their twin bond, and Fred's magic wasn't cycling through George's body either. He was a magical amputee, with stagnant magic. How could he possibly be all right? Fred, his other half, was dead! How could he ever be all right again?

He collapsed on the living room floor before the fireplace. George folded his knees against his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and wished that he had a Time-Turner. He would be willing to unmake creation itself if it meant that he could have Fred back. But all the Time-Turners were lost, destroyed during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. If the Unspeakables had any, they wouldn't let him have one, and neither would the Ministry. No one would chance something going wrong, of Voldemort winning the war, if Fred survived.

The logs in the fireplace weren't lit. No heat seeped into the room. That was fine, though. George liked the cold. It complemented how empty he felt inside.

"I'll get that for you," Percy Weasley said. He prodded the logs with his wand. "Incendio." They burned the color of Fred's hair; George couldn't look away. "I'm sorry, George. I-I wasn't f-fast enough to save h-him."

George gritted his teeth. He didn't want to accept Percy's apology. Percy blew off their family for years, calling them liars and spending all his time at work. He distanced himself from them in every way he could. Yet, he was the one who lived through the final battle. If Percy hadn't shown up, Fred would've been at George's side. Fred wouldn't have been anywhere near the wall when it collapsed. The only times either of them had been injured was when they were apart. He touched his missing ear; he was desperate to hear Fred make another joke and call him "Your Holeyness".

"Will y-you forgive m-me?" Percy whispered, tears dripping down his face.

He didn't say anything. How could George forgive Percy, when he wasn't able to forgive himself?

The emptiness yawned inside him. George had never thought he would have to experience life with just three older brothers. He was used to having four of them. There was a reason that Fred came across as more vicious and vengeful. He had always seen it as his right to protect George, and would humor George's attempts to take care of him in return. In the end, Fred was his protector. Maybe if George had done a better job imitating Fred's role as protector, his magic wouldn't be raging against the cage of his body right now.

"Hey, George, I got you something to drink," Charlie said when the awkward silence stretched. He set a mug on the floor beside George when he didn't take it. "It's cocoa, just the way you like it."

George closed his eyes and wished that Charlie would go away. Percy and Bill were tall and skinny, and they didn't have as many freckles. Charlie was short and stocky, with an abundance of freckles. If his eyes weren't blue instead of brown, George could convince himself that Fred wasn't dead. His neck was sore from all the times he had whipped around after catching a glimpse of Charlie in his peripheral vision. All Charlie did was make things worse, even though he was trying to help. George wished he would go back to the dragon reserve in Romania and stay there until George wasted away.

"Please drink it George," Charlie begged. "You missed breakfast."

And dinner, and lunch, and breakfast from the day before. As well as the meals the day before that. What was the point? He couldn't even muster up the energy to spike the food. Not even the opportunity of getting Percy to unwittingly eat a Canary Cream could rouse him, and he and Fred had plotted on how to make that happen since they first invented them!

"Georgie?" Molly Weasley's voice wobbled. Her hands shook as she set a plate before him on the floor. "Fred would want you to eat. He a-always let you g-get your f-food first." She petted his hair. "Please eat, Georgie. For Fred. It's your favorite."

The smell of his favorite homemade scones wafted up to him. George blinked, sending tears spilling down his cheeks. It was true. Even when they were at their poorest, Fred made sure George had enough to eat. He picked up one of the scones. The tears made his eyesight blurry, but not so much that he couldn't see they were slathered in huckleberry jam. Huckleberry jam was Fred's favorite. His mother had unknowingly mixed them up again, but it wasn't a joke this time. He dropped the scone back onto the plate; it bounced off and smeared jam on the floor. "I'm George."

Molly sucked in a harsh breath, and then started sobbing. "I'm s-so sorry! I'm sorry, G-Georgie! I'll go g-get the r-raspberry jam." She rushed to bring him a new plate, but George couldn't turn away from the first one she had brought out. It was wrong that the scones were still there. Fred should have wolfed them down by now. "Here you g-go, Georgie." Molly set the new plate beside the old one.

Unconsciously, George glanced to his left. Fred wasn't there reaching for his favorite food, joking about how burning the roof of his mouth was worth it. He wasn't sticking out his purple tongue, dyed by huckleberry jam. He wasn't smacking Percy's hands to keep the whole plate to himself. He wasn't starting a contest to see who could spit seeds the farthest. He wasn't doing anything at all, because Fred wasn't there.

Fred Weasley was dead. George Weasley wished he were dead, too.

By the time Harry Potter finished attending all the funerals, rounding up the few Death Eaters who escaped, testifying in trial after trial, using the Elder Wand to restore Hogwarts, reorganizing the Ministry of Magic, and accepting his Orders of Merlin, all he wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep for a week.

Instead, he went to the Burrow. Because he would never forget the night that George Weasley was keeping watch outside the tent—while they traveled the United Kingdom, desperate to find and eliminate the Horcruxes—and Fred Weasley made Harry swear on his mother's grave that he would always watch over him. The same thing happened in reverse less than a week later, though George fingered the stump of his missing ear while he demanded the same vow.

Harry Apparated to the front step, but didn't bother to knock before going in. Molly Weasley had told him repeatedly that he was always welcome. After closing the door, Harry leaned back against it with a deep sigh. So, he thought, this is what remains after war.

The once lively household was somber. The Weasleys spoke in whispers, instead of shouts. Laughter was a thing of the past. A pall of grief hung in the air; it felt like someone was attempting to suffocate him with sheer magical force. And though only one of their five children was buried, it would be fair to say that two had died. Harry hated the differences. Ever since Fred and George had taken Harry under their wing when he was a first year, he had never felt alone. They offered him a family, and his enemy's allies had torn that family apart.

The guilt ate at him.

"H-Harry?" Molly smiled tremulously at him. "We're so glad you could come. I know you've been busy." She engulfed him in a warm hug.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Harry said, feeling guilt swamp him again. He glanced over toward the fireplace. George sat on the floor in front of it, black robes drowning his slender form as he stared at the dancing flames. They looked like the same ones he had worn to Fred's funeral last week. "How's he doing?" he asked.

Molly wailed and buried her face in her hands. Her whole body shook as she hunched over; if Harry didn't know better, he would've thought she had just been skewered on a sword. But no blood spilled down her clothes. There was no wound that he could wave the Elder Wand to heal—not even magic could fix a broken heart.

"He won't eat," Bill said as he entered the living room. The scars on his face were gruesome in the evening light. "He won't drink. He won't talk. He won't move from that spot." His hands clenched into fists. He spun and punched a hole through the wall. The rage that had sustained him seemed to fail, and his shoulders slumped. "George's dying, Harry. And his magic is helping him do it."

Harry stumbled back, each new sentence a punch to his heart. He shouldn't have stayed away so long; he should've told the people who begged for his help to do it themselves for once in their lives. He should've been here, at George's side, keeping his magic from helping him die. "That's not going to happen." Harry enunciated each word, as if by saying it he could make it reality. His will was a powerful thing.

"We've tried everything, H-Harry. There's n-nothing more we can do." Molly fell to her knees, and Bill rushed to his mother's side.

Harry knew what a blessing having twins was to a pureblood family, and losing George less than a month after Fred died would tear what remained of this once-loving family to shreds. They would see it as a failure to protect the conjoined souls Mother Magic had given them to watch over. Harry figured the twins were why Molly and Arthur had stopped having children, even though Molly wanted a daughter. She feared Mother Magic would punish her for being greedy, and that she wouldn't have the time to take proper care of all her sons.

"You might not be able to do anything," Harry said, "but I can." He took a step toward George's still, silent form on the floor. He had a vow to keep. He wouldn't let anything get in his way.

Bill grabbed Harry's arm in a firm grip, successfully gaining his attention. Bill observed Harry for over a minute. Then he said, "Whatever you have to do, do it. We'll forgive you for anything, as long as he lives."

Harry pulled his arm away and walked over to George. Bill's desperate, ritual words echoed in his head; Bill had invoked the trade of forgiveness. In the Weasleys' eyes, regardless of what Harry did, the ends would justify the means. He knew that the Weasleys would forgive him for what he was about to do, but he didn't think George would.

Crouching before him, Harry got a good look at his face. George's brown eyes stared right through him, as if he weren't there. It was like meeting Fred's dead gaze all over again. He hated it. "George Weasley," Harry said, voice laced with magic, "I call on the Twin-Sworn Vow." Magical twins were bound by each other's word. That was why they were so careful about saying anything ritualistic. He hated to do this, but Fred would never forgive him if he let George die. And, more importantly, Harry would never forgive himself.

George blinked. "What do . . . you want . . . Harry?" His voice was tired, cracked, and monotone. It was a whisper of breath, as if his throat was parched.

Harry licked his lips apprehensively, but George's pupils didn't follow the motion. Why in the world had he been cavorting around the wizarding world? He should have been here! He should have stopped George's deterioration. The wrist that peeked from his sleeve was skin and bones. His face was gaunt. He had lost too much weight, and the twins had never carried much extra, if any. They prided themselves on being fit. "George Weasley, I choose thee to serve as First Vassal for the Honorable and Most Ancient House of Potter." Once the ritual words were said, he wrapped his thumb and forefinger around George's wrist. "And I want you to take care of yourself and ensure you are always in peak health."

Molly and Bill gasped, but Harry didn't look over to see their reactions. It didn't signify. His request had been made, and George would have no choice but to grant it.

"Do you really think you can take Fred's place?" George whispered. "Won't you just let me . . . rest in peace?"

Harry wanted nothing more than to look away from George's broken gaze. If Bill hadn't explained how dehydrated he was, the lack of tears wouldn't have been at the forefront of Harry's mind. Now he couldn't help but wonder if George desperately wanted to cry, but wasn't able to do so. "No, I won't. You're too young to die, George."

"Fred was too young to die."

"Yes," Harry agreed. "He was." His thighs started to burn, so Harry sat on the floor. The heat from the fireplace wasn't comforting. It brought to mind the time he, Fred, and George had roasted marshmallows over it and made s'mores with chocolate frogs. Harry would always prefer indoor camping over outdoor camping, especially when the latter meant Death Eater attacks at the Quidditch World Cup and hunting for Horcruxes. "But just as I promised you I'd take care of Fred, I swore to Fred that I'd take care of you." Harry stared at him. "Are you going to make me break my Twin-Sworn Vow with Fred?"

A First Vassal and Lord of an Ancient House shared magic. It would cycle from one to the other in a never-ending loop. It mimicked a twin bond. However, it wasn't the same. Harry would never dishonor Fred's memory by claiming it was. But it would stabilize George's magic by giving it somewhere to go. It wouldn't sit stagnant and help assassinate its master. By naming George his First Vassal, Harry was creating a pathway for George's magic to follow. In essence, Harry was forcing George's magic to keep him alive.

A single tear dripped down George's left cheek as life returned to his eyes. "I hate you, Harry Potter. I'll never forgive you for this."

"I know." It was a simple, merciless truth. And Harry only held the barest hope of ever being able to change it. But it was better to have one of the twins in his life, regardless of the circumstances, than to have neither of them. So, Harry hugged George, encircled him in the Potter family magic, and accepted reality. This, he reminded himself, is what remains after war.