'He's gone,' George told himself. 'He's not coming back.' He forced him to get on his feet. 'He's gone,' he reminded himself again as he scuffed to his bed. He was a feet away when something caught his attention. A piece of red woollen fabric jutting out from ...under the mattress of his bed. They had cleaned the room today and had collected Fred's belongings in cardboard boxes as they were donating them to a charity...whose is that? Curious, he reached out for the sleeve dangling out, and yanked it out from under the mattress. It was a soft, maroon, and a slightly dusty jumper. It had a big F embroidered on the centre in dazzling silver. Fred's. George's thin pale fingers ran over the sweater hungrily, and with a horrible feeling in his stomach—as though his insides were being squeezed— the pain of losing his brother washed over him all over again. His legs gave way and he sank to the floor, holding the jumper close against his chest. It had been so hard. From completing sentences to playing Quidditch to running the shop they had started together. He felt incomplete, empty, guilty and helpless. He used to think about Fred everyday. Their memories haunted George, suffocated him, but he wasn't able to get rid of them. They hung on to him, maddening him. I wish I were dead instead, he thought. He begged time to go faster, fast enough to rejoin him with his brother; to see Fred's lively, gleeful face again...—for him to die there and then. He wanted to die, so that he could live again. Tears streamed down his face, and he lay there, the night's silence disrupted by his muffled sobs and wails, and pleas to be killed.
And he screamed till he felt as if his throat was ripped apart; till no tears would come; and till the feeling of emptiness and loneliness had become too overwhelming. He dragged himself to his bed, his face scrunched up from the inward torture only he could experience. A sudden impulse, however, made him spring to his feet. He pulled the sweater over the trembling body and sprinted to his cupboard. He hoicked the door open and was met by his reflection in a mirror fixed on one of the cupboard's doors. His eyes widened as the looked at the reflection. There he was. There Fred was. With his jumper, his hair, his face, his eyes...
At that moment, George forgot who he was as he and the ghost of his brother were reunited. He staggered to the mirror, his fingers moving on its reflective surface, their movement controlled by his flaming desire. The resemblance was so striking, so scary, so horrifying...yet, George's eyes sparkled with affection as he adored the reflection, maddened. It was Fred...his brother...Fred..
His eyes found Fred's, and a surge of realisation made him abandon his previous stance. In the mirror, he saw Fred. But Fred wasn't happy. His face was pale, stoic; his eyes bloodshot, and his cheeks tear-streaked.
'I wish I were a—alive, Fred, so y—you wouldn't be alo—alone,' he stuuttered. And then understanding hit him; wrenching him back to reality. He felt sick and stupid. How could he have ever begged to switch places with him? They both belonged together, a whole. Fred and George.
From that night, George began to love life, to respect it. He became more aware than ever of every breath he took, of every second he had, because he had realised that there was a connection between Fred and him that nobody could ever break; Fred was still there, beside him, and that fact gave George the will to move on. Fred would've wanted his brother to be happy.
