Half

by John Townsend F10

“Morning, Fred,” a bedraggled head of fiery red hair greeted the mirror standing against the wall. Then, worn and willfully, the man stood up, looked again at his reflection, and tried to smile. But something was wrong, he knew, so his reflection came out with a contorted grimace upon it, a frustrated curve to his brow. His eyes looked toward the reflection’s left ear, and the truth was revealed. The man took on a look of hopelessness before giving the mirror one last look and storming out. ‘If it wasn’t for the blasted ear.’ He almost chuckled to himself at the double meaning. Fred would’ve enjoyed it. Then again, Fred probably would’ve said it first, he was sure. The same way the man was sure nobody would think of him the same, how he couldn’t think of himself the same.

This was so unlike him, they’d all said. Even his mum was back to being her same worrisome but lovable self. She’d even forgiven Harry. He’s not really the one to blame, but it makes things easier from time to time. The man knew it was really just the world kicking him in the bollocks. Worse than the evil they’d all been fighting that night. If the wall hadn’t come down, Fred–

The man’s slumped shoulders straightened, and he pulled on the kitchen cupboard handle his fingers had mindlessly been resting on. But his eyes did not see the contents; a mind buzzing with dark clouds blinded them, so the man closed the door and walked back to his room to get ready for another long day at the joke shop.

It gets to be difficult working in a joke shop when the funniest things remind you of a truth you’d rather not remember. But the man still loved this place he and his brother had bought and all the mischievous promise its products offered; besides, there were some ways of avoiding the truth. His hands idly straightened the full-length mirror that rested to the left of his chair, turned just enough so he could see his reflection out of the corner of his eye, the tell-tale ear out of view.

“George, how’s it going?” a usual customer (his name was Simon, a scrawny boy, almost too short to see over the counter, wild tawny hair, and a smile as bright as his childish eyes, a boy George had become a sort of mentor to in the past summer months), and soon to be first year, asked. George, sitting beside that mirror, only slightly hesitated in his reply.

“Good. Coming to clear the lot, or are we going to have to throw you out?”

“I’m getting a whole load of stuff today. You should’ve seen what I did to Oscar…” Simon began enthusiastically as ever.

George usually listened to this boy’s tales of childhood rivalry, but right now, he was reflecting on his mis-wording. ‘I have to say “I,” not “we,” George. If you keep this up, you’re going to worry Mum. Again.’ How could he have just said that? And he’d just recently managed to speak in complete thoughts again. It’s not that he’d been incapable before, but in the past, there were times (usually in times of mischief) when he’d say something, and Fred would finish. It was silent communication at its best, better than even magic could provide, and it had been the way things were for nineteen years of their lives. It had become habitual.

But when Fred was gone, it had taken some adjusting. No one realized at first because George had chosen to remain silent for the first few weeks, much to the surprise of his entire family, he was sure. Soon, though, in a bout of rare (for the time) humour, he’d address a room full of people and deliver clipped speech, a broken sentence waiting for a finish that would not come. Hesitations continued to dig him into holes while the silences between bubbled outward until he stood silenced and shocked before leaving, fists clenched and eyes burning.

Fortunately, practice had given way to coherence. Serious conversations were easy enough to finish, since those had been the ones he’d completed on his own in the past. It was when there was a sense of mischief and glee that communication became difficult. Though George had finally become used to telling others his mischievous plans with little hesitation and few stutters, it took him a while.

Needless to say, working in the joke shop was embarrassing for George those couple months, and the constant reminders of what had happened were painful. George hadn’t been on the wrong end of a prank for quite some time, always being the one initiating the prank, but he figured his life had turned out to be the biggest joke yet. Merlin knew they were twins, but it became useful when George realized he could just look at his own reflection and see his brother again. They’d always been able to fool their mother. What was to say he couldn’t just fool himself?

George had initially set up the mirror beside himself and introduced his reflection to his customers as “My brother, Fred. Seems I got all the good looks in our family,” trying to be light-hearted, but that had worried his family when they’d found out about it; Ron can’t seem to keep his mouth shut sometimes.

“… and then his hair was green! And he had no idea who did it. Until he saw my face, anyway. You should’ve been there. It was a moment to remember,” Simon finished recounting his mighty accomplishments with a flourish. George had almost forgotten he was there. He had, actually, until the kid had swung his arm out and knocked a display product off the counter in front of him. It was a ‘Grab Hand’–useful for all discrete matters. However, now the thing was flying off the counter. And it knocked into the full-body mirror sitting to George’s left.

The last thing George remembered before his reflection went tumbling to the ground was the ear, or rather its absence, when his reflection twisted with a look of horror. Then glassy metal shards were all over. The crash had seemed to silence the shop as everyone turned to see the commotion. The displays even silenced themselves in anticipation. But George could not hear about the rushing of his blood, the pumping of adrenaline.

The mirror had not fallen; that wall had. He was back in Hogwarts. July. The war was around him, and his previously traitorous brother Percy had miraculously joined the ranks to ward off the threat, something George had come to resent later. And the curses flew, the wall came tumbling down. ‘Fred!‘

“Fred!” At his own tortured cry, George looked around to everyone in his store, then looked to Simon, who seemed so terribly frightened. So, George did the only thing he knew he could do well now; he fled, leaving the fragmented memories littering the ground of his fabulous joke shop.

Back at his flat, he wrenched at his hair and rubbed his eyes, no doubt disheveling his already ghastly appearance. He stomped back and forth through the living room, carelessly bumping into the few bits of furniture. From the window looking in, one would see a man arguing with himself inside and out; they’d see hands tugging at hair, his shirt wringing its way out of his belt, one shoe discarded in this man’s endless relay, shoulders stooped in despair. But soon, his back would again straighten as he walked determinedly into his room to look into that mirror.

What he saw was red hair just one golden shade lighter than his pink crazed eyes, clothes fighting to undo themselves, and an uneven set of features. One ear.

Then he sank down onto his bed and continued to stare at this broken man with one ear, while he sighed hopelessly.

“It’s just me.”