The Great Division

Chapter 2: Shattered

Fred. The name that rang through his head every second of everyday, yet he couldn't bring himself to say it. The name that had once rolled so easily off of his tongue, the same name that his lips were so used to forming. Fred.

But Fred was gone. Perhaps the most painful part was that he had left his other half behind to pick up the pieces.

Fred was gone, but his heart, smile, eyes, face, and laugh weren't. George was still alive. True, he hadn't smiled nor laughed once in the past year, instead he spent most of his time staring blankly at the wall. George Weasley, the once infamous prankster had been defeated by the exact force that made most people stronger. Love.

Love had abandoned him and took quite a few people with it. Once they realized that he wasn't the George they knew anymore, they left him.

So there he was, alone and suffering in his wealth. The joke shop had provided him with a lifetime supply of money but he couldn't care less. Funny, how the small golden coins used to mean so much to him, he would give them all up in a heartbeat to have Fred back. People often said that money couldn't buy happiness, at first he hadn't understood but now he knew what they meant. He could be the wealthiest man on Earth but still want nothing more than his brother. His twin. His family.

George sat on the ground with his head between his knees as a weak ray of sun shone dimly though the windows. The tattered, moth eaten curtains were no help blocking it.

He gulped down the dust filled air and stood, shaking slightly and grasping the window ledge for support. Tears started to fall as he thought about what Fred would say if he saw him like this.

But all thanks to Harry Potter, he would never know what Fred would have done. If only he hadn't dropped the resurrection stone on the forest floor, he could have Fred back, even if it was just for a second.

George himself had been searching for the stone for the past year, though so far his search had been in vain. Harry had dropped it in the forbidden forest, who knows what sort of ugly creature might have acquired it.

As George stumbled down the stairs, he could have sworn that he saw Fred! His lips cracked into a smile and for the first time in a long time he began to laugh, driven mad with joy. But when he looked again, it was only a mirror. A cursed mirror.

Out of pure rage, he drove his fist into its reflective surface, shattering it completely. There was only one person who would have put it there. "LARNIVER!" He hollered, pure unadulterated hatred coursed through him as he swore that the house elf wouldn't live to see another day.

There was a small 'pop' and Larniver appeared in front of him, looking anxious as he hopped and jumped, trying to avoid the broken pieces of glass laying on the floor. "You called M-Master?" Larniver bowed so deeply that his nose skimmed the surface of the ground. His eyes averted George's and he shook with fear, looking like he might throw up at any given moment.

George snarled down at the insufferable creature, ready to curse him into oblivion. "Larniver" George said, his voice dangerously calm.

"Y-yes?" The house elf replied, becoming more and more worried by the second. "Did you or did you not place this revolting object in my home and not inform me of it?!" George felt himself grit his teeth as he struggled to contain himself. Sir, I-I" Larniver began, but George cut him off. "Just answer the question, did you or did you not place a MIRROR in my house after I specifically said NOT to put such a thing in my home?" He asked, almost shouting at that point.

"Yes. I did sire." Larniver confessed, bowing his head in shame.

Georges brown eyes narrowed, anger racing through him. "Get out" He ordered, gritting his teeth. It was the least he could do to stop himself from pushing the elf's frail body into a large fire pit.

"M-master I-" Larniver squeaked, messy tears streaming onto his large nose. "You heard me. GET OUT OF MY HOUSE." George howled, ripping off one of his socks and shoving it in Larniver's face.

The pitiful creature began to sob, protesting and pleading as his tiny little heart was broken. "P-pleas, Larniver only thought yous needed-" But he was cut off again. "WHAT I NEED IS FOR YOU TO GET OUT AND NEVER COME BACK." With one strong shove, George pushed Larniver down the stairs.

He watched as Larniver tumbled down the staircase, crying out as his bony figure crashed against the hard wood floor.

Had he been his normal self, he would have helped. But the old George was gone, all that remained was the hollow, cruel, shell of what he used to be. 

So George stayed where he was, watching with sadistic satisfaction. He continued watching as Larniver whimpered in pain, never once offering a helping hand.

The elf shakily got back up and watched fearfully as George mercilessly approached him. "Here's your final task. Take the sock and never darken my doorstep again." George growled, shoving the sock into Larnivers face once more.

The house elf bowed his head, trying to conceal his large tears as he reached out to take the item of clothing. "Y-yes sire" He mumbled as his bony fist closed around the sock, freeing him from George's custody.

---

It had been a week since George relieved himself of Larniver's care, yet annoying and un-obedient  as he was, George had come to realize how much he needed Larniver. Exhaustion coursed through him every second of every day, there was no way he could take care of himself.

He lied to his mother an said he let Larniver go because he wanted to be free, so, knowing he couldn't possibly manage alone, she came by the house often hep. However that promptly came to a halt when George snapped at her.

In his opinion, it was hardly his fault. Emotions were something he never felt anymore, but when he did feel them, it was only pain, anger, or sorrow. But the typically patient Molly had also changed after loosing a son, so she left before the fight escalated.

He was alone again. Perhaps he was destined to be this way. Everyone abandoned him, and for good reason too. He wasn't lovable, charming, funny, kind, mischievous, clever, happy, or outgoing anymore. No one wanted to be around him, half the time he didn't even want to be himself.

He wanted to say that he hated the person he had become, but that would be a downright lie. The new George was his shield, and without it, he would crumble. Cruelty and distance was all he knew now. People abandoned him, hated him, so he changed for the worse because he knew, in his heart, that they could never truly love him. No one could.

He told himself that it was best to just admit to this and embrace it rather than to pretend to be someone he wasn't. That way it would hurt less when they inevitably left him. Even when he wept alone in his bed until morning, with no one to comfort him, he told himself that there was nothing to be done. He wouldn't survive another loss.

It was this way of thinking that led him to cutting. He hated his life, hated himself, hated everyone and everything. Hurting himself was a comfort, a joy. It was almost like a drug. If he wasn't careful, he got addicted. And if he got addicted, he would die.

The first time had been an accident. He was trying to cook because he hadn't eaten in days (but he wasn't hungry anyways) when the knife he was using to cut the bread slipped over the palm of his hand. "Shit." He muttered as he searched for a band aid. But slowly it dawned on him that he didn't want one. The pain was an adrenaline rush, it was something he hadn't felt in a while.

He remembered all the times he looked in the mirror and wanted to punch the person who stared back at him. His cruelty was his shield, but he knew he was truly pathetic. Take away the aggression and the mean glare, and he was just a heart broken, sobbing, lonely boy. And he hated that more than anything.

So, with more confidence, he raised the glinting silver knife over his pale forearm. No one listened, no one cared, not even himself. It was for the best. Blood now stained the rug by the kitchen sink. Blood that he let flow with joy.

The same joy that now filled him as he took a knife and cut. There were already so many scars, so many marks to remind him of what he had done, and what he must continue doing. Scars to remind him that he was still alive.

But he wouldn't be, not for long.