Diaclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or Drop Dead Fred. Title borrowed from the movie.

Goes through all of the seven books, except for the epilogue at the seventh. Slightly AU
Not connected to Pretty Kitty.

Established relationship: Fred/George/Harry.

Warnings: Slash, suicide, character death, angst, AU. OOCness, probably.


Harry cradled the vial of potion he held in his hands, watching as the clear liquid sloshed against the transparent glass walls. It looked so innocent, so harmless, like it was just water in a vial, unable to do any damage.

Harry chuckled to himself, setting the vial on the floor and looking around the dark room, illuminated only by the flickering light from the television. The room he had hung himself in.

Harry looked up at the rafters lining the ceiling, dark mahogany. Harry had been badgered and badgered until he finally gave in and allowed them to be put up, leaving their living room out-of-use for a day while the builders attached them using slow magic.

Who knew that they'd be used to cause harm to another?

Harry clenched his fists, seeing, in his mind's eye, the image of the body hanging from the ceiling by a rope around his neck. The face, swollen, and blank eyes staring at Harry, not seeing him.

Harry shuddered, clenching his fists, arms wrapped around his knees as he tucked himself away in the corner of the room. He hadn't come in here since the hanging; before now, that is. He didn't dare, because he knew that all he'd be able to see was him.

With that image burned into his eyes, Harry glared at nothing in particular, hand shooting out to grab the glass vial.

Suddenly, there was banging at the locked and warded door.


"I just..." Harry started and looked over to George, who sat beside him, staring out into the distance. Harry himself had been avidly watching the breeze lightly blow leaves on the trees behind the coffin. He hadn't tried to make conversation with George. He couldn't.

"Miss him," Harry finished quietly, red-rimmed eyes lowering to stare at the grass below him. Mrs Weasley was standing before them all, speaking about Fred's life. Harry hadn't heard a word she'd said, though he imagined it was very emotional. The woman herself was sobbing, words nearly incoherent. Two seats down from him, Hermione was hunched over, crying into a handkerchief. Ron had his arm around his girlfriend, on the verge of tears himself.

Harry's eyes were dry. Too dry. People stared at him, as if asking how he could be so emotionless. His relationship with Fred and George was no secret, although they'd never actually told anyone.

Harry wasn't emotionless, though. Almost a year of moving around the country, seeing no-one but Hermione and Ron, going half-mad with the mission of destroying the horcruxes had left him longing for his lovers, longing to be back in their bed, surrounded by the two, pretending he fit into their world.

But he couldn't. He hadn't had any time with Fred before the redhead was ripped away from him, dying fighting. Harry hadn't had a chance to connect with him for so long. He wondered if Fred knew he loved him. None of them had ever said it out loud.

Harry bitterly regretted that.

"How could this happen?" George asked hoarsely, mimicking Harry's own thoughts. Harry hesitantly raised a hand and lowered it onto George's shoulder, knowing that one, shaky movement couldn't do anything. George turned to him slightly, resting his own hand atop Harry's. Harry looked at him sadly.

"Why couldn't I just kill Voldemort sooner? None of this would have happened if I'd got my act together," Harry murmured, causing George to draw in a sharp breath and move suddenly. Harry barely had time to think before he was wrapped in a strong embrace by George.

George had barely touched him since the final battle. Harry hadn't blamed him. He knew Fred's death was his own fault as well.

"It was not your fault," George snapped quietly, but fiercely. Harry didn't reply, and George's grip tightened. "It wasn't! Please, don't you dare think for a second that anyone blames you."

Harry blamed himself. Did that count?

"Yeah," Harry agreed blandly, lying. George sighed, loosening his grip slightly, but not withdrawing from the embrace. Harry hesitantly rested his head on George's shoulder, feeling George begin to card fingers through his hair.

Mrs Weasley stepped down. Ron stood and made his way to the front.

They'd asked George and Harry to say something, but the two had refused. With George, they looked understanding. The man had just lost his twin, his best friend. No-one believed the two could ever be separated.

But they merely shook their head with exasperation at Harry. He couldn't be as crushed as George, as Ron, as any of the Weasley's were. He was just being stubborn. It was all his fault and he was trying to play the victim.

Harry knew their opinion very well. He wasn't blind.

Finally, they began lowering Fred into the grave dug. Everyone was standing around it, the Weasley family at the front, Harry and Hermione a little bit behind, and everyone else further back, waiting their turn to pay their respects. Harry was glad it hadn't been an open coffin.

The Weasley's dropped red roses onto the coffin, looking like it was taking all their energy to just do that. Harry sighed, looking away from the family moment. It was private, he was intruding.

"You've just as much right," Hermione murmured, looking rather angry that Harry wasn't up there with them. Harry just shrugged and Hermione sighed.

George looked back, surprised to see Harry standing there, if the frown on his face was any indication. Harry wondered if he should be standing this close. Perhaps it was rude?

George reached towards him, grabbing his arm and pulling him forward, so Harry was sandwiched between George and Charlie, who smiled at him sadly, patting his back. Harry had always liked Charlie. The twins had held a lot of respect for him and Bill.

George passed Harry a rose, urging him to throw it in. Harry looked around at the other Weasley's. Mrs Weasley and Mr Weasley were smiling kindly at him, Ron was staring at him in the same way George was, as if not understanding why Harry was hesitating. Bill and Percy were just staring at the coffin, and Ginny was looking away, tears falling from her eyes. The other Weasley's, the ones not immediate family; cousins, aunts, uncles, were probably wondering why he was even there.

George wrapped a hand around the one Harry was using to hold the rose, and, together, they threw it into the grave. It landed among the other roses, bouncing slightly. George didn't let go of his hand, entwining their fingers.

"That rose is special. It's yours. Bet Fred'll treasure it forever," George said, not bothering to whisper, as if wanting everyone to hear that Harry was special to Fred, just like George was.

Harry's vision swam with tears.


The wake was held at the Three Broomsticks, bright and cheery, like Fred would have wanted it. He would have hated it to be sombre. He would have hated the look in George's eyes, lost, broken.

Would have.

Past tense.

Harry didn't partake in the singing, dancing or pranks. He just couldn't, though he appreciated everyone trying to have a good time, to celebrate Fred's life rather than mourn his death. George was clearly happy with it, even if he didn't move from his seat- at the table he and Harry were at- once during the time they were there.

Mrs Weasley had fetched them both some food from the buffet. George had eaten a few mini sausage-rolls, his favourite snack. Harry hadn't touched a morsel. He hadn't eaten since the final battle, since he had nearly died and Fred actually had.

Merlin, Harry should have been the one to die. Fred deserved it the least out of anyone he knew.

"Eat," George told him, finally. His eyes stared at Harry, stared through Harry. They were dead, missing the passion and mischief that used to fill them, even during the war.

Harry picked up a scotch egg, but put it down a few seconds later. George just sighed and looked away, towards the people dancing to some folk music being played by a few family members. They were laughing, breathless. Mrs Weasley was being swung around by Mr Weasley, although both of their joy was false. They were just trying to make everyone else feel better.

"Wanna dance?" Harry asked, wondering if he could break George from his stupor. George just shook his head, staring at his empty pint glass. "Oh. Nah, me neither."


Two weeks after Fred's funeral, and Harry was still seeing him everywhere he went. A random redhead on the street would catch his eye and, just for a moment, his heart would stop, so certain was he that it was Fred, that he never died.

Then the man would turn and he would realise it wasn't Fred at all.

Fred's cardboard cut out was still in Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, holding up a joke item with a cheesy smile on his face and a speech bubble, advertising the product. Harry would come into the shop just to stare at it for hours, memorizing every contour of the man's face and body, remembering every last freckle. The cardboard cut out would sometimes wave to him or give him a more personal smile, such was the nature of wizarding photos.

Harry wanted to rip it apart with his bare hands.

He sometimes woke up in the middle of the night to see Fred hovering over George. Harry had moved into the flat above the store with George, and the two were sleeping in a large double bed, but on separate sides, a large, cold gap between them that sometimes made Harry turn his back to George and silently begin crying.

Once, he shot up at three in the morning after having a terrible nightmare about the final battle, only to see Fred lying in the gap between George and Harry.

"Fred!" Harry gasped out in the stillness of the room, and the redhead smiled up at him, opening his arms to Harry. Harry laughed out loud, falling into them as he had on many other occasions.

Only to find himself meeting the mattress, no Fred to be seen, only George with his back to him, snoring lightly, and that empty gap.

Harry got up and went to the bathroom across the landing, shutting and locking the door, and looking at himself in the mirror above the sink. He glared at his reflection.

He looked awful, undesirable. No wonder George was keeping so far away from him. Who would want to look at something so unattractive when they were mourning their handsome lover?

Harry's fist shot out and landed in the middle of the mirror, which cracked. Harry pulled his fist back, shaking it when the pain registered. He'd cut open his knuckles and shards of glass had embedded in his hand. There was blood on the web of cracks that started from where his hand had met the mirror. Thankfully, he didn't punch hard enough to make the mirror shatter very much.

Harry ran his hand under cold water, then unlocked the bathroom door and walked down the landing, to the guest room, and settled down in the bed there. He was aware that glass was still embedded in his hand, that it was still pulsing blood and ached enormously, but he didn't care.

He deserved the pain.


Harry didn't have a job, or anything to preoccupy himself with during the day. On one of the occasions the two talked, George had told him he could come down to the store and work for a bit or something, if he was feeling bored.

Harry hadn't taken him up on the offer, knowing George wouldn't want him there, in the store he shared with Fred, where there were, undoubtedly, many fond memories. Harry would just ruin that.

Harry only got up that day to get something to drink and use the toilet. Around four in the afternoon, Harry wandered into the kitchen in a baggy t-shirt and some old tracksuit trousers that had been Dudley's at some point. He stood in the kitchen, staring around at the still room, before looking up at the shelf sitting high up, holding the alcohol.

Harry climbed up on the counter, hand stinging when he rested his weight on it. He reached up and grabbed onto the neck of a bottle, pulling it down while he twisted so he was sitting on the counter. He wished that Fred hadn't put the alcohol so high up.

"I put it that high up for a reason." Harry jumped at the sudden voice, tearing his eyes away from the bottle label to see Fred leaning against the wall across from him. "Thought that you'd live with us after the war, so I planned ahead. Knew the war would do some damage to you."

Harry stared at Fred, unable to believe the man was standing there in the harsh light of day. He only ever came to him at night. Fred smiled at him sadly. He was wearing the same robes he'd been buried in.

Harry's eyes filled with tears as he sat on the counter, cradling the bottle of Firewhiskey to him. Surprisingly, Fred stood up straight and walked over to him. Harry's eyes widened as Fred drew closer.

Fred reached him, moving to stand between Harry's legs, not touching him. Harry reached a hand out, to touch him, to confirm that he was there. That he was real.

His hand went through Fred, and he let out a harsh cry, his other hand reaching out to try and connect with Fred's body, the bottle sitting in his lap. Fred looked at him sadly, and then, before Harry's eyes, faded.

"No!" Harry roared, grabbing the bottle and jumping off the counter, landing in the spot Fred had been moments before. One hand searched blindly for him, trying to find him again, bring him back. He needed Fred!

"Please, no," Harry murmured, stumbling as everything around him blurred and twisted. His knees impacted with the hard floor, and he knelt there, clutching a bottle of Firewhiskey to him and murmuring Fred's name over and over.

Eventually, he shakily stood, walking out of the kitchen and towards the guest room again, wanting to get out of the way before George came back from the shop. George didn't need to deal with him in the state he was. George had enough on his shoulders.


Harry had officially moved into the guest room, and George hadn't complained. Had barely acknowledged him when they came across each other, despite Harry's efforts to talk to him.

Harry began looking for places to stay, knowing he had to get out before George's hospitality wore thin and he kicked him out himself. Harry wasn't bringing anything to the place, really. Wasn't working, wasn't cleaning. All he did was stay in his room and drink Firewhiskey, which he went out and brought with his own money his parents gave him.

On one of these trips, Harry ventured out into the muggle world, wanting to see what it was like after the war they'd had no part in.

Muggle London was fine, recovered. Harry wandered the streets, looking bedraggled and messy. He hadn't shaved or brushed his hair in a while, and knew people probably thought he was some beggar.

He found himself in a video rental store after a while of exploring, and he walked up and down the racks of video, picking up the titles and reading the covers. It had been quite a while since he'd even watched TV. He wondered what it was like.

However, when he came upon the comedy section, he wished he'd never bothered entering the store.

Drop Dead Fred. The title screamed at him as he stared at the case. Dead Fred. Just like his Fred.

The man on the cover had messy red hair and a trouble-making expression, and Harry nearly cried at the resemblance, even if the man looked ten years older than his Fred.

"Drop Dead Fred," Harry murmured to himself, chuckling, and reaching out for the case. He had a few muggle pounds, he'd rent this out. Yeah, he'd watch Drop Dead Fred, and remember his own Fred. His own, dead Fred.

So, laughing to himself, Harry went up the counter and rented out the video.


Harry was in hysterics by the end of the movie, sprawled out and watching the small TV he'd borrowed from Hermione that was perched at the foot of his bed. He was both laughing and crying, tears that weren't from laughter leaking from his eyes as his body shook with his giggles.

"Harry?" There was a knock on his door, and Harry stopped laughing long enough to bid George enter, going back to watching the film. George opened the door and walked in, stopping when he saw the state Harry was in, and the smell of whiskey in the room.

"Oh Harry," George murmured, hurrying over to the bed and sitting down on it. He reached out for Harry, who frowned at him and moved away. George could go to hell if he thought Harry was ever going to let him touch him again. George looked like he'd been slapped.

"What... what are you watching?" he asked, tears filling his eyes. Harry felt bad, wanting to reach out and engulf George in that hug he'd been offered, but being too stubborn, and too hurt, to actually do it.

"Drop Dead Fred," Harry told him, eyes going back to the TV that he'd educated the twins on before the war. The memory of Fred and George staring at the television, unable to grasp the concept of some weird moving story invented by muggles made him smile.

"What?!" George exclaimed, and Harry turned to him with a frown.

"It's a movie, saw it when I went into the muggle world," Harry told him, wondering why George was overreacting so much. George stared at him, before looking at the screen, seeing this 'Fred', who was so like their Fred, if more immature, that it made Harry feel an intense longing deep inside him.

"You shouldn't be watching this," George said quietly, going to the TV and switching off the screen, the video still running. Harry scowled at him for taking away his connection with Fred.

"Why not?" he snapped, crossing his arms. George sighed, sitting down on the bed again, taking in the empty Firewhiskey bottles littering the floor. Harry looked down sullenly at the disbelieving stare George was subjecting him to.

"It's not healthy! None of this is!" George suddenly yelled, standing up and making Harry jump at the burst of noise. "You're so... you don't get it, do you?! We all suffered from the war Harry, we're all suffering from Fred's death, so just... stop destroying yourself!"

Harry watched as George ran his hands through his hair, glared at Harry, then stormed out, slamming the door behind him, leaving Harry devastated.

Harry curled up in the middle of the bed, arms wrapped around his middle and eyes staring blankly off into the distance.

He was so selfish.


"Harry?" Harry looked up at the sound of his name, seeing George standing in the doorway. It was night, he didn't know what time. Didn't care. Time was meaningless when you had no-one to spend it with.

"I'm sorry, Harry," George said, walking forward and crouching beside the bed. Harry watched as his hand moved towards him, combing through his black hair. "I had no right... I'm being so selfish. Merlin, how could I just ignore you?!" George suddenly snapped, furious.

Harry tentatively stretched his hand forward, shuddering as his fingertips made contact with the flesh of George's cheek. He stroked down George's face, fingers tracing the man's lips. George smiled sadly at him, and Harry sat up slightly, cupping George's cheek, and bringing the redhead's face forward to gently kiss his lips.

"Harry," George whispered, tears trailing down his cheeks, being illuminated in the light spilling from the landing. Harry smiled at him, feeling hope begin to warm his chest as he kissed George again.

George stood from kneeling on the floor, getting on the bed and covering Harry, pressing him down into the mattress. Harry sighed at the familiar feeling, rubbing against George, who groaned and pressed a kiss to his neck, trailing his lips down the column of flesh.

Sex felt cold without Fred there. There was someone missing, and they both knew it. It wasn't the same, it wasn't as warm, as loving. But it was still special, still intimate, the first time Harry and George had been together like this in a year. Harry basked in the feeling, love and passion filling his mind with pleasure. When George slid into him, they both felt the deep connection. Harry knew that he would never feel anything as wonderful as making love to one of his redhead lovers. Even if he didn't have Fred, he still had George to spend the rest of his life with.

But when Harry awoke that morning, George wasn't there. He frowned and looked at the clock beside his bed.

It was only five. Day light was barely peeking over the horizon. Where was George?

Harry tiredly got up, a hangover and the actions of last night leaving his exhausted. He padded out of his room and across the landing to George's room, opening the door, only to find an empty room.

"George?" Harry called out, moving to the kitchen and turning on the yellow light. George wasn't in there either, or in the dining room. Harry began to feel dread claw at his insides, turning the warmth he'd been feeling to ice.

"George!" Harry yelled, running to the bathroom. The door swung open, but George wasn't in there. He could only be in the living room, then.

Harry barrelled his way into the room.

And stopped dead.

"George?" he gasped out, body completely frozen. He couldn't move, he couldn't walk forward, or back, to escape from the nightmare he was trapped in.

George's eyes stared at him dully as his body swung slightly. Harry stared at the swollen face. Not one of his freckles could be seen due to the horrible colour darkening it.

"No, no," Harry whispered in denial, shaking his head. His hands came up to grab at his hair, pulling it harshly, strands drifting down to floor as he ripped it out. His eyes didn't move from his lover's limp body, held up by a noose around his neck.

Finally, Harry screamed.


"There was a note," an auror told Harry, holding out a folded piece of parchment. Harry stared at it for a moment, before looking away, not taking it.

"I don't want it," he whispered hoarsely, voice raw from screaming and screaming until auror's flooded his apartment due to a call from the owners living above the store next door.

The auror didn't push it, on edge around the man who was completely dead inside. Who knew Harry Potter could be so broken?

At that moment, a flood of Weasley's entered in one big wave, immediately making their way to a few aurors nearby and demanding to know what happened. As if the call to Mr Weasley saying their son had hung himself wasn't enough.

"Harry!"Charlie called out, suddenly spotting him slumped over in one of the chairs resting against the wall. Harry looked up at him as he came sprinting over, the others right behind him. Oh Merlin, too many people.

Harry abruptly stood, wondering if he could run. Would it look suspicious, or would they realise he was just running away because he couldn't deal with it? He'd been cooped up in the office for hours, going over every detail he could think of. It really wasn't that hard to realise what had happened.

George Weasley had hung himself after a night of shagging Harry Potter.

Wasn't that just the icing on the cake?

"What happened?" Charlie asked, voice low, as if Harry's ears were somehow damaged and sore from seeing George, dead.

Harry didn't answer, just gazed at one particularly large freckle on his cheek. Charlie lightly took hold of his arm and steered him away from the other Weasley's, so they were on their own.

Charlie then engulfed Harry in a hug, which shocked him greatly. He barely knew Charlie really, and the man was being extremely considerate, acting more sensible than any of his siblings would have done.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," Charlie told him gruffly, and Harry could tell he was fighting off his own tears. Harry's arms drifted up to clutch at Charlie's back as it shuddered with Charlie's sobs. The dam within Harry finally burst, bringing with it a flood of tears which apparently hadn't all been used up over Fred's death and George's coldness towards him.

"It was all my fault," Harry said stonily, hands making fists against Charlie's shirt. Charlie shook his head, arms tightening around him.

"It wasn't, don't you dare ever think that." Harry remembered George saying something like that to him before, and it made his throat clench, a lump forming in it.

"I was so selfish," Harry whispered. He was, he couldn't believe he'd completely ignored George's emotions like that. He should have known George might do something like this, to be with his twin. The one he loved more than anyone.

"He's happy," Harry suddenly said, the realisation striking him painfully. George died to be happy, he would be with Fred, wherever the two went. Harry could never hope to be good enough to keep George alive. George could never love him that much.

"I... I suppose he is," Charlie agreed, sounding distraught. He pulled back, cupping Harry's cheek, and wiping away the tear tracks. "He was happy with you, too. They both were. Don't think for a second that either of them didn't loved you as much as they loved each other."

"Stop telling me what to think," Harry hissed, surprising both Charlie and himself with his anger. His lips tightened as sobs threatened to overcome him once more.

He ran away from Charlie, past all the Weasley's, and out of the auror office.


Another day, another funeral.

This time, when Harry had turned down to the offer to read anything out, the others had looked at him with understanding. They knew he just couldn't bring himself to even talk without sobbing these days. Every word he said was quavering, wobbly.

This time, it was Harry who silently stared into the distance, while Charlie looked at him with worry. The funeral was outside again, just like Fred's, although the weather was a little bit more bitter. Matched Harry's mood.

He phased out the funeral. Mrs Weasley went up again, but just sobbed incoherently before sitting back down. The other Weasley's went up, giving short speeches. The Daily Prophet published the whole story, third page. The tragic love story of George taking his life after losing his twin. Harry was mentioned in there somewhere. Briefly.

The wake was filled with forced cheer. Two deaths in the family, so close together, stopped people from being able to celebrate George's life, especially under the circumstances which he took it. Harry sat at a table with Charlie, staring at his glass, which he'd drained of Firewhiskey, and was contemplating refilling.

Charlie, at one point, asked him if he wanted to dance. Harry declined.

"Nah, me neither," Charlie replied, nonchalant tone forced. They fell into silence again.


Harry made the poison himself. It took a while for him to get it right, but he knew he couldn't get it anywhere else. He was too recognisable, word would get out.

He put on Drop Dead Fred and watched it while sitting on the sofa in the living room, eyes darting to where George had hung himself, before going back to the screen. Occasionally, he shivered, remembering what had happened in this very room. He wondered why he'd come in there to die. Why he'd put himself under the torture.

Because he deserved it. That was the answer. He deserved every little bit of torture, for being such a disgraceful lover.

For not dying that night of the final battle, when he should have.

For not saving Fred. For not defeating Voldemort before. For not getting to George earlier.

Near the end of the film, Harry heard the door to the shop downstairs being broken. His eyes widened, and he remembered that he should have met Charlie an hour ago for a drink at the Leaky Cauldron.

He crept into a corner, near the door, looking around the room, cradling the vial to him, and remembering how he'd completely failed George. The light from the TV illuminated the image of George's body swaying slightly, before he blinked, and the image was gone.

Feet were on the stairs. Harry looked at the vial, before uncorking it as hands frantically pounded at the door. No one could get past his wards, he was certain.

"Harry? Harry! Open up, it's me, Charlie," Charlie called, but Harry knew it wasn't just Charlie.

He lifted the vial to his lips, drinking down the clear, innocent fluid, tasteless, colourless. Poisonous.

It was the final scene on Drop Dead Fred, when the main character realises her mischievous, invisible friend Fred was never truly dead, no matter how many pills she took to get rid of them. Harry wondered if poison would be more effective than pills.

The vial fell to the floor with a dull thud, and Harry slumped against the wall. There was a small smile painted on his face as the door smashed open, the wards failing as his heart did.

Harry Potter died two weeks after George Weasley committed suicide, and three months after Fred Weasley was killed.


Gosh, I do come up with some miserable stories sometimes. Don't know why I came up with this one, it just swum around my head and wouldn't let me write anything else until I blurted it all out.

I'd love it if you reviewed, even if it's only to tell me that that was one mood-killing piece of work.