A/N: Written in response to Rosalie'sRevenge's Four Seasons Competition. This is for the Spring prompt, with George and Remus as the characters :)

Remus banged through the door of Andromeda's home, the sound penetrating the early morning silence. A heartbeat of worry. And then Andromeda's wand was at his throat. "What colour was Teddy's hair when you left him here with Nymphadora last night?"

His heart beat painfully in his chest. "Dora's dead," he whispered, almost disbelievingly.

Her wand wavered briefly before steadying. "Answer the question."

"Pink. It was pink, to match Dora's."

The woman gasped, as though this truly confirmed both his identity and his news, but Remus ignored her. There were no words that could possibly follow such a revelation. He brushed past her instead and strode determinedly to Teddy's room as though his very existence depended upon getting there. But when he reached the doorway he froze, his hand outstretched towards the doorknob, his fingers shaking in trepidation. A moment passed, and then another, before he reminded himself that Teddy was fine and he was being utterly ridiculous. It occurred to him, as he gently swung the door open, that he should be crying, but the realization seemed unimportant and he crossed the room silently.

Teddy was laying in his crib, his eyes shut softly in sleep. His hair was still Dora's pink, and Remus found himself smiling sadly as he lifted the boy into his arms. The baby didn't stir and so Remus took Teddy downstairs and sat before the fire, rocking slowly back and forth and letting the warmth sink into his heart. Back and forth, back and forth, and soon tears were trailing silently down his cheeks.

Sometime later, not too long, for the sun was not yet bright in the sky, there was a knock at the door. Remus heard Andromeda's soft, "You're a Weasley boy, eh?" A pause. "Who did you lose?"

"Fred," came the choked answer. Remus could practically see Andromeda's sharp nod as she let the boy pass her, and the gesture she surely gave towards the living room as moments later George stepped into its dimness.

The two men looked long at one another, George standing in the doorway, and Remus paused in his rocking before the fire. Eventually Remus nodded toward the sofa and turned back to the fire, rocking his son once more. And so they sat, for hours, sometimes crying, sometimes silent, but neither uttering a word. Andromeda brought food in exchange for Teddy as soon as he began fussing, and then more sometime later, but it remained untouched on the table. The sun made its way through the sky and the day drew to a close, night blanketing the world in a mood of mourning. It was not until darkness filled the room that George spoke, looking out the window thoughtfully.

"It seems strange, you know. It's spring." Remus said nothing. "Fred and I, we've always loved the springtime—'The Season of Opportunity.' It's got our birthday," he laughed softly, "which was always great, but mostly there's just something about it that screams beginnings and renewal and creativity and inventiveness. It was like…" he paused, a grin on his face, "like it was created solely for pranking."

Remus smiled in reminiscence. "James and Sirius always felt the same," he replied. "Spring would hit and suddenly all of Hogwarts would be instantly on edge, waiting to see what misfortune would next befall them."

George grinned at the comparison—Fred would've loved that tidbit; they'd both idolized the Marauders since the day they'd worked out the map. His face fell once more at the thought. "We always felt extra-excited, extra-passionate, extra-energized when spring hit. Like everything was sure to go perfectly. Nothing could possible go wrong, because spring was always ours." A tear slid down his face and splashed heavily into the window sill.

"Spring is supposed to be the time for birth," Remus said softly, thinking of Teddy upstairs in his crib, "Not for…" his voice wavered, "for death," and gave out, and the two dropped once more into silence.

Dora was gone. He had worked so hard to open himself to her, to be everything she could ever want or need. He had given to her his heart, and now she was gone. Their baby would grow up without a mother. His tiny, precious son who already knew there was something wrong, the pitch of his cries giving away his concern. His beautiful, beautiful son.

Fred was gone. After everything. Their plans, their memories. Their future, their past. All dashed to nothing in an instant. An instant he wasn't even there for. Half of him was gone, he was half empty, incomplete. And he always would be. He already missed his twin's laughter; he barely even believed it was gone. Surely Fred would walk through the door, a grin on his face, apologetic for having disappeared for a time, but very real, and very back.

Remus threw a nearby vase into the fire. The crash echoed through the house, and Teddy's cries upstairs mingled with the sizzling of the water on the flames. George watched as the flowers burned, fire dancing darkly over the edges of their petals, and slowly consuming them, just as the grief did his heart.

"I am a father."

George started, turning to look at Remus.

"I have a little boy, who's going to need me." His eyes pierced George's with a powerful terror.

A sense of peace rushed through George's body. This he could do. Handling Fred's death? Not a chance. Comforting a friend though, he was more than game for that.

"You'll be a great father, Remus. No one besides you has any doubts."

Remus wouldn't be deterred. "Because you're all fools," he growled. "How can I possibly take care of a child when I'm—"

"A war hero who helped to save the Wizarding World not once, but twice? An amazing man who's always there for everyone? A werewolf who knows what it's like to face adversity and to make mistakes and to bounce back from both?"

Remus opened his mouth and then shut it again and George grinned. "Besides, mate, when you screw up, we'll all be here to tell you and then to bail you out. Can't imagine what the little guy's life would be like without Uncle George around." He shoved back the pang at his omission of "Uncle Fred" and focused instead on the weak chuckle he'd drawn from Remus.

The werewolf nodded pensively and George switched back to seriousness—a gift Fred had never had. "Your wife died, mate. In the spring. But life is still everywhere. Your son was only born a month ago and he's beginning to grow. Between the two of us, Remus, I think maybe we can remember that."

They looked at each other again. It would be hard, they both knew, and they would grieve a long time, but they were going to be just fine. Because it was spring, and spring was a time for beginnings. And for hope.