Fingers are strange things. Were they always like this, all sticklike and bendy? Or were there some weird ancestors of humans with bizarre paddles attached to their arms? Was there some person, then, who was born with fingers instead of paddles, and everyone made fun of him, until he poked them all into submission and then contaminated the gene pool with his finger-genes, and eventually everyone had fingers? And were they always called fingers? Maybe that was finger-bloke’s name, and he had insisted upon calling them “opposable digits�, but generations later, everyone shortened them to “fingers�, after Finger the Opposable-digit-ful? Why didn’t Professor Binns ever tell them about important things like that, instead of all those boring Goblin Treaties?

And then George’s mind connected Goblins to That Deal with Bagman to Fred to Is No Longer Here, and he wilted and sunk his face into his opposable digits. How could he think of stupid things like fingers when Fred was…was…- no, he couldn’t say it, not even in his mind.

George had spent the past three hours like this: trying to block It All out of his mind, and then feeling guilty for not wanting to think of Fred. Sometimes he would lie on the couch, lethargic, unable to gather up the energy to form a coherent thought. Other times he would sit up and fidget and frantically pound his fist on his forehead in a fit of agony. And sometimes he would simply press his face into the worn, paisley cushions, trying to quell the cry of grief that at times threatened to tear through his throat and slice the oppressively calm night air.

He was at the Burrow, as was his whole family, plus Fleur, Hermione, and Harry. George had offered the room he and Fred used to occupy to Charlie, but not as a selfless act of charity. He didn’t want to face all the memories that lurked in the corners, amassed from throughout the years, which now would only make him feel more alone.

Time elapsed slowly. For all he knew or cared, ages had passed during this dark night. And the darkness, the darkness made it a thousand times worse. With the daylight, with someone next to him, he was able to keep a brave face. But now he made no such effort. If he, he in his normal state of mind, were to see himself like this (perhaps in some strange out-of-body experience), he would laugh at himself. Now, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to laugh again.

George inadvertently glanced up at the clock on the wall to check the time. His gaze fell on another clock. He supposed that he should feel happy that the hands now all pointed to “home�, rather than “mortal peril�, but the only thing that he registered was how there was one less hand than the last time he had visited. Damnit, why did everything have to remind him?

He closed his eyes as another wave of angst crashed over him. Dimly, some part of his mind registered how tired he was. His eyelids stayed closed, and he was only half-aware of sinking back into the couch’s warm upholstery…

He is at Hogwarts again. The battle has just ended. George paces restlessly, unable to stand his family’s mourning. He sees other people, but distantly, as if through a thick, muffled window. He can’t believe that some of them are happy, rejoicing the end of the War and of the Death Eaters. By now, the sun is climbing in the sky, but he feels none of its late spring warmth. What he does feel, he isn’t exactly sure. Numb disbelief, he supposes, with a nice dose of shock for good measure.

Even worse than the cheering, though, are the sympathetic glances from passerby. Far from comforting, they seem to leer at him, irritated for reminding them of loss, when they should be celebrating the fall of Voldemort. How silly, George muses, that no one would ever say the name. There are so many worse things than a simple word. Right now, the prospect of facing the future seems much more terrifying.

Dimly, George registers that he is in the Forest. Another strange thing to fear: a bunch of trees. His brain subconsciously sets this remark aside, to repeat later to Fred. Then he remembers with a jolt. He isn’t quite sure how it happens, but suddenly he is lying on the cool, forgiving ground, sobbing into the dewy grass. Slowly, he moves his hand to wipe off his cheek.

His hand touches something on the ground.

It’s a ring. It’s worn, rather large, and clunky, but is solid gold and may have had an elegance of sort some centuries ago. For some reason, it reminds George of something he might have seen in Grimmauld Place, gathering dust on those shelves. But it’s not the ring itself that really interests him. What’s interesting is the stone that sits proudly and haughtily in the center of the ring, black and gleaming. A crack runs clear down the middle, but George can tell that there used to be scratches tracing some sort of pattern on its smooth, shiny surface. Something about the stone feels rather impressive, as if it has or has had some importance to it. He picks up the ring and himself, and continues his destinationless walk.

Absentmindedly, he starts turning the ring over in his hand. Once, twice, three times.

Something moves in front of him, silent but decidedly present. George draws his wand quickly, and finds he is pointing at himself, a ghostlike phantom of himself.

But it isn’t himself. The face is slightly thinner, the cheekbones are more prominent, and in any case, it has two ears. George’s mind is still pondering this when his voice speaks, sounding far away and disconnected to the rest of him.

“Fred?� he asks, softly, realizing as he speaks how preposterous the whole scenario is.

Fred nods, then grins. “I leave you for twelve hours and already you’ve turned all sensitive?�

George chokes out a laugh through his tears. His cheeks feel strained, as if they have half-forgotten how to smile; yet he feels lighter. He wants to reply wittily, to be able to keep laughing. But he can’t say anything funny. So he says the thing that keeps floating to the top of his mind.

“B..but, you – you’re – aren’t you…?� He can’t finish, but Fred, as always, knows what he’s thinking.

“Yes. I’m dead, George,� he says, gently as he can.

“But you’re here? You’re real, aren’t you?�

“Yes.�

“Then…how…?� It’s like one of Fred’s old pranks – nonsensical, completely confusing. George’s heart leaps, with the possibility that this all might be a huge, twisted, game. But George has always been in on the pranks, never before has he been at the receiving end.

“You’ve summoned me. With that stone. I can talk, I can walk, I could stay here forever…if you wanted,� Fred explains.

George wants to exclaim, to run back to his family, and show them that his brother’s alive, his brother’s fine. Excited and relieved, he tries to embrace Fred. His arms merely wrap around thin air. Then George realizes, for the first time, with a crushing sense of hopelessness: Fred will never, can never, truly return. And to force him to exist in this state, able to observe, but never to truly participate? Fred was never one to sit on the sidelines, to lurk backstage. Does George really want to doom him to that fate?

Once again, Fred reads his mind.

“I can’t come back, George. Not really. Someday we might be together again. When your time comes, you can join me here. And then it’ll be just like it should be. We can pull down Snape’s pants, even throw things at Voldemort.

“But it’s not your time,� Fred continues. “Right now, it’s time for you to be happy. Don’t forget me, but don’t be all mopey, and under no circumstances do I give you permission to wear eyeliner and cut your wrists and write bad poetry.�

George again gives a strangled laugh, finding that smiling seems a little easier now.

“George, they still need one Weasely twin out there, they need you to make sure no one ever gets too serious. Make sure everyone still can laugh. Do everything we ever wanted to do. Carry on the shop, play jokes on Percy, look after our family.� Fred’s voice shakes a little. “Please, George. Do that for me, all right?�

George looks into his twin’s eyes, so much like his own. He nods. Fred smiles, sadder and wiser than he has ever looked.

“Let go, George. Let me go, take care of everyone else. And one more thing: make sure that we always have a comrade at Hogwarts.�

George salutes him through his tears. “I solemnly swear that I shall ever be up to no good.�

“Then goodbye, George.�

George knows what he must do. He drops the stone.

“Goodbye, Fred.� But his twin’s image is already gone, and George is staring at a mossy canopy of trees.

He turns around and walks back towards the castle.

At the same time, he sat up. He was on the couch in the Burrow once more, and daylight’s first rays were peeking through the windows. He felt refreshed, rested. A part of him still ached, but he was now filled with a warm hope, a sense of purpose. Now he knew his job.

He stood up with surprising lightness and energy, and opened the door to the backyard. A warm late-spring breeze, brimming with the promise of a pleasant summer, greeted him. He looked at the familiar yard, at the trees and the garden he had known all his life. George’s vision was clear of the disorienting haze of grief now, and the sun sparkling on the little pond had never looked so bright. Almost skipping, he sauntered over to the chicken coop.

“Hellooo there, little friend,� George sang to a rather grumpy, bleary-eyed chicken as he prodded it cheerfully. “Have you any eggs for me?�

“Why yes, George, I do!� he responded, making his voice high and squawky, as he imagined a chicken might sound.

George hummed under his breath as he picked up several dozen eggs, and then pranced back to his house. He removed a saucepan from the pantry, and placed it on the stove. Singing still, he prodded it with his wand. A flame ignited beneath it. Just as he was about to crack an egg, inspiration cracked him over the head with a Beater’s Bat. He whisked into the closet and donned his mother’s favorite apron and a ridiculous chef’s hat. Then he cracked the eggs one by one, into the saucepan. By the time they were sizzling, the sun in the sky was as bright as the yokes. A slight noise made him turn his head.

“ ‘S happenin’?� Ron muttered, as he sleepily stumbled into the kitchen. His eyes widened in bewilderment as they took in the flowered apron and the lopsided hat. Harry trailed after him sleepily; both had been drawn to the smell of cooking food as only a teenage boy can be.

“Eggs,� said George merrily. “Eggs are happening. Have one. Have two, have as many as you like, I’ve plenty!�

Ron and Harry shared a puzzled look as they each took a plate from the cupboard. Before long, the whole house was downstairs, gathered around the small, cramped table.

“George dear, I’d no idea you could cook!� crowed his mother.

George shrugged modestly. “Ahh well…�

“And he didn’t even poison them!� Frankly, Bill looked shocked.

Percy suddenly gagged on a pastry. He sprouted into yellow feathers.

“Canary creams! You fell for a canary cream!� Ron roared, spraying Hermione’s plate with half-chewed egg.

The kitchen rang with laughter, and each person found that, as with Phoenix song, the sadness of the last few days was lessened. Fred had been wiser than he had ever let on. For as long as they laughed, George knew that they might last a little longer. As long as they laughed, they might even be able to move on. As long as they laughed, everything just might turn out all right.