The Bright Side of Christmas

The shock of cold and the image of a tall, rickety house tell George that he has arrived at the Burrow safe and sound. Maybe cross-country apparation isn't so difficult when it's home you're apparating to, he tells himself. Nonetheless, he crosses the garden and lets himself into the warmth of his house in slightly higher spirits, feeling a bit proud of himself.

The Burrow is a flurry of activity, everyone doing their bit to keep his mother from going mental. He watches fondly as she dashes across the kitchen to attend to pots that are boiling over, yelling at Charlie to take the turkey out of the oven at the same time. The moment she sees George, she thrusts cutlery into his hands (there are enough sets there, she tells him, as Harry and Bill won't be coming) and rushes off to prepare the salad. He dutifully goes to set the table, place by place. After he is finished, he is left with an extra set of cutlery, and, with a pang, realises it is for Fred. He considers setting a place for Fred out of respect, but mentally shakes himself for being so sentimental; the extra set of cutlery is returned to the drawer, and George doesn't say anything to his mother about it.

Dinner is initially a cheerful affair, with his mother's delicious cooking, Christmas crackers, and Celestina Warbeck barely audible over all their noise. (George numbly remembers that he and Fred planned to charm the radio to play only the Weird Sisters instead. It wasn't that they were particularly fond of the band, but their mother deplored them, and they knew it.) Midway through dinner, his father stands up and taps on his glass with a spoon, requesting for silence for the first time that night, and George knows it isn't going to be good.

It's a wonderful night, says his father, filled with wonderful food and wonderful company. His mother smiles, her eyes overbright, as he continues speaking. He's very thankful to have each and every one of them there, but there is one person who isn't, and he thinks that they might take a moment to remember him. (For a wild second, George hopes with all his heart that his father is referring to Harry, who is spending Christmas with Andromeda and Teddy, or even Bill, who chose to remain at Shell Cottage with Fleur.) His father raises his glass then, and says in a loud, carrying voice, Fred Weasley.

George's insides shrivel horribly. There is a flurry of movements as the rest of the Weasleys mirror their father and husband, sounding his twin's name in a mismatched chorus. George holds up his mug of butterbeer, but finds himself unable to get any words out his lodged throat; he sets his mug back down without having said anything, ashamed. Next to him, Ginny puts her hand on his in an uncharacteristic display of affection. He gives it a small squeeze before focusing on his plate, all appetite gone.

After the dishes are sparkling clean and in their rightful places in the kitchen, the family disperses – Percy and Charlie sit with their parents in the kitchen, catching up; Ron and Ginny disappear upstairs to their respective rooms; and George sits alone in the living room. It isn't long before his thoughts are filled with Fred and the familiar loneliness takes up residence inside his chest again. He slowly grows cold, and then numb, as memory after memory plays in his head. Each one is lucid, and the colours saturated; yet, they seem to be lacking a frustrating amount of details.

What was it exactly that Fred said to him after their first of many detentions with Umbridge? What had he done to tick Fred off the time he discovered Flobberworms in his socks? And – what bugs him most of all – what were Fred's last words to him? It's increasingly difficult to even try to remember, the noise and confusion of the battle knotting up his thoughts every time. Again, he berates himself for not knowing, for not remembering, mourning the fact that he will never hear his twin's voice again. He becomes vaguely aware that someone is calling his name then, and slowly disentangles himself from his thoughts.

His mother is sitting before him, a sad smile on her face. Go to bed, love, she coaxes, it's late. He realises something, and his insides seem to wither and die away.

George is, of course, expected to sleep in the room he normally did before moving to the flat above Weasley's Wizard Wheezes – the same one he shared with Fred growing up. Except, now, with no Fred, the room is just his. There is no Fred, but there is Fred's bed, and some of Fred's old clothes, and Fred's rubbish, and Fred's old toys… Countless new memories of their failed joke shop products and prank plans fill George's mind, each more bittersweet and painfully raw than the last; he remembers the pacts they made as boys and the whispered, scandalous secrets well past their bedtime, and he knows that he cannot enter the room without breaking.

He looks his mother in the eye and attempts to give her a smile. He tells her to go on up first – he'll be up in a minute or two. She looks at him sadly and briefly holds his face in her hands (something he hadn't let her do since he was twelve) before bidding him goodnight and climbing the stairs.

George looks at his watch and is surprised to see that it reads 2 a.m. He looks wonderingly after his mother at the stairs – when did she become such an owl? Figuring there must have been a lot to catch up on with Percy, he settles back onto the sofa, trying to sort out his own sleeping arrangements. If he isn't willing to so much as enter his and Fred's room, well… He gives the sofa a quick once-over; it seems comforable enough, and unlikely to collapse under his weight. Decision made, he kicks off his shoes and lies down, suddenly feeling rather drained.

Something is prodding him. He opens a bleary eye (did he really fall asleep?) to find his vision obscured by a curtain of red hair. He opens his other eye to see a moon of a face looming above him. The prodding continues, and he is annoyed to find his movements somewhat restricted. It takes him a while to realise that Ginny is tucking what he recognises to be an old, spare blanket around him; he feels significantly warmer, and rather comfortable. He hums his thanks, managing to catch her smile of welcome before dropping off to sleep again.

His thigh is burning. George bolts upright, covering it with his hands, mind scrambling for a charm to stop it. Curiously, his hands feel warmth – his thigh is not wounded. He looks down at it, and a second later, it hits him: the Galleon! Hurriedly, he extracts it from his pocket, eager to read Hermione's message. The gold coin is cool in his fingers as he holds it up to read it:

Merry Christmas, George!

George feels a smile curling his lips. Tapping the Galleon, he sends a message back (And you, love.) before noticing the pile of presents at his feet. He grabs the biggest one, giving it a small shake and grinning widely.

Maybe Christmas might not be so bad, after all.