Waldosia/// George Weasley

Chapter 33

George knew just how cruel the world could be, how it could take dreams and burn them into nightmares. And he was too scared, too terrified that if he looked away from the frame in front of him for even a moment that everything would turn dark. That Freddie would be ripped away from him again.

"Freddie," he said again, this time coming out as a shaky breath. A hesitant truth.

"You've said that already, Georgie," the portrait of Fred Weasley spoke back to him, "No need to get tongue-tied over me."

"Leave him alone," Clover bit back, George too distracted by his brother to see nervousness fluttering on her face, "He's in shock."

"Defending him already? I knew you were in love with-,"

"You have no idea what you're on about," the blonde girl responded with reddened cheeks.

"I think-,"

The room suddenly fell quiet as George spoke again, his voice flooding with disbelief, "Freddie."

He didn't know what to do with himself. Because for the first time in over a year, George was full with emotions that had vacated his body the day the war ended. Full with the need to cry. Full with the need to laugh. Full with the need to talk to his Freddie again. Full with the need to kiss Clover over and over again. Full with love. And it was different, it felt different than it ever had before. And it was new, like the ending of a story just so a new one could begin. But, it was his. This love was his.

His hands were shaking and his lips were parted, frozen in place while trying to say something. Anything other than calling out Fred's name again.

His voice settled on another word as his eyes fluttered over to the blonde girl shyly standing off the side, "Clover."

She looked up at him and nodded, seemingly taking her name a sign to leave. Clover's fingertips brushed against his own as she passed him, her voice coming out as a whisper, "I'll give you two some space."

That's not what he meant. He didn't want her to leave. He didn't mean to make her leave. What he wanted was to take her face in his hands and scream that he loved her over and over again until she finally believed in love. What he wanted was to thank her, because he knew she did this. But instead, he watched her walk out the door with a shout begging to escape his lips.

His body was stuck in place by the push and pull of emotions barreling through his mind. By the push to stay here in this moment with Fred and never leave. By the pull to follow after Clover and place his heart directly in her hand. By the push of his past, reminding him not to walk away from what he's already lost once. By the pull of his future, begging him to not let go of the girl who carefully stitched his shredded heart back together. By the push of love, to fall back in place with the person who made him who he was. By the pull of love, to chase after the person who kissed all of his flaws and cracks and bruises even while he was only a shadow of the man he once was.

A small laugh broke him out of his inner turmoil and he looked over to where it came from. For the first time in over a year, he looked at Fred. Fred with the face so similar to his own, but with a smile that made all the difference. It was genuine and happy and young, like when they were kids running around at Hogwarts. George winced as he thought that, remembering that was only a few years ago. It was his own smile that told him and Fred apart. With the strain of life and loss and war and grief and death stretching out his lips until they began to naturally curve downwards.

"Georgie," Fred called out to him, and it took everything in George not to break down and sob at the sound of his own name.

It was so familiar, yet so distant. Like a memory that one would never forget, yet barely remember. He looked up at his brother, and couldn't help but reach out to touch the painting in front of him. George brushed his fingers over the clumping of paint on the top of Fred's head, where he always used to ruffle his brother's hair. And it was surreal, because it was so real. So accurate. So encapturing of every little detail that made up Fred. But, at the same time, it wasn't real. It wasn't flesh and bones and gripping hugs, it was paint.