Forgive me, I tried to mess around with the writing style. My latest george oneshot (if you have time, check it out, i love it more than this one- title: All The Hardest Parts) had quite a lot of words, so I challenged to make this one short and simple, yet promising. The dull dialogue was meant to be quite lacking. I'm sorry, I'm not particularly good at this but do read. :)

George Weasley stared at the reflection before him. He had sunken eyes, and if it were even possible, the palest patches of skin. He looked utterly lost in the essence of everything. He looked mad. He looked insane, perhaps he was. He looked dead.

He laughed at the irony of that thought.

Sometimes he thought that it was Fred himself staring at him from the other side of the glass. Sometimes he thought if he broke the glass with his bloodied fist, he'd be waiting by the other side with the identical mischivous grin creeping up his face. Slowly, he felt the smooth surface with the tip of his fingers. It was cold and moisty and-

"Fred." A croak.

I thought I heard snuck up little prat approach me.

It was Fred. It was Fred. It was Fred. It was Fred. It was Fred. It was Fred. He was looking at him from beyond the crystals. George's eyes widened in surprise and quiety he laughed. It was a sick laughter. It wasn't the ring of triumph, or mischief that he beheld once with such magnificence. It wasn't Weasley. It was sick, sick laughter. If he reached out, smashed the thin layer of-

You weren't listening to me, git.

George sighed loudly, his hands stretching to ruffle his ginger hair. He felt the bags beneath his eyes, the pain of his joints which cracked simultaneously when so much as a flicker occured. He was exhausted, his chapped lips quivered as he licked them slowly.

"Fred?" It was softer now.

Yes?

"How are you?"

I guess death is rather ravishing, I look like a splendid soul. It seems quite unsettling, but I'm fine. Why do you stare at me that way?

"You git, ravishing my arse, you look dreadful."

If you can't even stand to look at me, why don't you put out the flames and hit the sheets. For as long as you stare at me, I stare back.

"How can slumber even concern you now that you're-"

A little bit of mum creeping up your temperament, I suppose?

"...I'm tired, Fred. I am."

Of me?

"No, of waking up every day and believing you would wake up beside me. Of watching our business bloom, realizing slowly how much it was ours, our business, our success. Ours, dammit, Fred! Of feeling completely and utterly alone. You left me, you foul, terrible, git, you-"

I didn't leave you. I haven't left you.

"And yet here I am, out of my mind, shakily and mentally unwell-"

It had to me, George.

"You didn't let me fin-"

It had to be me. Don't you understand, Georgie? I wouldn't be able to take it if it were you. I would've crumpled on the ground with your name escaping my mouth. I would've died. I would've shut down the store, shave my head bald. When everything would be a living memory of you, I would've burried myself under the world. I would've sat on the cold hard ground in castle, waiting for you to emerge having the last laugh. Yet here you stand, and you're alright. When you sat down next to my body shakily. When you were the last to leave from my funeral. When-when you married her. I knew. You'll-you'll be okay.

"You have no idea how I am one inch close to doing any of these things-"

But you won't.

"You wouldn't know."

Oh, but I do, mate. Because dead or alive, you are still the biggest part of me. And I know, I know you'll be okay.

For a while he just sat still. For a while everything just rushed at startling velocity. For a while his slightly shaking palms cupped rattling of his bones as he sobbed. For a while, it was just all the tears. All the little tears, all the biggest fears. For a while, it was just him and a few other memories, a few jumps back to a few other days. For a while, it was the soft whispers of a delightful past. And despite everything, a chuckle escaped him.

"Fred! George! Who put the damn swamp in the kitchen! Oh, this is foul, foul smell. GET YOUR ARSES DOWN HERE-

"Mum, I do think it was Ron. You know how he's attracted to unusual scents-"

"He practically eats like he lives in a swamp-"

"This isn't funny! The both of you! Take this out immedietly!-"

"But this is dreadfully nasty, mum! How could you make us do such a thing-"

"We don't want our clothes stenched with this odor! What would the ladies think of us!"

"I...I just started to miss you for a while there."

Silence responded approvingly and George opened his eyes. In his hands he held a tiny little trinket. He tossed it up and down. Up and down.

Up and down.

"By the way, happy birthday, Fred." It was the caress of the whisper.

Silence again.

George was wasted. George was frail and George was still slightly shaking. But for the first time in quite a while, George Weasley felt okay. He was going to be okay.

I hope the message I tried to bring across pushed through. The few balances of loss and sanity here and there. Review? I would love to hear your thoughts :) It would really, really make my day!