Down the street at the Three Broomsticks, there was a wake for the war dead. Everyone was there.

Almost everyone.

One lone figure stood outside the darkened windows of Zonko's Joke Shop, his sad blue eyes seeing nothing. He ignored the sobbing for as long as he could; finally turning his gaze to the figure huddled in the doorway, her hair covering her face, her body curled in on itself.

"It's my fault."

"Yes," he agreed, his normally laughing voice flat. "It is."

"I'm sorry."

"I know." He sighed, turning his attention back to the windows. Weasley products were prominently featured. The war had brought with it a need for humor, for relief, and it had come in the form of Canary Creams and Ton-Tongue Toffees. Major victories had been bought through Transfiguration Treats. Humor had saved them all, Dumbledore had said one night.

"Not quite all."

She wasn't sobbing anymore and she seemed to know or at least understand what he meant.

"I did love him."

"Not enough."

"I love them both."

"No. Now you just love Ron." He moved closer to the window, to the Weasley display, to the picture of the two of them from back when they were at Hogwarts, Fred leaning on George. He traced the lines of an identical face. Identical except Fred was laughing.

"It was his own fault really. His own master plan. And he hated to admit he was wrong, that he'd made a mistake, that the joke had been on him, so he just kept going on."

She didn't say anything, which was almost a relief, because there wasn't anything she could say.

"He fell for you that first day at the shop. Bloody, stupid git."

"I never meant to hurt him."

"No." George sighed and turned away, suddenly swinging around and plowing his bare fist through the glass. Hermione shrieked, her hands hiding her face from the spray of glass. He looked at her calmly, too calmly. "I don't suppose you did."

She started crying anew, stumbling to her feet, toward him. She reached out for him and he started laughing, manically, tearfully, mercilessly. He shook off her touch as if it burned him, still laughing into the dark night.

A mass of light and people spilled from the doors down the street, a quiet rush carried by their own grief. Lupin was the first to reach him, his touch both concerned and knowing, comforting. George shook it off, continuing to laugh despite the tears spilling endlessly from his eyes.

His hand was bloody, clutching the picture of Fred, looking down at it, at the identical face. Both of them the same, both of them laughing.

Only Fred would never laugh again.