Alas, I only own Harry Potter in my dreams. All belongs to JKR.







Death hung heavily over the Weasley home. It took the form of a dark cloud, threatening to make itself comfortable. Even worse than the loss of one of their own is the burden of having to live with it.





*~*~*





George was the first in the house. When Charlie entered after him, he found his younger brother wrestling with the magical clock, trying to cause it as much damage as possible. It took the rest of the family, who were all watching, horrified, in the doorway, a minute to realize what had George so infuriated. There were only eight hands on it. Not nine. The small metal piece with Fred’s picture attached to the end lay on the floor.





While trying to throw his bulkier brother off, George kept screaming, “He’s not dead!” while his mother stood behind them, her sobs becoming louder and heavier each time he shouted.





Once Charlie’s grasp weakened, George was able to shove him aside, and made his way toward the rickety staircase, furiously kicking anything in his path aside.





*~*~*





George sat in his old bedroom, distressed and grieving. All around the room hung profoundly the air of his dead brother. It was as if he was about to burst in the room at any minute, and sit on the bed next to the one he lay on, laughing at the shocked look on his face.





Fuming, he tried to close his eyes, but was met with an even worse scene.





Eyes wide open, staring into nothingness, the trace of a laugh still etched upon his pale face…





“SHUT UP!” he shouted to the empty room, and heard Ginny’s cries in the room below become louder. Furious, he kicked over a stack of boxes full of invented merchandise. They tumbled to the floor, spilling their contents all across the room.





He picked up the punching telescope, the heaviest thing he could find, and threw it against the wall. Even he was shocked by his infuriated behavior. It was not normal for him to throw fits of rage like this. He usually bottled up his feelings, while Fred…





George swallowed as a pang of misery stabbed him, sending a cold wave throughout his body, and he vaguely wondered how long this depression was going to last.





Ah, a nasty voice said in his head, there is no end, is there? I will continue to haunt you for the rest of your life. George shuddered. The voice sounded like Fred when he was being cruel, something that didn’t happen all too often, but was frightening when it did, for it seemed as if he had a heart of stone, and showed no sympathy toward other people’s feelings…





All thoughts ceased. It was too soon to be thinking that way.





Never too soon to be stating the obvious… Fred said. Just admit it, Georgie, you’re jealousy is triggering all these horribly false thoughts about me. Who’s honestly going to be giving you the time of day now that the ringleader and obviously more popular member of our duo is gone?





George bit his lip to refrain from shouting out again. Just ignore it, he told himself sternly, convinced that it was just survivor’s guilt trying to make him feel worst than he already did.





But that made things worse. Fred’s face swarmed in front of his mind’s eye, jeering, taunting, and acting completely out of character.





You’re not real, he thought fiercely. This isn’t happening.





I’m as real as you think I am, Fred said with relish. Which, that is to say, as real as my talent outshone yours, as my popularity was vast…as my body is dead…





I knew my brother, he thought acidly. And this voice is no where near what he was.





But the voice had sent the gears in his mind working. How well had he really known Fred? How much had his late twin kept from him? Did he mind his, George’s, supposed shyness? Did he consider it an unwanted burden, or, even worse, did he consider him a burden?





After a horribly loud silence, he sat, listening intently for the last sound of a door shutting, which signified that all the family had retired to bed. When it finally came, around one in the morning, he left the room as quick as he could without making too much noise. A cup of tea, so fresh that steam still billowed off the top of it, sat at his usual seat. Apparently his mother had guessed his plan, so he gratefully seized it and gulped it down as if his insides had suddenly gone ice cold. Which, he thought bitterly, in a way they had.





The sound of muffled footsteps reached his ears, and a tall, shadowy figure emerged from the stairs, and made its way over to him.





“I thought you’d be asleep,” Percy said. He too was fully dressed, despite the lateness of the hour.





“Do you really think I’d be able to?” he snapped back. Percy didn’t reply, but clearly wasn’t expecting a response so bitter. He busied himself with making his own cup of tea, while his brother fingered the rim of his chipped cup.





“Are you okay?” Percy asked once he sat down across from him.





He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The look on his face said clearly and plainly that the last thing he wanted was anyone asking him questions on his wellness.





“Alright,” Percy said, answering his unspoken retort. “But I think it’s safe to say that I have a general idea of how you feel.”





“No, it isn’t.”





Percy leaned closer, so that all he could do was refrain from meeting his gaze. “I think it is,” he said harshly. “I’d barely spoken to any of you in two years. And, once I finally came to my senses, Fred is murdered before my eyes not even an hour later.”





George remained silent, staring moodily at the worn wooden table.





“Fred wouldn’t want you to act like this, would he?” Percy said, while Fred’s voice expressed his agreement in George’s head. A second later a fist made contact with the side of Percy’s face.





“Don’t tell me what he would have wanted,” he said, gritting his teeth and shaking with rage. “You wouldn’t know. You have no idea.” He stormed off, and, in his haste to escape the house, pushed a frightened Ginny out of the way as she appeared in the kitchen.





*~*~*





He collapsed onto the bed the second upon reaching it. It was so much quieter here, although that might have something to do with the fact that it was two in the morning in Diagon Ally, above the shop that was all his now. An icy, empty feeling struck him suddenly, and he looked down at his stomach, as if expecting to see a large gaping hole appear to reflect his emotions.





A soft knock drifted in from the front room, telling him that his peace and quiet was about to be interrupted. Ginny entered the bedroom, looking distressed and drawn.





“What?” he said hoarsely.





“Are you okay?” she asked softly.





“Why does everyone seem to think that something’s wrong?” He felt his voice rise with tension.





“Because there is!” she said persistently, eyes now sparkling with tears.





He stared at her for a minute with a look of anguish on his face. Even if he would admit everything to her, would she even be able to understand? Or would she back away, consider him mad, and have him carted off to St. Mungo’s?





“There isn’t,” he lied flatly.





“I can see right through you,” she said confidently. “You’re lying. You don’t want us to know how upset you really are.”





He stared at her blankly, at lost for words. He should have seen that coming. He and Ginny were, after all, very alike, so it was no wonder she would be able to tell when he was lying and get senses of what he was feeling.





“So stop trying to make me tell you,” he said, turning away.





“Alright. But I thought I’d just let you know that you’re breaking our hearts. Bursting out with fits of rage at random, screaming to no one, but the worst is when you just stay quiet for hours at a time.” She paused, and watched his face for a change of expression. When none came, she added, “If you don’t tell us anything, we can’t help you.”





“I. Don’t. Need. Help,” he said clearly, while the disembodied voice sneered. “I’m not anymore upset than any of you.”





“That’s a lie.”





George didn’t respond, but stared moodily at the wall, where hand-drawn pictures of product ideas were tacked onto the wall. It was a mistake coming back to the shop, where the haunted spirit of his brother was more profound.





It’s there, Fred finally said, Because you’re not meant to forget. I’ll just haunt you for the rest of your life, maybe even drive you crazy. Everything you see, everything you do will remind you of me, won’t it? A constant reminder that the Rookwood killed the wrong Weasley twin. Everyone would have been so much better off without you.





“No…not true,” he said, eyes tight shut, trying to block out the voice, and the harsh, unreal face that went with it.





I’m going mad, he told himself. There was no other explanation for hearing voices. He looked at the mirror over the dresser. He was ghostly pale, his eyes were bloodshot, but they also looked blank, as if the moisture filling them was a replacement for emotion.





“George…” Ginny began, her voice cracking.





He glanced at her face. Her eyes were full of concern, grief, and tears.





“Okay,” he said softly. And sitting up straight, he looked her directly into her eyes, and told her everything.