"Your freckles are even in the same spots," she'd told them once and they'd run to a mirror to look.
"Still identical, dears," the mirror had told them.
This is what George thinks as they all file past the grave. The rain has turned the fresh dirt to mud and it squelches between their fingers, lands with a wet squish on the casket.
George feels sick and thinks of rubber wands and their new Sparking Chewing Gum to keep from throwing up. He slides his clean hand into Fred's clean one and the dirty feeling subsides. Somewhat.
It's never gone away completely.
"We have to make a new life," Fred will say as they are standing in the room that was once theirs, after Molly's grief and tuna sandwiches have been eaten from a single plate. "Away from all this." He will gesture towards the bed, the one they slept in. The one they had suffered in.
And George will nod. All places other than England are nice this time of year.
Back at the Burrow with tea in their mugs. With Percy sitting next to him staring into nothingness and Ron and Harry murmuring quietly to one another. George feels sick again and they haven't even eaten yet. Molly is at the sink; he can hear the hand-held can opener grinding. He looks at Fred; Fred is looking down at the table. Everyone is looking somewhere other than at Arthur, and he is oblivious to this.
All eyes had been on Ginny the first morning of the summer she'd been fourteen. George had grasped Fred's hand tightly underneath the table. Charlie had radiated tension next to him. Ginny had simply buttered her toast like she did every morning and George thought that maybe she'd escaped. But Arthur had reached to ruffle her hair and they'd known.
"Still the same, dears," the mirror had told them as they'd passed.
Fred had looked away from their reflection. "I suppose it was too much to hope that things would change."