So I have a crazy love for this wonderful little comic (whose author the original poster sadly didn't credit) and this fic sort of spawned from my love for that. Finding Fred's voice was a lot of fun, though I think I took some liberties with the slang!

Please go look at the comic first, it'll make the story make sense post/74966122578/thewuzzy-well-turns-out-those-religious-types

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Well, turns out those religious types were right all along. Welcome to the afterlife.

Don't get me wrong: it's alright up here, even though all the clouds and togas are a bit poncy. The company's good crack; I've got the two uncles I'd never met, and of course Sirius is a laugh. We've been playing frisbee with Lupin's halo. I've not met god yet though, I reckon the bugger's avoiding me. It's not a bad life. Or, you know, death.

Doesn't really make up for how I'm stuck up here without George, though, does it.

I don't think we've ever been apart before, not really. Not since that one time back in second year when we catnapped Mrs Norris and tried to transfigure her into a goldfish, so Filch put us in separate overnight detentions. George didn't stop vomiting until McGonagall intervened and had us put back together. She kept us in detention though. Good on the woman.

This week it's me that's been vomiting.

The worst part is that you can see them, all of them. See them going about their lives without you. Broken. Obviously I did all the embarrassing screaming and shouting stuff at first. Still do sometimes, and I still can't bear to watch them crying down there. It's not the family I know. They seem so grey and tired. I just thank Merlin they've still got each other.

Except I've not got George.

Potter's mum's been trying to take me under her wing (something about 'gingers uniting') and tells me it'll get easier with time. Well I say bollocks to that. Ripped in half doesn't really do this justice. Every time I breathe in, every time I turn around to talk to someone who isn't there, I feel like something's tearing. I thought there was supposed to be no pain in heaven?

He has no idea about me. I'm just a body in a coffin to him. He doesn't know that I'm here, that I'm alright. My brother.

Watching makes it worse, but once you start you can't stop. George didn't say anything for three days. Didn't move much either. He's still not eating.

They're burying me today.

I think Luna Lovegood may have painted my coffin. It's beautiful, a beautiful patchwork of colours and it certainly stands out among all the people wearing black.

I hate black.

I haven't been paying much attention to the funeral ceremonies, but George is one of the coffin bearers. His suit is black and his face is grey but he's wearing a handkerchief in his pocket – a multicoloured handkerchief. Then I notice that they're all wearing something with a splash of colour, every single person there.

I think I'm going to start bloody crying again.

Okay, on to what I actually wanted to talk about. There's this thing, right, that keeps following me. Okay, I appreciate that needs a better explanation – there's this little flap of flesh that keeps floating through the air behind me. At first I thought it was a pygmy puff that had gone through chemo and didn't make it, but now I'm pretty sure it's not.

It sort of looks a bit like an ear. Weird, right? You know what's weirder? It kind of looks like George's ear. The one he's missing, I mean. Like, with ridiculous fluffy wings attached. I guess amputated organs go to heaven to, which gives me the creeps because for all I know, Mad Eye's old peeper is out there rolling through the ether and scaring the bejeebers out of the heavenly host.

Well anyway, the reason I'm sat here, staring at it as it flaps on its wobbly way past my face for the umpteenth time, is because I figured… well. It seems to be somehow conscious – it floats around by my head after all. It's like it knows what it's doing. And maybe if it does that, maybe … maybe it's still working.

I know I know, it's not attached to anything. There's no way it could actually hear me, and even if it could, what good would that do? But I've got to try, you know? I'm not expecting anything to happen, I'm not even daring to hope that –

Anyway.

I have to try.

'Oi! Can y'hear me down there, St-Georgie boy?'

I know he's heard me, because he almost drops my coffin. Shame, really, because I'd have liked to have seen the expression on Aunt Muriel's face if my cadaver sprawled all over her lap. And then his voice. I can hear his voice.

'Holy frick in a bucket! What the crap was that?'

So yeah, I'm crying again.

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Hope you enjoyed that, please leave a review if you'd like!