After the War

Chapter 41

Monday, April 1

George woke, sprawled across his bed, and stared numbly at the cream-colored ceiling. This day had been taunting him for the past month, slowly edging itself forward until it finally came, and now that it was here, he was no more prepared than he was weeks ago. Pale sunlight permeated through the crack in the curtains, hidden by clouds mimicking the dour mood of the day.

Today was the first birthday that George would have to celebrate without his twin. The first of many, as he was painfully aware.

If he didn't dread the day itself enough, he was dreading the awkwardness that he knew was inevitable: the worried glances, the avoiding eye contact, and the skirting around the obvious. He wasn't sure if he could handle it, yet he knew that he fully well couldn't handle a full day in bed. His energy was incorrigible and his restlessness incurable.

With an enormous amount of effort, he flipped his blankets open and swung his legs over the bed with his hands gripping the edge so tight that his knuckles began to turn white. His legs were made of lead and his chest was heavy, yet his face was taut and expressionless, but purposefully so. With a deep sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled to his closet, pulling out a shirt at random.

He turned and just as he went to shut the door, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and froze. His heart skipped a beat and there was a sharp intake of breath.

For a moment, a fleeting yet blissful moment, he didn't see his missing ear and his barely opened eyes looked slightly smaller. There was the same flash of bright red hair and the same nose, making him believe for the splittest second that maybe, just maybe, he had his brother back.

His shirt dropped from limp fingers as he stared at his reflection. A hand reached up to graze the hole in the side of his head where an ear should be. It dropped back to his side and the other reached out to touch the cold mirror and George found himself wishing that the mirror wouldn't raise its arm when he did.

But of course, it did.

He sunk to his knees, sitting awkwardly with his feet tucked under him, and he left one hand on the mirror's surface. His head drooped and his shoulders shook violently. Silent but salty tears rolled down his cheeks and onto the carpet, washing the sleep from his eyes.

Not a day goes by that I don't miss you, he thought to himself. Not a single day.

For a few moments, the pain may be pushed to the side while he focuses on something else, but it always returns, stronger than before with an added level of guilt for forgetting him in even the briefest of moments. And then, when he thinks that he has learned to live with it, someone makes a joke, he passes by an old picture, or he sees himself in the mirror, and he knows that he will never learn to live with it.

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"Do you think I should go check on him?" Ron asked in a hushed voice.

"No, I'd leave him for a bit," Harry responded, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on his knees.

Ron nodded, his mouth curved into a frown. Both were quiet, lost in their own thoughts and grief that they were too afraid to share because they knew it paled in comparison to George's.

"Are you sure?" Ron eventually asked anxiously.

"He probably wants to be alone right now," Harry said. "I'd wait until later."

Ron nodded again. "How much later?"

"I don't know, Ron! Just later!" he snapped irritably. "Give him some time and then bring up some cocoa or breakfast or something."