(A/N): Apart from Bridge to Terabitha, some random Chinese movie I don't remember the name of, and most recently Sherlock BBC's 'Reichenbach' (that hurt the worst, and it was beautiful), I don't cry about character deaths. I usually get more angry than sad, resulting in a lot of late-night book throwing and enraged yelling at said book. But Fred's death, I am proud to say, reduced me to tears. And so when I found this little shindig in my archives, I just had to fix it up and post it. (This is written before he had Fred II, his little boy)

Disclaimer: My initials are not JKR, nor did Harry Potter walk into my mind, fully formed, once upon a delayed train ride. Let's leave it at that.

Edit: I think I've come a long way in my writing style. This flows so much more beautifully now, to my ears, at least, and I hope it'll flow better to yours too. I think the ending's more raw now too. It hurts to read it though…And I'M THE ONE WHO WROTE IT.

Pain. Just horribly exquisite. Sigh.

It has been years.

I don't dare keep track how many, but I know it's been more than a few.

I lock myself in my room whenever April Fools' comes around. It's bad enough to have people celebrating your-our-birthday the best way you know how, that we know how. I close Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes for one of the only times of the year. I don't care if people are inconvenienced.

By Merlin, I don't give a damn.

We found your Weasley sweater the other day, in the attic, hidden way in the back. It was a bit dusty after so long, but the moths had left it intact. We—I—spent hours just kneeling on that cold attic floor, trying hard not to think. It even smelt like you, Forge. Of burnt Dungbombs and velvet Quidditch robes, smoky Peruvian darkness powder and bruise balm.

I glimpse your face in my mirror, your shadow behind me, your reflection through the shop windows that I pass. There are nights I spend staring at myself through the looking glass, as if it is the fabled Mirror of the Erised, gazing at you, at us. Wishing that somehow, somehow, my reflection will grow an ear and you will come walking out of it with a crazy smile, ready for more mischief managing. Ready to make life worth living again.

Life hasn't been worth much since you left me.

I can feel your smile stretching over my face like a treacherous disease when I succeed at a new invention. It's an effort not to crush the new Weasley merchandise, because I can't stand the thought of being happy. I don't deserve to be happy while you're still and cold and lifeless, staring back at nothing, white as a sheet.

'Expecto Patronum' are two words that don't work for me anymore. I don't even remember what my-our-Patronus used to be. I struggle to create the merest hint of smog. No memory of you has escaped the taint of your blue, blue eyes staring into nothingness back during the Battle of Hogwarts. Staring right past me, George, your best friend, your brother, your partner in crime.

Your bloody twin.

I saw your Quidditch uniform and Beater bat somewhere in the attic; your broomstick too, we must have forgotten to-leave it with you. I thought it was my stuff until I saw the name on the back. I wanted to put it on so badly, to pretend to be you, to make-believe that you had come back and told me everything was going to be alright and the pain would stop.

Do they have a cure for heartburn at St. Mungo's, do you think? What do you suppose you need to make it? Could be an idea for a new Weasley item, eh, Forge?

Oh, bloody hell…how do you make me believe you've come back?

I still remember all the times we pretended to be the other. I could be one of four people; George, Fred, Gred, and Forge. Sort of like choosing from a group of four identical coats. Mum called me Fred the other day, and I went white wishing I could still play that old trick. It would have been so easy.

I still pause in the midst of sentences, thinking that you'll be there beside me to finish them. Sometimes I don't even start them; some part of me still believes you will.

I think I've gone as loony as Lovegood. I'll probably start seeing Pogwurzel-whatitzs by next week.

I can barely stop myself from breaking down at the shop at times, when I see people running about, pointing at the stuff we invented, the stuff I had to invent on my own. Even when the assistants call me Mr. Weasley. I must be going soft, or weak, or something.

Some Gryffindor I turned out to be. Stupid Hat and its stupid predictions.

And then there's that pause every time they talk about us, about our glory days at Hogwarts, the star troublemakers, the Weasley Twins. There's a big gaping hole before my name.

It hurts being just George.

It hurts being alone.

Why can't I be the George in the phrase 'Fred and George' again?