For Fred.

It had been a month since the battle. A month of silence, of tiptoeing around my own grief and everyone else's. A month of empty mornings and restless nights, where Fred's absence felt louder than the Howlers he used to prank me with.

I stood on Diagon Alley, glaring at the shuttered front of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. The shop looked almost frozen in time, the bright purple paint dulled by a layer of dust. The once-cheerful window displays were dim, the mannequins slumped as if mourning along with everyone else.

"Enough of this," I muttered under my breath.

My knuckles rapped against the door once. Then again, harder.

"George! I know you're in there!" I yelled, my voice echoing through the busy street. Other wizards and witches glanced at me in concern, but I didn't care.

Nothing.

"Come on, don't make me hex the lock off," I snapped, pounding on the door with both fists now. I was fed up now, tired. My dad had asked me to give George more time, more space, and I had agreed. But I could tell through Molly's growing misery that losing both twins was becoming more and more painful than losing one.

"George, get out here now! I've been sending you owls for weeks, and all you do is send them back. You can't hide from your family forever, you..." my voice faltered, and I rested my forehead against the cool wood of the door.

"You can't keep making your Mum cry, George. She misses you. We all do."

There was silence, yet again. Drawing my head up from the door, I sighed and wiped a stray tear. George clearly wasn't coming out, and I was about to turn to leave when I heard the sound of slow, shuffling footsteps. The lock clicked, and the door opened just a crack.

George's face appeared, pale and shadowed, his usual mischief nowhere to be found. He looked like a ghost of himself. He stared at me, this shell of a man, and I stared back at him.

"George." I said softly.

"What do you want, Angelina?" he asked, his voice flat.

"To talk," I said firmly, pushing the shop's door open before he could stop me.

He didn't protest, simply closing the front door behind me. I looked around the dimly lit shop, sneezing from the dust that was floating around. It stunk of butter beer, and sweat. Discarded pieces of packaging lay on the floor, and I almost tripped over one before George caught me, steadying me wordlessly before walking further into the shop.

I followed him, already starting to speak.

"Why have you been ignoring us?" He kept walking, going up a flight of stairs. He wasn't answering.

"George, it smells like shit in here. When was the last time you cleaned this place?"

"Doesn't matter, Angie-" he stopped walking for a minute, taking in a shuddering breath. "I mean, Angelina." He continued up the stairs, brushing a cobweb out of the way as he made it up to his office.

"George, stop. Talk to me." I held his arm outside their-his-office door. He wouldn't turn around to look at me.

"Just...come in, Angelina." He muttered, pushing the door open.

George's office was just as much of a mess as the shop below, if not worse. Papers were scattered across the desk, and shelves that had once held colorful products were now collecting dust. A photo of him and Fred stood tilted on the corner of the desk, the frame cracked. I stared at it for a moment before speaking.

"George...you can't keep living like this." I gestured to the room. "Fred wouldn't want—"

"Don't." George snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut me off. He sank into the chair behind the desk, running a hand over his face. "Don't tell me what Fred would or wouldn't want."

I folded my arms, narrowing my eyes at him. "Someone has to, since you're clearly too busy wallowing to think about it yourself."

His head shot up, and for a moment, I thought I'd gone too far. But instead of shouting, he let out a bitter laugh. "Wallowing, huh? Is that what you think this is?"

"What else would you call locking yourself away from everyone who loves you? From your family? From me?" My voice cracked despite my effort to keep it steady.

George looked away, his jaw tight. "It's not that simple."

"Yes, it is." I stepped closer, planting my hands on the desk. "Fred is gone, and it hurts like hell. But hiding from it isn't going to make it hurt any less."

"You think I don't know that?" He finally looked at me, his eyes red and glistening. "You think I don't wake up every day wishing it was me instead of him?"

My chest tightened. "George..."

He shook his head, his voice breaking. "Fred was always the brave one, the bold one. The one with all the stupid, brilliant ideas. Without him, this shop—everything—we're nothing. I'm nothing."

I reached for the photo on his desk, brushing a layer of dust off the glass. "You're wrong, George. Fred was all of those things, sure. But so are you. And he knew it."

George stared at the photo in my hands, his expression softening. "He was an idiot, wasn't he?" he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "But a bloody brilliant one."

I smiled too, though it was tinged with sadness. "Yeah, he was."

There was a pause, heavy with unspoken memories. I took the opportunity to look around the room, and my gaze fell onto a photo that was on the empty desk opposite George's. The one that had belonged to Fred. The photo lay facedown.

Slowly, I walked towards the desk, putting my hand on the photo frame.

"He loved that photo." George said quietly. I turned towards him, and he was staring at me with an intensity that wasn't there before.

I turned the photo over.

There was the two of us, I and Fred, posing for a photo after the Yule Ball. I was staring into the camera, a playful smirk on my face and my arm looped around his. Fred grinned, his shaggy hair that I'd make fun of him for falling into his eyes.

"Do you remember the Yule Ball?" I asked suddenly, holding the photo closer.

George blinked, startled by the shift. "The Yule Ball? How could I forget? Fred was ecstatic when you said yes to going with him. Wouldn't shut up about it." A sudden softness came into George's expression as he remembered, and I sat on a chair opposite him.

"It was the best night of my life, at the time." I reminisced quietly. "I'll never forget it. Or him."

George tilted his head, watching me closely as I spoke. His lips quirked upward in the smallest smile.

"Do you remember what you wore?" he asked suddenly, catching me off guard.

"What?" I blinked, surprised by the question.

"The Yule Ball. Do you remember what you wore?" George pressed, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed. His eyes stayed on me, steady.

I glanced down at the photo again, brushing my thumb over Fred's grinning face.

"Yeah," I murmured, the memory tugging at my heart. "I remember every detail like it was yesterday."

And I did.