A/N: This was a very long time coming. Rowling, I feel, did a very inadequate job with the seventh book, especially concerning the aftermath of Fred's death. As a fan, I had to make it up to myself. It's taken me this long, but it's finally here. ...;A;

Left

There was a lot of noise around them, hundreds of voices filling the air, and he wished they'd be quiet. Couldn't they see Fred was sleeping? He was kneeling at his brother's side, watching him, and remained there long after the rest of his family had moved away.

There was shouting, and explosions, and lights streaked across the Great Hall, but he couldn't be bothered to glance up even once. It very slowly occurred to him that Fred should've been breathing--the color of his brother's skin didn't match his anymore. Very slowly, he touched his brother's face, and was startled by how cold it was. He ducked quickly, placing his ear directly above his twin's heart, and listened intently for the familiar sound of that heartbeat.

Why couldn't he hear it?

Desperately, he straightened and reached out to shake his brother's shoulder, gently; he knew just how to go about getting Fred up in the morning. And yet his touch drew no response. Alarm flooded his senses, leaving him with a terrifying chill as he slowly began to comprehend what he was seeing.

It didn't make any sense, though. It didn't make sense that Fred was dead. It just wasn't possible for one of them to exist without the other.

It was like a nightmare. Yes, that it was it--it was just some fiendishly elaborate nightmare.

He would wake up, in the flat above the shop, to a hand on his shoulder and a familiar face above his own; he would open his eyes, finding himself under the concerned scrutiny of what could've been his sleepy, tousel-haired reflection, and that wonderfully caring and comforting voice would say, "Just a dream, mate."

So all he had to do was wait. He clenched his eyes shut, blocking out the sight before him that was too terrible to be real. He wouldn't let this nightmare hurt him, he would sit and wait for that hand, that voice.

He only had to wait, because surely his brother would save him, like he always had before.

Things were happening around him, but he didn't dare open his eyes. He didn't know how long he sat there for, waiting for the terror to go away.

Suddenly, a hand on his shoulder roused him, and his eyes flew open, relief swelling through him so fast it hurt.

He turned with a slight smile on his face, sighing, "Fred--"

Scared green eyes looked back at him, and Harry whispered, "I...I don't know what to say, George."

Thousands of eyes were on him, and he just sat there, staring up at the boy who was not his brother, at the world that had not faded into something more welcoming and safe.

What?

He didn't need to turn around to know what he'd find stretched on the floor in front of him.

It could've been hours before he found his voice. "This can't be real," he said quietly, staring into the face of the Boy-Who-Lived. "It's not, is it?"

The scarred boy closed his eyes, expression tortured, and it was the only answer needed.

For the first time in George's life, his twin had left him and he was alone.

There's nothing much that can be done to help a person without any will to live. George felt bad, somewhere, that he was causing his grieving family more distress, but what could he say? Asking someone to survive after being cut right down the middle was asking far too much. Being asked to survive, with half a heart, half a soul.

What was the point in trying?

So he didn't try. He just slept. Because in his dreams, at least, he was whole.

End.