My brother welcomes me home. He's standing on the steps when I apparate on the grounds. His blond hair is a mess as if he slept on it and hasn't showered since yesterday. He's wearing all black, which is abnormal for him. Normally, he wears shades of grey and navy and forest green. Even a dark red on occasion will suit his needs. There is no colour to his clothes, just like there is no colour to his face. Pale beyond measure, his face looks nearly as sunken as our mother's.

"I thought you weren't coming back," he says, a frown on his face.

I shake my head. If I could explain things to him, I would. "Just needed to grab my things."

"It took you hours," he says.

"I have a lot of things," I retort.

He simply glares at me, but he lets me open the door for him.

We walk inside.

The manor is still empty. I'm not sure why I expected it to be full of people, but it is barren. No one has come to give us their sympathies. I am alone in my mourning.

After setting up all of my things in my room, I tuck the picture of the four of us (myself, Fred, George, and Robbie) under my pillow. Bathsheba might see it when she washes my sheets though, so I open up the furnace grate and tuck the picture inside of it. Well hidden, I decide. Away from my brother's prying eyes, the picture shall await my return.

The next few days fly by. My father makes funeral arrangements while I wander the house. I wonder if this is what it's like to be a ghost. To wander without a point. I do write a letter to my boss at the ministry, who gives me a few weeks off to let me mourn. In those days, I wander. I barely eat; every day I look more and more like my mother. My full cheeks become sharper, as does my previously rounded jaw. My blonde hair becomes dirtier with each passing day.

Eventually, my mother's funeral comes around. It takes two weeks to plan, and so we are smack-dab in the middle of February by the time everyone comes in. Her parents arrive, older than ever, and they compliment me for looking just like my mother. They are impressed with my brother's duelling skills. My father's parents are long dead, and his only sibling is in Azkaban, so it is just my grandparents.

Their sorrow fills me too. I'm like a sponge for sadness. I soak everything up, until I burst and cry it all out. Then, I just get filled again. The cycle repeats aimlessly.

The whole time, my brother offers me a cold shoulder, which I never cry on. It's difficult to navigate our relationship. Late at night, I'll hear him crying, and he will come and knock on my door and so I will pretend to be asleep. It's easier than confronting him. Even if he apologized, which I doubt he will, nothing shall ever be the same between us again. He cursed me, after all. I don't easily forgive.

At the funeral, many people arrive. It was published in the Daily Prophet's deaths column, so I'm not entirely surprised. For starters, all of my brother's coworkers come. He seems to be very close to them. Athena Rowle is not present, so it seems my brother's relationship is done. Many of my father's coworkers and friends come. This means they bring their children. Bronwyn comes, and so does Silas. They do not say a word to me the entire time, and I am thankful they avoid me.

Then, unfortunately, George and Robbie come. It seems they've been reading the prophet as well.

I sneak off out of the hall when they arrive, and the pair of them trail after me.

"You aren't welcome here," I tell them, my voice a sharp whisper.

"We know," George says, speaking for the two of them. "Fred just won't shut up about you."

"You look sick," Robbie says. "No one should lose that much weight so quickly."

"I'm fine," I argue. Even though I don't feel much of a point in arguing, I can't help myself. "Look, my brother will be around any minute. You need to go."

"I only want what's best for you Larkin," George says. It is the first time he has spoken to me with any sort of candour to his voice. "Is this what will make you happy? If it is, you'll never hear from me or Fred again. Or Robbie."

I don't know what's best for me. I just know that Fred and I fight, and when we fight it's ugly, and one day he'll leave me, as my mother said, and then I will have no one. Family is here forever. My family can protect me. The others cannot even try.

"I'm good here," I tell them. "I'll be fine."

Then, they apparate away.

When I go back to the funeral, the proceedings go on, though I'm barely present. I wonder if I'll be absent for the rest of my life. When I go back to work, my coworkers barely notice me. Sometimes I see a flash of red hair, and my heart drops, only for it to be Percy Weasley, the twins' older brother. There is only one moment that makes me feel alive.

It's when I'm brewing Amortentia. The smell comes in strong, of mostly vanilla, with hints of firewood and cinnamon. The rain is gone. The childhood youth I once believed in stomped in. It's like the feeling of walking on a wet sidewalk, and accidentally crushing a snail. It's like that every day.

All the while, my father is having secret meetings. February becomes March, which becomes April. No word from the Weasleys. Each night I go to sleep, I look at us in the muggle photograph. Fred hasn't even bothered to come to visit me. I don't want to read into it, because there could've been a variety of reasons for his absence, but actions always speak louder than words. Maybe there is some justification for his lack of appearance at the funeral, but I don't know that I care to hear it.

My brother doesn't pester me about my love life. In fact, he does not pester me at all. He throws himself headfirst into his work until he crashes and burns and crashes and burns again. He has moved home, even though he liked living on his own. At least, I assume he did. I know very little about the man with whom I shared a womb.

At some point, I'm invited to teach the class on Amortentia at Hogwarts, by a Professor named Slughorn. I say yes because I want to see the castle once more. A good-bye never felt proper. I'm forced to take the train up, and I ride it alone.

I teach the class, looking out onto the faces of the crowd. I see Mione, Ron, and Harry of course. None of them look at me as if I am a stranger, even though they ought to do so. They don't know about Fred and me, or I guess, maybe they never did know. My brother and I aren't close. I suppose that Fred might be closer with Ron, but I haven't the foggiest.

At the end of the lecture, I get questions from a few students who want to know what it's like to work as a brewer. They want to know if it's true that I made liquid luck, and how working for the ministry is. I answer all of their questions.

Finally, when all the students filter out, Harry Potter approaches me. "Do you know who the Half-Blood prince is? Did you have his book?"

I shake my head. "Sorry, I wish I could help you."

I wish I could help anyone.

~~~~~

I really feel for Larkin here. She still has a lot of growing to do, but she is being torn apart and I really feel for that. It truly breaks my heart.

What do you think will happen next?