Disclaimer: I don't like doing these, because we all know I'm not good enough to own a world such as Harry Potter. I can't afford to buy it from JK Rowling either. So, it's hers. All hers.

This is for Ela, but here's a quick note for Ellie:

Hey, Ellie, if you're reading this ... Stop reading this!!! You should be writing that Bella/Embry if you haven't posted it by this time. It'll be a laugh to read, I'm sure. So, yeah. That's it. ;)


George wrote his brother a letter every day for two years. He thought maybe, just maybe, somewhere bright and fun and where laughter was everywhere and there was no evil, his twin sat reading them all.

He pretends not to hear people whisper about him—its easy with one ear—and the tales they tell don't bother him.

He watches his mum and dad cry, and listens to people refer to Fred in the past tense. He doesn't like it.

When he thinks of Fred, he doesn't think of death or devastation ... he thinks of laughter and smiles in inappropriate moments. So he smiles when someone says, "Poor Fred. He was such a good boy, bright, witty, clever. He'll be missed," and corrects them just loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Fred is such a good boy. And he is bright, witty and clever. I do miss him. But I hope he is happy. I will try to be happy."

People think he's gone spitting mad.

He writes letters to the dead.

-

Aug. 21st.

Dear Fred,

How are you? How are things? You'd better not be testing those Earwax Candles we'd agreed were red label. I'm not joking.

Everyone misses you, and I don't tell you this so you'll be sad or guilty. I just wanted you to know I wno't forget you. They won't either. Percy blames himself, you know, the stupid prat. And Mum cleans everything, it's so annoying. She's bloody found our order sheets from ages ago. She didn't even curse, just burst into tears. They're all being so stupid. I miss you. You'd understand.

People you love don't ever go away. They simply live on in our hearts. I hope this reaches you in the best of spirits,

George.

-

The letters go into an empty red cardboard box under George's bed. And once a week, he takes them all down to Ottery St. Catchpole where he hides them under the loose stone of Fred's tombstone.

On his way back up the Burrow, he stops in to see the Muggle in the card shop—the one with the red King of Hearts from Fred all those years back.

He remembers how those simple flicks of their wands under the table used to make her smile, and thinks of how happy Fred was to see her smile—how that simple act of making someone else smile could brighten his twin so easily.

She fetches the card from under the cupboard and hands it over, and then enters the backroom to locate the rest of the deck while George flips the card over and over and contemplates it.

It is still white, with red ink. But soon, all too soon, it will fade to a yellow and become worn. But—like the letters tucked under the stone to become ball of yarn to the elements—the ink will not fade. And Fred too is like this, he will not fade.

"He was always the King of Hearts ..." she says, grinning at George, handing over the rest of the cards. George nods, smiling softly.

"He was, wasn't he?"

She picks up the inflection of his voice—that evident sadness he tries to bury so deep because this is not what Fred would have wanted.

"Wh-where is he?" she asks after a moment. George envies her ignorance—he wishes it was that easy. He can't bear to crush her (himself), so he doesn't speak and the words of truth won't dislodge from the roof of his mouth.

"One trick, then I must go," he whispers, placing the King of Hearts down on the counter and silently sending a word to his brother, the King of Hearts. I miss you.

-

Oct. 16th.

Dear Fred,

It's getting hard to pretend ... but easier to move on. I feel like I'm betraying you. The naivety is gone. We're thinking of holding a memorial service, but we can't stand the crowds. We Weasleys are keeping to ourselves more and more lately. You'd be disappointed, I know. But we can't help it. It hurts.

Angelina came by yesterday. She brought your old Quidditch robes. Apparently, McGonagall thought we'd appreciate them. Ginny tried to hex them. She couldn't take it.

I suppose it's the sense of finality that bothers her. You'll never wear the robes again, will you? I've taken them to the shop and locked them up. They won't get damaged there.

Love always,

George.

-

Sept. 21st.

Dear Fred,

Things have changed and I hope you'll forgive me. I think I'll propose to Angelina. I'm sure you'd say it was fine, but it's not, is it? I'm truly sorry, really. But I think we both need this. I think she sees you in me, and I feel selfish denying her that. And in her, I see what you saw. And Fred, you saw everything so wonderfully.

Please don't grudge me this bit of happiness. I still wish all the happiness where you are is yours forever. I just want a little here.

I'll take care of her.

George.

-

Jan. 19th.

Dear Fred,

I wish you'd been there. You were my best man anyways. It's not the same without you, Fred. But today Mum smiled and I'm sure you saw it. I felt you there when she smiled.

I have faith that everything's going to be fine. I think maybe you're still watching out for us—wand drawn. I am not scared.

Then again, I was never one for fear, was I?

George.

-

Feb. 25th.

Dear Fred,

Over a year ago, I wrote to tell you about my wedding. From my point of view. Now I'm writing to tell you about my son—your godson, in every way that counts.

Merlin, he looks like you. Everyone says it. I swear, he looks exactly like you. We've agreed to name him Fred. I can only hope he lives up his wonderful namesake.

G.

-

Jun. 3rd.

Dear Fred,

It's getting easier. And I'm scared. I almost forgot to write you this morning. And it's almost two years of routine. I don't want to lose you.

G.

-

Jul. 23rd.

Dear Fred,

I went down to Ottery St. Catchpole today. Something about the place didn't feel like home. I haven't lived there since getting married. And even the Burrow's changed on me. Everyone's moved out. Mum and Dad look so alone. Mum's taken down the clock.

G.

-

Aug. 20th.

Dear Fred,

Tomorrow marks the second year of daily letters. I don't think I will write one tomorrow. The symbolism is gone. I have stopped looking to these letters as a way to communicate with you. I've found other ways. Practical ways. I see you in Fred's smile. In Angelina's laugh.

I see you in the violets that bloom in the windowsills of the attic every year. And I could swear, while I was teaching Fred to ride the broom Harry got him, I saw you wink at me.

I know you're there, Fred. And I think you're happy. That was all I asked.

Ottery St. Catchpole is no longer home—with the exception of that single tombstone where two years worth of tradition will be lain to rest beside you. This is home now. I don't think it's necessary to invite you—you've already made your place. I know you're not leaving. Not now, at least.

Always yours, in tears and love,

George Weasley.


Mhm. That's it. My laptop crashed on this twice. And I lost my favourite part—a chunk of the scene where George goes to see the Muggle in OSC. But, here it is. My tribute to one of my favourite characters. And his twin. Take that how you will; I'm still not sure which is the favourite and which is the twin.

And, a dedication to one of my newest friends. For you, Ela. Cheers! *raises glass* Hope it was satisfactory.