"People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive."
--Marcel Proust
anamnesis
1. the recollection or remembrance of the past; reminiscence
2. recollection of the Ideas, which the soul had known in a previous existence
"Has anyone seen him after the funeral?"
"Well, I went up with food, but he didn't talk much."
"He ate the food though?"
"Yeah… Most of it. More than before. Mum will like that, at least."
A chorus of agreement rang out after Charlie's statement. At least, George thought it was Charlie. The voices seemed to come from a thick fog a long way a ways, blending together. George was used to distorted noises now though, after several months of only being able to hear out of one ear.
Instead of dwelling on noises from the kitchen downstairs, George tried to remember the good. Maybe Charlie was lying? To comfort the family into fooling them that George was getting, as they all hoped, better? Or maybe George was really starting to lose it. He toyed with the idea for the few brief moments before sleep. He welcomed the idea of his possible unhinging. It was relief from his memories of Fred.
Each night was filled with hours of tossing and turning before finally sliding awkwardly into a dizzying slumber. His dreams, or more accurately, nightmares, were of Fred's dead body after he was murdered during the Second War. George would watch himself, as through separated from his body, running towards his twin's body. As he would run, he would watch half of his own body disappear into thin are.
With Fred gone, he was half. Did that mean half his mind? It wasn't fair, really. He lost half his soul. Half his mind, too?
"George?" came an unsteady voice.
George gave a small grunt and looked up through his long red bangs into the brown eyes of his sister. She was looking at him with utmost concern. He hated that look, the look everyone gave him now.
Ginny teetered at the doorframe of the bathroom, where she had just emerged. Her hair was dark with water; she had just showered. Hair still dripping, she watched her elder brother sit at the top of the stairs.
She offered her hand to him, whether to help him up or just hold him, he didn't know. He looked away and began the difficult task of getting up. Lately, everything seemed like an impossible action that his body was unable to perform.
He felt a warm body brush against him and the touch of flesh made him cringe.
Ever since the funeral, George hated the heat, the feel, the texture of skin.
George looked in at the casket that had been conjured up for Fred the moment the Weasleys returned to the Burrow. George was the last one to look down at Fred for the last time.
He placed a hand at his brother's ankle, not ready to look at his face yet. Slowly, George dragged his hand up his brother's leg, torso, and finally rested on Fred's shoulder. He watched as his hand rose and fell with the dips in Fred's body, the creases in his dragon suit that Ginny insisted on burying him in. George now lifted his eyes off of Fred's shoulder and onto his face.
He examined the freckles, the eyelashes touching the top of Fred's cheeks; his soft red hair was brushed back from his face, still singed from the battle. George ruffed Fred's hair for the last time, making it looked windswept, like Fred had just gotten off a broomstick. With a final clap to his shoulder, George took a step away from his twin and started back to his remaining family.
George had only taken two steps when he realized that he was not done saying good bye to his twin, his best friend. He quickly turned around, rushed back to the casket to see Fred again. Hurriedly, as though he would lose his nerve and break down if he took too long, George moved his head down to Fred's ear.
"Good bye, Fred. I-I love you," George whispered, his voice cracking. He pressed his lips to Fred's cheek, and he could feel the small amount of stubble left, feeling rough on his lips. This was the last feel of Fred that he would ever have. No more claps on the shoulders, no more brotherly hugs. And then George pulled away. He pulled away forever.
George flinched at the memory. Fred's skin had been so cold, so different that all the times blood had rushed through his body. George couldn't bear to feel warm skin anymore, it sickened him that Fred would never feel that way again.
He hardly took noticed that Ginny seemed to have given up on him and was walking away until he heard her light footsteps on the wooden stairs, magnified by the echo.
As he started to make some beginning, unsteady steps, he heard his brothers pause in their conversation. Perhaps they thought it was George coming down the stairs, not Ginny, for there was a certain disappointment as they greeted her.
"Did you see George?" came the hollow voice George now associated with Percy. Percy had taken the end of the battle worse than most.
Ginny was going to say yes, George knew it. And then he would be found by his older brothers, forced into talking and spending time with them. "Recovering," they called it.
But Ginny's answer was not as he expected.
"No, I think he might still be in his room."
There was silence, and George felt something like gratitude for his little sister under the layers of sorrow.
It was right after the funeral and George had finally finished being violently sick in the toilet. He was in his and Fred's old room, trying hard not to look at the bed that Fred would never sleep in again.
Soon, he felt, rather than heard, someone at the door. He didn't look up at the intruder, not even ashamed that whoever was there would see him in this grief.
After silence, there came a small voice.
"I have six brothers so I know better than nearly anyone else what a brother is like." There was a pause before Ginny continued. "And Fred was a good brother."
George didn't respond, didn't look at his sister. He didn't want to see a swollen face, lined with tears, as he was sure his face looked.
Undaunted by his lack of attention, Ginny carried on, not moving from the door.
"I remember the summer that we went to Egypt to see Bill. I was sick, right after we got home from Hogwarts. Probably from that diary," she said, bitterly. George remembered.
"It was just a small cold, but Mum was so worried about me, after, well, everything that happened. She made sure that someone was watching me at all times of the day. I even had people sitting in my room with me while I slept.
"It was a lot of sleeping and a lot of annoyance, but one night made up for the whole illness. I woke up all hot and bothered, and Fred was sitting next to me with a cup of tea and a grin. He asked me how I was, talked to me for a while. …I guess he was lonely, since you had already fallen asleep in the other chair," she reminisced. George could practically hear the sad smile in her voice.
"Well, after we talked for a while, he said I looked 'right upset' and 'didn't want any sister of his to look that sad.' So he pulled a small box out of his pocket, opening it to reveal small fireworks.
"He told me that you and him had developed them, that they were small because they were prototypes. Fred let them loose in my room and it was all lit up. It was so pretty, I loved them so much," she finished. She had kept her voice fairly strong, until that last part.
George was always slightly impressed with his sister. He knew he could not tell a story about Fred from start to finish without breaking off somewhere in the middle.
George never felt bad for not answering his sister. He understood that she and all of his brothers, as well, were upset by Fred's death. But none of them could ever compare to him. None of his siblings knew what this felt like. He refused to talk to them for as long as he could. George only talked to his mum and dad when needed because he felt that they were the closest to understanding George's complete devastation. They had lost a child.
His feet felt heavy as he trudged off to some destination still unknown to him. He felt no desire to go to his old room, but didn't know where else to go. His thoughts were interrupted as he heard a new voice on the floor below.
"Hello, everyone!" This voice was bright and it hurt George's remaining ear. How could anyone possibly so happy in this mess?
"Angelina."
A few indistinguishable voices could be heard in shock as they looked upon the visitor.
George felt his heart beat wildly, his blood cold. He hadn't thought of Angelina. She didn't know what had happened. She didn't know yet.
Racing down the stairs, fired by the need to be the one to tell Angelina, he moved faster than he had since the battle.
He reached the first landing, his eyes snapping frantically to the spot where Angelina stood in front of the fireplace. Apparently, she had just arrived by Floo Powder.
Quickly, her eyes caught George's and her entire face lit up. Her smile was radiant, and the others in the room turned to see George.
Bill, Charlie, Percy, and Ginny all looked at him, waiting for him to make a move. It was clear that Angelina had no idea that Fred, her love, was dead.
"How are you all? I'm sorry I didn't see you all after the battle, but I really felt like I had to see my mother. Let her know that I was alright and she didn't need to worry again," Angelina sounded apologetic that she had not been there right away, but George didn't blame her for wanting to see her mother. George knew, better now than ever, that family was so incredibly important.
"Hello, George!" Angelina called to him as he ventured forward closer to her.
"'Lo, Angelina," he managed to spit out; the beginning part of 'hello' had stuck in his throat.
She continued to beam at him and started to look behind George. He knew she was looking for an identical face.
"George, where's Fred? Upstairs?" she questioned. George looked at his siblings, willing for them to help. They only looked significantly back at him, sending messages with their eyes that told George that he needed to tell Angelina what happened. Now.
"Lina," George started out, using the nickname he had coined for her back in their days in Hogwarts together.
Angelina heard the hesitant tone in his voice, looked at the faces of all the red heads, and George watched as horrified comprehension befell her dark face. It seemed to take an age for the smile to leave her face, her eyes to cloud over. Her lithe body seemed to wilt, no longer held up straight.
"No," she whispered, shaking. George could practically hear the breaking of her heart, could practically feel her world crash around her. Angelina sank to the floor, facing downward, not looking at anyone else.
Her breathing came quick and fast and soon it seemed like she couldn't get enough of it. Her panting was harsh and she started to rock back and forth, tears threatening to spill from her almond eyes.
Out of the corner of his eyes, George saw Ginny make a movement as though to comfort Angelina, but he made sure that he got there first.
George sat down next to her, wrapped his freckled arms around her. No one said a word to cut the heart breaking silence, punctured only by Angelina's sobs.
She cried as though her soul was trying to wrench free from the prison of her body, as if all the tomorrows in the world were not worth the pain she felt right then.
Tears fell down his own face as he held Angelina close to him, rubbing her back. He listened to her try to murmur Fred's name, but it seemed too painful for her to make out the name. Throat tightening up as the words fall cracked in her mouth, George knew exactly how that felt.
George just kept her in his arms, wetting her hair with his tears as she was doing with her own tears on his own t-shirt. He didn't tell her to shush, knowing how much that had angered him when people told him to shush his crying. Nor did he say that it would be alright, because, honestly, it wouldn't be alright. Fred was gone, nothing would ever alright again.
How long they sat there, trying to rid their bodies of all the sadness in the world, George didn't know. He was surprised when he finally pulled his head out of Angelina's hair to see that there was no more sunlight coming out of the window and that his siblings were long gone. They had given him and Angelina space to mourn.
Angelina clung harder to George, but her sobs seemed to cease slightly. Her breathing was still ragged and coming in sharp gasps, but it was slowing down. George continued to rub her back, try to keep her body warm.
Her flesh didn't bother him like everyone else's had done. Maybe because she loved Fred and this loss was something that no one else could feel. George certainly did not know how to lose a lover, just as he didn't know how to lose a child. In the same way that he allowed himself to understand his parents' grief, he allowed himself to understand Angelina's. He let himself open up more with her than he did with his siblings. She would feel his pain in a way that none of his siblings could. George felt a bond with Angelina that he rarely felt with anyone else.
Their crying had long stopped, but Angelina did not yet let go of George and he did not yet stop rubbing her back. They were breathing as one, long deep breaths, trying to cleanse their bodies of the pain they both felt.
Finally, after ages, Angelina lifted her head off of George's chest.
"Did you bury him already?"
George, unable to vocalize his answer, nodded. Fresh tears leaked from Angelina's eyes, but she did not start sobbing again. She just lost some of the tight hold she had on George, keeping her hands looser around his body.
"Two days ago," he croaked after a long silence. "Right after we got back from…"
Hogwarts.
The War.
The Place Fred Last Laughed.
Angelina sniffed, understanding the unspoken words that hung heavily in the air. She stared at the floor, keeping her eyes off of George.
"How? How did it happen?" she whispered. Her words were thick and frightened, and George could feel her shudder.
With all of the strength in his body, he started to explain.
"There was a curse. Blew apart a wall at Hogwarts. Fred was in the rubble," George's words were short, his sentences choppy. It was the only way that he would be able to finish. "I don't think the wall killed him. Must have been the curse. His body was unharmed."
George fell over with a bolt that coursed through his body. Bill, having just killed a Death Eater that the two had been fighting, was unaware of George's stance. It was the panting of George's labored body that brought Bill back to his surroundings.
"George, what's wrong? Did you get hit with something?" Bill asked, his voice high pitched, laced with fear.
"We have to go, we have to find Fred. Something's wrong."
George leapt from the tiled floor, running blindly down a corridor. He couldn't see straight, his whole body was entirely set on finding Fred. Something was wrong, something was terribly wrong.
His breath was leaving his body, but he wouldn't give up. His twin was more important than air.
Unaware of how far he had run, barely registering the fact that Bill was running to keep up with him, George threw curses left and right at the Death Eaters that he came across. Oliver Wood was fighting a still masked Death Eater, but George didn't stay to help him.
The need to be with Fred was more powerful than ever. He needed his twin, he needed Fred.
George raced down another hall where he saw red hair battling Rookwood. Percy, it was Percy.
Percy had been with Fred when the four brothers had been forced to separate. Percy would know what happened to Fred.
But Fred wasn't there.
Bill set a curse at Rookwood, either killing him or just rendering him unconscious. George didn't know or care. All thatmattered was Fred.
Percy looked up to see who had helped him, only to look into the eyes of Bill. George could see tear streaks mark his cheeks. Then George watched Percy's eyes slid off of Bill's face and onto his own.
Percy broke down, crying harder than George could ever remember. Bill took several long strides to hold his younger brother. Percy tried his hardest to look at George, but it seemed to cause him so much pain.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Percy choked out. "I should have protected him, never should have let him…"
George's body went rigid. His senses were stronger than ever, all the sounds in the world were heightened, all the smells of blood and something burnt made his eyes sting, all the sights of the blood stains on the floors and the marks of curses that had rebounded off the walls. Each nerve of his body was alive with a sort of fervor, racing frantically within his skin.
The war had to be over, for George didn't know how anyone could continue to fight when Fred was gone.
But he could still hear fighting, the screams and wails were impossible to take from his mind. This was the proof he needed that Fred was alive. Because as long as there was fighting, there was Fred.
Bill, never letting go of Percy, asked him to show them where the body was. George wanted to laugh. There was no body, just Fred's still living form. It was more than a body, it was a person. The most wonderful person in the world.
Waiting for his brother to emerge, laughing at his joke, George followed the still sobbing Percy and the grief stricken Bill to a place in the castle where the wall had been blown off.
Red hair.
It gleamed like no other hair George had ever seen, except in a mirror. There were shoes made of dragon leather, the same color and size of George's. There was a striped shirt that George recognized from birthday time with his family. There was a hand, the grip slack on the wand that still lay on the palm.
Fred.
There was Fred.
With a rush of sound in his ear, George lost all senses. He could not feel his body, could not make any sense of where his arms and legs were. Opposite to his sense being stronger just moments ago, now he was left with nothing.
Fred had been his reason for sensing, for feeling. That reason was gone. Killed.
Walking closer to the body, George thought he was floating. He could not feel his feet touch the ground, only stared as Fred's body got closer and closer. Light was thrown upon his twin's face as a spell light up the sky behind them.
Fred was still smiling. His eyes were wide and gleaming and empty. George brought his hand down to shut Fred's eyes. He only wanted to see the smile.
"He was still smiling, Lina," George's voice was small and failing to sound comforting. "He never felt a thing."
Whether this was meant to comfort Angelina or not, George didn't know. He said it for his own needs as much as for hers. It seemed to suffice as Angelina nodded slowly, placing her head back onto his chest.
They sat in silence for the longest length yet, thinking of the boy they had both loved, no matter how differently. George felt more tired at that moment than he had. Admitting to someone else that Fred was dead had taken so much out of him that he felt that he could never be alert again. Angelina seemed to be just as exhausted as her body was slumped in the most uncomfortable way.
"Lina, would you, I mean, do you want to go to his," George stalled, shutting his eyes, "grave?"
She shook her head, her black hair rubbing his cloth shirt.
"Not now. I don't want to see where he's dead."
She looked up meaningfully into George's eyes. He understood at once that she wanted to be where Fred had lived.
"I'll take you to the shop."
It was not an offer, just a statement. "I need your help to Apparate to the apartment though. I, I don't think I can do it myself," George said, weakly.
With a last sweeping look at the living room of the Burrow, Angelina and George clasped hands and made the journey together, both unable to perform the magic alone. As they left the Burrow, George wondered if Angelina would ever be able to enter the house again. He still wondered how he managed to.
His thoughts were broken as they were suddenly standing in front of the joke shop that had once been his and Fred's. No, that was still his and Fred's.
Fiercely, he felt that he would never think of this shop as solely his own. This had been a dream the two had shared for more than half their lives. George could never have managed this on his own. Fred was the one that came up with the ideas, Fred was the one who fixed out the small details. He never could have done it without Fred… Could he do it now, as the remaining part of the set?
Angelina tugged on George's right sleeve, reminding him that she was still there. She motioned to the shop door, ignoring the sympathetic looks of the people in Diagon Alley that were watching the pair struggle. George gave a somewhat curt nod in their direction, not wanting to be near the goggling stares, and set forth to the door.
The handle felt cold under his hand, it had not been touched in ages. George, with a jolt to his systems, remembered that it had been Fred who touched the knob last. Disregarding this notion, George pushed the door, a bell ringing to the shadows inside that a customer had arrived.
Everything was dark, and the few objects that George could make out were dusty and there were cobwebs galore. The once brightly colored treats and jokes were dull in the faded light and gray dust. They, too, seemed to have diminished in the absence of Fred.
He turned to Angelina, expecting her to been looking for the door to the flat he and Fred used to share upstairs. But her eyes were instead on a spot on the floor that was blackened.
"George, what happened here?" Her voice was high, not thick like it had been at the Burrow.
George stared at the spot where Angelina pointed one of her long fingers at. There was a dark outline on the orange floor, caused by Dark Magic.
"That, that is where Verity died."
Fred and George arrived at their shop, quieter than usual. Traveling to Diagon Alley was harder and harder each day, knowing that the Death Eaters that roamed the streets knew of their "traitorous" wizarding ways. Though they always felt safe in each others' presence, they could not say the same about being around the others.
Still, they had needed supplies for their flat above the shop. Arms laden with groceries, they had made their way back to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Entering the seeming empty shop, George wondered if they would get any customers that day or if it would be as empty as it had been the last few weeks.
He heard his twin gasp and drop the food he had been holding.
"Fred, what did you do that for? We need that and I don't want to have to go back to the store to--"
The words were cut short as Fred threw an arm out to keep George from walking any further. Fred shifted his body so that he was no longer directly in front of George and George could now see what had stopped Fred.
Verity lay on the ground, her body in a position too unnatural to be real. Her blonde hair streamed over the floor, her eyes blank, but with a look of fear still resting on her features. Her body was small and it was the last thing George saw as he and Fred wordlessly Apparated to a place right near the Burrow.
It was no longer safe in Diagon Alley. They were now being chased.
Verity was dead, indirectly, by their hand. George felt immeasurably guilty, crying soft and messy while Fred did the same next to him. Hugging each other, the twins mourned for their co worker and friend.
Angelina gave an odd shivering movement and George wondered if she was going to be ill. Wordlessly, they stepped over the black outline on the ground. They both agreed silently, that it would be too disrespectful to walk onto of Verity's last mark.
George opened the door, and walked through first. Perhaps he should have been a gentleman and let Angelina walk in before himself, but tonight wasn't about being polite.
Their feet padded the ground softly on the carpeted stairs. George had never noticed how narrow the staircase was. When Fred was there, he couldn't remember walking up the stairs, could only remember laughing with his twin. But now, without Fred, he felt like the walls would constrict and close in.
Finally, the arduous trip up the stairs was finished as George and Angelina entered the flat. George felt his heart seize up and suddenly, he wished that the stairs had never ended, that he was still climbing them. He didn't want to be in this room.
Unable to move, he looked around the rooms the he and Fred had once shared, barely a few months ago. Everything looked… cold.
The couch clearly showed that no one had lounged in it in so long. It had dusted over. The floor looked as though it needed cleaned, and it probably did. No windows had been opened in so long, the air was stale. No smells of bad cooking or experiments entered George's nostril. Nor could he hear Fred's creative swearing as he tinkered with different ingredients.
George wondered what would happen if he just shut his eyes and pretended that everything was the way it had been before. It wouldn't be a lie, it wouldn't be imaginary. George knew there was no way that he could trick himself into believing that Fred was still joking. But, pretending could be wonderful…
Angelina placed her slim hand on George's back, pressing him slightly to go further into the flat. He almost forgot her as he had stopped short near the couch. He watched her as she moved towards the arm chair that sat off to the side of the sofa. Watching the progress of her hand as it trailed over the fabric, George felt a lump form in his throat.
Shaking his head, he knew he had to keep moving. With a new purpose, he trudged around the main room. His feet sounded loud to his ear, booming with each step he took.
George made his way over to the large fireplace that was now black and distinctly cold, like the rest of the room.
He looked over the mantle, seeing the pictures he and Fred had placed there. There were various pictures of family members, friends, and, of course, their old Quidditch players. It had long been decided that they were a league separate from all the rest.
One by one, George lowered the picture frames, ignoring the frantic waves the people in the photographs made to stop him. Each picture had Fred beaming in the background. George didn't trust himself to look at Fred. He reached the last picture in the row, and paused a moment.
It was a picture their mum had taken before the two had gone to Hogwarts. They were wearing matching clothes, and identical grins. There was a comfortable feel lined in each boy's face, as they had their arms loosely around each other's necks. George watched his former self turn to the younger Fred, his face lit up in a laugh. Soon, younger-Fred joined younger-George in a side splitting laugh that made their excitement explode over the photograph.
Back in the present day, George slammed the frame down hard onto the mantle. There was movement and a gasp behind him as the glass shattered. George turned to see that Angelina had been startled by the noise. She was standing in the archway between the kitchen and the sitting room, evidently scared. Her eyes fell to the broken glass on the mantle and then looked up at George.
"You, erm, startled me," she apologized, tearing her eyes away. She started to turn away, but not before George saw more tears spring into her eyes. He felt completely disgusted with himself, how could he have made Angelina cry again? Why could he not get a grip?
'I've lost people before. This has never been so hard, not like this,' he thought, frantically. 'Of course, Fred had always been there to calm me down, to cheer me up.'
Who was going to make George calm now?
Desperate to look anywhere but at the defeated form of Angelina, George turned his head so violently, he felt as though he had pulled a muscle. Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked to the wall off to the side of the fireplace.
His heart stopped.
Fred was there! Fred was looking right at him, staring him in the face. Everything was going to be alright, everything was fine! Fred was here! As George rushed to his twin, he could just imagine what Fred would say…
"You git, you made Angie cry! And, are you crying, too? You git! You knew I'd be back. Now open the shop up, we have so many customers coming to see us."
There would be laughter in his voice, and he would playfully shove George off towards the door leading to the stairs as he walked over to hug Angelina.
Barely breathing for the excitement of the moment, George reached his brother. Only, something was missing. Fred seemed unbalanced. George looked him over, tilting his head to the side. Fred did the same. Looking at how his head was angled, George saw that Fred was missing an ear, just like he was. Slowly, George reached out to touch Fred's blackened hole where his ear used to be. He wanted to comfort his brother, tell him that it would be alright, only hearing on one side.
All thoughts of comfort left his mind as his hand hit a cool, smooth surface.
Breathing hard, George pushed the palm of his hand harder and harder onto the surface. He refused to believe that it was a mirror. How could it be his reflection? Everything had been riding on that hope, how could it dangle in front of him like the sickest joke he had ever seen?
He wanted to curse the mirror for all its heartless properties, want to yell and scream and break the mirror into one million pieces. George wanted nothing better than to stamp his feet, cry, and throw the biggest tantrum he could think of. Maybe ricochet spells off the walls and make as much noise and damage as he could.Maybe that would calm his insides down.
He had to do something; his insides were bursting to escape him. Clutching his stomach, George could feel his muscles contracting and releasing, as though preparing themselves for the puddles of sick that were sure to appear on the dusty carpet any second now.
Squeezing his eyes shut, George swallowed the bile threatening to come up. His face was twisted against the howl of anger that was trying desperately to escape. It took several moments for George to regain control of his body, and in those few moments, all his energy was gone. He no longer wanted to throw spells carelessly around, what if Angelina was hit?
Opening his watering eyes, George looked back at his reflection, staring it down. He stared until the image in front of him turned sharp, and then smudged as though a giant invisible hand rubbed it. Once all the colors had completely blended together, George finally blinked and looked away.
"Tela," he murmured, and instantly a thin cloth of drab color and material fell from the tip of his wand. Cocking an eyebrow slightly, he looked at the fabric. Normally, he would produce warm cloths of vibrant colors. Had all the color in the world disappeared with Fred?
Shrugging off his apparently loose grip on magic, George draped the cloth loosely over the mirror. He no longer wanted to see the mocking reflection.
"Erm."
A voice that sounded far away brought him back to the apartment. George turned to Angelina, who looked as though she had never seen anything quite so sad before.
"Erm, George. Would you, I mean to say, should I make some tea?" God help her, she looked so awkward, drawing circles in the carpet with her shoes. She was biting her lip, maybe she was holding back tears. George didn't know.
"No, thanks, Lina. I'd rather just…" he trailed off, not really knowing how to answer the question. He had drunk so much tea in the past few days. His mum seemed to think that tea was the cure-all and had been making it in buckets. There was a new mug of tea for George nearly every hour. It didn't matter if the last mug had still been sitting there, full to the brim with cold tea that he hadn't touched.
Tea had lost its flavor since before the battle.
George drained the last dregs of his tea, staring at the bottom of his mug. Fred sat next to him at their Auntie Muriel's table, drumming his fingers erratically on the wooden surface. George saw that Fred's eyes were darting back and forth between the small staircase to his right and the back door to his left. To the same tempo of Fred's dancing fingers, George's leg was jiggling beneath the table. He watched Fred's eyes make their dash between the two locations.
"Would you stop staring at me?" Fred near snapped at George. George felt slightly offended by the comment, and also a bit worried. Normally Fred would make a comment about how George couldn't stop staring at his good looks, or some other joke that would make them both laugh. But not now, there was too much tension.
"Sorry," George replied shortly. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm just as nervous as you. Yelling isn't going to help a thing."
"I didn't yell," Fred remarked in a low, though admittedly kinder, voice. "I wonder where Ginny is. If we want to leave without Muriel seeing us, we're going to have to hurry it up a bit."
George nodded, unsure of what to say. Moments ago, they had received messages from Bill telling them that the Battle at Hogwarts was going to begin soon. Ginny had yelled and screamed until they agreed to take her with them to the school. Actually, it had been the threat of the Bat Bogey Curse that convinced them that she would be a helpful asset.
George could hear small footsteps overhead and down the stairs and then watched as a pair of old trainers made their way into the kitchen. Ginny had gathered some items she must have thought she would need for there was a small knapsack in her hands. Waveringly, she stared at the twins who still sat at the table. Fred and George stood up slowly, glancing outside to see if Muriel could see them.
George's vision was soon obstructed as red hair appeared in front of him. Small arms wrapped around his neck, and there was a scent of flowery perfume filling his nostrils. Ginny was hugging him with all the force in the world. Without completely letting go, Ginny detached one of her arms from his neck to pull Fred closer to her. She hugged them fiercely and the two brothers held her just as close.
"Fred, George," came a muffled voice from between the twins' heads. George nodded, nuzzling his baby sister with his nose. "I just want to let you know that I love you both. So much.
"It's stupid to think that we will all make it out okay. I just, I just want to let you both know that I love you so much. So very much," Ginny repeated, sounding like she had a head cold. "You cheered me up when I needed cheering, you protected me, you always made me laugh."
With a final squeeze, she turned her head to kiss each brother on the cheek before pulling away. Fred smiled at her, and leaned over to press his lips on the top of her head.
"Any time, Gin. We love you, too."
George nodded his agreement, holding Ginny's arm, pecking her cheek.
"That's right. And no more of this depressing notion. A Weasley twin die? Hah, there are too many more jokes to be said."
"Too many pranks to be pulled!" Fred finished, grinning wildly. Ginny gave a shaky laugh and proceeded to walk out the front door where Muriel could not see them Disapparate.
George made to follow his sister, but Fred held his arm, stopping his progress.
"George, what Ginny said," Fred started, staring hard at his twin, not taking his hand off of Fred.
George felt a surge of affection for his twin, staring just as hard back.
"I know, Fred."
They looked at each other, identical in practically every aspect, drinking in each other's appearance as though it was the last time they'd ever see each other. Images of all the times they had spent together their entire lives flashed in front of George's eyes, but in the center of it all, he could still see Fred staring at him.
"I want you to know that I feel the same way," they said quickly in the same instance. Smiles lit up their faces, they loved thinking the exact same thing.
Fred gave a tug on George's arm, pulling him closer. They hugged tightly, in a way they had not hugged since they were little and long hugs were still acceptable. His arms tight around Fred's waist, George kept his head close to Fred's. He could feel Fred's chest exactly across from his own and he felt their hearts beating at the exact same pace.
One heart with two bodies, it seemed.
George had rarely felt this close to his brother before and smiled into the shaggy red hair of his twin. It took ages for them to pull apart, but soon they reached Ginny. Grinning over their sister's head, they looked at each other. George knew that everything was going to be fine. As long as Fred was with him, everything was going to be fine.
He shook his head, his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. His confrontation with the mirror seemed to have placed a bravery in him that he had not been able to imagine before.
"Lina, Lina, let's go into the bedroom."
Angelina gave him a look that clearly said, This is hardly the time. She seemed to have forgotten the circumstances that they were in, placing her hands in her hips and raising her eyebrows. The look was so reminiscent of all their years together at Hogwarts that George almost smiled.
"Er, not like that. I just meant, maybe we should go into the bedroom. And, and look around," he offered as a better explanation. She stared him right in the eye, trying to find an alternative motive for bringing her into the bedroom. It was something so common, so ordinary for Angelina to do. It was the first breath of fresh air since the Last Battle.
She walked ahead of George, and pulled open the door to the bedrooms. George saw lights from the sitting room and kitchen enter it, banishing some of the shadows into hiding.
Angelina turned the lights on with her wand, and walked in slowly. George felt like she was being swallowed up into the room. He followed her more out of the need to save her than anything. From the moment that the door had opened, he had not wanted to enter.
Part of George felt that as long as the door was shut, there was a chance that Fred might be sitting on his bed, waiting for George to enter.
George wasn't sure how he was going to feel if he entered the room and didn't see Fred's shining face looking back at him, eager to tell some joke or idea. Pushing this thought to the back of his mind, George plucked up the courage to cross the small sitting room into the bedroom.
Bracing himself for the impact, George shut his eyes before crossing from the gray carpet of the sitting room to the blue carpet of the bedroom. Once he felt himself cross the doorway, he knew that he was going to have to look around.
In the same manner that he had looked at his twin in his casket, George opened his eyes, looking at the carpet, slowly his eyes around slowly, leaving the most poignant visions for last.
The carpet was light blue and just as dusty as the carpet in the sitting room. He could see burn marks on the carpet beneath the large desk that was located in the middle of room. Smiling slightly, George realized they were there from the last bit of experimenting that he and Fred had taken part of. The part of the desk that was not covered in old parchment, candy, and odds and ends was filthy with dust.
Over the desk was a small window, grimy with dirt that had not been cleaned since Fred and George had moved in over a year ago. The twins had never been much for cleaning spells. The window was dark, but George knew that in the light, it looked out over the tops of some of the smaller shops nearby in Diagon Alley.
Covering the walls were posters of Quidditch teams and bands that the twins had loved. The moving pictures zoomed on broomsticks or slammed hard on their drums. They continued moving as though nothing else had stopped in the world. To the left of the window, there was George's side of the bed. The covers had been pulled up over towards the pillows, but it was not at all neat. His clothes spilled out from the floor of his full wardrobe, littering the floor.
There were silvery cobwebs in the corners, but George failed to see any spiders. He figured he would find them crawling around the edges of the floor, or even possibly nesting in the brown blankets on his bed. How anything could live in the dust was beyond him, but then again, his mother had always been surprised that Fred and George could sleep with the smell of smoke filling their bedroom at the Burrow.
Maybe the smell of dust reminded the spiders of their home the way that burnt objects reminded George of his home.
Hearing a noise behind him, George knew it was time to acknowledge the fact that a whole other bed still resided in the small bedroom. Turning slowly, George wondered how he could have ever thrown spells out quicker than Death Eaters. Now, shifting his body slightly seemed to take an era to complete and was much more complicated.
Finally, his lead-filled body faced Angelina. She was staring at Fred's empty bed, glassy eyed, but not crying. One hand hung lifelessly by her side while the other was held close to her mouth, as though testing to see if she was still breathing. George turned his attention to the bed as well, taking in each aspect.
He wanted to be able to count the threads that made up the brown blankets twisted around the end of the bed. He wanted to stare at the creases in the pillow that had last been made by Fred's sleeping head. George stared for a few moments, listening to Angelina's breathing in the background.
And then, all of a sudden, George didn't want this image burned into his memory. He didn't want to see a dust covered bed that had clearly not been lived in for months. In the same instance, he realized that this bed was no where near as emotional as the bed back at the Burrow had been. Fred's life had not started or ended in this room. He and George had not concocted hundreds of jokes within these walls. So many laughs had been completed outside the doors.
This room, this bed, was not as heart breaking as everything else George had seen lately.
With that thought, he unceremoniously threw himself onto Fred's bed. The dust rose around, making him sneeze, until he pulled his wand out.
"Scorgify," he wheezed, cleaning the bed of most of the dust. That, at least, lessened the sneezes. George patted the mattress next to him, indicating that Angelina should sit next to him. She had been staring horrified as he straightened himself out into a sitting position on the edge, his feet resting on the floor.
Wide eyed, he watched Angelina pull herself together enough to take her own seat. The mattress groaned with the extra weight as though it were as weary as the pair sitting on it.
The two friends sat comfortably in the dim light, their shoulders brushing slightly. It was the barest amount of contact, but George felt extremely comforted by it. He could feel the weight in his chest lessening with each brush of Angelina's shirt on his. Angelina must have relaxed some as well, for he watched her shoulders lower from the hunched up position they had been in for the majority of the night. Her long form bent over the edge of the bed to pick up a lone black sock that had once been Fred's.
"You're welcome to keep that, if you want," George told her quietly. It had just occurred to him that perhaps Angelina would want a keepsake.
"I've smelled enough socks for a lifetime in those Quidditch changing rooms," Angelina said in a tone that might be thought joking if it weren't so thick. "But, could I have something else instead?"
She looked so hopeful at him that George couldn't say no. With a slight nod of his head, she lifted her body off of the bed. With two small steps, Angelina walked right over to the wardrobe on the wall opposite the bedroom. Fred's wardrobe was firmly shut, unlike George's. Angelina pulled the small brass handles with long skinny fingers and then doors appealed to her.
Immediately, she started running her hands over the fabrics that she faced. Her dark fingers stood out against the magenta work robes that still hung. She looked with longing at the old school robes that were kept as a keepsake, as well as the old red and gold Quidditch robes that Fred had not been able to part with. Slowly and deliberately, as though it were an art, Angelina fingered every piece of clothing in the small wardrobe.
George saw her eyes lit up with happiness when she saw a familiar cloth. She handled everything with such a caring hand that George wondered if she imagined Fred still wearing them. Finally, she came across a navy sweater with a large yellow F on it. If George had thought there was care in her movements before, it was nothing like the tenderness he now witnessed.
Her eyes swelled, but not with tears. There was such happiness in them that nearly broke George's heart. Her thick lips formed a small slight smile on her face that seemed to wake up her insides. Angelina's body practically morphed from the tensed shell it had been for the past few hours to a body that could rival someone completely relaxed.
Pulling the sweater completely out of the wardrobe, Angelina held it up to her body. She looked at George and gave him a Well, what do you think? type of look.
"His Christmas sweater? Lovely, Lina," he answered her, marveling in her happiness and wonder.
"I always loved your mum's sweaters. Once, in sixth year, Fred let me wear this one. It was so lovely and warm, and it smelled of pies," Angelina sounded almost excited, staring at the think warm cloth. Then, without further ado, she pulled the sweater over her head. Emerging from the top, her hair was tousled, but her face was beaming.
"Lovely, Lina," George repeated, not lying at all.
"Thanks, George. I can wear this whenever I want to feel warm. It's almost as though Fred is hugging me again," she near whispered. She looked down at the sleeves that extended several inches past her fingertips. The lower edge of the sweater fell down past her bottom. Tall as Angelina was, Fred had been taller and stockier, causing Angelina to look engulfed in the sweater.
George gave a small grin at her sight, which caused her to smile even more broadly. She took a few steps back to bed, practically bouncing back on.
"I love this, it's like having him back!" she breathed in his face. Her tone was warm and comforting, and George nodded his agreement. In that moment, George took in the full of Angelina's face. Her eyes, alert more now than ever, were almond shaped and the color of chocolate, the color that matched her skin so perfectly. Her cheekbones were high and her chin was small, tapering off to show a long skinny neck that disappeared into the depths of the green sweater.
Her eyebrows were full and her lips were parted slightly from the small thrill she received from the Weasley sweater. She was staring at George as though she had never seen him before this moment in time; he had never seen her look that way towards him.
Her hands, he was surprised to find, were now on his cheeks. He could feel the heat of her thin hands on his cheeks through the thick fabric. She was right, it was so soft and warm. She seemed to be moving quickly towards his face, landing her lips directly on his.
A million thoughts exploded into George's head, but he couldn't grasp any one of them. Everything was spinning in a most horrible fashion. Angelina pressed harder and harder against him, George could practically taste the bitter hunger that she was throwing into the kiss.
He lifted his hands to her shoulders, not to deepen the kiss, but to push her away. He did so, gently and firmly. Her eyes had popped open and were looking furiously into his. Angelina was daring him to explain why he stopped, why he didn't let her continue when he knew that's what she had wanted.
George knew why she had done it though, did not feel at all accusatory towards Angelina. He only felt depthless guilt as he voiced the only words that could come to his mind sensibly.
"Lina, I'm not Fred."
Well, there's chapter one. I cried so hard when I read Fred's death in the 7th book. I slammed the book shut, threw it down, and started sobbing. "I don't want to read anymore!" It took about 15 minutes and half a box of tissues for me to calm down enough to keep reading. I've read the book twice more since then and each time I cry when Fred dies. I wanted to write a fan fic in honor of him.This will be a three part story, so expect chapter two to arrive shortly. Please review and keep your hearts full of love for the Pranksters.