i’m tired and thin
haven’t slept since the war
i’m a mess of wounded skin
like a winesack that’s been torn
Ginny crashed through the door of the Burrow, the curve of her brow so closely mirroring Molly’s in anger and worry that Arthur nearly had to pinch himself. He glanced at his pocket watch, closing the newspaper. Normally she’d be home at Grimmauld Place about now with Harry. Wondering she was riled about this time, he stood from the kitchen table and walked to the entrance of the living room, leaning against the doorframe.
She didn’t give him a chance to ask. “Where’s George?” she demanded, hands on her hips.
“Upstairs in his room. Where he usually is.” Arthur didn’t need to ask anymore. He knew Ginny was getting fed up with George’s reclusiveness; they all had a hard time with it, really. George had taken Fred’s death the hardest, and now, even six months after, he barely came out of the twins’ room. They forced him to take meals - well, mostly Ginny, Molly, and Hermione.
Ginny didn’t say anything else, just tromped up the stairs, all five feet, two inches of her ready to do battle. Weasley women. Arthur sighed, heading back to the kitchen table.
in the sacred space behind the lids of my eyes
mad-eye darkly holds my gaze
and i can still see frederick’s laughing face
George lifted rock after rock. The explosion left everything covered in rubble; even the grass was coated with a thick layer of dust and pebbles. He was exhausted, but he knew he had to keep going. If he stopped…he didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t know what he was looking for, just that he was looking, and that was all that mattered.
As he pulled up another heavy pile of debris, he saw himself, limbs twisted at an odd angle. No, not himself…Fred. He dropped to his knees at his brother’s side, turning Fred over to see his brother’s face, feeling the tremors take over his own body. No one’s body could survive being twisted like that. He wanted to believe his brother was still alive - he wanted….
It was Fred’s lifeless eyes he saw looking up, his last expression one of grim humor, but his mother’s voice he heard, accusing - always accusing…he held Fred’s body to his chest, rocking back and forth as the tears fell, creating tracks in the dirt and grime that covered his face.
“George!” someone yelled. He couldn’t listen - not right now. Right now Fred needed him.
“George, wake up!”
No, right now, he needed his twin. The other half of his soul. “Go ‘way, Gin,” he mumbled through his tears, gripping Fred tightly in his arms.
“No,” was all he heard, and then he was looking up at her pissed, triumphant expression. He grabbed the pillow next to him, thwacking her on the head with it, then rolled over, his longish ginger hair covering his eyes. He didn’t want her to see that he’d been crying. The nightmares were torture, but they were the only chance he had to see or feel his brother. He couldn’t stand for anyone to know that he needed them as much as he hated them.
She let him continue the ruse, not forcing him to turn back and look at her just yet, for which he was grateful. “You know,” she said in mock cheerfulness, “if you’re going to laze about all day, you might as well take Dreamless Sleep. Then it’ll at least be restful.“
“Yeah,” he said, turning back to her once he was sure his eyes were no longer wet. “Right.” Sleep would never be restful again. “What do you want?”
“The shop’s boarded up,” was all she said, but she reached for his hand and enclosed it in her warm ones, regarding him with concern.
it’s not enough to say that time can mend my wings
that one day i’ll fly
it’s not enough, this acheless scar
some wounds are still burning
let me live as one earning his life
He hated that gaze; it was too much like pity. Everyone gave him the poor-George-oh-he’s-so-broken-up gaze nowadays. But he didn’t give up the comfort of her touch. Ginny had always been his favorite Weasley sibling after Fred, and as much as he tried to distance himself from everyone these days, it was hard to even think of getting out of bed without her strength to support him. He averted his gaze, though; he knew the inevitable argument that would come. “Yeah, I had Dean take care of it.”
“You can’t do this, George. That shop is your life.”
“No,” he said, vehemence creeping into his voice. “It was our life, Gin. Which, if you haven’t noticed, isn’t ours anymore.”
“You’re right,” she said, matching him pitch for pitch. “It’s yours. And what are you going to do with the rest of it? Just lay here?”
“I was pondering it,” he said, pulling his hand away from hers to brush the sweaty hair back from his face as he sat up, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Just…dammit, Gin. What do you want me to say?”
She grabbed his arm, her other hand coming up to cup his cheek as she forced him to meet her eyes. “I want you to say that his death wasn’t useless. I want you to say that Remus and Tonks and everyone else didn’t die just so we could spend the rest of our lives being miserable.”
He shrugged, defeated. “I don’t know what else we’re supposed to do. I can’t - I’m not me anymore, Gin. Not without him.”
She pulled him close and they sat there for awhile, his thin form enfolded in her warm embrace. There were no words. There weren’t even tears anymore. Just the sound of their breathing. After awhile, he heard her muffled voice against his hair.
“Once, Fred said to me that you two were made to bring humor and joy to your fellow wizards.” She tilted his chin up, looking into his eyes again. “He was probably joking…in fact, I can’t think of anytime he ever wasn’t.” They both laughed at that, but the sound caught in her throat and she looked down, her straight curtain of hair falling in front of her face. He leaned his forehead against hers for a moment. When she looked up again, he noticed she was crying, and he reached up to brush the tears away. “Look, I know you can’t give up the guilt. Not yet. And I’m not asking you to….”
“But?” he prompted.
“But just…do it for him. If that’s what you have to do, do it for him. Or for Mum, or for me, until you can do it for yourself. Please,” she finished in a whisper, searching his face.
He let out another heavy sigh. “I’ll try,” he said finally. “But no promises.”
we all fall down and we all fall down
i can still see frederick’s laughing face
it’s not enough to say that time can mend my wings
that one day i’ll fly
it’s not enough, this acheless scar
some wounds are still burning
let me live as one earning his life
He got Dean to take down the boards, and he repaired the sign and finally entered the shop again for the first time since the battle. Everything was just as they’d left it, down to the hastily scribbled note from Fred tacked to the stockroom corkboard - “Cornish pixie dust class 3 restricted. Floo Dung.” He laughed at that, and Vanishing the dust on Fred’s desk, sat down.
He knew he wasn’t ready to go back up to their apartment yet. It was still untouched, just like they’d left it, clothes haphazardly tossed across the bed. They’d been running late, as usual. He remembered that Fred had nearly forgotten his shoe, and Summoned it down the stairs and across the shop so quickly that it shot through and completely wrecked a carefully constructed display - sparing a glance for the showroom, George could see the boxes still scattered across the floor.
He absently toyed with a quill sitting on the desk, one of Fred’s favorite Sugar Quills. A growing irritation gnawed at him, but he shoved it down with a deep sigh. It wasn’t fair, dammit. Charlie went back to his dragons and Bill went back to Fleur and Ginny had Ron and Percy had bureaucracy - of which there was no shortage in peacetime. But what did he have? Only Fred and this. And now Fred was gone, and the shop was dark. He knew they couldn’t understand; it was like losing half of yourself. He couldn’t form a coherent thought anymore; Fred had always finished his sentences.
He thought it unfair of them to expect him to keep going as if everything were alright, when time should be stopping. When the pain he felt was so blinding he didn’t understand how it could be contained in one person. But he knew he should start working on cleaning the shop and checking the stock if he was going to return to a semblance of normalcy.
darkest nights turn into dawn
golden lights are chords for songs of love
that death cannot erase
The jingle of a bell startled him a few hours later. “Hello?” He looked up to see Angelina’s tall, familiar silhouette gracing the doorway. “Oh, George! I’m sorry. I thought you were open,” she said. He realized he must look a mess from all the dust and muttered a few hasty cleansing spells. “I’ll just go.”
“No, wait!” He jogged the few steps to the doorway, taking her hand and leading her inside. “It’s alright. I’m just trying to get things together to re-open the shop.” He dropped her hand, his cheeks flushing.
“Oh,” she said. “That’s good.”
“It’s good to see you,” he said brightly. “How’ve you been?”
“Yeah, it’s been awhile,” she agreed, reaching up to tuck a silky black braid behind her ear. “I’ve been okay, I guess, you know. Just the usual. You?”
“Yeah,” he said, unsure of how to respond. He doubted ‘I’ve been living at my Mum’s in my pajamas’ was endearing news, especially when you were trying to impress a girl. That had always been Fred’s forte. “The usual,” he added noncommittally.
“So…want to go for an ice cream at Fortescue’s?” she asked, her dark brown eyes searching his face.
She really looked interested. George felt his palms sweating at the prospect of spending any mentionable length of time trying to make witty conversation. “Um…I don’t know. I should really….”
She laid a hand on his arm. “What about if I promise to help out when we get back? I’m not busy for the rest of the day. And it is good to see you.” She must have sensed he was still hesitant, because she punched his arm playfully and added with a grin, “All you have to say is, ‘Of course, Angelina! I’d be delighted to enjoy the pleasure of your company.’ It’s not hard. I promise,” she prompted.
He couldn’t suppress a laugh at that, and hooked his arm in hers. “The pleasure is all yours, I’m sure,” he said, earning him a pinch. Before they left, though, George made sure he pulled the curtains back to allow some sunlight in the showroom.
Fred had always liked it that way.
Author's Chapter Notes:
“A Phoenix Lament” is completely and totally the property of the wrock band Ministry of Magic (check them out!). I’m just borrowing it for the story.