A/N and Disclaimer- I knew, eventually, I'd have to write something like this. So, here's my first post-Deathly Hallows fic. Yum, angst! And some implied Fred/George if you squint really hard.
None of these characters are mine.
Anyway, let me know if you like it! Thanks.
Counterpart
George doesn't want to go to the funeral. Really, honestly.
"They'll stare." He says and his mother shakes her head and wipes her eyes again and George turns away.
"I know Georgie."
He wishes he could carry the coffin by himself. It's selfish, he knows. His other brothers grieve just like him. They give him the front right corner, and his hands shake so terribly that Ginny notices and gets up, walking beside him.
George starts a letter.
Fred,
I expect you're alright. I suppose it doesn't hurt like it does down here.
I can't
They don't
He starts to write two sentences and scratches them out, unwilling to finish them.
Remember when we left Hogwarts together and that old toad Umbridge tried to stop us but she couldn't figure out how to get rid of our fireworks?
I miss you.
He crumples it up and lies on his back on the top bunk, staring at the ceiling, and wipes his eyes angrily.
A little over two months later, he decides it's time to reopen the shop. People are impatient, the war is over, and Ron has promised to help him run the damn thing.
So George goes back to Diagon Alley.
There's dust everywhere. But apart from that, the shop is exactly the same as they'd left it. George climbs the stairs to their flat ("his flat" he reminds himself) and opens the door tentatively, as if he expects him to be in there. It is silent and empty, of course, and just as dusty as the downstairs. The air is stale, and a little light filters in through the closed blinds.
He walks across the room and sits down on the bed, staring blankly, and his fingers curl around the edge of the mattress. The mattress is old and creaky, as he well remembers, and the bed frame squeaks appallingly unless charmed nightly.
How could he forget that...
His fingers come across something foreign, tucked under the mattress. George gets up and kneels beside the bed, reaches underneath of the forlorn mattress, and pulls out a photograph. Inside of it, he and Fred stand in front of the shop on the night of the grand opening. George is grinning, and Fred kisses him on the cheek, laughing.
George stares at it until his vision is blurred, and he doesn't bother this time with wiping the tears away. Here, finally, was the real pain. He nonchalantly asks it what took so long.
When he wakes up, he's lying on the bed. There's a light coming from the tiny kitchenette, and he can hear people talking quietly. He sits up, suddenly remembering what happened, and sees Ron and Harry sitting at the small table. The bed frame squeaks, giving him away, and they look up.
"It's about time. Figured we'd best let you sleep since we all know you haven't done that properly in about two months. That was a mistake." Ron snorts.
It's dark outside, George notices for the first time.
"How long did I sleep?"
"Dunno, we got here at five. It's eight now, and you left at one. So six, seven hours maybe?"
George can feel it, the overwhelming exhaustion has been lessened, and he knows Ron is right. He hasn't slept more than four hours a night in over two months. He feels…better.
Ron is eyeing him warily. "All right?"
George grabs the photograph of him and Fred from the bedside table where they left it and tucks it in his jacket. "Bugger this place." He starts, and Ron frowns. "I'm gonna need about another week of sleep before I even want to think about cleaning that." George says, pointing downstairs. "Let's go home."
Ron grins and he sees Harry do the same, and he finally feels a bit like George Weasley again.