For Fred.

One month later, two months after Fred's death

George

I stand in front of the fireplace of the flat above Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. It's been a month since Angelina came over and helped with cleaning up the place, a month since I saw my reflection in the mirror and broke down. I looked down at the Floo powder in my hand, remembering how Fred always made fun of how much I hated traveling by Floo. And now I was doing it. Things had changed.

Sighing, I threw the powder into the fire, and the flames turned green. Stepping inside and looking around at the living room one last time, I uttered the name of the place I had been refusing to go to for the last two months.

"The Burrow."

The flames roared higher, engulfing me as I braced myself for the nauseating whirl. The sensation tugged at my stomach, spinning me through what felt like endless corridors of light and heat.

Then, with a jarring thud, I stumbled out of the fireplace, nearly tripping over the worn rug in the Burrow's living room. The scent hit me first—baked bread, herbs, and the faint tang of something burning slightly in the kitchen.

"George?"

Mum's voice.

I glanced up to see her standing by the doorway, a dish towel clutched in her hands. Her hair was a mess of curls, more gray than I remembered, and her eyes—her eyes looked so tired.

"Hi, Mum," I said, my voice rougher than I'd intended.

She didn't say anything at first, just stood there like she wasn't sure whether to hug me or cry. Then, in typical Mum fashion, she did both, wrapping me in a fierce hug that nearly knocked the air out of my lungs.

"Oh, George, my boy," she whispered, her voice breaking. "It's so good to see you. So good."

I patted her back awkwardly, my throat too tight to speak.

"Fred would—"

"Mum," I interrupted gently, pulling back. I couldn't handle hearing his name just yet. Not here.

She seemed to understand, nodding as she dabbed at her eyes with the dish towel. "Well, everyone's outside. They'll be so happy you're here. Angelina's been helping Ginny with the garden—you know how your sister gets with those gnomes..." She trailed off, her words tinged with nervous energy, like she was trying to fill the silence with anything but grief.

Angelina.

The mention of her name made something twist in my chest. I hadn't planned on seeing her here, though I supposed I should've known. She'd always been close to the family, long before she and Fred—

I shoved the thought away, forcing myself to focus on Mum instead. "I'll head out in a bit," I said quietly. "Just... need a moment."

She hesitated, her hand brushing against my cheek like she used to when I was a kid. "Take all the time you need, love," she said softly, before retreating toward the kitchen.

The silence in the room was heavy, the kind that sinks into your bones. I glanced around, taking in the familiar clutter of the Burrow. Fred and I used to laugh at how chaotic it always seemed—like the house was barely holding itself together with magic and Mum's sheer willpower.

My gaze landed on the urn, the one Angelina had written me about two weeks ago. I didn't come to the cremation. I couldn't bear to.

A lump rose in my throat, and I had to look away.

Outside, the late afternoon sun bathed the garden in golden light. Ginny was knee-deep in a flowerbed, flinging dirt over her shoulder as she wrestled with something that squealed angrily. Angelina stood nearby, arms crossed, a grin tugging at her lips. She had a smudge of dirt on her cheek, her braids tied up in a messy bun. I noticed a slight bulge in her stomach, the baby now two months along.

For a second, I just watched them. Watched how Angelina laughed at whatever Ginny was muttering under her breath, how the light caught in her eyes, how... how alive she looked.

I hated myself for noticing.

"Oi, George!" Ginny's voice snapped me out of my thoughts. She stood up, brushing her hands on her jeans, a gnome wriggling in her grip. "About time you showed up!"

Angelina turned at that, her smile faltering when her gaze met mine. There it was again—that weight between us. The one neither of us dared to name.

I gave a small wave then shoved my hands shoved deep into my pockets. "Thought I'd see how much chaos you lot are causing without me," I said lightly, though my voice felt hollow.

Angelina didn't say anything, just smiled softly, her eyes searching mine like she was looking for something I didn't know if I had anymore.

"Come on," Ginny said, tossing the gnome over the fence. "You can help us with these pests. Mum's been threatening to turn them into stew if we don't get rid of them soon."

I stepped forward, forcing a grin. "Wouldn't want to miss that."

But as I bent down to grab a gnome, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. That maybe, just maybe, coming back here wasn't just about facing the past.

It was about figuring out how to live with it.

July 1994, The Summer Before Fred asked Angelina out

The sun cast long shadows across the garden, its glow warming the overgrown grass as I walked toward the small clearing where Fred had dragged his broomstick collection earlier. I heard voices before I saw them—Fred's laughter, followed by Angelina's distinct, breezy tone.

She'd come to the Burrow to visit and play Quidditch with us, claiming her house was getting 'too boring.'

I stopped short, leaning against the side of the shed, unseen for now. Angelina was standing a few feet away, tossing one of Fred's Quaffles between her hands like it weighed nothing.

"Alright, Weasley," she said with a playful grin, "show me this new 'unstoppable pass' you've been bragging about all summer."

Fred chuckled, leaning lazily on his broomstick. "Oh, you'll see it, Angie. But don't be surprised when you realize Slytherin has no chance against it next year."

She rolled her eyes but smiled. "Bold of you to assume I get surprised."

Fred took off into the air, leaving her alone on the ground. She turned slightly, catching sight of me before I could move.

"George!" she called out, a little surprised (ironically) but smiling. "How long have you been standing there?"

I swallowed hard and plastered on a smile, stepping out into the clearing. "Not long. Just... came to see what you two are up to."

Fred, hovering above, chimed in before I could say anything else. "Don't let him fool you, Angie. George hates Quidditch practice. He doesn't need it. He's probably here to admire the view."

I froze, heat rushing to my face. Fred's tone was teasing, but something in his grin made me wonder if he knew. Angelina laughed lightly, brushing her braids over her shoulder, oblivious to the weight behind Fred's words.

"Funny," she said, tossing the Quaffle into the air before catching it again. "I thought you were the bigger show-off, Fred."

"That's just because George here's the quiet twin," Fred replied. He shot me a wink. "But trust me, when he does speak, it's worth listening to."

Angelina turned back to me, still smiling. "Well, lucky me. George, want to join us?"

I opened my mouth, ready to come up with an excuse, but Fred swooped down, landing beside her before I could answer.

"Don't pressure him, Angie. He's shy," Fred teased, clapping a hand on my shoulder as he walked past me, smirking.

I avoided his gaze, laughing it off, but my stomach twisted. I couldn't tell if he knew about my feelings for Angelina—or if he was just being Fred. Either way, the way he looked at her, laughed with her, made me feel like I'd already lost before I'd even begun.

Present Day

Later, when the sun had set and everyone was off doing their own thing, I found myself wandering out to the back garden.

The warm evening breeze brushed against my face, carrying the faint scent of freshly cut grass. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the quiet wrap around me.

"Oh! Hello, George."

My eyes snapped open. Angelina was standing a few feet away, her dark blue dress flowing softly with the wind. The hem brushed the grass as she shifted, barefoot and quiet, with a small, sad smile.

I managed a smile in return, though it felt more like an effort than it should.

"Hello, Ange. Needed some air?"

She nodded, her gaze drifting up to the moonlit sky. "Molly's worried to death about the baby. Keeps fussing over me—over it. I love her, but...it gets a bit much sometimes."

She sighed, the sound almost lost in the stillness. Silence stretched between us, but it didn't feel uncomfortable.

I followed her gaze to the sky. There were no stars tonight, only the pale glow of the moon cutting through the darkness.

"I know you'd hate for me to ask this, but..." I started hesitantly.

"Oh, don't start, George," she groaned, cutting me off with mock despair.

I pressed on, despite her tone. "How are you? And the baby?"

She nudged me playfully with her elbow, her eyes rolling just the way they used to when Fred was around. "Merlin, you're stubborn."

"And you're avoiding the question," I replied, my tone lighter than I felt.

Angelina sighed again, more gently this time, and her smile softened. "We're fine. I mean, as fine as we can be, I suppose. Enough about me, though. What about you?"

I raised an eyebrow, but she went on, her expression growing more serious. "I know the shop's all cleaned up, but you haven't reopened it."

I felt my chest tighten. "Oh, the shop. We—I mean, I—" I stuttered, then ran a hand through my hair in frustration. The words stumbled out before I could stop them. "I keep talking like there's still two of us."

Her gaze softened further, her dark eyes filled with something that looked like understanding.

"Hey," she said quietly, stepping closer. "I wasn't trying to pressure you, Georgie. I just wondered if...if you've thought about opening it again. Someday."

"What?" I asked, my voice sharper than I'd meant it to be.

"I don't know," she muttered, glancing down at her hands as if they held the answer. "I guess I'm just trying to say...take your time."

Her voice wavered slightly, but when she looked back up at me, there was no pity in her expression—just patience. I just nodded in reply, and she didn't press.

Silence stretched out once more.

"You know something, George?" Angelina said suddenly. I looked at her.

"What?" I asked softly.

"I wasn't sure about telling Fred, you know. About the baby." She continued quietly, her voice barely a whisper. The wind blew her braids, and the smell of shea butter and soil wafted into my nose.

"Why?" I said. She laughed softly, like she was remembering something.

"I didn't want to overwhelm him. Didn't want him to lose focus during the battle. But I ended up telling him anyway. I'm so glad I did." Her voice started to wobble, and her shoulders rose and fell with gasping sobs. Without a second thought, I enveloped Angelina in an embrace.

"Shh, Angelina, it's okay." I whispered into her hair, stroking it gently.

"I'm so glad I told him, George." She wailed. "I'm going to be a single mum, George, can you believe that? My baby will never know their father's laugh, or his stupid jokes, or the way he called me Angie all the time, even though I hated it. I hated the way he said it, but I'd give anything to hear it again. Isn't that funny, George?" Angelina's tears were dampening my shirt as she laughed bitterly. But I didn't care.

Her sobs began to slow, her breathing evening out as I held her. The wind whispered through the garden. Somewhere in the distance, a gnome scurried through the bushes, the sound barely registering over the silence that settled between us.

I looked up at the moon, its pale light casting a soft glow over the garden. "We'll make sure they know," I said softly, my voice steady despite the lump in my throat. "The baby. They'll know everything about him, Ange. I promise."

She nodded against my chest, her hands gripping the fabric of my shirt like a lifeline.

For a long time, we didn't speak. There were no words big enough for what we'd lost, no comfort strong enough to fill the void Fred had left. But in that moment, standing there in the quiet of the Burrow's garden, it felt like maybe we didn't need them.

Sometimes, silence was enough.