This story is for: Maria, whom I thank for requesting it. I had a wonderful time writing this, and I hope you have too while reading.

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything, simple as that.

Author’s note: Go and read “Love and Levity.” It’s an awesome story I found while thinking about George’s personality and his differences from Fred. : I hope this story meets your wishes, dear. The suspense is there, somewhere. I don’t know. Maybe.

THE WHITE ROOM.

George woke up.

He wasn’t certain he had been asleep or knew for how long he had been sleeping, but he still felt so tired. Exhausted, even, like his every energy had been drained. His body seemed so damn heavy, heavier than usual, like he was carrying a burden on his back and his bones, his bones ached, every single one of them. The light in the room was too strong, Fred must have forgotten to close the curtains of their bedroom at The Burrow. And why the hell was he standing up? He didn’t remember ever standing up: all he could recollect from recent memory was numbing whiteness, some faint voices in the background – in the background of what? A room perhaps, another room. – and Fred’s body laying motionless in the Great Hall. Dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead. No, he refused to believe that. That must be another prank of his, thought completely on his own, George was sure. Yes, he must be testing some new product for their business he had invented completely on his own, something along the lines of “Disillusion Death: Deceive Dumb Death-Eaters” or something like that. He must admit Fred’s idea was bloody brilliant, it would surely be a best-seller product like “You-No-Poo.” George wanted to tell him that, to compliment his brother, but where the bloody hell was his Fred now? Off with Angelina again without having the decency of saying goodbye?

George started taking in his surroundings: he was standing on the grass, among dozens of people, some were crying, some had blood-shot eyes like they had just stopped crying, Mother was holding onto Father like she couldn’t stand up on her own. On her side stood Charlie, and then Percy, and then Ron with Hermione and Ginny with Harry. Someone was speaking on a white podium, he could hear the faint voice in the background of his mind - not a room, it had never been a room.

George, focus, he told himself. But why the bloody fudge was it so difficult to do every single simple thing? Like breathing. Like looking. Like listening. Like standing up. He felt like he missed something, but for all the Filibuster’s Fireworks in the world, he couldn’t put his finger on what.

“…I’ve always contained a thought in my heart, that one day he was going to get a little serious – but just a little – and we would end up married and having a big family. I knew He – Fred, I’m sorry, why everyone avoids to say his name? - wanted one. He had so much love to give and he gave it all in his… sacrifice for the greater good. I’m proud of him. And I love him now more than ev-”

It was Angelina, George recognized her voice, even if usually it didn’t fail her. Angelina never trembled, or shivered, Angelina could face everything, she was not scared of anything and he was pretty sure that was why Fred loved her that much. She descended from the podium with heavy steps, she seemed to carry a heavy burden on her shoulders too, but she was not crying like everyone else there. However, George wondered why she was speaking like Fred was dead: Fred was not dead. He was immortal. Immortal. Yeah. Why everyone could believe that Fred was dead? He could not die! He was barely twenty, for Merlin’s sake. And twenty-years-old do not die. They can’t. Especially if they were his brother.

Angelina took a seat beside him and took his hand, whispering a soft, “We’ll manage it, George. We’ll manage to survive. I’ll bring you back.” Her voice failed her again, but her eyes were still dry. Angelina never cried, it was a too girlish thing to do. But why the hell did she think he went away? Where?

“I’m right here, Angelina. I didn’t go anywhere.” He said, matter- of- factly. Why people were all acting so strangely?

“Maybe not literally, but after you saw Fred’s body… you switched off.”

“But Fred is not dead. He can’t be.” George was getting tired of this situation. FRED. WAS. NOT. DEAD. How many times did he have to say it? Fred could not die, he wouldn’t do something bad a this to his twin. Fred was not that, because, without him, George would be lost. Fred was not dead. End of the story. He was alive. Somewhere. Hiding not to spoil the biggest prank ever.

“He is. Bellatrix did it.”

Bellatrix? Bellatrix who? Lestrange. Bellatrix Lestrange, that crazy Death-eater b!tch, who killed Sirius. But she did what? Surely she didn’t kill Fred. She was far, far away. And besides, Fred was immortal. And then it came. It came. It came like a river, like a flood, like a dam breaking its barriers and hurtling down to the valley, ruining, destroying everything on its path. Uprooting, killing, dragging away everyone of its walk of death.

A spell. Green light. Walls of a corridor crashing. Screams. Flames. Moving stones. Feeble hope. Paleness. Silence. Mother’s eyes. Bill. Charlie. Ron. Dad. More silence.

The White Room. White walls. White floor. White ceiling. White sounds. White numbness. White isolation. White denial. White, white, white. So much white, he needed some red. Fred. Fred was red. But there was no red, only white. White, white, white. He was white, too. But white was wrong. He needed red.

Where was red? Fred. Fred was red. But there was no red, only white. White, white, white. He was white, too. But white was wrong. He needed red. Fred. Fred. Fred.

Fred was red. Fred began everything. Fred started sentences. Fred was head. Without Fred, he was a tail without head, an ending without beginning. He was not good with beginnings.

Where was Fred? Too much white. White is sad, white is tears, white is not feeling. He needed red. Red. And then he saw it: red, right in front of him. Fred was there, at arm’s reach, and George tried to catch him, tried but couldn’t touch him. But he was there, there, there. Red.

0 00

How did he end up in front of the mirror? He couldn’t remember. He was wearing his usual purple uniform, but somewhat, he looked different. And what were those wrinkles at the side of his eyes? Too much stress.

He needed to speak with Angelina about that brand new invention, “Ron’s Ronfing Rubbers.” He thought it was great, but wanted to hear Angie’s opinion. George fixed his tie, looked for the last time at the mirror and headed for breakfast. Angie had made pancakes, like every Thursday, since Fred loved them.

“Dad, I’m eating all your pancakes already!” George smiled and raced to the kitchen.

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