Think Mum's been the most shocked. She kept trying before, during, since the funeral, determined that she would catch me breaking down in tears, burying my face in Fred's clothes, or some rubbish like that. Not going to happen. Because, quite simply, it's not going to happen.

I suspect she really just wants the opportunity to mother me. Fred and I never really gave her half a chance. Plenty of opportunities to yell at us, of course, shake her head at us, roll her eyes at us. But not really to mother over us in that way that only mums truly can do.

So, she keeps assuring everyone – really, reassuring herself – that I just "need time" and "everyone deals with loss in different ways." Trying to justify why her "little Georgie" (Honestly, never had that nickname before in my life until now…) isn't in mourning over the loss of his dear twin brother.

I think everyone else is just relieved, really. "Thank Merlin, George is still George." kind of thing. Someone has to make sure we all still remember how to laugh every now and again. That was always mine and Fred's role. So now the responsibility is solely on me.

And it's not easy – doing the work of two – by yourself. Just means I have to finish my own sentences. Invent and execute every prank – or product, as the case is these days. But who doesn't like a good challenge?

Let's just make it clear, in case it's not, that yes, I mourned for my brother. My partner. In crime and business. My other half. My self. Sure, I miss Fred all the time. But I cried for him on the day he died. And that was all I needed.

Because the thing is, while it may have been a terrible shock to everyone else, Fred and I were a bit prepared for it. Honestly, you don't go through life without thinking that the people who are always there might one day not be. We would have been bloody daft if we hadn't expected it to happen some day, some how.

From the moment we started experimenting, we knew we were courting danger – after all, Mum and Dad were quite the 'danger' even in our days of transfiguring teddy bears into spiders. And where there's danger, there's risk. One of us was bound to get hurt at one point or another (if by some miracle we both didn't).

And then, of course, the dream. Five years before Fred died. I'd woke up, bolt upright, in the middle of the night. And there was Fred, in the exact same position. We looked at one another for a moment, then shouted together, "We're dead!" We had had the same dream. He died in mine. I died in his. We knew. It was going to happen. We didn't know when.

From that day forward we started to take stock of how life would be different without the other one. We had a habit of realising when we were in the middle of a particularly 'us'-ish task. One of us would give a slight nod to the other, which meant, "When I'm gone, you're going to have to take care of this."

It became a sort of game. First years throwing up on the common room floor after testing Puking Pastilles? Have to clean that up before McGonagall finds out. Nod to Fred. This'll be you if I'm gone. Meticulously testing the amounts of each ingredient for a love potion? Nod to me. Better get your maths up, George. Beating your nose back into position after a good bludgering? Nod to Fred. Not sure how you're going to manage bashing yourself in the face when I'm gone, mate, but I will be sad that I'm not there to watch.

It was quite the game. Until Fred caught my eye one day as he was sitting on the couch in the common room, playfully teasing Angelina. No one else would have noticed the small, slight movement he made when our eyes met. But there it was. The nod. "When I'm gone, you'll have to take care of her for me."

We knew. Even once we left school and opened Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, the "game" continued. I can still remember dawn on the day we opened the shop. We stood outside, staring at our new home. And then we both turned to each other silently and nodded.

And at some point Fred had determined that it – whatever 'it' was – was going to happen to him. Analysing little differences in our dream, noticing signs, feelings, all indicators, he thought. And I just couldn't bring myself to wager a bet against him. Just as well.

We started to become more alike, in some respects. Trying to improve in all of the things the other was generally better at. But we also started to separate ourselves in small ways, since we knew we would have to be just ourselves when the time came. No longer Fred and George. Gred and Forge. Just Fred. Or just George.

"How long do you think it will take you to get over me?" Fred asked once, while we were up to our arms inspecting a newly-arrived shipment of dragon hearts.

"At least how ever long we've been alive for up to that point. If ever." I shrugged.

He shot me a look. "No, you git. I mean the weepy, hosepiping bit."

"Not much one for crying."

"Neither am I."

"We know." We said together.

Fred set aside a heart that was still pulsating. "How about we give each other six months, then no more excuses, get on with it."

"Six whole months? You want me to be depressing for that long?"

"Merlin's sake. I don't care if it's only six days. But sometimes –"

"Things take longer than you expect them to." I finished for him, eyeing the other dragon hearts yet to be examined. "Alright six months. And I don't care if it's only six hours."

"Whatever it takes 'til you can make everyone laugh again, George."

It took a day. I don't think Fred minded. He would've done the same. He would've seen their faces the day after and known that they needed him to be him, despite it all. They weren't prepared to lose him. I wasn't entirely, either. I hadn't known that the some day, some how was going to be that day, that how. Maybe Fred did, but he didn't let on.

There are still dragon's blood stains in the storeroom, I noticed, as I returned to the front counter of the shop, after checking the progress of a potion that hadn't quite reached the right shade of chartreuse.

And that's when Angelina – my angel – came storming in with the wrath of a demon let out after midnight.

"I just bloody noticed. How long's it been like that, George? How bloody long? It's not bloody funny. At all."

Though, it was a bit funny the way she repeated certain words when she was angry. Fred had pointed that out to me when they first started dating.

"How long's what been what, love?"

"Don't 'love' me."

She dragged me through the shop by my ear. Fred always got this irrepressible grin when Angelina hauled him around like that. I didn't enjoy it as much. But when you've only got one of something, you tend to be a bit more sensitive about it, of course.

"We're outside, Ange."

"Yes."

"Looking at the shop."

"Yes."

See? The repetition again.

"And…" I looked around. "What exactly are we looking for?"

"You git."

"Well, seems we've found me, so-"

And that's when I noticed it. Fred, you buggery git.

WEASLEY'S WIZARD WHEEZES

Not WEASLEYS'… as in two – multiple Weasleys – owning said Wizard Wheezes.

Just the one. One Weasley.

Me. Not Fred.

Angelina looked like she wanted to hit something. Specifically, one George Weasley.

Or curse me. Hex me. Jinx me. Give me boils, at the very least.

So I hugged her. Because that's just what you do. (Blokes, take note.) Fred didn't have to teach me that one.

She tried to squirm away so she could continue being furious.

"You git – you can't take Fred out of it just because he's –"

"Angelina, Fred took himself out of it."

She shook her head. "What are you talking about?"

"It's been 6 months."

"Don't you dare tell me how long it's been, George Weasley, as if I wouldn't know."

"We… we made a deal with each other, Ange. I guess this was his way of making sure I held up my end of the bargain."

She didn't look amused.

"I'll fix it, love. No worries."

She nodded emphatically, then pulled out her wand and quickly gave it a flick – a ladder suddenly appeared against the façade.

"Ah, now. I suppose. Cheers."

I hurried up the ladder and gave the wayward symbol a few cursory prods with my wand. It wouldn't budge. Upon closer inspection, I realised it wasn't just an apostrophe, it was a message, the words crammed into the shape of the punctuation mark:

Dear George,
This is my gift to you.
The shop is yours. All yours.
Wouldn't have it any other way.
We always talked about "when
we're dead" and, well, it seems
'we' really are. Take care of my
things, take care of our things.
They are now all your things.
I miss you. You miss me.
We know. Don't let that
ever stop you. Say Hi
to Mum, Dad, Bill,
Charlie, Percy,
Ron, Ginny,
and Ange.
Cheers,
Love,
Fred
W.

It wouldn't budge. Partly because I wouldn't budge it. Angelina would understand. Maybe after a bit more weeping and hugging.

"We" were dead. But I certainly wasn't. And Fred wasn't. Not really. He lives every day through the things we've done. He lives every day through me.

I don't really think about it. Don't really have to. He's always been there. He always will be.

• • • • • • •

Author's Note: This popped into my head after seeing story after story about depressed George who can't get over Fred's death and doesn't know what to do with his life. Thought we could do with a new take on it. For the record, I do know what's it's like to lose a loved one. And I do actually have a twin.