In the end, it’s not the body or the funeral or even the heart-wrenching, gutted cries of his mother, but rather the open-ended joke without a punchline that finally makes it sink in for George.
He sits at the table unmoving, every muscle in his body constricting as he waits for a quip to fill the oppressive silence that has overtaken the Burrow. It extends, inflating limitlessly as a quiet ringing starts in his ears. It’s like something has burst in his chest. Something that now presses against his heart and squeezes it tightly in a cold lover’s embrace.
Seconds tick by and he faintly hears someone say something that doesn’t have an impact in this wretched alternative universe he must be living in. Because there’s always a punchline with Gred and Forge.
The first time they truly pranked someone was Percy when they were three years old. The pompous git had been acting all high and mighty and confiscating some “unsafe” device from them, thus prompting the very levelheaded and mature response of having his fingers turn into rolls of sticky tape that unwinded and hit his face repeatedly.
George remembers high-fiving Fred for the coordinated piece of accidental magic and running outside to pull garden gnomes’ ears as Percy went wailing to their mother. It was the beginning of their joint lives. Lives that were supposed to remain intertwined until the day their hearts stopped beating while they sat side by side in creaky rocking chairs.
But now George is here and Fred is not and the punchline hangs in a vacuum.
“He’s dead,” he whispers. “He’s gone.”
Locks pop open and he breaks. Swirling, tumbling, rocketing through memories, possibilities, and countless what-ifs that would never happen. He’s a comet racing towards a black hole aiming to suck his very soul dry.
And then there are arms curling around his shoulders, and a warm hand pressing solidly against his racing heart to ground him before he floats away.
George swallows a shaky breath and becomes aware of the salty streams on his cheeks.
“Yes, George. He’s gone.”
It’s Ginny, because of course it is. His bulletproof, bold sister who has flown circles around the rest of them, jinxed Fred and him countless times for their silly jokes, and faced horrors beyond imagination yet carried on living. She’s the one who has never sugarcoated things for him, the one George can always count on to tell the hard truths when it’s time for them to be said.
He leans against her, sobs breaking free from his throat like choked hiccups. Ginny’s fingers sooth through his hair while the hand on his chest begins tapping a small, steady beat on his heart. Tu-tum, tu-tum, tu-tum.
Minutes, or maybe hours, pass. George starts to feel the pressure on his chest loosen. He draws in rapid breaths and clutches Ginny’s arm like a lifeline.
“He- He didn’t finish the joke,” he mumbles out, words folding together in of-kilter syllables.
He faintly hears his mother crying, sees the grim, grieving faces of his brothers, and feels his father’s palpable sadness radiating across the table.
“Yes, he did,” Ginny says to his ear, voice firm and sure like it’s an irrevocable fact. “He’s just keeping the good stuff to himself for now.“
George wants to believe her. That there’s a place beyond where his twin has found peace and watches over him. A place where they will meet again one day. He misses the echo of another who shares his thoughts and finishes his sentences, those looks they shared and instinctively knew what the other was thinking. How the world just worked with them in it together. Now it feels like everywhere he looks, the colours are dimmer and he doesn’t know where he fits anymore.
Fred was the self-assured one, the life of the party, who lit up every room he walked into. George doesn’t think he’s ever found quite the same yearning to live every day like there’s no tomorrow as Fred had. It feels like a waste that he’s not the one still breathing.
George looks down at the two mismatched watches that wrap their leather bands around his right arm. One has a russet background and warping iron tendrils curling around the clock face, while the other is a deep forest green with cracked glass courtesy of a prank gone wrong in their seventh year. They tick away in harmony, like two heartbeats pulsing against his skin. He touches the crack on the clock closer to him and smiles ruefully at the memories it holds. He hasn’t removed it since he first put it on after the funeral.
“I miss him.”
“I know, George,” Ginny says. “I miss him too.”
And perhaps that, the knowledge that he’s not alone in his pain, is what kickstarts his mind again. He races past lacklustre trunks filled with memories of mischief and weaves between tall, swaying shelves full of half-completed ideas and concepts. His heart aches, but it beats the same steady rhythm as its twin somewhere beyond.
What is life without Fred? For George, it seems like a bleak, faded existence that he already despises. But it’s a dishonour, a complete betrayal of all the things his better half stood for to wilt and wallow in grief and bitterness while the world awaits in bubbling colour and tittering sound. Three months is long enough — far too long if you’d ask Fred, he thinks — to merely exist when another can’t live. It’s the burden and responsibility of the living to go on and live. George wants to live for Fred, no matter how much the thought of it may hurt his soul. Because Fred Weasley deserves to live on in humour and strength and Skiving Snackboxes.
So, here he is: “We…I need to reopen the shop.”
“Oh, George, do you think that’s a good idea, dear?” his mother worries. “Don’t you think it might be too overwhelming? And it’s so soon, you really ought to rest…”
“No. No, I-” George falters, his voice cracking with emotion. ”He’d want me, all of us, to go on and live like he’d have lived. With laughter and stupid pranks and ear jokes.”
Ron claps him on the shoulder, firm and comforting in a way that wouldn’t have ordinarily come to mind when thinking of him. At least compared to how George remembers seeing him before the war. “And we’ll help, George. Get things up and running like he would’ve wanted.”
George smiles wetly at the nods and sounds of agreement reverberating from his family.
“I can have a look at the books, help out in the office,” Percy volunteers.
“And I’m sure Verity would love to help – she knows all the everyday stuff,” Ginny pipes up with an encouraging grin. George nods a little.
Harry shifts across the table and looks at Hermione and Ron before speaking up, “We’ve um, we’ve got some gold from the Ministry that needs a solid investment. I figured since the last one turned out so well, it’s a guaranteed thing, really.” He rustles his hair awkwardly while Hermione smiles softly.
George chuckles with a half sob, “Lifetime’s worth of complimentary dungbombs for you three.” The trio wince abashed at that, and he laughs some more.
Ron lifts his glass in a toast, “To Fred. And all the mischief his legacy will accomplish.”
George’s family raises their glasses, fond smiles and teary laughs accompanying the echoed words. He feels the cold ache in his chest deflate a bit. The grief lingers, as it always will, but there’s a warmth cocooning it now. He might not get to create memories as a “we” anymore, but he would cherish every “I” moment over the coming decades to share and laugh over when they would finally be reunited.
“I love you, Forge,” he whispers as he raises his glass, and the warm presence pulses in acknowledgment.
Life goes on with a little more pranks and mischief after that.