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Each Day

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Old February 5th, 2011, 12:48 pm
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Each Day

Each Day

In embarrassingly awful Muggle books or films, this is the moment when he’s meant to slowly wake up; still in the gentle, sweet clutches of a dream, and for a moment, he’s supposed to forget everything and it will be all wonderful and perfect and normal.

And then his head is meant to turn groggily, slowly and he’ll see the empty bed and he’ll remember. But at least, he’ll have had that one blissful, happy feeling of ignorance before being forced into believing in the cruel knowledge.

Instead, he is already awake and George knows, he always knows and it crushes and twists his insides constantly.

So he gets up, ignoring the vacant bed beside his own, and he washes his face-never looking in the mirror for the fear of seeing someone that cannot return.


If George could describe how each day is, he doesn’t know if he could without seeming temporarily insane. For, he’s just barely aware of surviving-of eating a piece of toast and dressing-and somehow, he remembers how to walk and talk-without even thinking about the action.


George knows Fred would quite literally kill him if he could see the state of the place; their place. How it no longer rings with the glorious sound of laughter and fun.

Fun. Such a simple word. George does not know if he can recall the emotion. He feels he does not deserve to.


But, the day is not just full of mourning and “poor me, poor me.” Sometimes, George can will himself to snap out of it, and when he does, it feels like he’s living a new life- everything is new and sharp and oh, so very real.

He’ll close his eyes, and he’ll think of his twin, and for once, it will not hurt. All he’ll see is the grin (his grin) and the laugh (his laugh) and the voice, which is strangely a mixture of his and a mixture of something indefinable; something that shall only belong to Fred.

“Stop moping around, you soppy git! Get working!”

And George chuckles, a dry and strange sound but a chuckle nonetheless.

The Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes Sign inevitably switches from “Closed” to a miraculous “Open.”


But, in the end, some days are inexplicably long and some unbearably short. No matter their length, they all end the same:

With an occupied bed and an empty bed, and an experiment involving the latest batch of dungbombs and a notebook with the scribbles of past and present successes.

And a red haired half of a whole sleeping, with the ghost of a satisfied smile forever slipping on and off his face.


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