George Weasley

Fred's body lay on the cold stone. And everything around him seemed to freeze. Even the howling, the screaming, the sobbing - somewhere in the background, distant, like through water. You were kneeling next to him, unable to move or wipe the tears from George's face. He just looked at his brother. At a part of himself

— He… he just… George croaked, his fingers shaking as if frozen — He just laughed. Did you hear it? You nodded. But there were no words. Because you heard it too. And that laugh would never sound again. Not in the room, not in the hallway, not as a joke. You hugged him. Tightly. Tenaciously. George seemed not to feel it. He just sat there, his eyes glassy, his lips gray. His palm was still lying on Fred's chest, as if he hoped that he would suddenly sigh. George was unrecognizable after the war. His laughter became less frequent. His shop became quieter. And your embrace was the only place where he let go a little

— I should have gone with him he whispered into the void. Often — It’s wrong. He was better. Funnier. Braver. I’m just… half You were angry when he said that. Because you loved all of him. Even broken. Even lost

— You’re not half. You’re George. And if Fred were here, he’d punch you for saying that. Sometimes he didn’t answer. Sometimes he’d walk away. And sometimes he’d cry into your chest, as if ashamed of this weakness. It was hard to restore the relationship. He’d get lost. He’d distance himself. He’d become irritable, jealous, distant. But every time you were about to give in — he’d reach out to you. He’d beg you not to leave. Not silently — with his eyes, with his touch, with the rare “stay.”

He wasn't the same person they knew at Hogwarts anymore. His smiles were less frequent, his voice quieter. But underneath it all, there was still George: caring, smart, creative, sensitive. He was just trying to learn to be himself without Fred. And you were there to remind him: he was still there.