For several long seconds, George’s mind refused -- no, was unable -- to comprehend what his eyes were telling it. He could not believe it; surely it was not possible. A joke, or a misunderstanding, or something serious, but not that serious, not enough to warrant the tears on everyone’s faces, nor his mother’s silence and outstretched arms. Not enough for Charlie’s pale face and blank eyes, nor Ginny’s quiet whimpers, nor Percy’s shoulders, heaving with silent sobs.

And then the awareness seeped through, the sight of Fred’s body registered, and there was something in his throat, he couldn’t breathe or speak or make any noise at all, and there was a horrible weight pressing on his chest, crushing all the air out of his lungs. Fred could not lie so still and be so white, because that could mean only one thing, and George would not possibly accept that, even if the truth were right there in front of him.

“Georgie,” his mother whispered, and he let her clasp her to him tightly while she wept on his shoulder. Thank God she had him, she was probably thinking. Thank God he was still alive, he was not lying, cold and still as marble, on the table. She hadn’t lost them both, not yet, at least; his heart was still beating, technically. He didn’t feel alive, though. He felt as cold and still as Fred was, he felt numb, and in a way that was good, that was a blessing, because it meant for awhile the pain couldn’t get through. It meant the gaping hole in him couldn’t hurt or bleed, it meant tears would not come, it meant for a little while longer he could pretend that he still had his twin, his brother, his best friend, that any minute Fred would sit up and chuckle and it all would have been for a laugh, and even though it wouldn’t be funny, not at all, George would laugh, just out of heart-wrenching relief.

His mother let go of him and he walked stiffly to Fred’s side, the rest of his family closing in around him. He stared blankly and unblinking down at Fred and something in him died, and it astounded him that he could still stand and see and breathe. He couldn’t speak, of course; couldn’t make a sound. Nor was he thinking straight, as the only thought that kept running through his head was that things weren’t supposed to be this way. They had not talked about this, had not even conceived of this. Neither of them had thought it possible -- in a way they had not even considered themselves two separate people, and if one of them was gone then both of them would be, preferably in a blaze of glory. It wasn’t right that one of them should still be here; they were two halves of a whole, and how did you kill one half of something and expect the other half to go on living?

So now half of George was dead, only it felt like more, and as he knelt at Fred’s head he honestly didn’t know how he would survive. He didn’t know how he could ever get up, force himself to move from this spot, go on with life this way. It was a crushing, defeating thought, and knowing that it wasn’t over, that Voldemort was still out there and he would have to get up and fight, made it so much worse. Through a haze of pain and grief he realized that he should be spurred on into action, to revenge, but he didn’t even care if he was killed just then. He was, after all, the half that was now left either to struggle to survive or wither away, and he couldn’t remember how to fight. He couldn’t remember how to survive.

George closed his eyes against the sight of his twin -- of himself -- lying so horribly still, and felt someone lean against him. The warmth was like a shock, a reminder that he was, indeed, still alive, still able to feel something besides the agony of his loss. Glancing up, he saw that it was Ginny, and when their eyes met, she put her arms around him. After a second, he reached up and grasped her hand, squeezing it tightly, and he knew that he would have to go on, even if he only lived a half-life. He would keep on fighting, because he didn’t think he could bear to lose any more.