A/N: I own nothing but the story line. All belongs to the one and only JK Rowling.

Dear Forge,

It has been five months since your demise; I burnt all the scraps of paper I wrote my letters to you between the first and this letter. My tear stains made the ink all runny every time I reread them. You've turned me into such a sap, Freddie.

How are you, wherever you are? It's not getting any better, you know. For any of us, for that matter. Mum's gone hysterical now: every time she steps into our room, she breaks down and her she starts breathing just like when she got Gin.

Ginny.

She's gone back to Hogwarts for her seventh year. Poor girl's all skinny and stick-like now. Mum has been giving poor Gin an earful at every meal because she wouldn't eat. Mum's the one to talk- she's lost all that weight. Remember when we would poke fun at Mum about that? She would chuckle and say, "It's both your faults! These after- pregnancy weight."

I slouch around the Burrow now. No one in their right minds would speak to me without me lashing out at them. I think it's called anger. Anger- something so foreign and strange to us both, eh? Always the jokers in the family, we are. Who am I going to eavesdrop on people with? Who am I going to share clothes with? Who am I going to play practical jokes on people with? Who am I going to get into mischief with?

Who's going to complete my sentences?

Freddie, you would know by now that every time I say something to someone, I turn back to look at you, waiting for you to finish what I was about to say. Then I realise: you're not around anymore. So, I walk away from the person I'm talking to. They talk behind my back, too. It's always the same stupid words: "Poor George." "The loss of his brother has been hard." "Give him time."

What do they know, eh, Freddie? I know you're still here, because I can feel you around me. Even though your bed is empty, your clothes still in our closet, your wand in a glass case on the family mantel, I know you're lingering around. And I also know that Mum and Dad know you're around as well; they just refuse to believe. Don't forget, I am your twin, after all. No one would understand the connection between us both.

Forever, until the day I die and my grave be placed next to yours.

Oh- you have to forgive me for the tear stains on this parchment. The Squib at Sribbulus told me it was stain repellent. That git better return the 5 Sickles I paid him for this stupid piece of parchment.

Perpetually your twin,

George F. Weasley

I just couldn't resist throwing this in; it has been collecting virtual dust in my files. Reviews are loved and much appreciated!