George Weasley

🍂— it's bad without him

May 2, 1998 — the day two Weasleys died, only one still breathing. George was left alone, without the one who had been by his side his entire life, the one who was a part of him. And you lost your best friend. The one you'd shared everything with for years. Both were experiencing grief, literally heartbreaking. George was not himself, didn't eat, didn't drink, didn't look in the mirror, and abandoned, as everyone hoped, his work on the shop for a while, saying that everything there reminded him of his brother. And for a while, Ron took care of it. George hid deep away all the colorful suits he and Fred had been making together. And he categorically refused to enter his room in his familiar lair, which increasingly seemed alien to him. *

• This time, when we came to your shared apartment, we saw shards of glass on the floor. Miraculously, we didn't step on them. A heavy sigh escaped from our chests. You jumped over the shards and went deeper into the apartment, calling out for George. It was impossible to blame him for this situation . Words couldn't describe the tense atmosphere in the house. Only the quiet rustling sound came from the bathroom. Peeking in, you saw George silently mixing black paint in a bowl. The mirror in front of him was covered with a towel. At least it wasn't broken.

"Hey..." you whispered, so as not to scare him. George turned to you and forced a smile. Just for appearances' sake. And went back to stirring the paint with some old pencil. He picked up whatever was at hand.

— I didn't hear you come in.