i - shock.
Everything was happening so quickly. Voldemort was approaching the castle and Hagrid was holding a dead Harry in his arms. Neville Longbottom was fighting back, Ron and Ginny were screaming and crying, and the battle was suddenly surging forward. Spells were firing in every direction. Death Eaters shouted, people went flying, and George fought as he never had before.
He wasn't a fighter, not really. He was a man of his mind, thank you very much. That was his way of resistance. But he fought now, because fighting was the only way to end the battle and ending the battle was all that mattered. He wouldn't think about who had died and who hadn't; he wouldn't think about how the day had begun and how eagerly they both had joined the fray.
If they could just defeat Voldemort and his Death Eaters, if they could just end it all, if it it could just be over, then everything would be okay. . . . After the battle at Hogwarts last year, people thought Bill was dead, too. But he had survived. Weasleys were resilient. It came with the red hair.
A spell grazed his face and split open his cheek, and warm, wet blood dripped down over his lips and chin. It didn't matter. He hardly felt it. As soon as the battle was over, as soon as it ended, as soon as Voldemort was gone, it would all be okay, it would all go back to normal. . . .
George threw all of his weight into a stunning spell, and the Death Eater at whom it was aimed ” he didn't know who it was and he didn't care” went spiralling through the air and landed in a motionless heap. George had already turned to the next Death Eater. He was going to end this. He had to end this, it was the only way.
He turned just in time to see the streak of green nearly miss his little sister. His heart seized but the spell did not hit her; she did not die. She was a Weasley. They would survive this. The battle would end and they would help tend to the wounded and everything would be okay, everything would go back to the way it was before but it would be even better. . . .
It had to be better. He refused to believe anything else.
And then George tore his eyes away from a breathless, tearful and red-faced Ginny to see that his mother, his mother, was fighting Bellatrix Lestrange. They shouted at one another, his mother with glassy eyes and an expression of desperation and Bellatrix with a look of glee and triumph. And then five words blasted into George as if he had been the one fighting with Bellatrix and she had managed to land a hit:
Gone the same way as Freddie. . . .
No. No. No. She was wrong. It hadn't happened the way people thought. He wasn't gone. Not really. George simply had to finish the battle and then his twin brother would be back, grinning and saying that he thought George had lost an ear and not an eye and why would George think he saw something he didn't. As soon as the battle finished, everything would go back to normal.
“You ” will ” never ” touch ” our ” children ” again!” his mother screamed.
George could hardly believe the series of events that followed: his mum killed Bellatrix, Harry appeared out of no where, alive once more, and saved his mum from a furious Voldemort, and Harry and Voldemort began the final showdown.
Harry was alive. Everyone had thought he was dead. They had even seen his dead body. But he wasn't dead. He'd come back. He was alive even though they'd thought him dead. He was alive even though they'd thought him dead.
Before George could even comprehend what was happening, it had happened. It was over. His eyes landed on Voldemort lying motionless before flickering to Harry and the crowd that flocked him as people shouted and cried and tried to hug the boy who'd saved them all. George stepped back and stumbled a little. His throat was dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, his limbs were heavy, the sweat that had beaded along his hairline was dripping into his eyes, and the gash on his cheek stung wildly now.
But it was over. It was over. It was finally bloody over.
George lifted a hand and gingerly touched his face. The cut wasn't too deep. He realised then that Ginny was approaching him, and he saw to his immense relief that she looked relatively unhurt. There was a small cut on her forehead and what looked like a bruise forming on her cheek, but her eyes were bright and alive as she came to him.
She stood before him for an instant, swaying on her feet with an indescribable expression blazing in her face. "Hey," he greeted gruffly. And she threw herself at him, wrapping her small arms around him. A moment later he could feel her hot tears on his neck. Why was she crying? It was over. They had won. He rocked her a little. . . .
"Come on," she finally murmured, pulling away from him. She gave the weakest smile he had ever seen in his life as she slipped her hand into his and dragged him to their mother and Percy sitting at a table a little ways away, a table that held ” no.
"Oh, Georgie," his mum said, hugging him as if to squeeze the life out of him. No. He had his life. HIs mother couldn't squeeze it out of him. What a stupid thing to say. She released him to swat at her eyes, but he only stood there as if she had never touched him. Weasleys were resilient. This wasn't supposed to happen. They had always said if we go down fighting, not if I go down fighting. . . .
But then why was he looking at Fred's dead body?
ii - denial.
"Come back to the Burrow," his mother pleaded.
"No," George said, shaking his head. "I've got to check on the shop and see if there are any damages that need to be dealt with immediately." It was the same thing he had told her five times already, but she refused to listen to him. He didn't want to go to the Burrow. He had things to do. He had been at the castle all day and, though he doubted he'd be getting any sleep, he knew he ought to go home, and as it had been for a while, home was above the shop, not at the Burrow with his tearful mum.
"Well, then," his mother finally said, swallowing thickly. "Will you come by the house for breakfast tomorrow?" He didn't meet her gaze. His eyes landed listlessly on his little brother, who had grown something of a five o'clock shadow in the last year. His gangly brother sat on the chair in the Gryffindor common room where the Weasleys had all gathered and in his arms, having fallen asleep some time in the last few minutes, was Hermione Granger. "George?"
He looked back at his mother, who's eyes were bloodshot. "Sure, Mum," he replied. "I'll come to breakfast." She reached out a hand to touch his shoulder but he was already walking away. Percy started towards him, opening his mouth to say something but George walked past him without pausing. No one else tried to stop him as he took a fistful of floo powder and threw it into the fireplace.
The flat was quiet, dark, and empty when he stepped into it.
He tapped his wand against the wall and the lights on the ceiling came on. Their breakfast dishes from that morning were still on the table: two bowls, two glasses, two spoons. George crossed the kitchen nook and began undressing. A shower would be good. He felt grimy.
The next hour passed mechanically. He showered, dressed, and bandaged his face as best he could before heading back into the kitchen and starting to wash the dishes that had been piling up in the sink. His hand trembled when he tried to use magic to clean, so he rolled up his sleeves and did it the Muggle way. He was almost finished when green flames shot up in the fireplace.
Angelina Johnson walked through. She looked tired, and she too had small marks of being a participant in the battle: her hand looked rather cut up and there was a bit of blood on her yellow blouse. He hadn't seen her there, but it didn't matter. After a quick glance, he went back to the dishes. He was almost done.
"Your brother told me you were here," Angelina said hesitantly. George didn't reply. What was he supposed to say? "What are you doing?" she asked after a moment.
"Isn't that fairly obvious?" he replied.
"Is ” is now really the time?" she questioned quietly, and he could hear her coming closer. Funny how his hearing was only affected a little by the loss of one ear.
"Now's as good a time as any," he answered, putting the last dish on the drying rack and reaching for a towel. He wiped his hands slowly, wondering what she wanted. It didn't matter. He had other things to do. The inventory for the shop had been badly neglected lately, for example. . . .
"Have you slept at all?" she asked.
"No," he said flatly. What was she, his other mother? He tried to walk past her to get to head down the stairs to the back room of the shop, but she reached forward and grabbed his arm, stopping him.
"Hey," she said softly. "Slow down. Talk to me."
He looked at her. "What is there to talk about?"
"You know what," she replied gently. "I talked to Lee a little while ago and he said you completely blew him off when he tried to talk with you this morning."
"Are you and Lee a thing now? Was it a little pillow talk? 'Cause in that case, you better be getting home soon for some more," he told her, pulling his arm out of her loose grasp. She sighed.
"Don't be like that," she said, her voice a little sharper. He continued on his way to the stairs. "Where are you going?"
"To do inventory," he said, not stopping.
"George," she protested, "hold on for just a minute. . . .Talk to me," she repeated earnestly.
"There's nothing to talk about."
She seemed to think there was, because she used her wand on him, and his feet flew out from under him so that he landed hard on his bum. He pushed himself to his feet and glared at her as she came to stand in front of the stairs. "Actually, there's a lot to talk about. You know, I listened to every single broadcast of Potterwatch. Rapier was my favourite. And you might recall that we dated in school and I even went to the Yule Ball with him."
"What's your point?" George asked. He had been angry with her for an instant but now he was just tired. He didn't need to deal with this. He didn't want to deal with this.
"My point is that you're not the only one who cared about Fred," she said, forcing him to look at her.
"I never said I was." They stared at each other.
"You need some sleep," she finally told him.
"I'm fine," he insisted, trying to step around her.
"You're not fine," she said firmly, grabbing his arm again. "Look at me, George. Look at me. You are not fine. Fred is dead and you are not fine."
"I don't want to talk about this," he said, tearing his arm from hers.
Slowly, sighing again, she stepped to the side and let him pass her. "You're going to have to deal with it eventually, George."
"Whatever." And he headed down the stairs.
iii - guilt.
Charlie was in charge of George that day. He had shown up at the store in the morning, marched George upstairs and told him to take a shower or else. Afterward, without so much as a warning, he had used a spell to shave George ” which was rather painful ” and then handed George a set of new, black robes. "What are these for?" George asked.
"The funeral."
It had been three days, and George hadn't even thought about a funeral. But Fred was dead and they needed to bury him. He took the robes without a word and changed. He hadn't been by the Burrow since before the battle. He had spent most of his time in the shop, trying to get everything reorganised and ready for another grand opening.
Charlie refused to leave with him until George had something to eat, which, honestly, was probably smart of him, as George hadn't eaten much in the last few days. But just like the handful of things he'd bothered to shove down his throat, the banana and biscuit he managed to swallow under Charlie's attentive watch were tasteless, the perfect cliché. Charlie escorted him back to the Burrow, which was filled with people milling about in black.
When his mum saw him, she hugged him tightly, muttering into his ear about how she had missed him and it was good to have him home and he should have some tea that she had just made. . . . Everyone was staring at him and they wouldn't stop, and it was a hell of a lot of work to avoid talking with anyone. Eventually Lee and Angelina found him and stood by his side as if to ward off others and, thankfully, said nothing.
Charlie walked with him out to the tree behind the Burrow for the burial. George looked at the large black coffin and felt as if this entire thing was wrong. Fred was gone. Why were they wasting their time making a big to-do of his burial? It wasn't as if he were around to see and care. George almost turned to leave, but Charlie's hand rested suddenly on his shoulder, as if he knew George's thoughts.
The ceremony was long and slow and George couldn't stand to look at all the redheads gathered around him, tears streaming down their faces. He didn't cry, not a single tear. At one point he looked and saw that while Percy, Bill, and even Fleur were all crying, Ginny stood by them with dry eyes. She looked up and caught his gaze, and he could swear he saw himself looking back at him.
Before long, the casket was lowered into the ground. His mother took a handful of dirt and George watched her, trembling, drop it onto the coffin. His father went next, then each of his brothers, and then Ginny. Harry and Hermione both went as well, and then Angelina and Lee, and suddenly everyone was looking at George.
He turned and left, and this time Charlie was too late to stop him.
Still, the funeral wasn't over. People continued to wander around the Burrow, eating and commiserating. Angelina seemed disappointed in him, though, and he knew she wouldn't stand by him silently this time. When he saw Percy walking towards him, he made the quickest escape he could and started up the stairs. Maybe he would be left alone upstairs.
He didn't get far, however, as at the top of the stairs on the third landing, he found Harry and Ginny; they didn't notice him, even though he stood staring at them in surprise. Ginny was crying.
No, she was sobbing.
She took gasping, heaving gulps and sobbed, pressing her face into Harry's neck as they sat awkwardly side by side on the stairs with his arms around her. A few swift tears were streaking down Harry's face, but he only gripped Ginny and rocked her alone on the stairs in the dark.
The sight of Ginny, of his feisty, fiery little sister, so very broken made something inside of George twist and drop and crack. He hurried back down the stairs and out of the Burrow, sprinting through the yard to get away from his family and their stares and questions and tears and suddenly he tripped and went sprawling to the ground face first.
His nose stung painfully with the impact, and he tasted blood in his mouth. Before he could move, he felt hands on his arms and back, trying to pull him up, but he only made it to his knees before he curled over, shaking. "George," Lee said softly.
George looked up, his face contorting with his tears. "It's my fault," he whispered. "It's my fault that Mum's a mess and Ginny's crying and we have to bury my twin in the ground." He suddenly couldn't stop the tears that had been so absent in the last three days. His chest was squeezing and the sobs were torn from him involuntarily. He could barely even breath. "'S my fault. . . ."
Charlie came up beside Lee. "It's okay," he said. "It's not your fault."
"No, 's my fault; 's ”"
"It's not your fault," Charlie insisted. He gripped his shoulders. "It's not your fault."
"WE WERE SUPPOSED TO HAVE EACH OTHER'S BACKS!" George roared suddenly, even as he took a gasping breath, trying to keep breathing, trying to gain back some composure. "I was supposed to have his back. He was my brother. He was my twin! It's my fault. . . . It's. . . ."
He didn't know how much time passed and how long Lee and Charlie stood staring at him wordlessly. All he knew was that at some point he felt arms wrapping around him and he turned slightly, his face mashing into her chest as his hands grabbed blindly at her waist. "'S my fault," he told her.
Angelina said nothing. He thought of Ginny on the stairs. But he wasn't like Ginny.
It was his fault.
He shoved Angelina away.
iv - bargaining.
"George? Are you here? It's ” it's Ron. George?"
George didn't reply, but before long he looked up from his bed to see that Ron had come to stand in the doorway, looking rather indecisive, as if he didn't know how to handle what he saw. "Whadda ya want, little brother?" George asked, rolling over onto his stomach. Someone really needed to invent a better hangover potion.
"I was hoping I could help you with the shop today," Ron said, and his words sounded rehearsed. George snorted into his pillow. His mum sent another one over every day. It had been two weeks since the funeral, and he had made a point of staying as far away from the Burrow and its occupants as he could.
"I'm selling it," George replied. There was blessed silence and he tried to fall back to sleep. But he had to use the loo. Damn.
"Why are you selling it?" Ron asked, incredulous.
"Because," George grumbled, pushing himself from his bed. "I want to." He stubbed his toe on his dresser and he cursed a little, not looking at his brother as he went. When he returned, Ron was right where he'd left him.
"You shouldn't sell it," Ron said. "It's the best thing the Weasleys have ever done!"
"I'm pretty sure you're more famous than the shop now, actually. You're a hero," he told his brother bitterly as he flopped back into his bed only to find his face in a puddle of beer. How had that gotten there? He shifted away.
"I can help you run it, if that's what you're worried about," Ron said, refusing to take a hint. "I'm not going back to Hogwarts next year. Hermione is, but not me or Harry. It'd be too hard, you know? So if you want my help, I can ”"
"Ron," George snapped, shifting to glare at his brother. "I'm not interested." At long last, Ron turned and left and George let out a sigh of relief as he fell back on his bed.
He came back, though, barely a moment later. Couldn't they leave him alone? "I didn't want to come here," Ron told him bravely. George didn't bother to look at him, but he could imagine the expression on his face. "But Hermione told me I should. She said you needed help. And she's right. You do need help. You can't live like this. Fred wouldn't want you to."
George sat up so fast in his anger that his neck cricked. "Don't ”," he began. The rest of his sentence died on his lips as he looked at his younger brother. Because he realised that he didn't recognise the person that stood before him. Ron wasn't ickle Ronnie anymore. He had grown-up. How? When?
"You might not want my help, but you've got to get it from someone," Ron told him, adding softly, "he was my brother, too." And with that declaration, he walked away again, and this time George heard the door to the flat open and shut. He was alone again. He stood up. Ron didn't know what he was talking about. He didn't.
He went to the loo again, thinking that he might have left a half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey in there earlier. And he found himself looking in the mirror. It was the first time he had really looked at himself in two weeks. He had the makings of a beard, there were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and his shirt was wrinkled and soiled. He gripped the sides of the sink, staring into his own eyes.
His hands shaking, he turned on the sink and splashed water onto his face. It didn't help. He sunk to the ground, his back to the wall. He sat for a moment, thinking about everything that had happened, about the look on Ron's face, about the daily visits from his brothers and the letters from Lee and Angelina. . . .
Ron wasn't the first one to come by asking about the shop. Lee, Percy, and Angelina had all done the same. But who cared about the shop any more? It didn't mean anything. Couldn't they see that? He could barely stand to be in it now, no matter how much he might have talked about another grand opening. He and Fred had planned on doing a second grand opening after the war together.
He ran a hand over his face. He'd never really thought much about God one way or another. "But if you can bring him back," George whispered, "I'll believe in you." He stared across the tiles of the floor. "It's not fair. I'll give anything up. You pick. Quidditch or the shop or girls or . . . or anything. Take my other bloody ear! Just give me back my brother!" He gasped, realising he had begun to cry again.
He had tried to avoid it. He had started drinking more than ever, going to Muggle bars where no one knew who he was or what had happened and they all saw his ear and decided to steer clear of him. But the drinking wasn't working. "I''ll never take another drink in my life, please ” it shouldn't have been him. Take anyone else. Take me! Please." He gripped his knees with his hands, bowing his heads, the tears warm as they dripped onto the sticky, dirty bandage that had been on his face for the last four days.
He grabbed the mug shaped like a clown that had somehow made its way to the floor in the last two weeks. It was Fred's mug, the one he kept his toothbrush in. George picked it up gingerly. And hurled it at the wall, watching it shatter. He bit down on his lip hard, but he couldn't stop the tears.
"I've never asked anything before," he whispered. "Just give me this. Please, give me this one thing."
But no one answered, and George Weasley remained alone in the loo of his flat.
v - anger.
Ginny had asked it of him, and he was unable to say no to her. She had always been his favourite sibling ” next to Fred, of course. She had a kind of fire in her that made him respect her as much as he loved her. She had always been the most fun to play with growing up: she never whined the way Ron did or acted too grown-up like Percy.
So when she came to his flat and asked if he would please come to dinner, just one dinner, he grudgingly agreed. He wasn't going to dress up or make any effort, though, and he told her as much. "Just come," she replied simply.
When he arrived at the Burrow, it was bustling with activity. Harry and Hermione were both there, and as per usual, they sat talking with Ron and Ginny. His father and Percy were reading the paper while Bill, Charlie, and Fleur discussed when Charlie would be returning to Romania. His mum was surrounded by pots and pans and steaming food, and he let her hug, kiss and croon over him, all the while aware of Ginny watching.
Dinner started a few minutes later, and the entire family gathered around the table, making small talk about Ron and Hermione's recent return from Australia. George thought he was doing rather well, and he was even considering making a joke about the fact that when he'd dropped his fork and had to retrieve it from the floor, he'd noticed Harry and Ginny holding hands under the table.
Then Percy started. "Did you hear, Bill, about the Ministry's plans to replace their fountain with a memorial to those who died in the war? I'm on the committee that'll be helping to design it, and we've already discussed whether we'll include a list of names of those who died ”"
"I thought you quit the Ministry," George said. Did Percy think that assuring Fred got his name carved in stone on some useless Ministry memorial somehow made up for being an arse for years?
"I ” well, not actually," Percy replied hesitantly. "I recognise I was wrong to have stood by the Ministry the way I did, I can't quit now that things are turning around. I need to be a part of the process of ”"
"You recognise you were wrong?" George repeated. "Shut-up, Percy," he snapped. "Just shut-up. You haven't changed at all." He threw down his napkin, shoving back his chair and standing.
"George ”"
"It should have been you."
"George!"
"I'm ” I'm sorry for everything I did ”," Percy began.
George shook his head, his lip curling. He didn't need to listen to this. "It's a little late for that, don't you think? Maybe if you hadn't been an arse for years, then Fred wouldn't have been so shocked at the inkling of decency you showed when you made that pathetic joke, and he wouldn't have been distracted. It wasn't my fault he died. It was yours."
Percy was speechless, and George, ignoring the pleading looks and protests of his family, turned abruptly and left. It had been a bad idea to come. Before he could get to the door, however, he was stopped. This time it wasn't one of his brothers. "Wait," Harry said.
George paused, glancing back at Harry with raised eyebrows.
"Look, I know what you're going through," Harry began quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. "But you have to ”"
George felt the anger that Percy had lit in him blaze up again. "You have no idea what I'm going through. None of you do. It doesn't matter if you cared about Fred, because you couldn't possibly have cared about him as much as I did." He could see Ginny coming towards them. He couldn't deal with her.
"That's not what I meant," Harry said softly. "I've lost family, too ”"
"Oh, yeah, Sirius Black," George spat, "what a loss." Harry stiffened.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
"You're sorry?" he said, stepping towards him and lowering his voice. "If you're sorry, then maybe next time there's a mass murderer running around, you should actually do something about it instead of going camping and playing dead and letting people die for you!"
Ginny slapped him the moment the words left his mouth. He hadn't even realised she was that close. But apparently she was, and her face was contorted with the same fury that was swirling around in his own gut. Harry had retreated a little and was staring at his shoes. "Don't you dare, George Weasley," Ginny snarled. "Hide away from the family, drink yourself to bed, yell at Percy, but don't you dare make Harry feel guilty! Don't you dare!"
George glanced at the far wall, gritting his teeth. His cheek stung. "I'm sorry I hurt your boyfriend's feelings," he said, "but he needs to mind his own business ”"
She slapped him again. "You're a right bastard, you know that?" she whispered. "And I don't wish Percy had died instead of Fred. I wish you had." Before George could do more than gape at her, she dragged Harry away. He looked up to see that Ron, Hermione, and his father were all watching.
He walked out the door without another word, Apparating back to his flat as soon as he could. He glanced around the small home he and Fred had made for themselves, Percy's face floating before him and Ginny's words echoing in his ears and thoughts of the last two months twisting and twirling though his mind. He reached forward and gripped the edge of chair.
The urge came suddenly, and his grip tightening briefly on the chair, he wrenched it off the floor and threw it, watching it bang into the wall and knock two picture frames down. He did the same with three more kitchen chairs and when he was done, he started tearing through the kitchen and then the bedroom and then the loo, until finally he collapsed.
vi - depression.
"I think you've had enough," the barman said. George only glared and the older man shook his head and turned to help another customer. "What can I get you?" he asked.
"Just water, please," she replied. George snorted into his glass. What was she doing here? She slipped into the seat beside him. "This is the seventh Muggle bar I've gone to looking for you," she said.
"You shouldn't have bothered," he replied. Her response was to splash her water in his face and take his own drink away from him while he sputtered in disbelief. He looked at her in outrage and saw that she was dressed up: her dark hair was curled into a bun atop her head and she wore a bright blue dress, one that made him remember going out with Fred to pick up birds and have a good time. . . .
"You like nice," he said gruffly, wiping his face with his sleeve. "You should've stayed at your party."
"You're right," she answered. "But I'm a masochist." She wrapped her hands around his arm and began to drag him up. She was a lot stronger than she looked. "Come on," she murmured. "Time to go home."
He couldn't be bothered to protest; he let her drag him out of the bar and he clung to her as she Apparated. It was the first time in three months that he had been this close to another person. She got him into the store and up the stairs and he collapsed on his bed.
"Why do you care?" he muttered into his pillow.
"Because Fred deserves better," she whispered.
When he awoke the next morning, she had made breakfast and was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. "Did you go home?" he asked, slipping into a chair. The flat was still in poor shape from his breakdown, but a few things had been righted, including the kitchen chairs.
"The other option would have been sleeping on your couch," she said, "and I think you peed on it, so I opted out.
He frowned. "Why do you think I peed on it?"
"It smells like pee," she answered, handing him a plate. "Enjoy this. I don't cook often." She sat across from him and he tried to pretend he couldn't feel her burning gaze.
"How are you?" she finally asked.
"I'm fine," he muttered.
She sighed. "Well, I've got to go, but someone's coming to keep you company."
Before he could ask who, the fireplace filled with green flames and Harry appeared. George didn't know what to feel at the sight: he was reminded of what he had said to Harry and what Ginny had said to him. He felt guilty; Ginny had been right. And he hadn't spoken to her or him since. . . .
Angelina left soon after and Harry took a seat at the table, fiddling anxiously with a loose thread in his trousers. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said, okay?" George said. "It wasn't your fault."
"It's okay," Harry assured softly. "I was a prat, too, when Sirius died. It's hard. The anger just flares up and . . . and you can't help it." George nodded and it was quiet again. When the silence got to be too much, George looked up to see that Harry was gazing thoughtfully into space. This was the first time someone had been sent to look after him who didn't badger him.
Finally, Harry spoke. "Everybody tells you that you need to move on. That you can't dwell on loss and you're supposed to live your life. But they don't get it. Sometimes you need a while not to move on and to dwell on it so that someday you can be happy again." It seemed as if he had carefully thought out the words, and George let them hang in the air.
"I see him everywhere," he admitted. Harry looked as surprised at George's words as George himself was. But the cat was out of the bag. "Fred, I mean. And it's hard. Because I ” I've never been just George Weasley. I've always been a part of Fred and George Weasley. I've always been one of the twins. And I don't know how to be just . . . just me."
There were tears gathering in his eyes, but Harry only sat listening. "I'm sorry," George said. "I'm sorry for the things I said. . . ."
"It's okay," Harry murmured again.
"Ron's taken over the shop and he's taking care of everything even though I treat him like scum and I know I'm making everything worse for Mum and I hate what happened with Ginny and I can't even ” I can't even make myself visit my own brother's grave and I've ” I've never been this alone in my life. I've never been alone. And it's hard." The words were pouring out of him.
"It won't ever go away," Harry told him. "The pain. There will always be a part of you that's not there. But you just have to keep living, and you'll be okay." George nodded, putting his face into his hands. It was worse now than it had been in the three months since Fred died; despair was strangling him. His brothers told him he should move on and get over it. But it wasn't that easy. Fred was gone and how was George ever supposed to get over that?
George felt the tears began to trickle down his face and he tried to wipe them away. Harry stood. "I've got to get going," he said, adding softly, "if you need anything, though, I'm around, yeah?"
George nodded. "Thanks," he muttered. Harry left.
George knew Angelina would be ashamed, but he found himself a bottle of Muggle vodka. Harry was right when he said you couldn't move on as quickly as people wanted. But Harry said that taking a long time to move on was how you were eventually happy again.
Harry was wrong about that part.
George would never be happy again.
vii - acceptance.
When George arrived at the Burrow around dinnertime, it wasn't at the request of Ginny or anyone else. He knew that Ginny wouldn't even be there, in fact; September first had come and gone and he hadn't seen her. It was nearly November now. But Charlie had told him in a letter that this was his last night at home for a while as he was off to Romania the next day, and George decided it was as good an occasion as any.
Along with his parents, Bill, Fleur, Charlie, and Percy were all there when George walked into the room. The kitchen immediately went silent. "George!" his mum said after a beat, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him.
"Hi Mum," he greeted softly. She took a step towards him only to hesitate. Guilt flooded him. He smiled at her and leaned down, pressing a kiss to her cheek. She flushed pink with pleasure, reaching a hand forward and squeezing his arm.
"Sit down!" she instructed loudly, and she nearly shoved him into a chair, as if afraid he would storm out again. A part of him still resisted the idea of talking to Percy, but he knew he had to. While everyone was still quiet, George looked at his brother.
"I'm sorry," he told him. "I'm sorry about everything I said. None of it was true."
Slowly, Percy nodded. "I deserved to be yelled at," he conceded.
"So . . .," George said, swallowing, "how about those Cannons?" He gave a small grin and suddenly everyone began talking and his mum handed him a glass of pumpkin juice and when Charlie patted him on the back, George was glad to have come home.
Ginny was next. He sent a letter to McGonagall, asking permission to come to Hogwarts. At first he had written to Ginny, but he had never sent the letter. A letter wasn't good enough. McGonagall gave consent, and George arrived at the castle only to see Ginny leading Gryffindor Quidditch practice.
She really was good.
When it was over, she flew to him and he wondered when she had first noticed he was there. "Take a walk with me?" he asked. She nodded and off they went, the gaze of the other Gryffindor players following them until they were out of sight.
"Harry told me you apologised to him," she said after they'd walked in ten minutes of silence. George nodded. "And I owe you an apology, too." She stopped walking. "I love you, George, and I don't wish you had died. I ” I never did." She couldn't meet his gaze.
"For a while," he admitted, "I wished I had died instead."
Her eyes finally looked into his. "It took me a long time to accept what happened," she whispered. "But I honestly believe that Fred would have wanted to go down fighting."
"I know," George agreed. "I figured that one out, too."
She hugged him fiercely, then, even more tightly than she had right after Fred's death, and this time he hugged her back. She was the first person he had shown any real physical affection to in ages, and he had no idea how long they stood there. At long last, she whispered into his one ear. "You've double the legacy to carry on now ” it's a good thing you're so holey."
He laughed and when his laughter turned into tears, she was still hugging him.
When he arrived back at the shop afterwards, Ron was busy with customers. But George grabbed his little brother and dragged him upstairs. "What's the matter?" Ron frowned. "We're a little busy, here."
"I need you to sign this," George told him, holding out a quill and a piece of parchment. Still frowning, Ron looked down at the parchment. A moment later his head snapped up, his eyes wide.
"This is a contract," he said, "to make me a co-owner of Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes."
"By golly, he can read!" George exclaimed. "Mum is going to be so happy when she hears. Have you told her yet? What about Hermione?"
"George, are you sure about this?" Ron asked.
George nodded seriously. "This shop wouldn't have made it through everything without you, Ron, and I'm gonna need your help a lot more in the months to come. I don't think . . . it'll be a while, before I can ” I'm gonna need your help. I want your help. And you deserve this. It's what . . . it's what Fred would have wanted."
Ron signed the contract, and for the first time, Ron wasn't his little brother. He was just his brother, and as George clapped him on the back, Ron looked so happy that George couldn't help but tease him again.
The next day he woke early and got a haircut at a Muggle saloon from a woman with a blonde bob and long pink nails. That night, he shaved and even put on some aftershave, feeling a little silly. He dressed in a Muggle suit that he had purchased that afternoon, a suit with a garish blue colour and ruffles of which George was sure Fred would approve. Carrying bright red flowers with orange spots, he went to the flat Angelina and Alicia Spinnet had rented.
Alicia opened the door and her eyes went wide with shock.
"Hi," he greeted. "Is Angelina here?" Alicia stepped back to reveal Angelina standing a little ways back eating an apple and already dressed in her pyjamas. She froze at the sight of him. "He's here to see you," Alicia said, and there was the barest trace of amusement in her voice.
George winked at her.
"Angelina Johnson," he said, holding out the flowers with a flourish, "how would you like to put on the prettiest dress you have and come out on the most amazing date of your life with the one and only George Weasley?"
She took the flowers and they sprayed her in the face. Classic.
She still said yes.
Fin.
When Worlds Die by MagEd
Chapter Notes: I wasn't sure whether to put this in General or Dark/Angsty but I decided I be safest with General. That said, it does feature a dark/angsty George. You've been warned. As per usual: J.K. Rowling only all things Harry Potter; all rights are hers and I mean no infringement on those rights by my humble writing!
Chapter Endnotes: I've wanted to do a fanfic concerning George and his grief for a long time but I was never sure exactly what I wanted to do and I never really got around to it. Though things about about to get ridiculously busy for me, I have a few more days of freedom in which I have nothing at all to do but sit around writing fanfiction, and thus this little plot bunny finally saw life.
I know there are a lot of different versions of the seven stages of grief and if there is an official one and this isn't it, then I'm sorry. But these were the stages I was taught, and I honestly think the order can be different for different people, so. . . .
Please review! :)