[FIC] Follow Your Dreams - 2/2
Title: Follow Your Dreams - Part 1
Author:
lordes
Character(s): George Weasley, Fred Weasley
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Canonical character death, non-canonical character death, dealing with the loss of a twin, strong emotions, depression, implied suicidal thoughts.
Wordcount: 12300
Summary: After Fred’s death, George loses his will to live. Nothing seems important anymore until he has a dream. A dream about Fred. They start ‘meeting’ more frequently and George seems to have come back from the dead. Until a worse fate befalls him.
AO3: FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS
Author’s notes: Withoutmasterde this piece would’ve never been written. He was my bunny, even though he might not have realised it. So thank you for that, Pup. Also, thanks to queeniemab for all her patience with me and for 
lordhellebore for the fantastic beta read. ♥
This piece was originally written for
hp_darkarts' Shadow of the Season fest and originally posted HERE.
[Follow Your Dreams]
Loud banging on the door violently wakes George up. In his hurry to get out of bed to open his front door he gets stuck in his duvet, trips and falls flat on his face, arms still too busy trying to get rid of the blankets around his feet. He groans just as he hears a familiar voice yell at him.
"George! George, are you okay?"
"M’fine," George manages to yell back at Bill, whom he can now hear walking through his living room towards his bedroom. The door opens just as George manages to sit up.
"What?" he asks, annoyed at the sudden interruption of his dream, if that is what you could call last night. He rubs his hands over his face, combs one of them through his hair a couple of times and gets up, throwing the blankets back onto his bed.
"What?" Bill repeats. "It’s 11am and Wheezes is still closed, that’s what."
George grunts once and makes his way to the door and grabs the keys to the shop. By doing so he notices the reflection of a very recognisable redhead following him, making him sigh in relief. Fred is still there.
"Here," he says as he throws the keys at Bill. "Open the shop for me, will you? I’ll be down in a minute, I just want to take a quick shower."
Not giving his brother enough time to think of some sort of smart reply, George rushes through the bathroom door and closes it behind him. He turns on the shower and while the steam of the warm water fills the small room, he sees Fred appear in the mirror on the far end wall.
"You know," he starts, "for a minute there I was worried you wouldn’t be here anymore." He takes his shirt off and throws it on the pile next to the sink. It is starting to grow bigger than it, and he admits it is probably time to do his laundry soon. Sometimes he wishes he was still living at home, if only for the convenience of freshly washed clothes every single Sunday.
"It’s silly, of course," he continues as he takes his bottoms off, too. "There is no reason you would disappear now, not after last night."
George pauses for a moment, naked, holding the shorts he just took off in his hand. He smiles a quick smile before throwing them, too, on the pile, adding just enough for it to slowly topple over and spread over his floor.
"Great," George mumbles as he kicks his dirty clothing back together until he decides the pile looks pile-ish enough again.
He jumps into the shower and grabs the bottle of shampoo before realising something. "Where do you go, anyway, when I’m not around to provide you with a reflection?" He sticks his head out of the shower curtain again, not looking directly at the mirror but still noticing Fred in it. "Do you just disappear for a while, or don’t you need me at all?" he says as he smiles again. "Maybe I’m just imagining things." He slowly combs his hands through his now shampooed hair. "Maybe you’re never truly gone." George pauses, staring at the wall in front of him for a while, lost in thought. Shrugging the odd sensation off, he continues the thorough cleaning of his hair.
"You know," he calls out a little louder than is maybe necessary. "I actually thought I was crazy for the first five minutes I saw you." He pauses as if giving Fred the chance to reply, but when nothing comes, he continues. "I’m happy I know now I’m not."
*
He finds Bill behind the registry, taking an order of an elderly man for what sounds like his grandson’s birthday party, and decides to give them both some space while he does his round through the shop. Bill is obviously capable enough to handle it himself. He makes his way through the crowd, shaking hands here and there, waving at the always familiar person and is about to walk up the flight of stairs leading to the second floor when he notices his mother waving at him from behind a group of people forming an impenetrable wall.
"Excuse me," he hears her say. "Yes, yes, excuse me, dear. Thank you. Yes, thank you." George notices her arms are filled with stuff, making him chuckle. His dear old mother will probably never change.
As she reaches him she hands him every single lotion, Puff and potion that she is carrying and gives him three solid kisses on his cheeks before planting one on his forehead. "It’s so good to see you again," she says. "It’s been too long already."
George laughs loudly this time. "Mum, I think Bill would like me to relieve him now, he’s been here since 11."
"As have I," she says as she tries to wipe an invisible smudge off his nose. "He’ll be fine. Now, I think it’s time to buy your mother a nice cup of hot tea."
*
"I’ll have you know we were all so very worried," his mother says as she takes a small sip from her cup. They have settled in one of the cozy tea rooms in Diagon Alley, not too far from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. The interior is a soft pink, strangely reminding him of Umbridge and leaving a sour aftertaste in his mouth every time he drinks from his tea.
"And obviously everybody grieves in their own way, we all had to, too," she continues. "But you…" She pauses and puts her hand over his . He notices how old it looks. Sometimes he still sees her in the same way she looked like when he and Fred were young children. She would bounce around the house, make sure they were well fed and dressed warmly enough, and often sing along horribly with old radio songs. He smiles at the memory of her, and of him and Fred. Fred…
"I can’t take much credit, though," George says before his mother is able to continue her story. "It’s mostly been Fred. Without him I’d still be hiding away in my flat." He looks up at her and sees her blinking away at her tears.
"Sweetheart," his mother starts off carefully. She pets his hand twice before softly squeezing it. "You know Fred is gone, right?"
"Oh, but he isn’t," he says, smiling a big toothy grin, and this time it is his turn to squeeze his mother’s hand reassuringly. "He’s here, mum, right here. He always is."
For a minute they are both silent. George does not understand. Why is his mother not happy? He would have jumped at the opportunity if somebody had told him they had a way for him to be reunited with his brother.
"We all carry him in our hearths with us, Georgie," she says after a while. "And… and I’m happy that’s given you the strength you needed to move on."
*
As George enters his flat the first thing he notices is the reflection following him from the corner of his eye. He takes off his jacket and angrily throws it on the dark auburn couch as the memory of his mother’s words rings through his head.
"Fine, then she doesn’t understand." He huffs as he lets himself fall back on the same couch he threw his jacket on and lets his head fall back onto the backrest. "See if I care." It comes out in a mumble.
As the light slowly moves through his room and Diagon Alley grows quiet once more, he sits back up and rakes a shaking hand through his hair.
"I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. It’ll just be our secret."
He waits, knowing Fred will not answer but still hoping, deep down inside, that he might. It has happened before, and so it could happen again.
"It’s just the two of us, now."
*
The sound of a vaguely familiar song ushers George to open his eyes and when he does, he notices he is back on the red-bricked road. For a minute he stands still and closes his eyes again, taking in the melody of the song, but it just doesn’t click. He sighs and turns, expecting to see Fred, but finding an empty road instead.
"Fred?" he calls out insecurely as he skims the houses around him. They are all just as dark as the night before. One by one he looks them over, almost expecting to see somebody move through one, a light going on or a door creaking in its hinges, opening to let his brother through.
"You were always the impatient one."
George, not unlike last time, spins so fast towards the sound of the voice he feels a little dizzy.
"Calm now, brother," Fred says. "I’m not going anywhere just yet."
"Yet?" George repeats in a small voice. Is he leaving already? So soon?
"It is nothing to worry about for now." Fred smiles at him and sits down. "Don’t you recognise the song?"
George looks over his shoulder into the direction of the café before looking back at Fred, following his lead and sitting down, the stones surprisingly comfortable. He sits there for a while, the soft and distant tune of the flute giving him goosebumps. Shaking his head he looks back up at his brother. He had not noticed it before, but Fred is wearing the old Weasley Christmas jumper. It is a dark red with a big yellow ‘F’ knitted into it. There are loose threads hanging from his sleeves and his jeans look two sizes too big on him. He does not look anything like the Fred whom he had to say goodbye to not too long ago. No, he looks like the old Fred. His Fred. The Fred from his memories.
"It’ll come to you," Fred says. "You’ll remember."
*
The air feels unusually cold when George awakes. Getting up he grabs his morning robe and wraps it tightly around himself. He shivers, opens the thick, long dark blue curtains keeping out the light from his bedroom and notices the snow. The whole of Diagon Alley is wrapped in a perfectly unblemished white blanket. Not one roof has been missed and the streets, still empty, giving a spectacular view.
As he walks into his living room and lits his fireplace with a flick of his wand, he thinks of what he will be doing for Christmas for the first time that year. Normally he and Fred would make sure their whole family would be well provided with nice food, a tree and presents for everybody.
"Maybe this year we could celebrate it together, just the two of us?" George asks and realises that right now, he would do anything to be able to touch him again even for just a brief moment. He thinks back to Harry and Ginny holding hands and balls his hand into a fist. If only he could hold his hand!
He decides he should ask Fred tonight. What had he said again? Something about the Universe and them not being able to touch yet. Always with the yet. He wants to know what it means already. Shaking off the feeling of uncomfortableness he stretches his back, greets the familiar move of Fred’s reflection in the mirror and makes his way to the bathroom for his morning shower while his flat slowly warms up through the hot flames of the freshly lit fire.
*
As George walks up to Fred and sits down as usual he notices the song is still playing in the background. The tune soothes him and by the time he is on the ground facing Fred, he has completely forgotten about his original question. Instead he notices another rather peculiar thing about the road they are on. It is so alike Diagon Alley, but so unlike it at the same time. Something is missing.
"There’s no snow," he points out and wonders if the place where he is now is really that much different from the place at home.
"Do you want it to snow?" Fred asks as the first snowflake softly lands on George’s nose. He looks up. The normally clear sky and stars have been replaced by dark clouds and one by one, more snowflakes start to appear around them. George holds out one of his hands and catches another flake before slowly closing his fingers around it. It melts almost instantly, yet George feels no cold.
"Only you can answer your question, brother," Fred says as he takes a strand of his hair between his fingers and pulls out one of the white crystals. "They are quite beautiful, if I may say so myself."
George is too mesmerised by the snow to answer right away. He should feel cold, he should feel wet, but neither of those things could be less true. He is just as comfortable and warm as he was before this world too turned as white as the highest mountain peak.
"Ah," he hears his brother say. "It appears we have run out of time already."
Soft orange and yellow shades appear on Fred’s face, making his already warm brown eyes look even warmer in the early morning light of the rising sun.
"It is time to wake up."
*
"How am I supposed to answer my own questions?" George lets out a frustrated groan as he takes another futile attempt at straightening his bedding. Giving up, he throws his pillows carelessly on there - not that it matters right now anyway, the bed already looks messy enough as it is - and leaves his bedroom.
"You know, as happy as I am having you back, I am as upset with you as I’ve ever been." He grabs the keys to the shop and is about to leave when he stops. Something is not right. The same uncomfortable feeling he got the day before overtakes him instantly and he turns, wand at the ready. As a shiver runs down his back; he moves through the living room, bedroom and pushes open the door to the bathroom. It’s empty.
It’s empty…
He takes another few steps towards the mirror, but nothing changes. The reflection he sees is still only his own.
*
"Where were you yesterday? And the day before?" George asks the moment he sees Fred appear. His feet left prints from where he opened his eyes to where he walked, but apart from that the snow is as white and untouched as when the sun came up the last time he had been there.
"Right here," Fred says. "Right where you want me to be."
"Do I?" George asks him, still frustrated and now also a little bit disappointed. The realisation of Fred no longer following him around had felt like a slap in the face. Lost and alone, he had not been able to open the shop, had ignored the floos from his worried friends and family and had hid in his room, waiting for night to fall.
"I am only where you imagine me being, brother." Fred moves a bit closer and sits down, expecting George to do the same, who refuses. "If that is in your reflection, watching over you, it is where I’ll be. If that is here," he spreads his arms as to make clear where exactly ‘here’ is, "this is where I’ll be waiting."
"Can’t you be in two places?" George notices how his voice almost sounds like a whine and shuts himself up immediately. Thorn between gratefulness and wanting more he starts pacing, no longer caring about keeping the blanket of snow pure. He does not know what he would want more anymore: having his time with Fred at night, talking, but having to spend his days in solitude, or having Fred by his side forever, never once being alone, but no longer being able to speak with him. Not that it matters, Fred is not exactly answering many of his questions.
"Do you want me to be in both places?"
There he goes again. George angrily kicks at the snow, but sees it has completely disappeared. Not sure if he should ask the futile question of where the snow has disappeared to or tell Fred he has had enough of him answering his questions with more questions, he sees the sun appear on the horizon. He looks at Fred, who smiles at him. While his gaze wanders back to the warm morning sky he wonders why the nights seem to grow shorter and shorter every single time he visits.
He turns to ask, but Fred has already gone. George sighs, hiding his hands in his pockets and poking at the road with the tip of his shoe before closing his eyes. It is time to wake up.
*
It is a Sunday, so the shop stays closed today. Stretching out in his bed he sighs contently, enjoying the warmth of his blankets and many pillows for just a little bit longer. When the sound of the owl delivering the Sunday Prophet appears, he decides it is time to get up.
He gives the owl a Knut and a quick treat before sending it back off into the cold weather. It is snowing again, and the sky is grey with thick, heavy clouds. One of the flakes lands on his nose and when he wrinkles it automatically in response to the cold, he smiles. It is a true smile, a smile of pure happiness and contentment. Of the memory of a precious moment with Fred.
With a happy sigh he closes the window and shuts the curtains again. There is no need for the day to begin just yet, so he walks over to his living room, lights a fire and sits down in his most comfortable chair. Being a little wet from the snow, the paper crunches loudly when he opens it, and so drowns out the crackling the fire makes when the head of his mother appears in it.
"And a very good morning to you too."
George nearly jumps out of his chair. "Mum, I hadn’t heard you… arrive," he says, folding the paper back up. He will be saving that for later, as he does not have any plans for the day anyway.
"I was wondering about your plans for Christmas, and if we’ll be seeing you this year," his mother says carefully.
George chokes. He knows exactly why she is being so careful. This will be their first Christmas without Fred.
"We’ll see, mum," he starts, "but I can’t make any promises." He smiles uncomfortably, swallows past the lump in his throat and nervously rakes a hand through his hair. "I erm… we’ll see, okay?"
"Of course dear," Molly quickly says. "It’s all fine."
When the floo disconnects Fred lets out a breath he had not even realised he had been holding. Christmas at the Weasleys will be one big couple fest, and George is not sure if he is quite ready for that. To watch them together, love, touch, hold hands. He really only wants to take Fred, hold his hand; even just thinking about a possible plus one makes him feel nauseous with betrayal. He could not possibly take anybody else than Fred, could he?
*
Fred is not there yet when he opens his eyes, but it is okay. George came here with a mission today: he wants answers. First and foremostly to the question of why they cannot touch. It does not even need to be a real hug. Just hands, just for a little while.
There was no snow when he left, and there still is none when he returns. The mysteriousness of the place appeals to him in a way that he wants to peel off its layers one by one and discover all its well hidden secrets. He has always had a knack for that.
A loud thud and the breaking of glass coming from the café startles George to the point that when Fred arrives next to him, he has, once more, forgotten the one question he set out to ask.
As his brother halts besides him, not even a mere metre away, he copies George’s stand. Hands in the pockets of his trousers, legs spread just a little bit, staring off into the distance.
"I’ve been wondering about that place," George says, and Fred hums in approval. "It’s the only lit place around here."
Fred says nothing, just stands there next to him with that goofy, all-telling smile.
"I always think of going there, but whenever I take a step or two, you seem to appear." George pauses as another loud burst of sound comes from the open door of the place.
"Can we go there?" he finally decides to ask.
"Can we?" Fred answers in return.
"Can’t we?" George says.
Fred gives no answer and they stand together in total silence for a while until, somehow, George gets the uncomfortable feeling of morning approaching and decides it is time to press for one.
"How come you’re never answering any of my questions?" he asks, gaze firmly locked onto the lit house instead of brother. He does not want to know if Fred is smiling, or if that mysterious smile he loves as much as he hates it has disappeared by now. When he finally gets an answer it is one he was expecting, yet still finds himself oddly disappointed.
"I only have the answers you have, brother."
George huffs. However much he would like to start a discussion with Fred right now, he knows his efforts would be futile. Questions would be evaded, answers vague and untelling, and the whole thing would only lead to more frustration and bitterness on his part.
Maybe he should, though. Maybe he should just start that argument. Or at least try to. If that is the only way to make Fred realise how much George really needs him right now and how little he is giving, no matter how much of that little he already is giving.
His thoughts lead him, and before he knows it he sees the sun come up, the lights in the café go out and the familiar voice of his brother next to him telling him it is time to wake up.
*
George goes through the same routine he goes through each and every single morning. He wakes up, stares at the ceiling for a while trying to make sure he will never forget his times with Fred, as precious as they are now, lifts himself out of bed, makes his bed, showers, eats and spends his day working at the shop looking for reflections of himself that are just that little bit off, indicating he is not alone.
It is so very tiring, especially with Fred being the way he is now. He just wants to be with him, feel normal again, feel alive. Hold his hand as they talk about times past and futures that will never be, and the only thing Fred does is avoid questions.
It is all he does.
*
The song starts playing again and even though George is conscious, he refrains from opening his eyes just yet. It calms him greatly, the soft tones of the flute making small shivers run down his spine. He remembers Fred telling him he is supposed to know this song, but once again keeps drawing blanks. Not that it matters; it is a nice enough song to enjoy, no matter if he should recognise it or not, however familiar it may sound.
After a while of just lying on the somewhat too comfortable stones he starts to worry. Fred would have normally showed up by now. The sun is long gone, the café is once again full of life and the cold air makes his breath come out in tiny, white clouds. As he sits up his back gives a satisfied pop; he really must have been lyying there a while.
Minutes pass and by the time another hour has gone by George gets scared. Where is Fred? He stands up and looks around himself. The houses near him are all as dark and locked up as they have ever been and the road heading away from the café ends in nothingness.
"Fred?" he tries carefully, voice raised only a little, but when nobody answers, he raises it fully.
"FRED!"
Nothing. Fred is not there.
George’s breathing quickens. Fred cannot be gone. Not now, not after everything. He has to come, he has to be here. He turns, looks around him, sees nothing, turns again and looks more. As he slowly loses himself in a desperate attempt to stay calm and find his brother, a loud crash, followed by a loud laughing that almost sounds melodious to George’s ears, sounds from the café.
The café! George thinks of their conversation from the other night and recalls the answers he got from Fred.
"Yes," he says, "why can’t we?"
The laughing stops and as the song grows loud in the deserted street he starts walking. Eyes set on the house at the end of the road, he put his hands in his pockets and a firm determination in his step; he shall reach that café. For a minute he wonders if there will be others there, long lost family members, friends. His mind lingers on Severus Snape for a second and he shivers. What would he do if he were to walk into that man? What would he even say? Thank you for being an ass? He smiles to himself as he imagines the look on the face of his old professor. Not that it matters, really. All that matters is that Fred is there.
Hopefully.
Letting out a shaky breath George has to admit that the café does not look that much closer than it did when he started walking. Of course, it is hard to estimate a distance when it is dark, but an odd kind of worry creeps up George’s spine and will not let go. He quickens his pace, which is now close to jogging, but the strange sensation of something not being right does not go away.
He finally starts sprinting when he sees the first ray of light slowly peek over the horizon. It hits his eyes, forcing him to avert them and making him trip. He catches himself with his hands, does not waste time and pushes back up again, never losing speed. George is not sure what the café holds in store for him, he does not know if he will like it, hell! he does not even know if Fred will really be there, but for some unknown reason reaching that house before morning is the only thing on his mind.
The sun gets brighter, and by the time it has completely risen above the horizon George stops running. He rests his hands on his thighs and hangs his head, trying to calm his breathing. The longer he stands there and the higher the sun gets the harder it is for him to keep his eyes open. George yawns and stretches before rubbing one of his eyes with his palm. The café is clearly visible down the road. George blinks heavily. Down the road?
Before his eyes close a last time he looks down, and sees he has not moved forward by a single stone yet again.
*
George is silent when he wakes up. He does not talk to Fred, does not even look if he is there. When he opens the shop and his customers start flooding in, he keeps to the background. Today is not the day for small talk.
With the day staying relatively uneventful, he manages to call it an early night and closes Wheezes back up before the sun has even set. As he quietly walks up to and through the old door to his flat he hangs the keys next to the frame on the little iron hook, takes off his shirt, shoes, trousers and socks and crawls back into bed.
That night, George does not dream.
*
Days go by, and without dreams or Fred to keep George sane he slowly falls back into his old rhythm. Dishes stack, food goes left uneaten, and the only reason George still opens his shop every morning is because he does not want to let a last chance to see Fred again slip through his fingers. Maybe one day Fred will come back, and when he will, George knows it will be in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.
The last ones to leave at the end of another day of forced smiles and faked enthusiasm are a man and a woman. As George wishes them a safe journey home, holding open the door for them, he sees the man grab the woman’s hand and squeeze it softly before smiling at her with a look that speaks of moments shared and love lived. It takes every bit of willpower George still has left in his body not to slam the door of the shop in their faces.
"Would it really have been that hard to just reach out once, brother?"
They are the first words George has spoken to Fred since his disappearance. He hates himself for giving in, knowing full well he is merely talking to the empty walls and filled shelves of his shop. He had told himself not to talk to his brother for a while, not after what he did, but now that the words have started flowing it is as if he cannot stop anymore.
"Would it really have been that disastrous? Would it really have killed you to just hold my bloody hand?" He is screaming the words now, voice raw with regret and magic bouncing all over the place, making many a window of the shop shimmer and vibrate with tension.
"Why can’t you, Fred? Why can’t you just hold my hand?!"
"You tell me."
The voice comes as unexpectedly as it had the first time Fred had talked to him. George gasps. "Because of the Universe. It doesn’t… You said it was impossible."
"In your sleep, yes," Fred says.
George does not answer. So they cannot touch in his sleep, but during the day he cannot even look Fred in the eye without having him disappear, so what…
His eyes go wide as a breeze on the first floor has one of the curtains wave erratically, casting odd shadows on the floor.
"The veil," George whispers.
*
One would expect the Ministry of Magic to increase their security levels right after a war, but sadly, nothing is less true.
The perks of being a war-hero, George thinks as he makes his way from Kingsley's office back to one of the big fireplaces in the atrium of the Ministry.
It had not taken him long to convince Minister Shacklebolt to give him access to the Department of Mysteries. In fact, it had taken him no time at all. The Minister had agreed as soon as George had thrown the question on the table, or well, in this case Kingsley’s desk.
Not that George is complaining in any way, but he could almost smell the pity in his older friend’s answer and that does not sit well with him at all. He does not need pity, from anybody. Not even from Fred.
Just a little longer, brother, he thinks while he speaks the words to his flat and green flames take him away. Just a few more nights.
*
He wraps his jacket a little tighter around himself as he snuggles into the fur-lined collar. There is a young boy on the corner of the street selling the newspaper of the day as owls scoop down and, dropping a Knut or two, grab one from his hands. George tosses him a Knut himself and as he accepts the paper the boy hands him he hears him say: "A very Merry Christmas to you, Sir."
George smiles. It has been too long since the world felt anything like close to normal, and even though it still does not, Christmas has a way of lifting everyone's spirits up a notch or two.
"Happy Christmas to you too, kid," he answers, winking. He sticks the newspaper between his arm and body, puts his gloved hands back into his pockets and makes his way over to one of the many decorated shops on Diagon Alley. There are three things on his ‘to-do’ list today. First he will make sure he buys all the right presents for the right people, including Fred. Then he will pay his brother a quick visit, and last but not least he will attend his family’s Christmas dinner later that day. When he had told his mother he would be coming over she had pretended not to be surprised, but to George the relief in her voice had been obvious.
This Christmas might not be so bad at all.
*
The Ministry is mostly empty when George enters. There is still the random Ministry worker, unlucky enough to have caught the Christmas shift here and there, but for the rest it is completely deserted.
He walks up to the hallway leading to the lifts and names the department he wants to go to. The doors of the lift make the loudest screeching noise, amplified by the echo of the hollow atrium, forcing George to cover his ears. When his father would take him to the Ministry on the odd Christmas night when he had to work when George was younger, it had always felt magical to him. Now, it feels rather creepy, as if the Ministry of Magic itself is in a deep slumber somehow.
As he steps out of the lift he remembers Kingsley’s directions and walks towards the door at the end of the hallway, waits until the room has stopped spinning and takes the third door to his right.
The first thing George notices when he pushes the door open is the absolute silence of the room. Not a single sound penetrates the thick stone walls, and even when he lets the door fall back into its lock it sounds muted, as if somebody had covered it with a thick pillow.
In the middle of the room stands the arch, giant and majestic, with a thick, almost smoke-like curtain hanging from it. An invisible wind is slowly moving it back and forth, leaving small vapours of the veil hanging absolutely still in the air before slowly evaporating into nothingness. George’s breath hitches as he moves closer and hears a very familiar tune coming from inside the arch. A shiver runs down his spine as it gets louder and is now joined by a few very familiar yet unknown voices.
"Fred?" he tries, but gets no answer.
The murmuring stops the moment George steps onto the plateau in the middle of the room, leaving only the sad tones of the flute as his lonely company. He stands in front of the misty curtain, currents of steam and wind gently touching his face. He closes his eyes as a breeze combs through his hair, making goosebumps stand up all over his neck and arms.
"Fred!" His heart skips a beat as he finally sees the face of his brother appear in the ghostly substance of the veil. It is only a shimmer, parts of a broken image, vague and incomplete, but he would recognise his brother anywhere. Fred gives him a cheeky grin and waves, going in and out of focus, parts of him disappearing and recurring as the curtain moves back and forth.
George shakes his head in frustration and angrily wipes at the tears running down his cheeks as he sees his brother stretch out his hand towards him. For a moment he takes a step back, emotional, grateful and a little overwhelmed. He is almost disbelieving of what is really happening, almost expecting that it is all a joke, a figment of his imagination, but when he sees Fred, sees his smile, his outstretched hand and familiar brown eyes, his doubts wash away completely.
He tries to talk, but chokes on his words, and reaches for his brother. Their fingers link and as George steps behind the curtain, the music stops.
*
The world is dark. There is no light, no music, no road leading to nowhere surrounded by dark houses. There is no chattering, no café, no cheerful singing in the dead of the night, no beautiful sunrise, no Fred.
George is alone, and as he thinks back to his reflections, his conversations, his nights, he realises that he never followed his brother. He followed a dream.
~Fin
Author:
lordesCharacter(s): George Weasley, Fred Weasley
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Canonical character death, non-canonical character death, dealing with the loss of a twin, strong emotions, depression, implied suicidal thoughts.
Wordcount: 12300
Summary: After Fred’s death, George loses his will to live. Nothing seems important anymore until he has a dream. A dream about Fred. They start ‘meeting’ more frequently and George seems to have come back from the dead. Until a worse fate befalls him.
AO3: FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS
Author’s notes: Without
masterde this piece would’ve never been written. He was my bunny, even though he might not have realised it. So thank you for that, Pup. Also, thanks to queeniemab for all her patience with me and for This piece was originally written for
hp_darkarts' Shadow of the Season fest and originally posted HERE. [Follow Your Dreams]
Loud banging on the door violently wakes George up. In his hurry to get out of bed to open his front door he gets stuck in his duvet, trips and falls flat on his face, arms still too busy trying to get rid of the blankets around his feet. He groans just as he hears a familiar voice yell at him.
"George! George, are you okay?"
"M’fine," George manages to yell back at Bill, whom he can now hear walking through his living room towards his bedroom. The door opens just as George manages to sit up.
"What?" he asks, annoyed at the sudden interruption of his dream, if that is what you could call last night. He rubs his hands over his face, combs one of them through his hair a couple of times and gets up, throwing the blankets back onto his bed.
"What?" Bill repeats. "It’s 11am and Wheezes is still closed, that’s what."
George grunts once and makes his way to the door and grabs the keys to the shop. By doing so he notices the reflection of a very recognisable redhead following him, making him sigh in relief. Fred is still there.
"Here," he says as he throws the keys at Bill. "Open the shop for me, will you? I’ll be down in a minute, I just want to take a quick shower."
Not giving his brother enough time to think of some sort of smart reply, George rushes through the bathroom door and closes it behind him. He turns on the shower and while the steam of the warm water fills the small room, he sees Fred appear in the mirror on the far end wall.
"You know," he starts, "for a minute there I was worried you wouldn’t be here anymore." He takes his shirt off and throws it on the pile next to the sink. It is starting to grow bigger than it, and he admits it is probably time to do his laundry soon. Sometimes he wishes he was still living at home, if only for the convenience of freshly washed clothes every single Sunday.
"It’s silly, of course," he continues as he takes his bottoms off, too. "There is no reason you would disappear now, not after last night."
George pauses for a moment, naked, holding the shorts he just took off in his hand. He smiles a quick smile before throwing them, too, on the pile, adding just enough for it to slowly topple over and spread over his floor.
"Great," George mumbles as he kicks his dirty clothing back together until he decides the pile looks pile-ish enough again.
He jumps into the shower and grabs the bottle of shampoo before realising something. "Where do you go, anyway, when I’m not around to provide you with a reflection?" He sticks his head out of the shower curtain again, not looking directly at the mirror but still noticing Fred in it. "Do you just disappear for a while, or don’t you need me at all?" he says as he smiles again. "Maybe I’m just imagining things." He slowly combs his hands through his now shampooed hair. "Maybe you’re never truly gone." George pauses, staring at the wall in front of him for a while, lost in thought. Shrugging the odd sensation off, he continues the thorough cleaning of his hair.
"You know," he calls out a little louder than is maybe necessary. "I actually thought I was crazy for the first five minutes I saw you." He pauses as if giving Fred the chance to reply, but when nothing comes, he continues. "I’m happy I know now I’m not."
He finds Bill behind the registry, taking an order of an elderly man for what sounds like his grandson’s birthday party, and decides to give them both some space while he does his round through the shop. Bill is obviously capable enough to handle it himself. He makes his way through the crowd, shaking hands here and there, waving at the always familiar person and is about to walk up the flight of stairs leading to the second floor when he notices his mother waving at him from behind a group of people forming an impenetrable wall.
"Excuse me," he hears her say. "Yes, yes, excuse me, dear. Thank you. Yes, thank you." George notices her arms are filled with stuff, making him chuckle. His dear old mother will probably never change.
As she reaches him she hands him every single lotion, Puff and potion that she is carrying and gives him three solid kisses on his cheeks before planting one on his forehead. "It’s so good to see you again," she says. "It’s been too long already."
George laughs loudly this time. "Mum, I think Bill would like me to relieve him now, he’s been here since 11."
"As have I," she says as she tries to wipe an invisible smudge off his nose. "He’ll be fine. Now, I think it’s time to buy your mother a nice cup of hot tea."
"I’ll have you know we were all so very worried," his mother says as she takes a small sip from her cup. They have settled in one of the cozy tea rooms in Diagon Alley, not too far from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. The interior is a soft pink, strangely reminding him of Umbridge and leaving a sour aftertaste in his mouth every time he drinks from his tea.
"And obviously everybody grieves in their own way, we all had to, too," she continues. "But you…" She pauses and puts her hand over his . He notices how old it looks. Sometimes he still sees her in the same way she looked like when he and Fred were young children. She would bounce around the house, make sure they were well fed and dressed warmly enough, and often sing along horribly with old radio songs. He smiles at the memory of her, and of him and Fred. Fred…
"I can’t take much credit, though," George says before his mother is able to continue her story. "It’s mostly been Fred. Without him I’d still be hiding away in my flat." He looks up at her and sees her blinking away at her tears.
"Sweetheart," his mother starts off carefully. She pets his hand twice before softly squeezing it. "You know Fred is gone, right?"
"Oh, but he isn’t," he says, smiling a big toothy grin, and this time it is his turn to squeeze his mother’s hand reassuringly. "He’s here, mum, right here. He always is."
For a minute they are both silent. George does not understand. Why is his mother not happy? He would have jumped at the opportunity if somebody had told him they had a way for him to be reunited with his brother.
"We all carry him in our hearths with us, Georgie," she says after a while. "And… and I’m happy that’s given you the strength you needed to move on."
As George enters his flat the first thing he notices is the reflection following him from the corner of his eye. He takes off his jacket and angrily throws it on the dark auburn couch as the memory of his mother’s words rings through his head.
"Fine, then she doesn’t understand." He huffs as he lets himself fall back on the same couch he threw his jacket on and lets his head fall back onto the backrest. "See if I care." It comes out in a mumble.
As the light slowly moves through his room and Diagon Alley grows quiet once more, he sits back up and rakes a shaking hand through his hair.
"I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. It’ll just be our secret."
He waits, knowing Fred will not answer but still hoping, deep down inside, that he might. It has happened before, and so it could happen again.
"It’s just the two of us, now."
The sound of a vaguely familiar song ushers George to open his eyes and when he does, he notices he is back on the red-bricked road. For a minute he stands still and closes his eyes again, taking in the melody of the song, but it just doesn’t click. He sighs and turns, expecting to see Fred, but finding an empty road instead.
"Fred?" he calls out insecurely as he skims the houses around him. They are all just as dark as the night before. One by one he looks them over, almost expecting to see somebody move through one, a light going on or a door creaking in its hinges, opening to let his brother through.
"You were always the impatient one."
George, not unlike last time, spins so fast towards the sound of the voice he feels a little dizzy.
"Calm now, brother," Fred says. "I’m not going anywhere just yet."
"Yet?" George repeats in a small voice. Is he leaving already? So soon?
"It is nothing to worry about for now." Fred smiles at him and sits down. "Don’t you recognise the song?"
George looks over his shoulder into the direction of the café before looking back at Fred, following his lead and sitting down, the stones surprisingly comfortable. He sits there for a while, the soft and distant tune of the flute giving him goosebumps. Shaking his head he looks back up at his brother. He had not noticed it before, but Fred is wearing the old Weasley Christmas jumper. It is a dark red with a big yellow ‘F’ knitted into it. There are loose threads hanging from his sleeves and his jeans look two sizes too big on him. He does not look anything like the Fred whom he had to say goodbye to not too long ago. No, he looks like the old Fred. His Fred. The Fred from his memories.
"It’ll come to you," Fred says. "You’ll remember."
The air feels unusually cold when George awakes. Getting up he grabs his morning robe and wraps it tightly around himself. He shivers, opens the thick, long dark blue curtains keeping out the light from his bedroom and notices the snow. The whole of Diagon Alley is wrapped in a perfectly unblemished white blanket. Not one roof has been missed and the streets, still empty, giving a spectacular view.
As he walks into his living room and lits his fireplace with a flick of his wand, he thinks of what he will be doing for Christmas for the first time that year. Normally he and Fred would make sure their whole family would be well provided with nice food, a tree and presents for everybody.
"Maybe this year we could celebrate it together, just the two of us?" George asks and realises that right now, he would do anything to be able to touch him again even for just a brief moment. He thinks back to Harry and Ginny holding hands and balls his hand into a fist. If only he could hold his hand!
He decides he should ask Fred tonight. What had he said again? Something about the Universe and them not being able to touch yet. Always with the yet. He wants to know what it means already. Shaking off the feeling of uncomfortableness he stretches his back, greets the familiar move of Fred’s reflection in the mirror and makes his way to the bathroom for his morning shower while his flat slowly warms up through the hot flames of the freshly lit fire.
As George walks up to Fred and sits down as usual he notices the song is still playing in the background. The tune soothes him and by the time he is on the ground facing Fred, he has completely forgotten about his original question. Instead he notices another rather peculiar thing about the road they are on. It is so alike Diagon Alley, but so unlike it at the same time. Something is missing.
"There’s no snow," he points out and wonders if the place where he is now is really that much different from the place at home.
"Do you want it to snow?" Fred asks as the first snowflake softly lands on George’s nose. He looks up. The normally clear sky and stars have been replaced by dark clouds and one by one, more snowflakes start to appear around them. George holds out one of his hands and catches another flake before slowly closing his fingers around it. It melts almost instantly, yet George feels no cold.
"Only you can answer your question, brother," Fred says as he takes a strand of his hair between his fingers and pulls out one of the white crystals. "They are quite beautiful, if I may say so myself."
George is too mesmerised by the snow to answer right away. He should feel cold, he should feel wet, but neither of those things could be less true. He is just as comfortable and warm as he was before this world too turned as white as the highest mountain peak.
"Ah," he hears his brother say. "It appears we have run out of time already."
Soft orange and yellow shades appear on Fred’s face, making his already warm brown eyes look even warmer in the early morning light of the rising sun.
"It is time to wake up."
"How am I supposed to answer my own questions?" George lets out a frustrated groan as he takes another futile attempt at straightening his bedding. Giving up, he throws his pillows carelessly on there - not that it matters right now anyway, the bed already looks messy enough as it is - and leaves his bedroom.
"You know, as happy as I am having you back, I am as upset with you as I’ve ever been." He grabs the keys to the shop and is about to leave when he stops. Something is not right. The same uncomfortable feeling he got the day before overtakes him instantly and he turns, wand at the ready. As a shiver runs down his back; he moves through the living room, bedroom and pushes open the door to the bathroom. It’s empty.
It’s empty…
He takes another few steps towards the mirror, but nothing changes. The reflection he sees is still only his own.
"Where were you yesterday? And the day before?" George asks the moment he sees Fred appear. His feet left prints from where he opened his eyes to where he walked, but apart from that the snow is as white and untouched as when the sun came up the last time he had been there.
"Right here," Fred says. "Right where you want me to be."
"Do I?" George asks him, still frustrated and now also a little bit disappointed. The realisation of Fred no longer following him around had felt like a slap in the face. Lost and alone, he had not been able to open the shop, had ignored the floos from his worried friends and family and had hid in his room, waiting for night to fall.
"I am only where you imagine me being, brother." Fred moves a bit closer and sits down, expecting George to do the same, who refuses. "If that is in your reflection, watching over you, it is where I’ll be. If that is here," he spreads his arms as to make clear where exactly ‘here’ is, "this is where I’ll be waiting."
"Can’t you be in two places?" George notices how his voice almost sounds like a whine and shuts himself up immediately. Thorn between gratefulness and wanting more he starts pacing, no longer caring about keeping the blanket of snow pure. He does not know what he would want more anymore: having his time with Fred at night, talking, but having to spend his days in solitude, or having Fred by his side forever, never once being alone, but no longer being able to speak with him. Not that it matters, Fred is not exactly answering many of his questions.
"Do you want me to be in both places?"
There he goes again. George angrily kicks at the snow, but sees it has completely disappeared. Not sure if he should ask the futile question of where the snow has disappeared to or tell Fred he has had enough of him answering his questions with more questions, he sees the sun appear on the horizon. He looks at Fred, who smiles at him. While his gaze wanders back to the warm morning sky he wonders why the nights seem to grow shorter and shorter every single time he visits.
He turns to ask, but Fred has already gone. George sighs, hiding his hands in his pockets and poking at the road with the tip of his shoe before closing his eyes. It is time to wake up.
It is a Sunday, so the shop stays closed today. Stretching out in his bed he sighs contently, enjoying the warmth of his blankets and many pillows for just a little bit longer. When the sound of the owl delivering the Sunday Prophet appears, he decides it is time to get up.
He gives the owl a Knut and a quick treat before sending it back off into the cold weather. It is snowing again, and the sky is grey with thick, heavy clouds. One of the flakes lands on his nose and when he wrinkles it automatically in response to the cold, he smiles. It is a true smile, a smile of pure happiness and contentment. Of the memory of a precious moment with Fred.
With a happy sigh he closes the window and shuts the curtains again. There is no need for the day to begin just yet, so he walks over to his living room, lights a fire and sits down in his most comfortable chair. Being a little wet from the snow, the paper crunches loudly when he opens it, and so drowns out the crackling the fire makes when the head of his mother appears in it.
"And a very good morning to you too."
George nearly jumps out of his chair. "Mum, I hadn’t heard you… arrive," he says, folding the paper back up. He will be saving that for later, as he does not have any plans for the day anyway.
"I was wondering about your plans for Christmas, and if we’ll be seeing you this year," his mother says carefully.
George chokes. He knows exactly why she is being so careful. This will be their first Christmas without Fred.
"We’ll see, mum," he starts, "but I can’t make any promises." He smiles uncomfortably, swallows past the lump in his throat and nervously rakes a hand through his hair. "I erm… we’ll see, okay?"
"Of course dear," Molly quickly says. "It’s all fine."
When the floo disconnects Fred lets out a breath he had not even realised he had been holding. Christmas at the Weasleys will be one big couple fest, and George is not sure if he is quite ready for that. To watch them together, love, touch, hold hands. He really only wants to take Fred, hold his hand; even just thinking about a possible plus one makes him feel nauseous with betrayal. He could not possibly take anybody else than Fred, could he?
Fred is not there yet when he opens his eyes, but it is okay. George came here with a mission today: he wants answers. First and foremostly to the question of why they cannot touch. It does not even need to be a real hug. Just hands, just for a little while.
There was no snow when he left, and there still is none when he returns. The mysteriousness of the place appeals to him in a way that he wants to peel off its layers one by one and discover all its well hidden secrets. He has always had a knack for that.
A loud thud and the breaking of glass coming from the café startles George to the point that when Fred arrives next to him, he has, once more, forgotten the one question he set out to ask.
As his brother halts besides him, not even a mere metre away, he copies George’s stand. Hands in the pockets of his trousers, legs spread just a little bit, staring off into the distance.
"I’ve been wondering about that place," George says, and Fred hums in approval. "It’s the only lit place around here."
Fred says nothing, just stands there next to him with that goofy, all-telling smile.
"I always think of going there, but whenever I take a step or two, you seem to appear." George pauses as another loud burst of sound comes from the open door of the place.
"Can we go there?" he finally decides to ask.
"Can we?" Fred answers in return.
"Can’t we?" George says.
Fred gives no answer and they stand together in total silence for a while until, somehow, George gets the uncomfortable feeling of morning approaching and decides it is time to press for one.
"How come you’re never answering any of my questions?" he asks, gaze firmly locked onto the lit house instead of brother. He does not want to know if Fred is smiling, or if that mysterious smile he loves as much as he hates it has disappeared by now. When he finally gets an answer it is one he was expecting, yet still finds himself oddly disappointed.
"I only have the answers you have, brother."
George huffs. However much he would like to start a discussion with Fred right now, he knows his efforts would be futile. Questions would be evaded, answers vague and untelling, and the whole thing would only lead to more frustration and bitterness on his part.
Maybe he should, though. Maybe he should just start that argument. Or at least try to. If that is the only way to make Fred realise how much George really needs him right now and how little he is giving, no matter how much of that little he already is giving.
His thoughts lead him, and before he knows it he sees the sun come up, the lights in the café go out and the familiar voice of his brother next to him telling him it is time to wake up.
George goes through the same routine he goes through each and every single morning. He wakes up, stares at the ceiling for a while trying to make sure he will never forget his times with Fred, as precious as they are now, lifts himself out of bed, makes his bed, showers, eats and spends his day working at the shop looking for reflections of himself that are just that little bit off, indicating he is not alone.
It is so very tiring, especially with Fred being the way he is now. He just wants to be with him, feel normal again, feel alive. Hold his hand as they talk about times past and futures that will never be, and the only thing Fred does is avoid questions.
It is all he does.
The song starts playing again and even though George is conscious, he refrains from opening his eyes just yet. It calms him greatly, the soft tones of the flute making small shivers run down his spine. He remembers Fred telling him he is supposed to know this song, but once again keeps drawing blanks. Not that it matters; it is a nice enough song to enjoy, no matter if he should recognise it or not, however familiar it may sound.
After a while of just lying on the somewhat too comfortable stones he starts to worry. Fred would have normally showed up by now. The sun is long gone, the café is once again full of life and the cold air makes his breath come out in tiny, white clouds. As he sits up his back gives a satisfied pop; he really must have been lyying there a while.
Minutes pass and by the time another hour has gone by George gets scared. Where is Fred? He stands up and looks around himself. The houses near him are all as dark and locked up as they have ever been and the road heading away from the café ends in nothingness.
"Fred?" he tries carefully, voice raised only a little, but when nobody answers, he raises it fully.
"FRED!"
Nothing. Fred is not there.
George’s breathing quickens. Fred cannot be gone. Not now, not after everything. He has to come, he has to be here. He turns, looks around him, sees nothing, turns again and looks more. As he slowly loses himself in a desperate attempt to stay calm and find his brother, a loud crash, followed by a loud laughing that almost sounds melodious to George’s ears, sounds from the café.
The café! George thinks of their conversation from the other night and recalls the answers he got from Fred.
"Yes," he says, "why can’t we?"
The laughing stops and as the song grows loud in the deserted street he starts walking. Eyes set on the house at the end of the road, he put his hands in his pockets and a firm determination in his step; he shall reach that café. For a minute he wonders if there will be others there, long lost family members, friends. His mind lingers on Severus Snape for a second and he shivers. What would he do if he were to walk into that man? What would he even say? Thank you for being an ass? He smiles to himself as he imagines the look on the face of his old professor. Not that it matters, really. All that matters is that Fred is there.
Hopefully.
Letting out a shaky breath George has to admit that the café does not look that much closer than it did when he started walking. Of course, it is hard to estimate a distance when it is dark, but an odd kind of worry creeps up George’s spine and will not let go. He quickens his pace, which is now close to jogging, but the strange sensation of something not being right does not go away.
He finally starts sprinting when he sees the first ray of light slowly peek over the horizon. It hits his eyes, forcing him to avert them and making him trip. He catches himself with his hands, does not waste time and pushes back up again, never losing speed. George is not sure what the café holds in store for him, he does not know if he will like it, hell! he does not even know if Fred will really be there, but for some unknown reason reaching that house before morning is the only thing on his mind.
The sun gets brighter, and by the time it has completely risen above the horizon George stops running. He rests his hands on his thighs and hangs his head, trying to calm his breathing. The longer he stands there and the higher the sun gets the harder it is for him to keep his eyes open. George yawns and stretches before rubbing one of his eyes with his palm. The café is clearly visible down the road. George blinks heavily. Down the road?
Before his eyes close a last time he looks down, and sees he has not moved forward by a single stone yet again.
George is silent when he wakes up. He does not talk to Fred, does not even look if he is there. When he opens the shop and his customers start flooding in, he keeps to the background. Today is not the day for small talk.
With the day staying relatively uneventful, he manages to call it an early night and closes Wheezes back up before the sun has even set. As he quietly walks up to and through the old door to his flat he hangs the keys next to the frame on the little iron hook, takes off his shirt, shoes, trousers and socks and crawls back into bed.
That night, George does not dream.
Days go by, and without dreams or Fred to keep George sane he slowly falls back into his old rhythm. Dishes stack, food goes left uneaten, and the only reason George still opens his shop every morning is because he does not want to let a last chance to see Fred again slip through his fingers. Maybe one day Fred will come back, and when he will, George knows it will be in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.
The last ones to leave at the end of another day of forced smiles and faked enthusiasm are a man and a woman. As George wishes them a safe journey home, holding open the door for them, he sees the man grab the woman’s hand and squeeze it softly before smiling at her with a look that speaks of moments shared and love lived. It takes every bit of willpower George still has left in his body not to slam the door of the shop in their faces.
"Would it really have been that hard to just reach out once, brother?"
They are the first words George has spoken to Fred since his disappearance. He hates himself for giving in, knowing full well he is merely talking to the empty walls and filled shelves of his shop. He had told himself not to talk to his brother for a while, not after what he did, but now that the words have started flowing it is as if he cannot stop anymore.
"Would it really have been that disastrous? Would it really have killed you to just hold my bloody hand?" He is screaming the words now, voice raw with regret and magic bouncing all over the place, making many a window of the shop shimmer and vibrate with tension.
"Why can’t you, Fred? Why can’t you just hold my hand?!"
"You tell me."
The voice comes as unexpectedly as it had the first time Fred had talked to him. George gasps. "Because of the Universe. It doesn’t… You said it was impossible."
"In your sleep, yes," Fred says.
George does not answer. So they cannot touch in his sleep, but during the day he cannot even look Fred in the eye without having him disappear, so what…
His eyes go wide as a breeze on the first floor has one of the curtains wave erratically, casting odd shadows on the floor.
"The veil," George whispers.
One would expect the Ministry of Magic to increase their security levels right after a war, but sadly, nothing is less true.
The perks of being a war-hero, George thinks as he makes his way from Kingsley's office back to one of the big fireplaces in the atrium of the Ministry.
It had not taken him long to convince Minister Shacklebolt to give him access to the Department of Mysteries. In fact, it had taken him no time at all. The Minister had agreed as soon as George had thrown the question on the table, or well, in this case Kingsley’s desk.
Not that George is complaining in any way, but he could almost smell the pity in his older friend’s answer and that does not sit well with him at all. He does not need pity, from anybody. Not even from Fred.
Just a little longer, brother, he thinks while he speaks the words to his flat and green flames take him away. Just a few more nights.
He wraps his jacket a little tighter around himself as he snuggles into the fur-lined collar. There is a young boy on the corner of the street selling the newspaper of the day as owls scoop down and, dropping a Knut or two, grab one from his hands. George tosses him a Knut himself and as he accepts the paper the boy hands him he hears him say: "A very Merry Christmas to you, Sir."
George smiles. It has been too long since the world felt anything like close to normal, and even though it still does not, Christmas has a way of lifting everyone's spirits up a notch or two.
"Happy Christmas to you too, kid," he answers, winking. He sticks the newspaper between his arm and body, puts his gloved hands back into his pockets and makes his way over to one of the many decorated shops on Diagon Alley. There are three things on his ‘to-do’ list today. First he will make sure he buys all the right presents for the right people, including Fred. Then he will pay his brother a quick visit, and last but not least he will attend his family’s Christmas dinner later that day. When he had told his mother he would be coming over she had pretended not to be surprised, but to George the relief in her voice had been obvious.
This Christmas might not be so bad at all.
The Ministry is mostly empty when George enters. There is still the random Ministry worker, unlucky enough to have caught the Christmas shift here and there, but for the rest it is completely deserted.
He walks up to the hallway leading to the lifts and names the department he wants to go to. The doors of the lift make the loudest screeching noise, amplified by the echo of the hollow atrium, forcing George to cover his ears. When his father would take him to the Ministry on the odd Christmas night when he had to work when George was younger, it had always felt magical to him. Now, it feels rather creepy, as if the Ministry of Magic itself is in a deep slumber somehow.
As he steps out of the lift he remembers Kingsley’s directions and walks towards the door at the end of the hallway, waits until the room has stopped spinning and takes the third door to his right.
The first thing George notices when he pushes the door open is the absolute silence of the room. Not a single sound penetrates the thick stone walls, and even when he lets the door fall back into its lock it sounds muted, as if somebody had covered it with a thick pillow.
In the middle of the room stands the arch, giant and majestic, with a thick, almost smoke-like curtain hanging from it. An invisible wind is slowly moving it back and forth, leaving small vapours of the veil hanging absolutely still in the air before slowly evaporating into nothingness. George’s breath hitches as he moves closer and hears a very familiar tune coming from inside the arch. A shiver runs down his spine as it gets louder and is now joined by a few very familiar yet unknown voices.
"Fred?" he tries, but gets no answer.
The murmuring stops the moment George steps onto the plateau in the middle of the room, leaving only the sad tones of the flute as his lonely company. He stands in front of the misty curtain, currents of steam and wind gently touching his face. He closes his eyes as a breeze combs through his hair, making goosebumps stand up all over his neck and arms.
"Fred!" His heart skips a beat as he finally sees the face of his brother appear in the ghostly substance of the veil. It is only a shimmer, parts of a broken image, vague and incomplete, but he would recognise his brother anywhere. Fred gives him a cheeky grin and waves, going in and out of focus, parts of him disappearing and recurring as the curtain moves back and forth.
George shakes his head in frustration and angrily wipes at the tears running down his cheeks as he sees his brother stretch out his hand towards him. For a moment he takes a step back, emotional, grateful and a little overwhelmed. He is almost disbelieving of what is really happening, almost expecting that it is all a joke, a figment of his imagination, but when he sees Fred, sees his smile, his outstretched hand and familiar brown eyes, his doubts wash away completely.
He tries to talk, but chokes on his words, and reaches for his brother. Their fingers link and as George steps behind the curtain, the music stops.
The world is dark. There is no light, no music, no road leading to nowhere surrounded by dark houses. There is no chattering, no café, no cheerful singing in the dead of the night, no beautiful sunrise, no Fred.
George is alone, and as he thinks back to his reflections, his conversations, his nights, he realises that he never followed his brother. He followed a dream.