Will You Be With Me Tomorrow?

It started when we were twelve. George would wake up crying.

"Oh, god, Fred it hurt's so bad…"

When we were twelve, we thought that it would pass.

"Promise you won't tell anyone. I'll stop crying in a minute, just don't tell."

Every night, I'd awake, and he'd be shivering, doubled over in pain. I'd hold him close, trying to convince him that he'd be okay. I would wrap my arms around him, and pull him close, stroking his forehead.

"What's wrong with me, Fred?"

I would do everything I could for him. At night, he'd hurt so badly that I'd hurt me as well. During the day, he was okay, but at night there was no stopping his pain. He used to think that he was going to die, it would be so much. He used to think that he wouldn't live to see thirteen.

"Don't let me go. Please, don't let me go."

When we were fourteen, it was worse. He'd throw up for minutes at a time -- blood. He'd throw up for so long that he would lose pounds. And then, he'd be too weak to sit up.

"My god, George… are you okay?"

The first time that that happened, he was in the bathroom while he puked. When he was done, he couldn't walk back to his bed without falling. I had to help him.

"I can't walk…"

I'd lay him down, and brush the hair out of his eyes. Wrap him in blankets so that he was warm. I'd do everything that I could. Then, during the day, everything would be back to normal. George'd pretend that nothing had happened.

"…Fred, you seen my sneakers?"

When we were fifteen, he would have trouble breathing at night. He looked so frail that I was afraid to put a blanket over him in fear that it'd crush him. All I could do was sit there and hold him, trying not to cry myself. On top of that, it was becoming noticeable during the day. Our mom was worried.

"George, dear, you look pale. Whatever is the matter?"

At sixteen, I needed to tell somebody. I needed to tell a doctor. All of the pain -- it was killing me. I would try to ignore that fact, but it was drilling a hole in me. There was something very, very wrong.

"Common, George, they can help you. Just give um a chance."

And then, he'd be confined to the school dorm at least once a week. Exhausted, fragile and ill. After every class, I'd do my best to cheer him up.

Finally, I had to tell. I had to spill it. George was dying, and there was only a sliver of hope -- I had to say something.

It happened in Professor Flitwick's office. He called me in, and asked if anything was wrong. He said that I was acting so strange. I was tapping my foot angrily, and I finally told him anything.

"Why did you tell?" George asked, terrified. "Because I love you, George." I said flatly,

And then, the brilliant conclusion of a professor who had unlimited magic at his fingertips.

They took him into a muggle hospital. But the chemo did nothing but make it worse.

And when we were seventeen, he died. He curled up in my arms and died.

"I'm so tired, Fred."

And he was still in pain. He was crying when he fell asleep. He rested his head against me, and died. I remember getting up and walking out of the room. I remember that I didn't cry. "George died." I said plainly. And then, I remember everything going black.

Sometimes, when I sit alone in our room, it's almost like he's still there with me. But it's when I'm in public. It's when people say, "I'm so sorry about your brother" or "Poor thing". It's when all those damn people gather around me and say that I should just talk about it… that's when I think I'm never gonna get over it. That's when it hurts the most.