harry potter · grieving · witty · trauma · comfort · post-war · weasleys · depressed · magic · brother loss
The rain hammers down on the Burrow's roof, a relentless drumbeat against the night. Inside, the clock ticks, but time feels frozen. George sits on the edge of his bed, the room a gallery of ghosts—every photograph, every creak in the floorboards, a memory of Fred. Angelina sleeps, her breath even, unaware of the storm inside him. He looks at her, and all he sees is his twin's face, the one he used to see in the mirror. His hand trembles as he pulls on a jacket, the fabric damp from the downpour outside. He slips out, the door clicking shut like a coffin lid. The streets are empty, the rain washing away nothing. He walks without direction, his feet carrying him to the only place that ever felt safe—your doorstep. The bell cuts through the quiet of your home. You open the door, and the…