fic: Louder, Louder (i'll be right beside you)

Title: Louder, Louder (i'll be right beside you)
Author: happiestwhen
Topic: Insanity, Mental Illness
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Fred, George
Summary: George is hit with a curse that is slowly destroying his mind. Fred is despondent.
Word Count: 2482
Notes: written for Session One for the Character Specific prompt W. This story is one of the few that really hurt my heart to write but I am pleased with the way it turned out. Thank you to bloodybrilliant and stephanometra for help with early revisions and fact-checking; to platoapproved for the encouragement; to noticeably, starrysummer and waxrose for the beta-reading; to sunblossoms for the final once-over; and to fivil for just being who she is. ♥ The title is from the lyrics to "Run" by Snow Patrol.

Comments and feedback of any kind are always appreciated.

:::

one.

It starts with laughter.

I punch him in the arm but he won't stop, and soon I'm doubled over and chuckling right along with him. My sides hurt and I forget what was so funny to begin with. George's laughter is contagious. Mum says that like it's something bad, like a disease. She should laugh more. Then she'd see.

We're out of the Burrow now, in our own flat. Away. Gone.

We need laughter. That isn't a bad thing, can't be. It's something to fill in the silence when we forget the words. We. It's together because we can't function apart. The words don't sound the same when it's just one of us speaking. The laughter doesn't either.

We play Exploding Snap until our arms are sore from tossing cards and our faces are smoky with ash. We're both grinning, teeth white and eyes bright. Tossers, Charlie would say. And we'd nod and reply, altogether too seriously, Who else were you expecting?

When he smiles, I smile, and his sentences are mine. I always know what he's thinking, anticipate his words, fill in the missing syllables. I can read the secrets in his eyes and sometimes we don't even need to speak.

Laughing is best when you're not alone. It's fuller that way. Better.

two.

We learn together, too. All of our creations are ours, shared. We work together because the pieces just don't fit when I'm on my own.

The Shield Boots began selling immediately, and the order with the Ministry was our largest yet. George and I celebrated with a lavish dinner in our flat, music weaving its way through the air and into the walls, so loud and pounding we were sure that they'd send Aurors after us. (There was enough leftover food for them, too, of course, should they care to drop by.)

We scattered dungbombs on the steps to our neighbor's flat and even tried out some of our new creations — powder that would spring up from the pavement and cover the face of whomever passed by with speckles and stripes; rocks that exploded and played music... it was brilliant. A great night. A silly, stupid romp through immaturity, but great, yes.

I remember being happy that night. I remember laughing like a loon and looking in the mirror and seeing myself, arm slung around my brother's shoulder. We were indistinguishable, twin smiles and eyes sparkling with alcohol and happiness.

He'd make the delivery to the Ministry's drop-off point the next morning. I remember him sleeping at my side, nose buried in his pillow. I remember looking at him, shock of red hair against the white pillowcase and sheets. I remember looking at George. I remember seeing him when he was still full and complete.

three.

It rains the night it happens and the sky is grey. The Mediwizards step aside when I walk into the room, and George is there in the bed. His eyes are closed, but he's breathing. He has to be. I would feel it if he wasn't.

He was careless, I think. He was unarmed, and foolish, and probably skipping and whistling and being an arse as usual.

The Mediwizards tell me that George didn't even know the name of the spell that was cast. He fainted when they asked him to recount what had happened. George doesn't faint. I don't either. We don't. But now we do. No, he does. Now there's something between us and I can't feel George's thoughts like before. I can't think his thoughts and he isn't speaking any sentences for me to finish.

I feel nauseous as I leave the room and wait out in the hall for Mum and Dad. Something is very wrong.

four.

The Mediwizards don't know what to do. I hear them murmur things in low whispers when they think I'm not listening. No cure, they say. Terminal. I don't know what to make of it, because George's eyes are open now and he's grinning like he just stared death in the face and made it through without a scratch. Everything seems fine, but there's a hollowness in George's eyes that wasn't there before.

He doesn't look sick, though, so I don't understand why the Mediwizards are keeping him.

Insanity, I hear one of them whisper to another, a nudge of a shoulder and a nod of the head.

Oh.

five.

There must be something I can do. There is a solution to every problem. I invent. I am an inventor. I create and redefine and recreate and remake and fix. It's what I do. We. What we do. The Wheezes has always been about circumventing the rules, finding a shortcut, a better way of doing things.

That's all I need. An invention. A perfect fix. George would laugh if he heard me thinking about this in such a logical way. All of our inventions have started on impulse. Spontaneity. That's what I need.

But I don't. I can't. There isn't a joke or prank or creatively titled charm that will fix what's happened. And even if there was, I wouldn't be able to find it soon enough, and I wouldn't be able to make it without George. I just don't work the same on my own. Peas in a pod, Mum used to say. She was right.

six.

Names are the first things to go. It starts with Harry, and Ron. Percy is just a wisp, and George can only remember him on rainy days. He knows my name still, so I cling to the hope that things will be okay again. He knows Mum and Dad, but sometimes he forgets that he is George. George Weasley. That this is St. Mungo's. That we are in London.

I hate to see him struggle because we're no longer on a level field. Every year spent learning together is fading fast, but he's still George. He is still my brother even when he looks up blankly when Charlie or Bill comes through the floo.

Soon all the names are gone. Soon we're all just faceless blurs before his eyes and I want to shake him and snap him out of it.

I want to, but I can't.

seven.

Some days, George isn't George. He begins to think he's someone else. Some days it's simple, easy to write off and ignore. Some days he calls himself Fred, and I would smile if it weren't so painful to see him like that, looking in the mirror and seeing me, my face, my eyes there. It would have been a brilliant prank to pull on Mum if it weren't real. He would have played it so convincingly. He does. He doesn't see himself anymore. But I do.

Some days, he even thinks he's a girl. Ginny, the youngest Weasley daughter. He complains about how his hair is too short, about his clothes being too loose. I want to laugh, because it's hilarious, or should be, but laughter isn't allowed anymore. Everyone looks solemn and worried and the Mediwizards come and go and even though they've allowed George to return to the Burrow, it doesn't feel like home. This is a hospital in disguise, and they call my brother 'the patient' like he's something wrong and inhuman.

Some days, George is just not George. And some days, he is too tired to think to be anyone else. Those days are the worst, because he looks like he's wearing a mask that he doesn't really believe belongs to him.

Those days, I ignore him and spend the afternoon outside kicking garden gnomes and trying to think of other things. There are no other things anymore, though. The shop is closed and there's nothing left to focus on. Nothing left that matters.

eight.

Some days, he is Harry. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. The Mediwizards can't explain it, how he remembers so much sometimes, and at other times, nothing. He is Harry Potter, and he will defeat Voldemort with a single curse, and sometimes it's that unrecognizable magic that damaged his own mind, and sometimes it's just a string of nonsense syllables. George doesn't know magic anymore, at least, no magic that would be any use to him.

He speaks with such conviction that I'd almost believe him. He tells me of secrets and solutions and victory hidden amidst the peaks of the Alps or the Himalayas. He has no idea what he's saying, but he's nearly fanatical, so I nod, and smile, and hope that the next morning, he will have forgotten it all again.

I don't care now if Voldemort lives or dies. Harry and Hermione and Ron have been gone for some time now, and we haven't heard news yet. I hope they're well. I know Harry will succeed. I hope. But I don't care, because even if we win, George will still wake up screaming and crying and tearing at the sheets and calling out for people who are not there. Who never existed.

nine.

Some days, George is just sad. I stare at him across the kitchen table as he traces circles in his porridge with his fingertip and wonder what's in his head now. Who. Where. I wonder if he knows I'm sitting there, right in front of him. I wonder if he's scared. I wonder if he knows he's still my brother. That I love him. That it will be okay. (That it won't.)

ten.

There are days when I have to stop him from killing himself. I find him in the kitchen, tearing through the cupboards and drawers in search of knives. I don't let him do magic anymore, because he's unstable, and any spell he casts could kill him. I broke his wand in half and hid it from reach. He asks about it sometimes, on days when he remembers he's a wizard. It doesn't help when I try to explain. He just gets angry, and slams the door in my face or bangs his fists on the wall, hating me for taking his magic away.

He's six years old again and throwing a tantrum because Mum took our pack of Exploding Snap cards away. This time, though, there wasn't anything to take away. It was already gone.

He's not six years old. He's nineteen and he doesn't even know it. He's nineteen and he wants to end it all right this second. But I won't let him. He's hurting too much. More than anyone his age should, and I want to kick him into next week and tell him what an arse he's being, but he just doesn't understand. There are shadows under his eyes that match the shadows in his mind that I do not understand. I wish he'd explain it all so that I could finish his sentences again.

eleven.

I hate the look of terror on my brother's face. On my face. My twin's. Mine. He is helpless and so am I. There's nothing left for us to do here. Terminal. No cure. Everything the Mediwizards said is true. It's over. Accept it, their eyes seem to say, each time they leave the house. There's an almost-sympathy in their expressions, and I hate it because they can't understand. They don't see what I do. To them, George is just another failed case to mark down and file away. There isn't anything more they can do, they say. They've given up and think we should too. I won't, though. I keep trying, looking for an answer. It's there somewhere. Has to be.

George is silent these days, and it hurts, because this house feels empty when no one's speaking. There are nights when I yell at my reflection in the bathroom mirror just because it feels like George is there yelling back.

Sometimes he responds, though. Sometimes he looks up with a flash of recognition in his eyes. That's when it hurts the most, because I know he's only seeing because he thinks it will make me smile. And I try to. I do.

Sometimes I call him George and he turns and grins and says, Yes, Fred, but he doesn't know who Fred is anymore. His voice is automatic, the sentence mechanical.

The tone is the same, and it's still George's lips pulling into the grin. It's George there even when it's not, and I hate that I can't distinguish between what's now and what was. I hate that I get wrapped up in the possibility of hope, because when I go to clap George on the back and make a joke, it all breaks and I realize I'm just touching empty space. It's still George there, but it isn't. It never will be again.

twelve.

Sometimes it's like he's heard me, like he understands. His voice bubbles into laughter, but it's not real. He sounds hysterical, and nothing is funny.

He is not George anymore, won't answer to that name, not even by mistake or to pretend. He is still my twin, though, my mirror, and I hold his hand when he grapples for faces and people who are not there.

I repeat my name over and over and he keeps laughing.

So this is the end of it, then. This is what we are reduced to. I cling to the light that I still believe is there and he reaches for me like I am a shadow.

The muscles in his back cord under my hands and I feel my own shoulders tense and release. If I could just keep him steady, keep myself upright, it would be okay. But we've both fallen now and there isn't a way to fix this. So we slump to the floor and sit like that.

He's still laughing.

It is then I understand that he will never be the George I remember. He will never be the brother I started Hogwarts with, the brother who was sorted with me and slept in the bed to my right for seven years. He will never be the brother who invented Canary Creams (though we shared the credit), or the brother I kissed by accident after our Daydream Charm prototype went awry. He will never again be the brother I joked with and smiled with and lived with and— and—

I understand, but I do not accept. His freckles are still in all the right places, and his hair is just as much a mess as mine is. When he laughs, it sounds the same.

Time works in strange ways. Horrible ways. Terrible ways. As long as I hold onto George, things will be okay. Different, but okay.

He is shaking in my arms. He hasn't stopped laughing yet. He looks at me and says, quietly, You're a really good friend, you know that. He doesn't even look like he recognizes me. But he's smiling, and he's laughing.

So I laugh, too.

:::