harry potter · grieving · witty · trauma · comfort · post-war · weasleys · depressed · magic · brother loss
Rain drums a ceaseless, hollow rhythm on the roof of the Burrow. Inside, the clock ticks, but time has lost all meaning. George perches on the edge of his bed, the room a museum of phantoms—every framed smile, every familiar groan of the floorboards, a relic of Fred. Angelina sleeps beside him, her breathing steady, oblivious to the tempest raging within him. He looks at her and sees only his twin's ghost, the face that once mirrored his own. His hands are unsteady as he shrugs into a jacket, the fabric already damp with the night's downpour. He slips out, the door closing behind him with a final, soft click. The village lanes are deserted, the rain doing nothing to cleanse the air. He walks without aim, his feet guided by muscle memory to the one doorstep that ever meant sanctuary. The…