A HUGE shout of THANKS to my prebeta cosmojenny (I love you honey!) and my actual beta ginchy (well, you know how I feel about you, hon' ;) ) I'd have been lost without their help and support!

Eventhough Fred's dead somehow did not leave me a crying heap (shock, I s'pose?) it still is the one I have the most difficulties to stomach. I mean ... it was, is, Fred, right? I felt like doing George justice, let people share his pain!

I am, as of yet, undecided as to how many more chapters will come. I have storylines for so many different directions in my head, I have no idea how to sort them out.

Just let me warn you! Should this turne into a shippy FF, it will be canon compatible in regards of the Trio though the main paring will be George/Luna

Now girls, hang on there, get a tissue and grief with George, he deserves all the help he can get!

Crashing Down

It was dark outside when he finally stumbled through his door. The wand he had used to Apparate over (and to take down the wards that had been surrounding the flat for last two years) fell to the ground with a clatter. It was dark, but George was too exhausted to turn on any lights. Actually, he felt so knocked out that he had to remember where he was, staring ahead for a full five minutes, his eyes adjusting to the darkness before he even wanted to move.

It had been too much. The last few hours - days really, had for the first time in his life really ripped him of all his energy and left him now strained and feeling quite beside himself.

After the first joyful hours of celebrating had died down and the people began thinking a little more rationally again, it had started. One real look around oneself presented hours worth of work. Hogwarts had been badly damaged and soon a handful of people had started working their wands to try and rebuild the old school. George was one of them. He dimly remembered his parents calling for him at one point to come home, but he had waved them off, impatiently. There was so much to do. He couldn't just leave without doing his share. Even later, Ginny had appeared at his site, helped him with a particularly difficult part of wall before asking, too, to accompany him home. Again, he dismissed her, focused on what was to do. It was nearly dark when Lee had appeared on his site. Rougher then usual, he had pulled George away from the castle and dragged him, the Quidditch pitch in front of them, to an old Keeper glove lying on the ground. George had looked at Lee when he placed the glove onto his hand with no reaction. And, with a short embrace and a "Give yourself a break", Lee gave the old leather a sharp tap and George felt a familiar pull behind his navel. A few seconds later, he found himself in front of their apartment.

Quickly, George shook his head. No, it was his apartment now, he thought and finally stepped away from the door. He bent down and picked up his wand before following the way down the hall into their, No, my , kitchen.

It really was beyond his comprehension, George mused while he sat a water kettle on the stove and prepared a pot of tea. Voldemort is gone. Dead. Over, finito, zip... no u-no-poo anymore. Again, he shook his head, blinking. He saw a shadow pass the kitchen window, still slightly ajar from when he'd made breakfast a few days ago. George didn't know what made him stare at their- his -old window for such a long time, but the sudden, sharp, yell of the tea kettle made him jump.

It had been so quiet. Deadly quiet.

With a jolt, George jumped from his chair and grabbed the hot kettle with more force than he had intended to.

"By Merlin's ...!" he yelled when the hot water splashed on his other hand and his right foot as well. Swearing, and jumping on one foot, he shoved the kettle back on the stove and quickly grabbed his wand. Murmuring a quick spell, so cold air emitted from the tip of his wand, he fell back on his chair with a sigh, awaiting the impossible.


It took George a whole minute to realize he was waiting for something that would not come. Another shake of the head and he was filling one of the two tea cups on the counter. Not sparing the other cup a second glance, he snatched his full one, again nearly spilling the content, and quickly made his way to their living room. It is MY living room now

A sour expression on his face, he let himself fall in the old, padded armchair.

George sat, sipped his tea, and got the fire going even though it was wonderfully warm outside. He gave the old jukebox next to the window a tap with the his wand and turned the music on. He sat down again, sipped some more tea. He listened to the music.

He didn't know what to do.

When he went to place his nearly empty cup on the table in front of him, his eyes caught sight of the bottle there the first time. It was a half full bottle of Ogden's Best, left in this unholy stage by himself, his better-half, and Lee just about two days ago. George couldn't help but grin and unconsciously, his hand went up to the left side of his head, meaning to acquaint himself to the old habit of scratching himself in the place behind the ear again.

He found the place deserted. Again.

Once again he sat there for a full minute, staring at nothing.

Then, suddenly, with a roar, he jumped up. Making a head dive for the abandoned bottle, he seized it before landing on his behind. Laughter was heard and he didn't recognize immediately that it was his own laughter. But once he did, he embraced it.

Struggling with the stopper of the bottle, he laughed. Laughed harder then he had in years. He filled the empty space around him with the infamous Weasely laughter and when he finally wrenched the closure free, he held the bottle high into the air, threw his head back and screamed with all his might.

"See that, Frederick?! SEE IT?! I can do WHATEVER I PLEASE and finally, finally, you aren't around to state your bloody opinion!" He took a deep swig. "See? You ain't getting ANYTHING from this bottle! It is mine now, just as this lovely carpet here, or the couch. The whole freaking PLACE is MINE!" George got to his feet, Firewhisky still by his side. He staggered into the small bedroom they had shared by necessity, taking a sip every few minutes. He was laughing again, hard. The burning sensation of alcohol made him feel warm and with a cackle, he slammed the bottle down on his bedside table.

"Guess what? Now I can have a shag in here whenever I please!" He roared with laughter, tears rolling down his face.

Gasping for breath, he wrenched the drawers open. Carelessly, he flung each and every jumper with a bright F on the front out, dropping them to the ground carelessly. "See this? I have SPACE! I won't even need to ..." his breath caught and suddenly he found himself on the floor.

The tears were still rolling down his face but he found, to his own surprise, that he wasn't laughing anymore. His hand balled into a fist, holding one of the discarded jumpers to him. br br

He held it close to his face and through his watery vision, made out the letters "WWW". More tears were springing from his eyes. br br

Suddenly, a first, great sob heaved his chest and, still kneeling on the carpet, he pressed the jumper to his face. Sob after sob crashed over him, he could not hold them back. He felt raw, ripped open. This was not how it was supposed to happen. Not at all.

"Why ..." he whispered into the rough fabric. Still, the tears were falling and he couldn't make out the ceiling when he lifted his head. "Why?" he asked again and all that met his question was silence still.

George felt his hands starting to shake and before he could stop himself, his fist was hammering into the drawing in front of him. Again and again his knuckles connected with the solid wood, pain shooting up his arm, his vision blind.

"WHY?! Why did you ..." By now, his second fist was working together with the first one connecting again and again with the wood. "How, how EVER did you, SMART ASS, think I could SURVIVE this WITHOUT YOU!" he bellowed upwards. "It wasn't supposed to be like this, not at all, not ever! It was always you and me, us, WE! Never just one alone!"

George's voice broke as sobs overcame him again. "I'm missing an ear; I'm missing HALF OF ME!" All strength left his body and he grumbled on the floor in a heap, gasping for breath, crying, sobbing, weeping.

Whimpering, he clutched his red and bloody knuckles to his chest and drew his knees up as well.

He felt so small. He felt broken. Ripped in half with no means of mending. Not now, not ever.