Disclaimer: All rights to J.K. Rowling and Aesop's Fables.

A Bundle of Sticks is not Easily Broken

For three days her beloved brother had been locked up in his room, refusing to eat or drink anything. The one and only time he'd come out was in a rage, his face red with anger and tears and frustration. His eyes were horribly red, his face was puffy, his figure was hunched over. That one time that her favorite brother had come out of his bedroom, he'd run through the house and destroyed every single mirror with both fists and wand, until all that was left was the shattered glass littered upon the floor and dust.

George had then sat down, exhausted from crying, in a corner. Wrapped his arms around his knees like a lost child. He'd sobbed without tears, for there were none left in him. She only could understand an inkling of her brother's pain, because the agony of losing a twin who he had spent every moment of nineteen years, almost twenty, with, was much more horrid than the pain of losing a brother, a son.

It was after that third day that Ginny finally decided she'd let her brother lock himself up no more. It was wrecking the entire family to see him this way. Harry especially; he felt utterly guilty and responsible for Fred's death for absolutely no reason at all. Ginny didn't bother to knock, didn't even bother to try the door she knew was locked. A simple "Alohomora" did the trick, and she walked in without a hesitation.

The room was unusually neat. Both his and Fred's beds were made, the sheets pulled tight around the corners and the Gryffindor-style quilts smoothed to perfection. Neither bed looked like it had been slept in recently. All the posters on the walls were straightened, the desks organized. The red paint that was peeling off the walls had been chipped off by nails, the window had been cleaned of black mould and now only seemed slightly yellow. The only thing that had seemingly remained untouched was the twins' closet, which, Ginny could see through the open door, was an utter mess with clothes strewn all about.

Ginny had expected to see George with his knees pulled up to his face, crying silently again, but was met with a different scene entirely. Her brother sat cross-legged on the floor, wearing his crimson sweater labeled with a large embroidered G over a pair of faded jeans. His hair was messy, all over the place as usual, sticking up in the back. He tapped his wand against his left palm with his right hand, staring at his reflection in the one mirror in the house that had thus so far been repaired.

In George's lap was an equally crimson sweater, but this one had an F embroidered into it. It just sat there, not a horrible reminder nor a happy one, just passive, neutral. Just there.

Her brother wore the same expression the sweater seemed to radiate. He simply sat there, looking at himself in the mirror, not shedding tears, not smiling nor sad, not angry, but with an utterly passive and neutral expression upon his face. It unsettled Ginny to see her brother so emotionless.

Ginny crossed the carpet as if she did it every day and sat down next to her brother, leaning into him and wrapping an arm around his waist before nuzzling her nose into his shoulder. She breathed in deeply, relishing in that smell that was simply home. George didn't move, didn't blink. She wasn't even sure he was breathing, but she just hugged him and tried to convey all her emotions through that simple, sisterly embrace. "What're we doing, Gin?" he asked suddenly, his dulled eyes not moving from his reflection.

Ginny did not respond; did not know how to respond. It was the first word she'd heard out of her brother in days. She simply let her arms hang loosely around him.

"You know, after I finally ran out of tears, I realized that I shouldn't have." Ginny propped her chin up on her brother's shoulder, looking at him warmly with her amber eyes, and waited for him to continue. George's eyes finally left his mirror. "Would Fred really have wanted me to sit in my room and cry for three days straight?" She opened her mouth, but George went on, face as impassive as ever and voice calm.

"No. He wouldn't have. He would've wanted me to celebrate what he did get of life. He would've wanted me to continue our legacy." George paused, and sighed before putting down his wand and placing his hand on the back of Ginny's head. He kissed her forehead softly. "I'm so terribly sorry for what I've done, Gin. I've completely disregarded that I'm not the only one who misses him. All of you feel horrible too. I've only made it worse for the rest of you." He stroked down her soft silky hair.

"You know I love you, right? I love you, George," Ginny murmured into her brother's red sweater. "You're my brother, and I don't want anything bad to ever happen to you."

"As I love you, Ginny. I love all of you, including Fred. And I promise never to leave again when you need me so much. I've been selfish; I'm not the only one who despaired from the loss. You didn't deserve me leaving you like that."

They sat there like that for a while, the mirror now disregarded and forgotten. It would be a long time until everyone healed, but they could help each other. They would help each other. Ginny suddenly remembered a story Harry had told her from the Muggle world.

A certain Father had a family of Sons, who were forever quarreling among themselves. No words he could say did the least good, so he cast about in his mind for some very striking example that should make them see that discord would lead them to misfortune.

One day when the quarreling had been much more violent than usual and each of the Sons was moping in a surly manner, he asked one of them to bring him a bundle of sticks. He said to his eldest son: "Break it."

The son strained and strained, but with all his efforts was unable to break the bundle.

He handed the bundle to each of his other Sons in turn he told them to try to break it. But although each one tried his best, none was able to do so.

The Father then untied the bundle and gave the sticks to his Sons to break one by one. This they did very easily.

"My Sons," said the Father, "do you not see how certain it is that if you agree with each other and help each other, it will be impossible for your enemies to injure you? But if you are divided among yourselves, you will be no stronger than a single stick in that bundle."

As Ginny remembered the story, she compared her family to the brothers. Sure, their case wasn't that they argued too much, but that they'd lost a family member in war. Nevertheless, she knew that if they all worked and healed together, they could not be easily broken.

Ginny was brought back to the present by George's shifting muscles. "He's still here, George. He's watching over you. He always will be," she murmured. "Until you join him in a while."

"I know," George said, and he knew it was true. "But I want no one to forget one thing, Gin. Fred and I, we'll always be a we. Never, never —" and George's calm, unemotional voice finally cracked "— will that we become an I." The fully-grown man leant heavily into his sister when she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tightly.

Ginny nodded, tears glazing over her warm amber eyes. "I know, Georgie. I know."

And she did know. Just like she knew that a bundle of sticks was not easily broken.