As the old crone was finishing up his speech on what a loss the boy would be to his family, George turned on his heel and began to troop through the headstones, trying to put as much distance between him, the other people, and the hole.
Pausing, he looked back over his shoulder and noticed that not a single person was watching him. They had not seen him walk away from the group as they were so completely immersed in their grief.
George continued on his walk until he came to a headstone cut into the shape of an angel. Bending down, he looked the stone in the eye before reading the scripture gouged into it.
May 21st, 1956 – May 29th, 1959
She Now Has Perfect Wings
Spotting a brittle wildflower nearby, George ripped it from the ground and placed it in front of the stone. He wondered what her story had been, and what had caused her death shortly after she had turned three years old. At least Fred made it past childhood, George thought vaguely, then stopped, horrified. Hanging his head, he hurried away from the sculpture without a backwards glance. He knew he couldn’t think about Fred, for if he did, his eyes would never be able to stop crying. George turned his attention to the large oak tree sitting coldly in the middle of the graveyard.
As he walked to it, George saw that the sky had turned a dull shade of grey. As a matter of fact, everything was grey here. The tree, the grass, the headstones…even him. The world itself had lost its color, its light. It showed the outlook was bleak and without hope.
Running his hand over the bark, George couldn’t tell how rough it was until he pulled his palm back and noticed it was raw. Shrugging, he took hold of the lowest branch and hauled himself up. He climbed higher and higher until he sat placidly upon the top most branches. His hands were torn and bloody but he did not care.
While George sat within the cracked and dying leaves, it finally hit him since that fateful night at Hogwarts that his twin brother was dead. Staring out into the graveyard around him, George let the intense and unbelievably terrifying idea that he was, for once, entirely alone, swallow him whole. Fred had joined the hundreds of others that occupied the land beneath him and would never rise from it.
A hollow wail reached his ear and he directed his gaze to the crowd not far off. George watched as his mother sobbed into his father’s shoulder as the hole was covered with dirt. Surprisingly, he did not feel a single tear fall from his eyes. Instead, he sat there, watching as one by one the people in attendance laid a single flower atop the fresh mound before disapparating.
George’s parents were the last to leave as they stood gazing down upon what had become of one of their sons. Mrs. Weasley used her soaked handkerchief to wipe away a few remaining tears before she and Mr. Weasley followed the rest of their children back to the Burrow.
The Weasley in the tree sat silently, the wind howling past him in angry screams, saying everything he did not. He supposed that since one of the pair was lost, he himself was as well. For without one, how could the other survive? he reasoned. The future was nothing but a grey blur, shrouded in mist, and not worth living without his twin at his side.
If he continued in this life, George knew he would be nothing except a hard shell, withering away as the years passed. People would barely notice him, for they had always looked for the package. He would deteriorate before their very eyes and soon he wouldn’t be there at all.
George looked down below the tree and spotted the little girl’s grave again. The tiny iris had blown away, leaving it as unmarked as ever and completely forgotten. His eyes drifted to his brother’s spot and saw that the headstone had been erected immediately. George felt the insistent urge to read what had been written on it.
He doggedly dropped down between the branches, his wounded hands reopening with fresh stings. When his feet touched the decaying grass, George began walking with haste. When he reached Fred’s grave, George bent to read the script.
April 1st, 1978 – May 2nd, 1998
Wonderful Son, Brother, and Friend
Who Will Never Be Forgotten
Standing back up, George glared hatefully at the headstone. The script felt so…plain and emotionless. He then looked about him at the acres of stone and grey ground. All of these people had been forgotten, just as surely as Fred would be, and just as surely as George was now.
The red headed boy sat down beside the headstone and watched as the wind whipped leaves off the sick branches of the old oak. His mind realized the slight irony in how the tree looked dead when it should be blossoming, considering it was May. But then again, it was entirely fitting that everything that was once living should be put to rest here, including the tree.
George wondered if anyone would notice that he was not in the house, or if his family would consider him deceased as well and never come looking for him. He hoped the latter was the case, for if they were to return to the cemetery, they would not find him. They would only find the shell of what he used to be.
Pulling his wand from the pocket of his mourning robes, George began toying with it. He entertained himself by making bubbles and birds appear, although instead of the usual twittering blue birds, crows erupted from his wand point. Again, fitting, he thought.
Lying down beside the mound underneath which his brother rested George thought of what death might feel like. Surely it wouldn’t hurt at the hand of a simple spell. He would see a green flash, which he would welcome in place of the dull grey that surrounded and filled him.
And when he thought of the others, if indeed they ever did notice his absence, he knew they wouldn’t fret too horribly. They had already lost him, after all, the moment they lost Fred. He just hoped for a better scripture on his headstone.
So without further ado, George raised his wand to his heart and prepared himself. Next to his leg, he saw another tiny iris, and he picked it to fill his vision with. He wanted to see other colours besides grey and green, those disgusting Slytherin colours, when he left to join Fred.
“Avada Kedavra.”