Philadelphia

George lay down in the snow and felt the tears begin to freeze on his cheeks. The whiteness swirled around him; the wind was howling with death and cold. He thought that he couldn't feel his fingers any more; were they even still attached to his hand? Confusion and coldness stole through his brain like parasites.

Six months earlier

He stepped up to the podium in the church hall and the parchment between his fingers rustled loudly in the silence. He looked down at the congregation; faces of his mother, his father, his brothers and his sister looked back up at him with sadness etched upon their faces.

The words that he had been about to speak stuck in his throat like glue.

"Fred... Fred wouldn't have wanted us to cry today. He would have wanted us to celebrate our victory over the Dark Lord, and - "

George let out a hoarse sob that echoed around the stone walls. Ginny looked up at him with tears streaming down his cheeks. He started again, and this time, managed to read everything that he had written about his twin, the only person who had known him inside and out.

Later, at the reception in the garden of the Burrow, he was congratulated for his speech, and everybody was saying, "I'm sorry for your loss..."

Such hollow words! Every time somebody said that, he wanted to scream. He kept seeing people crying, and eventually, out of desperation, fled to his room and flung himself down on Fred's old bed.

Ginny let herself in quietly and lay down beside him. She hugged him gently, and he clung to her like he would cling to a life raft.

Five months earlier

George listened to shrieks in the kitchen. He knew he should get up and go downstairs and make everybody laugh. It felt so much harder now though, so much harder to smile and grin and joke without Fred. He had quit his job at the joke shop, and let Ron run it for the summer.

He rolled over and wrapped himself up in the duvet. Sleep was heaving on his eyelids; it was as if they each weighed several hundred pounds. He heard the door open and bit the insides of his cheeks until they bled.

Molly leaned down and tried to shake him awake. He kept his eyes shut tight; her footsteps retreated and the door closed again. Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth and stained the pillowcase. He felt like he was dying, and that feeling elated him.

Four months earlier

Hermione sat on the end of his bed. He stared at his hands, and then stared at her hair; that wild, wild hair that Ron had the privilege of running his hands through every night when they were making love. He had heard them cry out together more than once when he lay awake at night, thinking of ways to die.

She was speaking; he didn't hear a word. Where was Ron? In London, in the shop. Where was Hermione? Right here in front of him, with that wild hair and dressed only in a thin shirt... he could reach out right now and take her, have her...

"George?"

He started and jumped backwards. Hermione looked at him strangely, and told him to calm down. George felt his hands shaking, and he said something, but later, never remembered what it was.

Hermione reached out and replied; but he was watching her lips and not listening. He looked at those white teeth and wondered how sharp they were.

As if grabbed by a sudden impulse, he leaned in and tried to kiss her.

Hermione slapped him, reminded him that she was going out with his brother, and left his bedroom very quickly.

Three months earlier

Eddies of cold air swirled in through the open window. Hermione was sitting on his bed, he was lying in Fred's. It hadn't really taken her that long to forget about the suggested kiss; she'd poked her head around the door within two weeks after the incident. George was glad; at least he could still look and fantasise.

Today, there was more silence than usual. George was humming under his breath, and tears were slowly trickling down his freckled cheeks.

"What are you singing?"

"I will follow you into the dark. It's by some muggle band."

"Ah..."

More silence, and then George spoke up again.

"I should have apologised for trying to kiss you."

"No, it's okay. You're lonely and thought I might be too."

"And are you?"

Hermione sighed, and didn't answer. George thought that he should try to kiss her again, to make her smile.

"What would you do if I tried it again?" His voice was quiet in the air.

"No idea."

Tears were on both their cheeks now.

George reached out across the divide between the beds and tilted her chin up to his eye level. She didn't resist and she didn't spit and shout like before. He thought of Fred and his laughter, and his hands started shaking and would not be stopped.

"It's okay, it's okay..."

Her cheeks, her nose, her lips were the smallest distance away. He pulled away and flung himself down into Fred's pillows.

Two months earlier

He took dictionaries up to his room and looked up words, words that he would never, ever use for any reason. The definition of Love was so inaccurate that he threw it out the window and used the shards of glass to carve bleeding hearts on his arms. He carved Fred's name on his chest, over his heart that he wished was not beating.

He discovered that the word Philadelphia meant Brotherly Love in greek. The sharp, cold shards of glass beckoned, and he wrote Philadelphia all over his stomach, down his left arm, and then down his left thigh. As soon as the cuts stopped bleeding, he cut deeper, until the sheets of Fred's bed were stained and bloody. Molly came in, saw what he had done, and thought he was dead. The cold wind smelt of snow already.

One month earlier

Molly had thrown out Fred's sheets. He had cried and screamed at her and told her that she was robbing him of his twin.

Molly had burst into tears and screamed that Fred had died five months ago. He couldn't change that fact. He told her that he wished he was dead too, and she rushed at him and hugged him so hard that he thought his ribs would break.

"I've lost one son, don't let me lose the other... please, Georgie, don't say that, don't think that... please..."

She sobbed into his shoulder, and George cried too.

In the solace of his room, he tried to find Fred's old toys and unwashed clothes. But all the toys were in boxes somewhere and all his clothes had been washed and folded away. The mattress did not smell of him. His school books were gone. George knelt on the floor and cried until his jeans were soaked.

Present day

He saw the snow, and heard Fred's voice on the wind. For the first time in months, he ate with the family and had second helpings of his favourite foods. Everybody was smiling and happy; he thought that his face must look like a ghastly mask of a smile, because he could never smile again, because what was the point of smiling if Fred was not there?

At ten o'clock, he left his bedroom and went outside into the snow. He did not wear shoes or socks, and he did not wear his woolly hat that Molly had knitted him for last Christmas.

The snow crunched under his feet, and he could hardly see for the snowflakes sticking to his lashes.

He got away from the house, so that he could no longer see the lights burning, and then he lay down in the snow and realized he was crying. The snow was already covering his back, his thighs, his hands and feet, and he was cold, so cold, but he could see Fred clearly at last, that familiar smile...

He wanted to smile back, but his face was frozen and his lips were blue. He shut his eyes and sang softly, even as his lashes froze shut...

One day, love of mine,

Someday, you will die.

But I'll be close behind

To follow you into the dark...

If Heaven and Hell decide

That they both are satisfied, and

Illuminate the No's on their vacancy signs...

If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks, then

I'll follow you into the da - -