It's Not Funny.

George sat on the edge of his bed, completely still. He had returned to his room after the war to find it in exactly the same condition he had left it in. With the exception of one thing.


For the first time in his life, he was alone. All alone. Never had this happened before. It was strange. Quiet.

Too quiet.

He barely knew what was happening. All he really remembered was the sickening jolt in his stomach when he'd seen his mother's face. She hadn't said a word, but he'd known. Just by the way she looked at him; he'd known what had happened.

And when he finally saw the face of his brother, his eyes so vacant and devoid of the spark they always held, there had been a moment that he was convinced that it wasn't Fred who had died at all. He just looked so… lifeless. It couldn't be him. That was the moment things began to blur.

People were celebrating. The battle was won.

But how did that matter? Fred wasn't there.

But Fred was always there.

George looked around the empty room, feeling more lost and vulnerable than ever before. He didn't know what he was supposed to do with himself. He had never been one person, he was half of the person that him and Fred were. Or had been.

He considered going downstairs, to see what the others were up to. But he didn't want to let anybody see him like this. He needed to think, to figure himself out. He had never been confronted with this sort of grief. He and Fred had never let anything get to them. But now that it was here, he didn't know exactly what to do with it.

He wanted to be able to speak to Fred, to talk about what had happened. He knew that if he could only discuss it with someone, he'd be fine. But who could he speak to? The only person who he could truly confide in was gone.

He wanted answers. Why Fred? Who did it? Had it hurt?

He felt a pang in his chest at the thought of his brother hurting.

Why him?

He got up and walked over to stand before the mirror mounted on his wall.

He examined his reflection closely. But he only saw his brother looking back at him.

And it was at that moment that he realized things would never be the same again. He would never get over Fred's death and that thought pained his so much that he actually believed his heart had to be bleeding.

Fred was a good guy. What had he ever done to deserve this? Nothing. Ever.

Well, said a voice in his head. Neither had any of the other hundreds of people who were killed last night.

But still. WHY?

He studied his reflection closely. He seemed to have aged a decade in one evening. His body was exhausted, screaming for some rest, while his mind continued to spin relentlessly.

He reached out and gently touched his refection in the mirror.

"I miss you, you stupid git."

He watched himself for another moment. He sighed and moved back to his bed. The tears were threatening to take over again, but he refused to let them win.

It's what they had fought against all their life.

He got up again and walked over to the cluttered desk, carefully avoiding looking at Fred's unmade bed.

I need to work, he thought. I need to distract myself.

He moved some parchment around, just so he'd have something to do. He picked up a sheet and examined it, not really taking in a word except that it was in Fred's writing.

The silence around him was way too loud. He couldn't stand it. He didn't realize his hands were shaking until the parchment slipped out of his fingers and fluttered to the floor.

His eyes welled up and he couldn't hold it in any longer.

He sank to the floor as the sobs wracked through his body, trying to fill the void that Fred had left behind. He lost all sense of time and space as his whole being concentrated on grieving his brother, wanting to do him that justice.

Hundreds of memories flashed through his mind. The laughs echoed all around him.

Them stealing their father's broomstick when they were seven. Hiding a spider in Ron's underwear cabinet when they were 10. Exploring the castle and forest together. Their first trip to Zonko's. Their first Quidditch win. All the pranks and detentions and more pranks and girls and even more pranks… it would always be both of them. The Weasley twins. Fred and George. Without Fred, George was nothing.

For some reason, the memory of the day they left Hogwarts kept coming back to him. It had been one of the most exhilarating experiences of his life. Of their life. They had spent weeks preparing for that day, just so they could enjoy putting that bitch Umbridge in her place.

He wondered if he would ever feel that way again. He wondered if he would ever even smile again.

It was hours later that his tears subsided, leaving him spent. He made himself move to Fred's bed and lay there, curled up in a small ball, the feel of his brother all around him. He wondered how long it would last. How long would Fred's essence remain in the room? In a way, he knew Fred would never truly be gone. But he wouldn't truly be here, either. And George couldn't accept that.

He hadn't even got to say goodbye.

Someone knocked on the door, but George didn't answer. He wanted to be alone right now. He wanted to be with Fred. His brother, his life. He wondered what he was going to do without Fred, and if he was alright, wherever he was.

And right before he slipped into an exhausted slumber, his final thought was whether this was Fate's twisted idea of a joke.

Because it wasn't funny. It really wasn't funny.