Chapter One: Half-Life
The first time he saw her after the final battle was later the same morning, when he was kneeling on the floor near the left wall of the Great Hall amid the sea of dead, cradling the corpse of his twin and reeling from his loss.
Her crisp voice cut through the sobs and wails that echoed round the hall as families clung to the bodies of their dead children, husbands, wives and friends. She issued orders with what could only be her usual briskness, directing medi-wizards and witches to the wounded, helping to oversee the transport of the fallen from the hall to the hospital wing, where they would then be taken to funeral parlours and readied for burial.
She was one of the first to offer words of comfort to his grieving parents, and it was she who disentangled Fred’s lifeless form from his arms, giving him over to the care of Madam Pomfrey, who whisked him out of the hall in readiness for his final journey.
“This is a time for family now, young man. And yours needs you as much as you need them,” she’d said, patting his cheek with a wrinkled hand before turning on her heel and walking off to the next set of grieving relatives. Numbly, he watched her retreating form, his eyes fixed on the stuffed vulture wobbling from her hat.
Funny - he couldn’t ever remember seeing her without that ruddy hat. Did she wear it everywhere? Was it stuck to her head with a Permanent Sticking charm? Why would she do that?
His absent musings were interrupted as Charlie put an arm round his shoulder and pulled him away from the wall.
“Come on, George. Time to go home, mate.”
Home? What home? He didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want to go back to a house that would never again be rich with Fred’s laughter; to a house of people scared to look at him for fear of the loss his face would surely magnify.
But where else could he go? The flat above the shop? No. That was as filled with Fred as the Burrow, but without the benefit of the distraction his family would surely provide.
Reluctantly, he allowed Charlie to pull him along by the elbow until he was surrounded by his remaining family members.
Mrs Longbottom was right. He needed them.
*~*~*~*
The next time George saw her was after Fred’s funeral.
Over two hundred mourners lined up in the garden of the Burrow, queuing to offer their condolences to the grieving family after the service at the local church. It was an impressive turnout, given that so many other funerals were being held around the country in that first week. But George was tired of shaking hands and accepting platitudes. They had little meaning to him. No amount of sympathy would bring the one back that he cherished above all others. No amount of kind words would restore his heart to him. Why couldn’t these people just leave him alone?
He felt his mother’s eyes piercing gaze and knew she was scrutinising him, waiting for a breakdown and ready to whisk him off when it happened. He took a deep breath, unwilling to give her the opportunity of fussing over him yet again. Her concern was almost unbearable.
Clenching his jaw, George took the next hand thrust out towards him and shook it.
“Thanks for coming,” he said automatically, not knowing who it was and not really caring.
Why should he, when it wasn’t likely to be Fred?
“Hello, George. I’m really sorry about Fred. If you ever need anything, just let me know. I‘ve got some really great plants that might be good for Wheezes, if you're thinking about reopening the shop. Come over any time and take whatever you fancy.”
The voice was sincere enough to make him focus his vision.
“Oh, Neville. Thanks, mate. But I don’t know when I’ll be reopening the shop.”
“Well, do let us know when you do, young man. I thoroughly enjoyed those Patented Daydream charms you and your brother gave me a while ago and I am very interested in procuring more.”
George’s eyes wandered to the little old lady at Neville’s side. Was that his grandmother? He almost didn’t recognise her without her alarming hat. She was dressed in a long black coat and clutched a matching bag on her right arm. Her iron grey hair was swept severely off her face into a tight bun.
“Mrs Longbottom! I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you there,” he said honestly.
She huffed a little. “Yes, well, I’m usually wearing my favourite coat, and I don’t normally leave the house without wearing Spot either...”
“That’s her hat,” interjected Neville with a roll of his eyes (which earned himself a glare from his grandmother).
George had a sudden urge to snigger.
“...but I thought the occasion called for something a little more formal. My deepest condolences to you, George. Fred was a very fine and very brave young man. Just as you are. I’m sure your parents are very proud of you both.”
“Thanks, Mrs Longbottom,” he replied awkwardly, not really sure what else to say.
Until he looked at her bare head again. It seemed wrong, somehow, to see it without that ridiculous bird.
“You know, I think Fred would’ve liked it if you had worn your hat. He was very taken with it after your visit to the shop. He’d have had a right laugh to see it bobbing among all the glum faces here, scaring the wits out of the likes of Auntie Muriel.”
To his surprise, the elderly witch beamed.
“Well then, isn’t it lucky I brought it with me?”
He watched in astonishment as she slipped the bag off her arm, opened it and stuck her hand inside, pulling out the pointed hat and perching it jauntily on her head. Neville groaned in embarrassment as the huge vulture wobbled dangerously (a Ministry witch standing next to his grandmother jumped back in fright).
“I’d hate to disappoint Fred, after all. Now, where is that Aunt Muriel you spoke of?”
The urge to snigger had become a full-blown need to laugh and he gave in to it. Not that it was much of a laugh - more of a half-strangled bark. But the sight of the little old woman wearing her ridiculous hat at his brother’s funeral was enough to lift his floundering spirits, albeit temporarily. He nodded towards the Quidditch pitch, which was set up with long tables that groaned with sandwiches and finger food.
“Try the table at the far end. It’s where the sausage rolls are. Auntie Muriel can’t resist a good sausage roll,” he said.
She nodded, pivoting in the direction he’d indicated and hooked her arm through Neville‘s.
“Right-o. I’ll see you later then, George.”
And off she went, marching across the lawn with Neville (who was throwing apologetic glances in his direction), to honour Fred’s memory by bothering his ageing relative with her hat.
That was the only bright spot in that terrible day for him.
*~*~*~*
The third time George saw her was eight weeks later, from the dubious sanctuary of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. He had escaped to it after a row with Percy - or rather, a fight with Percy.
The two hadn’t been getting along since he returned to the fold of the family after the Battle of Hogwarts. Mum and Dad had welcomed the git back with open arms, too relieved to have the black sheep back after the loss of Fred, to rebuke him for his conduct. But George couldn’t be so forgiving.
Why should he be?
Why should he pretend that he was happy to see Percy when the selfish git had spent the last two years making his family’s life a misery? Betraying his own blood for the chance to suck his way up the career ladder at the Ministry of Magic? Kow-towing to a weak-minded prat like Cornelius Fudge and a dangerous bitch like Scumbridge?
Why should he accept his errant brother’s apologies: Percy, who’d sold his soul to a corrupt Ministry, then, upon realising his error, came to fight beside them at Hogwarts and had the very great honour of making George’s beloved twin crack the last smile of his life?
Percy had been trying to make it up to his family ever since he came back, George knew that. His older brother was not as proud or as opinionated as he had once been. He was still an annoying git - nothing would change that - but it was tempered with a new humility and humbleness that somehow infuriated George. Just that morning, he had offered to come to the shop and help him clear up the damage inflicted by Death Eater attacks in Fred's and George’s absence...
“You can’t do it own your own, George. There’s bound to be too much damage,” Percy said, watching him timidly from across the kitchen table.
“I said I can manage, didn’t I?” George replied, sparing the bespectacled Weasley only a cursory glance.
“George, dear, Percy only wants to help. Why don’t you both Floo over to Diagon Alley together and get started, then you can pop back over for lunch? Or I’ll make you a nice basket of food to take with you. That way you can really get stuck into the shop?”His mother looked at him hopefully as she placed a steaming mug of tea on the table next to his untouched scrambled eggs. They were the last to come down for breakfast. Ron and Harry had been called to the Ministry with Neville Longbottom and his father had accompanied them. Ginny was visiting Hermione, and Charlie was over at Shell Cottage saying his goodbyes to Bill and Fleur before he returned to the dragon sanctuary.
Percy instantly warmed to the suggestion. “That sounds like a good idea, Mum. What do you think, George?”
“I said I can manage myself!” was his acidic reply. Percy flinched. “Don’t you have a job of your own to get back to? After all, now that Umbridge has been arrested, you might be able to weasel your way into her office. It’s still vacant, isn’t it?”
“George Weasley! That’s enough! Apologise to your brother at once!” snapped his mother.But George was having none of it. He pushed his plate away and rose stiffly. “You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? Apologise to him?” He jabbed a finger in Percy’s direction; the other boy had paled significantly. “Not a chance! Why should I welcome him back with open arms after everything he did? He disowned us two years ago to kiss Ministry arse, like the sycophant he is. You know, Percy, you really should have been a Slytherin: you’re bloody well slimy enough for one.”
“Shut up! Just shut up!” yelled Percy, springing up so fast from his chair that it toppled over backwards. “I said I was sorry, didn’t I? What more do you bloody well want?”
“I want you to know how much you hurt Mum when you sent back the jumpers she knitted you for Christmas the past two years! I want you to understand how hurt Dad was every time you shunned him at work! I want you to know how much I wanted to shove my fist down your throat when you called Harry unbalanced and tried to convince Ron to stay away from him unless he wanted to be ‘tarred with the same brush‘! You remember that, don’t you? You foul git!”Percy flushed in humiliation at having his past actions listed so damningly in front of his mother and George felt a small prick of guilt. But then he squashed it.
“That was in the past,” hissed Percy. “It was before I came to my senses. I’m not proud of what I did, but I’m trying to make up for it. Why won‘t you let me?”
“Why should I?” he barked, glowering at him with barely concealed hostility. “Why should you get off so easily after being such a prat?”
“George, don’t…”
“No, Mum! I’m only saying what everyone else should have! He thinks he can crawl back here with nothing more than a ’sorry’ and everything’ll be alright? Well, it won’t! Tell me, Perce: when all the rest of the family that you profess to love was out fighting for the freedom of gits like you, out DYING for the freedom of gits like you, what were you doing? Were you enjoying tea and scones with Thicknesse and all his Death Eater mates?”
“SHUT UP!” shouted Percy.But George wouldn’t. He face was as scarlet as his brother’s and he had to fight to keep his fists at his side instead of planting them in his brother's face.
“Did you get tips from Scumbridge on how to be a good little Pure-blood?” he drawled scornfully. “Did you follow her everywhere while she sentenced innocent people to Azkaban - and Merlin knows where else - just for being Muggle-born? Did you hear them begging for mercy as they pleaded for the lives of their families? Did it even bother you? Did you write the orders to have them chucked through the Veil?”
“GEORGE WEASLEY!” shouted his mother in horror. He stopped his tirade long enough to throw her a glance - she was shaking in dismay and twisting the tea towel she held.
“That’s enough, George,” she said in reprimand. “I won’t have you saying such things to your brother. You know he would never do anything of the sort!”The comment irked him. “No, I don’t. And neither do you. Has he ever told you what he did for the last year? ’Cos I’ve heard nothing about it...”
“You hear nothing about anything, any more,” Percy accused. “All you do is sit in your bloody room as if you’re the only person in this house who lost someone they loved. We all lost Fred, you know.”George rounded on him angrily. “Don’t you DARE say his name, you prat. You’re not worthy of it! When did you ever show him that you loved him? Was it when you said that he couldn’t shoulder responsibility? Oh, yeah - Ron told us about that part of your stupid letter, too. Well, let me tell you something: while you were busy kissing up to Death Eaters and saving your own pathetic skin, he was inventing spells and weapons to use against the enemy. He was risking his neck to make sure Voldemort and all his loony mates couldn’t kill his friends and family! He sacrificed his life to save a GIT LIKE YOU!”
“So that’s what this is really about, is it? You blame me for Fred‘s death?” Percy whispered, stung by the implication.It was too close to the truth for comfort and he knew it. So did Percy, who's bespectacled eyes bored into him from across the table, before he opened his mouth to taunt George further.
“Is that what you want, George? Do you want to take your wand out and finish me off? Get rid of the traitor, so you can get on with your life?”
“Percy!” screeched their mother.But Percy was no more likely to shut up and listen to his mother now than George had. The two brothers had been tip-toeing around this topic for weeks, sniping at each other in front of their family and leaving rooms before their boiling emotions made them say something they would regret.
Not any more. Taking a deep breath, Percy looked him square in the eyes.
“Maybe you’d like it if it was me lying six feet under, then, instead of him?”It was too much. Furious, George lunged across the table and thumped him in the face. There was a crack as his fist landed on Percy’s nose and they both went tumbling backwards, crashing to the floor by the fireplace.
“Stop it! Stop it!” cried their mother, yelling at the top of her lungs.
“Don’t. You. Ever. Talk. About. Fred. Like. That. Again!” George shouted, punctuating each word with thump to Percy’s stomach. The older Weasley’s nose was broken and blood gushed from his nostrils, but he put up a fierce resistance by swinging at George’s temple and stunning him with a heavy blow that sent him toppling sideways into the table.
“Why dot? He’s dead, isd’t? He wod’t bide!” spat Percy almost unintelligibly due to his swelling nose.
“I MIND!” hissed George, making another lunge for him as he pulled himself off the floor. But before he could launch himself into his brother again...
“Protego!”An invisible shield formed a barrier between the two warring men and they swivelled in simultaneous accusation to see the glowering form of their mother, wand in hand, glaring at them. Her face was wet with tears.
“Both of you, get out. Now. And don’t come back until both of you are ready to apologise. I’ve had about as much as I can take of you.“Shame flooded through George as he saw her gasping for control of herself. He may have taken a swing at his brother, but the blow had hurt his mother more.
“Mum...”
“Get out! GO!”Dismayed at the knowledge he had caused his still-grieving mother enough distress to have her wilfully throw him out the house, he threw a narrow glare at Percy before turning his back on him, collecting his coat and bag, and Flooing to Diagon Alley.
Whether Percy had left straight behind him or not, he didn’t know.
Nor did he care.
Now, several hours later, George sat behind the counter in the shop, mulling over the events of that morning instead of making a start on repairs to the shattered shelves and spilled bins. His eyes wandered aimlessly over ripped boxes, whose loose contents were scattered over every inch of the floor. The Dark Mark had been burned into the wall behind the counter, but he‘d blasted it off when he arrived (after repairing the shattered windows) and now there was a gaping hole through which the equally disarrayed storeroom could be seen.
He sighed despondently, knowing he should make a move to tidy up the mess. If he could lose himself in hard work, he wouldn’t have to think about the look on his mother’s face as she ordered her warring sons out of the house. He wouldn’t have to think about how much he wanted to throttle Percy for taunting him so cruelly.
He wouldn’t have to think about Fred...
The absurd thought made him laugh bitterly. As if anything could make him not think about Fred. His twin may be dead, but he was still everywhere George looked: the Burrow, the shop, the flat upstairs, the Leaky where they used to go for lunch after the shop opened, but before the war really started in earnest. Turning up at the Leaky and flaunting their disregard for the Death Eaters had been a matter of principle - and much amusement - for them. Not to mention the fact that old Tom had been delighted to see them - they were his only customers for weeks on end.
Most of all, Fred was in the mirror. Every time George brushed his teeth, or combed his hair, an errant glance into its depths would show him what he was missing most. He’d taken to covering it up every time he entered the bathroom, and was now an expert in shaving without the benefit of his damning reflection as a guide.
It had never occurred to him before that he might ever hate the sight of his own face, but now he did. Every time, he saw it he wanted to scream. It reminded him of the endless years of half-existence he had to look forward to without his twin. They stretched out before him in mockery, inducing an agony so excruciating, it almost left him breathless. How could he face himself, knowing what he had lost? How could he face his family, knowing that when they looked at him, they saw only Fred? His very existence must be like a stab in the heart to them.
It was to him.
So caught up in his morose thoughts was he, that George almost missed her when she passed the shop. But his gaze had just wandered over the ruined Pygmy Puff display by the window when he spotted a familiar hat staring glassily at him from across the cobbled street. He blinked and refocused his attention a few inches farther down from the hat. There, standing in the middle of the street talking to Amos Diggory, was Mrs Longbottom. She was obviously deep in conversation with the wizard, for she didn’t notice him at first, but when Mr Diggory raised his hand in farewell and moved off down the street, she looked straight at the shop.
Straight at him.
Even from the distance he sat from her, he could see the frown on her face and the concern in her eyes as she gazed at him. George couldn’t blame her: the shop was a mess and so was he. He must look a fright, thin as he was from his loss of appetite and dishevelled still from his scuffle with Percy. Alarmed that she might make a move in his direction, he quickly ran his hands through his wildly unkempt hair in a vain attempt to tidy it and straightened his coat. Pulling out his wand, he moved away from the counter to the far right of the shop, knowing she wouldn’t see him there, and began to clear up the devastation that was his business.
Life went on, after all.
By the time he was done there and had moved near the centre of the store to repair the broken shelving, she was gone.
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