Chapter Text
Again, he found himself awake at night, alone in his room, as he ignored his loneliness. He fidgeted with his wand, and the spark of an unformed idea floated around his head.
There was an itch at the back of his neck as he glanced around his claustrophobic room, which was once busy and now was quiet and still. The silence that now infected the whole house and sucked away the happiness. He couldn’t take it anymore, the urge to move, to talk, and the concerned eyes of mourners. He needed to leave.
He stared at his luggage in the corner, the one he’d bring to Hogwarts with his name embroidered on it, all packed with his clothes. He’d even packed all of Fred’s nature clippings into a neat little envelope. It sat next to Fred’s letter on George’s bed.
He surveyed the plan laid before him. Tears came to his eyes, and he rubbed a hand along his chin, and he tried to hold them back. He couldn’t leave. He wouldn’t.
A few hours of back and forth, and he had to leave the room, all his thoughts stressing him out. He padded quietly downstairs to make tea.
As he snuck downstairs, he quickly abandoned his stealth when he noticed a light emitting from the kitchen. His foot landed on the last step, which let out the loudest creak known to mankind.
Molly jumped and spun around with a gasp, but calmed down when she saw no danger. To some shock, George saw that her face was red and her eyes were gleaming from sobbing.
“Oh!” She exclaimed. “F—Fred—-George, sorry.” George froze in place on the step. “I’m sorry, did I wake you? What are you doing at this time of night?” Her voice trembled as she tried to put on a gentle smile.
“I could ask you the same question,” he sounded, his words devoid of emotion.
She sighed. “We should both be getting to bed. Come on, now.” Molly moved to join him in going up the stairs, but he stayed put.
“Why’d you hesitate every time you say my name?” he asked.
She avoided his gaze. “This is hardly the time. Let’s get some sleep.” She made her second attempt to corral him upstairs. Again, he stood firm.
“You can’t look at me.” He felt anger bubbling up as he realized his dream from days ago hadn’t been a dream. “You’re afraid you’ll see him, right?”
Molly’s eyes were wide as she finally looked at him, but she didn’t speak.
“You hesitate to say my name, because for a split second, you think he’s come back, before you realize it's just me.” He spat, searching his mother's face for denial, but only found guilt. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
She shook her head. “That’s not true, I—”
George didn’t want to hear anymore, stomping up the stairs with clenched fists and slamming the door behind him.
Fuming, he turned to the suitcase that rested against his dresser. His mind raced as he slowed his breathing and realized he was crying, his tears soaking the wooden floors. He went to his bed and picked up the letter, and stared at the handwriting, running his thumb over his own name written out.
After some consideration, he stuffed the letter into his shirt pocket. Then he waited.
It was pitch black morning. He strained his ears to listen to the creaks and groans of the house. His family was asleep; Molly had gone to bed a few hours ago.
He sat at the edge of his bed, shoes and coats on, holding his wand in his hands. His baggage was positioned against the door. He looked around the room, taking it in. The dresser, the closet, the two beds. He breathed in the air of home.
When he was ready, he stood, taking the suitcase in one hand and running the other along the dark wooden door frame. He shook himself out before reaching for the handle.
He snuck down the hall, past Ginny’s door, and down the creaky stairs. He passed the kitchen and, lingering at the doorway, he turned back to look at the ninth chair pushed against the wall. He patted the wall and closed the door behind him.
This morning was warmer than most; the tinge of summer heat could be felt. He began to walk, not in any particular direction, but somehow he knew where he’d end up.
The world around him was quiet and dark. Without the music, his stroll was far more empty than he’d imagined. He took it in stride, letting the silence surround him.
The sky had lightened to a soft blue when he reached the tree, the early birds singing their mournful song. Its twisting branches grasped for the clouds, remaining unbloomed despite the season. George traced his finger along the small engraving in the trunk made years ago.
F + G.
He took a step back, studying the tree for all its glory, taking in every aspect, before he took out his wand. He gripped the handle; its weight seemed to multiply in his hand.
He was already here, plan in place, all he had to do was go. Hesitation gripped him, and for a moment, he thought of lowering his wand, but Fred’s face filled his mind.
All the adventure, the impulse, the doing without thinking and saying without meaning, that's what he really missed. He felt that familiar, uncomfortable itching in his fingertips spread through the rest of his body, dissolving into an excited fizz as he shifted his wand in hand.
He lifted it to the sky. “ Apparate!” He cast.
George could’ve sworn he heard his name being called before the world dissolved into a contorted swirl of nausea and colors.