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The Burrow was usually a place with a lot of hustle and bustle. But after the war, it had grown a lot quieter. And it only felt like the grief echoed against the walls and hit its residents again. It had been a month since the funeral. And George was a mess. A ghost of his past self, he had built a fortress around his sorrow.
George didn’t speak much anymore. Every sound that wasn’t his twin’s laugh felt wrong in his ears, like a song played off-key. He didn't even come down for meals.
At first, Molly tried. Gently at first—words, then touches. But George flinched away.
Ginny tried too. Sat on the edge of the bed and talked into the silence, told him about what happened in Hogwarts. Told him all stories in a vain attempt to atleast get a reaction out of him.
Quietly, Ron started showing up with food. Not asking if George was hungry—just sitting down beside him with a bowl and a spoon, determined and quiet.
The first time, George didn’t even look at him.
Ron dipped the spoon in anyway and nudged it gently against George’s mouth. There was a long pause. Then George opened it. Swallowed. Barely moved.
“Right,” Ron muttered, more to himself than anything. “That’s one.”
Ron didn’t ask anything of him. Didn’t fill the silence with apologies or memories or grief dressed up as comfort. He just showed up, bowl in hand, and stayed until the food was gone.
The silence stretched between them like a thread.
Ron hadn’t meant to read those letters. But once he stumbled upon them on Fred’s untouched bed, he couldn't stop reading either. There was a stack of them on the nightstand. Folded sheets, quill beside them, the ink still fresh on the latest letter. Despite himself, Ron picked up the top one.
As he read, his throat tightened.
“Oi, Fred”
It read…
“Percy’s back…you know he owned up and apologised… He is still a git. I guess he is less of a git? Some things don’t change, eh?
Ron and Hermione are together. They didn’t say anything. They think we dont know. But we do. It's been like that always with them hasn't it? I won the bet, by the way. You owe me five Galleons and a round of Butterbeer. I’ll collect when—
...yeah.
Personally, I think you are the git.
If you were here, I wouldn't have to write these letters would I?
I’m trying. Don't you dare say I’m not. But I can’t.
I don’t know how to do this without you.
It should’ve been me.
– George”
Ron read one more. Then another. Each one a little more broken. Each one signed simply:
– George
By the time he reached the fourth letter, his own eyes were burning. He didn’t mean to cry. Or to read them all. But here he was.
And then, maybe because he didn’t know what else to do—or maybe because it felt right—Ron pulled a blank parchment from the drawer.
He dipped the quill in ink, his hand trembling.
Oi George,
Really? Keep at it and I will really haunt you.
I’m doing well here. I have met the Marauders, you see? That speckly git of a Harry Potter, forgot to even tell us that HIS DAD was Prongs. Can you believe it? Apparently Sirius was Padfoot and Remus was Moony.
Come on.
Get your arse moving and prank the idiot for me. This is a matter of our pride.
Things are going to get better. It is just a matter of time.
-The better looking twin, who also HAS an ear.
Ron folded the note, placed it on top of the others, and walked out of the room, his heart pounding.
George blinked at the letter in his hands, his eyes still trying to focus on the neat script.
The ink was fresh, the paper smooth—everything looked… normal.
But something in the back of his mind screamed that it wasn’t.
His heart thudded in his chest as he scanned the words again, slower this time.
Refusing to believe what he was reading, yet wanting to believe that his brother indeed wrote the letter, from a tiny, childish part of his heart, he picked up his quill and started writing.
Oi, Fred,
I must be going mad. I’m writing to a dead bloke. And the dead bloke is writing back to me.
Perfect.
You are probably laughing your arse off right now.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
You on the other hand? You must be having tea with a werewolf, a fugitive and Harry Bloody Potter’s dad. I know you guys are probably up to something. You better be, Fred. If you’re going to leave me here, you at least have to make some mischief in the afterlife, right?
I’ll keep going. Not because I want to. Because I have to.
Make a ruckus up there for me, alright? Get kicked out of Heaven at least once. Just so I know you’re still being you.
Talk soon,
—George
It became a ritual.
Late at night, George would sit and write letters to his brother. Every letter started the same way.
Oi, Fred
They were raw, unfiltered, and sometimes ugly. He would tell Fred what was happening at the Burrow. He would reminisce. He would swear.
He would try to pretend everything was okay. But the pain bled between his words.
Sometimes George would make jokes.
But more often than not, he would be bitter.
Right, so get this—Bill and Fleur are having a baby.
Yeah. A baby. Like, an actual small human. Can you imagine? Bill, the cool curse-breaking pirate, up at 3 a.m. changing nappies and trying not to get peed on. The mighty have fallen, mate. Fleur is glowing, obviously. Like a Veela firework.
You should be here for this, you git. You would’ve had so much fun corrupting the poor child from day one.
Anyway. That’s the family update.
Is this what's supposed to happen? Life keeps rolling on. And I keep turning to tell you—and you’re not there.
Sometimes it would be soft.
Remember when we switched places for that Potions test and Snape gave you detention even though you got it right? You were so smug. Said getting away with it was the real test.
He would tease Fred. Inside jokes came in.
But not every exchange was funny.
You don’t get it. You’re not here. You don’t know what it’s like to wake up without your voice being echoed back. You left me alone, Fred. You weren’t supposed to.
And Fred. “Fred” would always respond.
He kept joking.
A baby?! So is the baby going to be part-werewolf and part-veela? Dang. The genes must have hit the jackpot, Georgie.
He kept giving advice.
Here’s a thought—force one laugh a day. Fake it. Snort at Mum tripping over Crookshanks. Giggle at Ron’s hair. (Easy. It does half the work.)
He kept telling his stories from heaven.
Yesterday, Sirius and James pranked Snape. Charmed the chicken pieces in his food to squawk every time he put the fork on the piece. It was actually epic. But why is that git in Heaven anyways? Hmm. Unearth the mysteries of the world Georgie. And tell me.
He argued back
Sod off. I haven't left you alone. I'm still around. GAH. I’m just giving you the spotlight, you know?
Morning light spilled into the room like it had been waiting patiently for weeks.
For the first time in what felt like forever, George didn’t wake to the weight of grief pressing him into the mattress. It was still there, of course—but quieter. Less suffocating. A dull throb instead of a scream.
He didn’t really decide, not in a solid way. He just...moved.
The bell above the door chimed when he stepped into the shop.
And for a moment, George froze.
It was alive.
Color burst from every wall, from enchanted banners waving overhead, from floating signs advertising “Buy One, Hex One Free!”
A miniature fireworks display popped in the corner, sending out tiny sparklers that spelled rude words before fizzling away.
The floorboards vibrated faintly with laughter. Real, actual laughter—from children darting between shelves, parents pretending to disapprove, teens daring each other to try the Nosebleed Nougats.
It was exactly how it used to be.
No. Not exactly. But close. Close enough that George felt his chest tighten.
He spotted them behind the counter—Percy awkwardly demonstrating a dancing quill (the quill promptly smacked him in the face), and Ron laughing beside him, elbowing him as if they’d planned it that way. There was ink on Percy’s collar. Ron wore an apron far too pink for someone his size. They looked ridiculous.
George stood frozen near the entrance, the door gently shutting behind him. No one had noticed yet.
A boy tugged at his sleeve, holding up a trick wand. “Does this one turn into a rat or a rubber chicken?”
George blinked at him.
“Er,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Chicken. But only if you sneeze while casting.”
The boy grinned wide and dashed off. George stared after him, eyes prickling.
Ron noticed him then. His face broke into a crooked grin.
“Took you long enough,” he said, casual, like George had just come back from a quick lunch.
Percy turned, startled, then tried to act like he hadn’t been startled. “We’ve restocked most of the WonderWhiz line. Some of it’s improvised, but… customers don’t seem to mind.”
George opened his mouth. Closed it.
“You did this?” he finally asked, voice low.
Ron shrugged, coming out from behind the counter. “Wasn’t just us. Bill, Harry and Hermione helped too. But… yeah. Someone had to. Can’t let the place go quiet, right?” He scratched the back of his neck. “Its bad for business.”
George laughed—a broken, surprised sound, the kind that cracked right down the middle. His hands trembled slightly. He didn’t hide it.
He took a breath that felt like the first real one in weeks.
“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured.
“You don’t have to say anything” Percy said, adjusting a crooked sign above them.
George looked around again, really looked—at the colors, the magic, the joy swirling in the air like it had never left. His grief hadn’t gone anywhere. But it
had...shifted. Made room for something else. For pride. For memory. For possibility.
A girl behind him squealed with delight as a Chattering Teacup bit her finger. Her friend howled with laughter.
George smiled.
He stepped forward, picked up a display stand that had started to tilt, and gently straightened it.
Then he rolled up his sleeves.
“Right,” he said. “Let’s sell some bloody rubber chickens.”
That evening, long after the Burrow became quiet, George sat hunched over his desk again. He pulled out a sheet of parchment.
Oi, Fred,
You’d have loved today.
I walked into the shop and thought maybe I’d fallen asleep again—dreamt the whole last year. It felt like old times. Almost. Percy was getting attacked by a quill. Ron was wearing an apron that looked like it insulted his masculinity just by existing.
And the kids—Merlin, Fred—the kids were laughing. Wasn’t that what we opened up the shop for?
For a second, I forgot you were gone.
Just for a second.
And then I remembered, and it hurt more than it had in weeks.
But I smiled anyway.
I think this is the last letter I’m going to be writing to you. Not because I’m done talking to you. But because I don’t think I need the letters anymore.
And because, well…
I knew.
From the second letter. I knew it was Ron.
You’d never threaten me that you would possess the toaster to get me off the bed.
I think.
But I needed it. I needed you—him—someone to keep talking like you were still here. He gave me that.
You’d be proud of him.
He wrote like a right tosser.
Nailed your tone a bit too well.
He kept me alive, Fred.
I miss you.
But I think I’m going to be okay.
I’ll keep the shop loud. I’ll keep the legacy stupid and bright and brilliant. And I’ll keep you with me.
Always.
—Actually, the better looking twin
He set the letter down gently on the desk. Didn’t fold it. Didn’t hide it.
Just let it breathe.
The door creaked open without a knock.
George didn’t look up. He already knew who it was.
Ron stepped inside, a bottle of Firewhisky dangling from his hand. No words. Just walked over and dropped onto the bed beside him with a sigh.
He uncorked the bottle and took a swig. He offered it wordlessly.
George accepted.
They passed it back and forth a few times before anyone spoke.
“To Fred,” George said finally, lifting the bottle.
Ron nodded. “To the good ones.”
They drank.
More silence. More warmth. A breeze drifted through the window, ruffling the corners of the letter still sitting on the desk.
George looked down at the bottle in his hands, his voice soft. “I still don’t know how to do this without him.”
“You don’t have to,” Ron said. “Not really. He’s still here, yeah? As long as we keep him loud enough.”
George swallowed hard. “I hate how much that helps.”
“I hate that I can’t come up with something funnier,” Ron replied.
They both laughed—quietly, brokenly. But it was laughter.