Sick Of Losing Soulmates // George Weasley

Existence

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　Aggie　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 

Life was bleak and empty.

The destruction in the wake of the loss of Fred was nothing short of devastating. 

Days bled into weeks, weeks bled into months, and the pain was relentless. 

The agony that tore through my very existence whenever I contemplated the short life Fred had lived was nothing compared to the torture I knew George was enduring. Watching him struggle was quite possibly the hardest thing. Yes, the pain of losing Fred for me was excruciating, but having to see George, so pained, so broken, having to watch George endure the loss of Fred, was utter torment. 

I wanted nothing more than to take his pain away. The heart that beat in my chest was a mere physicality, my true heart living in the depths of George's soul; thus, his pain was my pain, and I was so desperate to make it stop. I needed him to feel happy again, to see a glimmer of light, to feel comfort and joy; I would've laid down my life in a heartbeat if it meant he would smile again. 

My days were spent longingly observing a shell of George Weasley, hoping to see a spark behind his eyes, hoping he would become present, if even for a moment. But, that day was yet to come. He rolled out of bed at the crack of dawn, as soon as he knew it was an appropriate time to be awake. It was evident his nights were sleepless, his eyes dull and dark, his cheeks sunken and his skin pale. The day was victorious if he showered and dressed. Mostly, he sat silently, staring out of the window, eating only when his mother begged him to. He avoided mirrors, the reflection that stared back at him reminded him too much of what he had lost.

Occasionally, when I would sit across from him and squeeze his hand, he would notice the tears that fell from my cheeks, and his body would be overcome with roaring sobs, and he would collapse into my arms and scream and beg that the universe would take him, take away his pain and reunite him with his brother, and I would leave with a heavier conscience than before, riddled with guilt that my tears had caused his breakdown. 

Then, the next day I would arrive back at The Burrow and be met with the same expressionless, vacant figure of George Weasley, and part of me would wish to have him break down in my arms again; just to prove to me he was still in there. 

It wasn't until four months after Fred's death, when Molly collapsed to her knees in front of George, begging for him to try, she sobbed into his lap, expressing her grief of the loss of two sons - not just one, that George began to make subtle changes. 

Now, he would tear his eyes from the window when I arrived at The Burrow in a morning, greeting me with a small hello before averting his gaze back to the garden. He began eating three meals a day, joining us at the table for each. Occasionally, on a particularly good day, he would engage in very small conversation, sometimes with Ron when he visited, or Arthur when he spoke of his day at work, or Ginny when she dared search his eyes - if he heard something mundane enough that it wouldn't evoke any emotion, he would quickly mutter a sentence, so to appease his mother's wishes. It didn't feel like much but it meant so much that he was trying. 

Time continued to pass. Improvements and progress becoming more of a regularity. George's grief was all consuming, but now there were flashes of him sometimes. He was nowhere near the old George, but I doubted we would ever fully get him back. The glimpses of George were enough, however, I was elated when they came.