Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

A/N: This was written for the Seasons Challenge by Megsy. 566 words total.

George walked without looking ahead. He already knew what he would find at the end of this path; he had come here many times during the past six months.

He couldn't believe it had been that long since the death of his twin, his other half. That long since he had gotten a good nights sleep, for now he lay awake in the dark, comforted only by his own racking sobs. His misery ferried him to sleep like a song, a ghoulish lullaby that haunted his every waking hour, and terrorized his dreams.

The headstone swam into view, and he wiped hastily at his eyes. He hadn't realized he had been crying, but now the cool autumn air brushed the wet tracks on his face. It chilled him to the very core. It was days like this where he realized that his life had forever changed.

He dropped to his knees beside the grave, brown, dying leaves crunching beneath him as he gazed at the words etched into the headstone that marked his brother's final resting place.

"Hey, stranger," a voice behind him jolted George out of his thoughts and he whirled around to see Angelina Johnson standing there; her eyes were red and her normally pretty face looked haggard and worn by grief.

"Angelina!" George gasped; standing and straightening his own messy hair, which had fallen into his eyes and was damp with tears, he gave her a hug and was pleasantly surprised when she held on for a few seconds longer. "What are you doing here?"

"I come here every month," Angelina confessed in a whisper, her voice cracking. "I can't stop thinking about him, George."

A huge lump formed in George's throat and he struggled to breathe. Of course it was hard for Angelina; she had been Fred's girl.

"Me either," George insisted, glancing around at their surroundings. A lot had changed since he last visited the cemetery. The trees stood like sentinels around them, their limbs shedding a brilliant array of colors. They pointed stiff, wooden fingers into the fog, perhaps paving the way for those who had lost their way.

"Do you think we'll ever get through this?" Angelina asked, moving closer to the grave and tracing the words with her fingertips.

"I hope so," George insisted. "Sometimes it seems like I'm trapped in a horrible dream, and I can't wake up. I…I miss him, Angie. I want my brother back." He imagined Fred as he had been in life; laughing, joking, he would have told George to 'buck up and stop acting like a wanker'.

"We all do," Angelina sighed, turning away from the grave and putting an arm around George's shoulders. She buried her face in his hair and caught a hint of the cologne Fred had once used. It smelled of spices and when she closed her eyes she could imagine that Fred was holding her.

George wrapped an arm around Angelina's waist and stared at the motionless grave, fighting against the bonds that anchored him to reality. He could hear Fred's voice as if he were standing right there.

Angelina needs someone to take care of her, because as gorgeous as I am, I might not be around forever…

George laughed. His voice shattered the stillness of the cemetery and a flock of crows burst from the trees.

Fred's laugh didn't follow his own.

He was dead.