Leave Out All the Rest

November

"Mrs. Weasley?"

Molly hurried to the fireplace, sitting down and peering at the face of a strange witch.

"Yes?"

"Are you George Weasley's mother?" asked the witch.

Molly caught her breath in alarm. "Yes! Is he all right?" she asked, leaning forward.

The witch pursed her lips together. "Would you come and get him, please? He's... in a bad way."

"Oh God--"

"Oh - I'm so sorry, I don't mean to alarm you. I'm Linda, the owner of the Leaping Lizard Pub. George is - he'll be all right. He's just been in a fight."

"A fight?! With who?"

"Mrs. Weasley, if you could..." Linda gestured her towards the Floo.

Molly stepped through the Floo, finding herself in the entrance of a seedy pub. What the...

"Come this way, please," Linda gestured, leading Molly down a hallway. "He was drinking next to a band of Belgian wizards," she said. "I don't know, maybe they were talking too loudly, maybe they were breathing too deeply, who knows. Picked a fight with one of them, and then they all got into it - lucky thing I confiscate wands. Don't worry, I put everyone to sleep, standard spell in this place. I'm rather good at it; I've a few regular patrons who I sometimes think only ever come here to have a good nap."

They entered the main room, and Linda nodded towards a side table, where George was sleeping. "He's here rather a lot. I appreciate the steady business, but..." she trailed off.

"How often?" asked Molly.

"This is his third day in a row," said Linda.

"He said he was out with his friend Lee yesterday."

"Not unless Lee's invisible," Linda said dryly, and Molly winced. "As I said, he does this rather a lot."

"Does what?"

"Comes in, drinks by himself, usually picks a fight, then stumbles home."

Molly swallowed hard, gazing at her sleeping son.

"He... he needs help, Mrs. Weasley," said Linda. "He's going to do something stupid one of these days."

"Thank you," said Molly. She gazed at George's sleeping form for a moment, and brushed back his hair. He looked thin, still, having never been able to put back on all the weight he'd lost right after Fred's death.

She took a deep breath and then gently woke him up.

"Mum? What are you doing here?" he asked, groggy and fuzzy. He slowly sat up.

"I'm taking you home," she said. "Come on, now. Up we go. Close your eyes in the Floo, it'll feel better."

George blinked, then seemed to come to a decision and stood to follow her.

"D'you want some coffee?" she asked as they arrived at The Burrow.

"Yes, please," he said.

Molly got two cups and filled them, then brought them to the table.

"Thanks, Mum," he said, and they sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes while he drank his coffee, and she examined the rather impressive bruise on his right cheekbone.

"Thanks, Mum," he said again as he finished, and started to stand up, an excuse on his lips.

"Why did you say you were with Lee yesterday?" asked Molly.

George blew out his breath. "I didn't want to worry you."

"The witch at the pub said you come in all the time, but he's not with you. He's your best friend, why--"

"This is why I didn't want you to know. Because I knew you'd jump to conclusions. Look, so I don't want to spend every moment with my childhood friends any more. People grow up, Mum."

"The witch who owns the place says that you come in a lot."

"Yeah."

"And drink. A lot."

"Mum. Thanks for coming to get me. I am not drinking too much. I am not in any trouble. I am going to the psychiatrist and taking all my potions and I appreciate the trip home and the coffee, but now I have to go."

"You were passed out when I came to get you--" Molly began.

"Mum. Stop it."

"I'm worried about you."

George blew out his breath in annoyance. "All right, did you not notice I just spent a few weeks on the mental ward? That I walked into it, and stayed there, even though I didn't have to? Will you just trust that if I need to, I know where to get help? And stop shoving it down my throat every time I see you?" He paused. "Or would you like me to explain just why it is you don't see much of me any more?"

Molly blinked.

"Goodbye, Mum," said George firmly, and Apparated out.

*****

"Ron! Ronnie! What's the matter?!" Mummy knelt down and tried to get Ronnie to say something intelligible, as George and Fred hid behind the couch, and George frantically tried to figure out how to fix Ronnie's stupid toy.

"A mider? What's a mider, darling?" Mummy crooned, and Ronnie just grew redder and more frantic.

George punched Fred in the arm, and Fred rolled his eyes. "It was an accident," Fred said, keeping his voice low. Not that he had to, with the racket Ronnie was making. "I didn't really mean to."

"Doesn't matter," said George. "If you don't turn it back before she sees it, we won't get pudding for a week!"

"She would never do that!" said Fred in dismay. "Not when it's raspberry crumble week!"

"She would!" said George. "Now turn it back!"

"I don't know how!" said Fred. "You turn it back!"

George was suddenly angrier than he had been in a really, really long time, so angry it was hard to see straight. They were going to lose out on pudding for a week, again, just like when Fred had tried to give the baby to the gnomes and just like when Fred made Mummy's hair turn into a dust-mop and just like when Fred hit Ronnie so he fell on his bum. And it wasn't fair; when Ronnie did something wrong, nobody blamed the baby. When Charlie said a bad word, Percy didn't get in trouble, ever. But when Fred messed up, suddenly it was George's fault too, and he was sick of it.

"I hate you!" he yelled, and punched Fred, who looked startled for a moment before punching him back. There was a flurry of fists and kicks and elbows and--

"Boys!!"

Suddenly Mummy was there, still holding a sobbing Ronnie, waving her wand at them to separate the twins and hold them apart, and George was angrier than he could remember being in a long, long time.

He sniffled, and tasted something sharp in his mouth - he had a broken tooth! No - just a split lip. Fred had punched him so hard he'd split his lip, and it might never get better, and it would serve Fred right that they wouldn't look the same any more, and George wouldn't be blamed for Fred's being just plain bad to the bone, like stupid old Auntie Muriel always said. He tried to lunge at Fred again.

"Stop that!" yelled Mummy, and flicked her wand at them. George felt all his limbs freeze, and pressed his lips together to avoid screaming. She was using the binding spell, and she hardly ever used that one, because it scared them. It was only for when they were so bad she couldn't figure out what to do with them. "You two are going to be good whether you want to or not while I deal with Ronnie!"

"His teddy bear's turned into a spider!" said Fred, his voice a bit shaky from the binding spell. "That's what he's crying about. It's behind the couch."

Mummy stared at him, then peered over the edge of the couch and sighed. She flicked her wand and used it to levitate the newly restored teddy bear. Ronnie buried his face in her shoulder, refusing to look at the teddy bear, and she gave Fred and George quelling looks as she took Ronnie off to the kitchen, no doubt planning on consoling him with sweets.

The twins were silent.

"I'm sorry," said Fred finally. "I didn't mean to--"

"I'm sorry we're twins!" said George. "It's not fair! Why do I have to be your twin, anyway?!"

Fred scowled at him and Mummy stepped between them. "All right, boys. Percy's got Ronnie interested in watching him play chess. Fred, you and I are going to have a bit of a talk. George," she waved her wand and he was free to move again. "Go to your room."

George stomped up to their room and slammed the door. He glared at the door and thought dark thoughts about Fred. It wasn't even his fault. Fred was the one who got tired of Ronnie. Fred was the one who teased him all the time. George did it too, but not nearly as much as Fred. Fred was the one who hit him when Mummy wasn't looking. Fred--

Mummy opened the door, walked across the room, and sat down on his bed, giving him a hug before even saying a word. He snuggled into her lap, having been sure she would begin by scolding him and not really caring what made her hug him instead.

She stroked his hair for a while, then cleared her throat and tilted his chin up so he could look at her. "Georgie. I know it's hard sometimes, being a twin." He blinked. "Especially Fred's twin. But it's also wonderful, and you know that, don't you?" She smiled at him. "You know how much Ronnie wishes he had a twin, don't you? And Percy does, too. You always have somebody to play with."

George scowled. "Bill and Charlie are always playing together too, but you don't blame Bill when Charlie does something wrong!"

"They didn't always play together," said Mummy. "When they were smaller, Billy would just boss Charlie around. And then sometimes Charlie would hit him. Or spit on him."

George chuckled, wincing at his split lip.

Mummy took out her wand again. "I know sometimes it's hard, Georgie." She healed his lip, and ruffled his hair. "I'll tell you what. Just this one time, I won't take away your raspberry crumble. Fred told me you didn't do anything. He said you should have his raspberry crumble."

"He said that?" said George.

"Yes, he did. Do you want to go back downstairs now?"

George scowled. "No."

"All right, then. You play up here, and I'll tell Freddie. I think he's a little worried that you're still angry at him."

"I am! He's always getting me into trouble!"

Mummy's eyes crinkled with laughter. "I don't think you're completely innocent all the time, George. Only sometimes. Why don't you stay up here and play, and when you're ready, you can come back downstairs."

George nodded and looked around the room after Mummy left. He could play chess, he supposed. Fred thought chess was stupid. Or he could read, though Fred didn't think much of that either unless it was Marvin the Mad Muggle comics, and George had read all of those.

He could go into Percy's room and get a book from him. Percy didn't let the twins into his room, but he was busy with Ronnie right now...

Fifteen minutes later, Percy's room pilfered of two books that hadn't been as interesting as their covers made them seem, he got bored and went back downstairs.

Fred's cheek had a barely healing mark on it, and George felt kind of bad for having put it there. But it was nice that Fred was looking sorry too. Probably watching Percy try to teach Ronnie about chess was about as exciting as staring at a wall.

"D'you want to go fly the kite?" Fred asked hesitantly, and George nodded. Fred grinned. "Let's go!"

*****

George was beginning to actively dread the coming Christmas season. If it consisted of dinners like this one, he was in serious trouble. Seeing his entire family, everyone talking and trying to 'heal' and reminiscing and prying into his business, and it was enough to make him ardently desire a hole to crawl into and never come out of.

Because what could he say? Life consisted of work work work, eat, sleep, check in with the St. Mungo's psychiatrist once a week, give him some rot about, "Yes I'm eating and sleeping, no nightmares, seeing family regularly, not testing alone in the lab any more," and yet it felt like it was all piling up again. Like St. Mungo's might be something he might want to try again. If not now, definitely once Christmas got into full swing.

Come to think of it, that might be a way to get through. Christmas on the Closed Ward might not be that bad an idea.

Didn't feel much better after going there though, did you?

No.

This sucks, George. This really, really sucks.

Shut it. I'm not being careless in the lab. I'm not alone all the time.

You have a schedule that you follow. You have everybody's name on it: Mum once a week, Bill and Percy every other Wednesday, Ginny every other weekend. You've got a pile of chirpy little notes you wrote to Ginny and you put one in the mail every week and you have to check to make sure they make sense and you don't tell her you were shovelling snow in the middle of summer.

What the fuck is your problem?

This isn't living, Georgie. This is making the motions of living.

What the hell else am I supposed to do?!

He glanced at his watch. Only thirty minutes since he'd arrived at The Burrow; it felt like at least two hours. He hadn't wanted to come - never wanted to come, to be frank - but Bill and Fleur and Ginny and Percy were all going to be there, and he couldn't pass up the opportunity to kill several birds with one stone and see them all, so he could have at least a few weeks free of everyone but Mum.

But it only underscored the hell that December was bound to be. There wasn't any way he could get out of Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas morning lunch and Christmas dinner and Boxing Day and oh, God. Charlie would probably be back from Romania...

Dearest Father Christmas, for my gift this year I would like to have my dead brother back. Failing that, I would like my dead brother to stop being a pain in the arse. Failing that, I would like my entire family to just go into a box or something.

Fleur, looking radiant as always, was laughing and glowingly pregnant. She had also brought guests to dinner.

"George, I'd like you to meet Pauline," said Mum, as a youngish witch stepped through her Floo. "She's Fleur's prenatal care Healer. Is your husband coming, dear?" she asked, and Pauline nodded as the Floo flared again and a young wizard came through. "Donald, how wonderful to have you here. George, this is Donald Adams, my counsellor. Isn't it a small world?"

"Thank you for inviting me," said Pauline in softly accented English, and smiled brightly at Fleur as she came forward. They hugged and began speaking in rapid-fire French, to Mum's annoyance.

George blew out his breath as Mum and Fleur led the couple into the dining room. "A counsellor," he muttered to Bill. "She invited a counsellor to supper. How subtle."

"Actually, I went to see him when I was bitten," said Bill. "And then again after Fred. He's a good bloke. He's helped Mum a lot." He paused. "What's the harm in getting to know him?"

"I'm already talking to a counsellor. Psychiatrist. Whatever."

"Mum thinks maybe Muggle psychiatry doesn't work with wizards. Doesn't seem to be doing wonders for you."

"Maybe Healer Radstone's just not a very good psychiatrist."

"Why don't you keep an open mind? You might find Donald can help you." Bill hesitated briefly. "Fred wouldn't have wanted you to still be so unhappy, George."

"Really." George stared at him flatly. "I am ever so glad you told me that, Bill. Because, you know, I've been getting awfully tired of this whole mourning routine, but I just kept telling myself that's what Fred would've wanted, obviously, seeing as how he hated to see people having fun. I was so sure the last thing he thought was 'I certainly hope nobody ever gets over my death, and for serious, they'd all better mourn me till the day they die.' I'm so glad you've set me right."

"George--"

"Sod off."

"Are you drunk already?"

"No, this is all just my own cheerful, irrepressible, fun-loving self." He stalked out of the room and headed for Dad's shed.

It was getting hard. He was usually better at it than this, but Angelina's visit had thrown him for a bit of a loop, and then Fleur and Bill announcing their little surprise, a baby who would be born within a year of Fred's death, was... he shouldn't have come today. This was why he avoided his family whenever humanly possible. He took a deep breath, trying to relax in the dusty quiet of Dad's Muggle contraptions.

"All right, it's time to eat," Mum called out, far too soon, and he headed glumly back to the house.

"No, Donald doesn't do Muggle psychiatry," Mum was telling Percy as they all sat down to Mum's Plimpy stew. "He does Muggle counselling though. He's had a lot more success."

"What's the difference?" asked Bill.

"No medicines, and far less theory," said Donald.

"You've been busy since the war, I take it?" said Percy.

"We were fairly busy before the war as well, I'm told," said Donald.

"Were you not working then?"

"I'm Muggle-born," said Donald, shaking his head, and took a helping of stew. "I wanted to help, but had to go stay with Pauline's family instead. We only came back about five months ago."

"I would imagine you'd be one of the busier departments right now," said Bill.

"Yeah. Not as busy as the Dementor-Kissed ward, though. What they're doing there is amazing. And the people working with memory charms, that's fascinating work as well. I was doing some work for them for a while, helping people who were damaged during the war. You'd be surprised at how many Muggle-borns wiped their families' memories, to protect them. Didn't always work out as planned."

"You worked with Hermione, didn't you?" asked Ron, took a spoonful of stew, and a brief look of surprise crossed his face. He swallowed. "For her parents?" He took a sip of water.

"Yes, peripherally. She was very talented, though. Didn't really need our help. It's a pity she's not going into Healing. She would be wonderful."

Ron looked proud.

"And of course, there's grief counselling. Not something I ever wanted to learn so much about, but there you go."

George drained his goblet again, washing down the unexpectedly salty taste of Mum's stew. Oh for the days when Mum's cooking was uniformly excellent.

"George, slow down," said Percy worriedly.

"Shut it," said George, and he hadn't meant for that to be as loud as it had come out.

"He's only--" began Ron.

"You shut it too," said George, and now Mum had heard. She traded a look with Donald.

"'Scuse me," said George, and got up. "Washroom. No, please, don't stop on my account. Feel free to continue this gripping topic - and hey, if you want to talk about me behind my back, now's the time for that, too." He stalked out.

George, you're not well.

Shut up, Fred.

Were you like this before I snuffed it?

All the time. You were the voice of sweetness and light around here, 'member?

Why are you being such a prick to them?

So they'll leave me the hell alone.

It's your family, mate. The people who love you the most.

Shut up.

Besides, what'll you do if they do leave you alone?

Have loads more time to talk to you. You're the life of the party here, you are.

You've been drinking.

You always were perceptive.

You shouldn't drink so much.

So you're who Mum and Percy have been channeling. Wonderful. You died and became my conscience.

Think I've been promoted to my level of incompetence.

Says who?

You're piss-drunk for the third time this week, and you've basically just told our family to go fuck themselves and stalked away from the dinner table.

Maybe I should fire you.

Maybe.

Problem is, I don't have any other dead relatives to act as my conscience. There's Uncle Bilius, but...

Uncle Bilius isn't someone to emulate, George.

Shut. Up.

George leaned against the washroom sink for a few moments and then sighed. Time to go back. He splashed water onto his face, dried it, and made his way back downstairs.

And oh, joy, Donald the Healer was still talking about his bloody job, and the number of people who had started counselling since the war, and the way that St. Mungo's had scrambled to fill the need, as the wizarding world finally got the idea that Cheering charms weren't going to be enough, and let go of their anti-Muggle-medicine bias, and tried to enlist Healers and counsellors from other countries to fill the need...

George idly poked at his distasteful meal and listened, bored. He finally interrupted. "All right, then, how long does it last?" he said impatiently.

"Does what last?"

"Grieving. How long does it take?"

Donald gave him a calm look. "I can't really give you a firm answer--"

George was already rolling his eyes and turning away.

"-it rather depends on what you mean. There's different levels of grief."

"All right, then, how long before life seems worth living, then?" Mum gave a small gasp, and George turned away from her.

"Do you think it's not worth living right now?" asked Donald.

"I think I asked a question first," he shot back.

"I'd like to answer, but can't really do so without more information. Do you think that life's not worth living?"

"Oh, in between feeling like shite all the time and spending almost every waking hour with a lot of people who all seem to be feeling the same, it's not exactly a barrel of laughs, is it?"

"George, are you drunk?" Percy said quietly.

George gave him a contemptuous glare. "I wasn't even talking to you. I was talking to him, and I can't help noticing that he has yet to answer."

"I can't really give you an answer," said Donald. "And I don't think you're expecting one anyway."

George laughed. "You don't?"

"No, I don't. I don't think you have any illusions that I'll give you a figure you can hold me to."

George shook his head and crossed his arms, a grim smile on his face. "Really. Oh, do go on, this is fascinating. Why did I ask you, then?"

"I think you just want a confrontation and you're tired of your family trying to help you." Donald sighed. "Of course, I've been known to be dead wrong before, so just in case you are looking for a figure, I have to say it depends."

George's eyebrows had risen slightly at Donald's admission, and they now came down as he smirked cynically. "What a shock."

"It depends on a lot of things. The strength of the bond to the person who died, the suddenness of their death, whether or not there was a chance to say goodbye." George was now looking intently at Donald, who met his gaze unflinchingly. "The strength of ties to other people, both those who knew the deceased and those who didn't. The other support systems in place, general mental health pre-loss, all sorts of things. I'd say, from what I've heard of your particular... case," he said deliberately, and George's mouth quirked in a tiny half-smile, "you're facing a long, dark time. And it won't be a steady road, either. There'll be times, weeks on end, where everything will seem normal and then something will remind you, and you'll feel like you're right back where you started. And all you'll have to hold on to is the fact that those times will become less painful, eventually, and less frequent. The loss will never go away, but life does eventually become worth living."

George was silent, gazing thoughtfully at Donald. "That's not terribly comforting."

"I don't think you're looking for comfort," said Donald. "I think you're looking for information. I think you need somebody to help by not pushing you. Then again, I may be wrong there, too; it's been known to happen." He took a bite of his stew and shrugged. "All I can say is that I can try to help. I can't make this go away, and I don't think you'd want me to. The grief you're feeling is just part of life. The death of a loved one is the hardest thing we have to face. It's not easy for anybody. Least of all for someone as close to the deceased as you were to your twin."

George looked away from him, frowning.

"I'm sorry I can't be of more help," Donald said.

"No, that's all right," George said. He turned back to Donald. "Thanks anyway."

"No problem."

"Well, pudding anyone?" Donald said, and the rest of the family gaped at him.

George chuckled. "Yeah, Mum, pudding?"

"Oh. Yes. Yes, of course. Fleur, would you help me bring it in, please, dear?"

"The offer still stands," Donald said in a low voice as Mum and Fleur brought in raspberry crumble. "Nobody's going to make you talk to me in private. I think it would be a good idea, but then I don't know you terribly well."

George nodded thoughtfully and dug in to his raspberry crumble.

*****

Fred's eyes were haunted in his pale face as Fleur helped Bill to stand and they slowly walked back to the school after Dumbledore's service. George swallowed hard at the look of horror on the faces of some of the other mourners as they laid eyes on their eldest brother.

George gazed at the crowd, at the white tomb, at Bill and Fleur. He and Fred shared the blame here. Their Darkness Powder had helped Malfoy and the Death Eaters get into Hogwarts, left Bill's face a terrifying mess, and killed Dumbledore. He still felt sick at the thought.

And it still seemed impossible to truly comprehend that Dumbledore was really dead and gone, or that their own family had been touched once again by the evil they'd been fighting since before Fred and George had even been born. Uncles Gideon and Fabian dead, Ginny possessed, Dad bitten, Ron and Ginny hurt at the Department of Mysteries, Ron poisoned, and now Bill's face mauled.

"We would never have sold it directly to Draco Malfoy," said Fred quietly as Ron and Hermione came back from the lake and sat down next to Fred and George. "He must've had someone come in and do it for him."

"It won't happen again. We'll find some way to prevent our products from being bought by Death Eaters," said George. "Some spell, or charm."

"There's no such thing," said Fred.

"There was no such thing as a Nosebleed Nougat before we invented it," George shot back.

Hermione nodded. "I'll help you."

Fred's eyebrows went up. "You're joking."

"I will. If I have time to, before..."

"Before what?" asked Fred.

Hermione and Ron looked back towards the lake, where Harry had disappeared. They exchanged a glance, and then Ron nodded. "Harry's going to leave and not come back to school next year," said Hermione. "And we're going with him."

The twins turned surprised eyes at Ron. "Seriously?" asked Fred. Ron nodded. "Why?"

"Because Dumbledore was doing something important," said Ron. "And Harry decided that he needs to finish the job. He's not going to waste another year in school, what with Dumbledore being gone and all."

"You're seriously going to leave school?" asked George.

"Look who's talking," said Ron with a small smile.

"You know it'll kill Mum if you do," said Fred. "What we did was bad enough. She expects more from you prefect types."

"And she'll try to stop you," George said.

"I know," said Ron.

"It's not just that she'll shout at you for abandoning your education, mate," said George. "It's that it'll break her heart, if anything else happens to any of us."

"I know," said Ron with a grimace. "And I'm sorry, but I can't help that. At least we won't be leaving till after the wedding." The twins looked at their little brother with new respect. Ickle Ronniekins wasn't so ickle any more.

"Will you help me?"

"Of course," they both said.

"Whatever you need," said Fred.

"Thanks," said Ron. He looked around at the groups of people still near the tomb. "D'you know where Ginny went?"

"She cleared out just after Harry left," said George. "Went back to the school with Neville and Loony."

"She didn't look too good," said Fred.

"Nobody looks too good right now," said George.

"Harry broke up with her," said Hermione.

Fred and George blinked. "What? Why?"

"Because he's leaving. He says she took it well."

"She probably guessed he's going to go off and be a hero," said Ron. "Hermione wants to make sure she's all right."

"I'll start work on the anti-Death Eater purchasing spell after I see her," said Hermione. "Do you want a warning spell or a hex?"

Fred and George glanced at each other. "Hex," said Fred. "Something like the 'sneak' thing you did for the DA, but more painful. A lot more painful."

"And permanent," said George.

"And if it can include ridicule and humiliation, that would be even better."

"I'll let you know what I come up with. In fact, we should go to the library right after we see Ginny," she said to Ron, who nodded.

They walked off, and Fred gave a low whistle. "Clever girl. Too good for Ron."

"Not as pretty as that ex of his, though," said George.

"Lavender? She was a bit of a twit. Hermione's looks are fine."

"I didn't say they weren't. Only Lavender's prettier."

"Hermione's pretty enough. In fact, if Ron wasn't there already..."

George chuckled. "Now I know you're taking the piss."

"There's something about bookworms that's rather attractive. All that pent-up passion for learning, unleashed onto a person; wouldn't that be brilliant?"

George laughed. "Well, she's off-limits to us," he said. "Though I doubt Ron will be able to satisfy her for long. Especially if they're going to be travelling together. She'll probably kill him within a week."

"If Mum doesn't kill him first, for wanting to leave."

"Well, if we do it right, he'll be gone before she gets the chance to," said George.

"So she'll kill us instead."

"Mum only does what she thinks is best for all of us," said George. "You know how worried she gets. She didn't speak to Remus for weeks after he helped us get into the Order."

"Good thing Tonks went lovesick and he went tragically noble," said Fred. "Softened Mum up a bit."

"Yeah, well," George sighed. "Now she'll have to be grateful to Remus for helping Bill, too."

They were silent again. "It was our fault," said Fred.

"It was not," George said forcefully. "It was Snape's. And Draco Malfoy's. Even Bill doesn't blame us. Don't go pathetic and guilt-ridden on me."

Fred covered his face with his hands. "Fuck, I know, I know. Only I still feel like..."

George put an arm around his twin. "I know. Me too."

There was so much to say, and no way to say it.

No reason to, either. "Firewhisky?" suggested George.

Fred nodded. "Firewhisky. Let's go say goodbye to Mum and Dad and get the hell out of here."

*****

Molly tasted the soup and glanced at her clock, where both Fred's and George's hands still pointed to Lost, as they had since May. And for the hundredth time since May, she wondered if she would ever be able to bring herself to take it to the Time Keeper, to remove Fred's hand.

She waved her wand to thicken the soup, and hoped Donald could help bring George back from Lost. She'd been surprised that George had allowed Donald to talk to him; sometimes it seemed the stay at St. Mungo's had only made him more close-mouthed than ever. But he'd listened, let down his guard, and even seemed to enjoy the rest of the evening. He'd even gone outside with Donald after dinner, for a good long while.

Molly had looked out at them a few times. The first time, George had mostly just been listening, with a serious expression on his face. The next time Molly had looked back out, George was looking down at the ground, speaking, and the Healer was nodding now and then. At one point George stopped and rubbed the bridge of his nose, obviously fighting for composure, and the Healer nodded and looked away, waiting patiently until George could speak again.

She started as her Floo activated. As if thinking about him had made him appear, George came into the kitchen for his weekly visit, dusting ashes off of his clothes. He gave her a hug.

"I've almost got lunch ready, dear. Can you help me finish up here while the Flitterbloom softens?"

He nodded, cleaning the cutlery by hand as she finished making salad dressing- funny how much he did by hand, now, and she wondered how much of it was to avoid using magic that might not work properly, and how much to fill the time, now that he didn't spend most of his time making jokes with Fred.

"Mum, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

George slowly put away the cutlery, looking like he was trying to figure out what to say. "How long did it take? I mean, with your brothers, before you were all right again?"

Molly sighed. "I don't know, it's hard to tell. It wasn't the same for me as it is for you."

"But you had nobody left. I've still got the others."

"I know, but... I don't know. I cried a lot in the first few months, but I had the lot of you to take care of so I couldn't do much about it." She tested the soup again and nodded, then ladled out two bowls. "Believe it or not, you and your brother helped a great deal," she told George, leading him back to the table. "I tried very hard not to think of you as Gideon and Fabian come back, and most of the time it wasn't difficult; you weren't exactly witty when you were born. Gideon and Fabian had never once kept me up all night with colic, or made me go 'round the bend trying to make sure they didn't swallow everything that wasn't nailed down."

George gave her a small smile. "I think, sometimes, if I ever have a son, I'd name him Fred, but then I think he wouldn't replace Fred."

"No. Not at all. But he might remind you of Fred. He might make the loss easier to bear, I don't know. You and your brother..." she smiled sadly.

"Does it make it feel like they've died again?" George asked softly, and she looked at him, startled. "We were a lot like them, you always said. We talked at the same time and spent all our time together and drove everyone around us mental. And that's gone now, for the second time."

Molly blinked rapidly.

"D'you ever wonder what would've happened if only one of them had died?"

Molly shook her head.

"I heard you talk to Dad about that once," he said slowly, taking a spoonful of soup. "We both heard you."

"What did you hear?"

"You said... you were angry with us, I don't remember what we'd done. You were talking to Dad afterwards and you said it was like they were back. And you said the only thing worse than having lost both of them might have been having lost only one of them."

Molly paled. "I didn't mean it."

"You said it."

"I didn't mean it."

"Think of Gideon and Fabian, Mum. Could you have ever imagined one of them without the other?"

Molly tried to nod and couldn't.

"I didn't think so." He looked down, stirring his soup.

"I couldn't imagine them," she said. "But they weren't you. You've come so far. You've tried so hard. You've kept the shop going, you've kept coming home, being with your family... you're doing well."

George shook his head. "I'm not, Mum."

"What do you mean?"

"The Healer - Donald - he says it's not that unusual to feel some of what I feel. Says a lot of people feel like they're going insane."

"Do you?"

George bit his lip. "I feel like Fred's still alive, sometimes. He said you feel that too."

"It's not that unusual. It's hard to accept somebody's just gone. I felt like Fabian and Gideon lived on in you, like I said."

"I think it's different for me."

"What d'you mean?"

George glanced at her, nervously. "I know he's dead. I know it. But... but every night, I - he's alive. I wake up convinced that he's still alive, we've buried him and he's suffocating and I know it's mental! Bloody hell, I sat up with his body for an entire day, I closed his eyelids and he had stone dust on his eyes, I carried him to his grave, I know he's dead! And even if he hadn't died, I keep telling myself he's hardly still alive under there after all this time. Whether we buried him alive or not, he's pretty dead by now. But..."

Molly stared at him as he struggled to express himself. Her brilliant boy, never without something to say... and he was reaching for every word.

"I feel him, Mum. I know it's mental, but sometimes I feel him so alive it's frightening."

"What do you do?"

George shrugged. "Dreamless Draught. Or Firewhisky, whatever it takes," he said quietly.

"George--"

"I know, Mum! But it's either that or go dig him up! And the thing about it is, if an entire day sitting with his dead body didn't convince me, what's to say seeing whatever's left of him now would do the trick?" He was speaking rapidly now, blinking and holding his arms tight around himself, avoiding her gaze.

"What are you afraid of?" she asked him.

"I'm going mental, Mum," he said softly. "Every night I feel like I'm a couple steps away from getting a permanent room right next to Gilderoy Lockhart and the Longbottoms. And no offence, but you were the one who fancied Lockhart, not me, and I'm a little scared of being visited by Neville's grandmother."

December

Dad was hurt. Dad was maybe dying or dead, somewhere out there. And they couldn't do anything about it. George stared at the table, brooding. Their Dad, whom they made fun of but who had always been there for them - they might never see him again. They might never be able to talk to him, ask him for advice. He had somehow remained cheerful and brave and strong, through all the crap their family had gone through, somehow kept his dignity intact, and now he might be dead.

He might be dead.

What would it be like, never seeing Dad again? Seeing an empty place at the table, seeing Mum all alone?

They would help her, all they could. If anything happened to Dad, Fred and George would do anything and everything they could think of to help their Mum cope with it. They would stop messing around and causing her grief, because Mum couldn't deal with them without Dad. They would stop playing jokes on her - on everybody. They would even make peace with Percy the Prat. Although if Dad died, and Percy hadn't come to see him...

Even then. If Mum wanted them to make up to Percy, they would do whatever she wanted. Mum yelled at them and caused them endless amounts of grief, but whereas Harry got bars on his windows from the people who were supposed to love him, their Mum even took in orphans she had no relation to, and loved them all.

George glanced at Fred.

Dad had to be OK.

Maybe they could make a bargain that they would never play another prank again, if only Dad could be safe. Never talk about going into business together, unless it was to make money for Mum, if only Dad could be safe. They would never make fun of Percy again, if only Dad was safe.

Fred was the one who believed in God, at least a bit, and George didn't, but right now he would believe in anything, if only Dad was safe.

He closed his eyes. Please, please let Dad be safe, he prayed. Please let this be just another Christmas, with ugly jumpers and Mum's treacle tart and her whinging about our lack of NEWTs. Please let all of us be home for Christmas this year. Maybe Percy won't be there, but at least let Dad be safe.

He thought of the last Christmas they'd all been together, the year before Ron went into Hogwarts. Bill was home from Egypt, Charlie in his final year of Hogwarts, Percy on his fourth, Fred and George on their second, Ron and Ginny still at home. So, so long ago. If it turned out that this could've been the last year their whole family could've been together, and Percy wasn't because of his bloody job, he and Fred would probably kill him.

Fred was starting to doze off. Sirius looked like shit. Harry looked ill; Ron chewed on his lip; Ginny was blank-faced.

George closed his eyes again. We're sorry. Please let Dad be safe. We're sorry.

Please let Dad be safe.

*****

Christmas was indeed a nightmare.

Mum was trying, so hard, to make everything all right. To make everyone feel blessed that they had survived. To make everyone go forward, instead of backwards. The bloody counsellor had done a good job with her, at least on the surface.

But nothing worked. Bill and Fleur were all right, but Hermione and Ron were in love and yet still so bloody sad; Hermione about her parents, who had recovered fully but still not forgiven her for what she had done to them, and Ron, George was convinced, over dropping out of the Auror program. Charlie was insufferable, talking about his damn dragons as though nothing had happened. Ginny and Harry were having rows almost every day; apparently their separation during the semester hadn't gone well. George wanted them to for fuck's sake either work out their issues or leave each other alone. Percy was the one spot of sanity in the house, and if that wasn't messed up, he didn't know what was.

He escaped to Andromeda's house fairly often. To pubs fairly often too.

I can't do this, mate, he said to Fred-in-his-head on Christmas Eve, taking refuge from the eternal angst in Dad's shed with a full steaming goblet of Christmas Toad Toddy.

What do you mean? You are doing it.

I'm not. I can't.

Yeah, you can. Come on.

I can't keep going.

Yeah, you can.

Bloody hell, this was pointless. Evidently Fred-in-his-head only worked when he popped up unbidden from George's subconscious. Not when George reached out to him. Good to know.

He took a long swig of the Toddy, felt it warm him all the way down, and tried to strengthen his resolve.

He would not spoil Christmas for everyone, he told himself sternly. They were all together, for the first time since forever. As together as they'd ever be again. And he was feeling better.

All right, he wasn't. But he could at least fake it enough to convince the rest of the family. And things would be better after Christmas.

Except they wouldn't be.

It would be all right after the funeral, he had thought. After he got out of The Burrow. After business settled a bit. After he was no longer out on the shop floor; after he went to St. Mungo's; after he got out of St. Mungo's... and it was never all right.

It was never going to be all right. Not until he felt like a whole person again. And that wasn't going to happen in this lifetime.

It's never going to be all right, he said, reaching for Fred-in-his-head again. And I don't think I can do this.

Fred said nothing.

I really don't, he told the empty silence, hoping for something encouraging. Or discouraging. Or anything at all.

Maybe you can't.

George caught his breath.

What?

Maybe you're right.

What's that supposed to mean?

Maybe you're not going to make it through this.

You're just a figment of my imagination, right? Because if you were real, if you were really Fred, you would never...

Silence.

Because if even you don't have faith that I can pull through, I don't know how I can.

Do you think you can?

I don't know. Bloody hell, I'm going insane. I'm arguing with myself. I'm tired and I'm beaten and I don't see anything ever getting better. And the psychiatrist says that's just classical depression talking, but what does he know? He doesn't know what it's like to grow up the way we did, and then not have that any more. He doesn't understand how it feels to feel less than everyone, after a lifetime of being more, because everybody else knows how to be a singleton and I don't. He doesn't get that looking at an entire lifetime of this depresses the shit out of me. He doesn't know that sometimes it feels like every day the pull to just end it gets stronger and stronger.

Do you think you can? Fred's voice repeated.

I've tried. I've tried so bloody hard. I tried working, I tried drinking, I tried avoiding people, I tried St. Mungo's, I tried a psychiatrist and a counsellor, Cheering potions, Calming draughts, reading, helping Luna Lovegood, talking to Mum...

If you don't make it, it's going to gut the family. You know that.

I know.

They'll think it's their fault. You can't let that happen.

No. I won't.