The portrait in front of her had taken on life as she finished the minor details of a stray lock of hair, a tiny reflection on a silver bead in the hair, and her small signature down in the corner. The couple in the portrait waved at her with their own smiles wide and gracious that finally they were complete. Specializing in the art of magical portraits was something that very few did and after the war there had been a demand of the portraits. It seemed that everyone wanted their loved one back in the form of a never-dying painting. 

Her studio was modest; a drying rack for the paintings was pushed into the corner closest to the window that faced Diagon Alley, her paints and other items such as different sized brushes of synthetic and natural hairs, her paints and canvases were stored away in a large closet. Her studio joined onto her small home. It was a simple bedroom with a tiny bathroom and there was a very tiny kitchen that branched off of her studio as well. In all, it was her little slice of heaven. Isabelle Ashcroft was a different witch than the rest that populated the semi-restored Diagon Alley. She had not been involved in the war; she had not seen her friends die. Certainly some of her family had died; aunts, uncles and cousins had died. But she had helped in a small way, coming back from her American school to help her family take in and hide three muggle born folk, although it had been for a short time. Her parents had been unable to keep the charms and barriers up around their home and with Isabelle, their oldest and most experienced daughter, had helped. 

She had been an average witch in school but during her free time, when she was free to learn whatever she pleased, she had excelled greatly. 

Placing her completed painting on the top of the drying rack, the twenty year old witch wiped her messy hands on her equally messy apron before glancing at the clock on her wall. Her new friend George Weasley would be leaving for Scotland on a minor business trip today. They had met when he contracted her to create paintings of his beloved twin, which she did gladly and free of charge. It was hard loosing someone so close to you—she had learned that the hard way with this war. Her dearest cousin had been killed. Slipping off her apron and setting it over the back of her chair, Isabelle walked into the small kitchen and washed her hands, arms and face before fixing her short brown hair into a presentable style. George wouldn’t be leaving for another hour and a half but she didn’t want to make him wait.

Grabbing her small messenger bag, the young woman quietly left her home, locking the door before heading down the stairs. She had shared her space with the business down below, a simple clothes shop that would often send a few customers her way. The walk would be short but she didn’t feel the need to rush much anyways. Taking her time and looking in the shop windows, the young witch stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans as she observed a small necklace suited for a child. Her sister, Hailey, was much too big for it but a cousin just had a child, a daughter, not too long ago. Perhaps when she had the money she would buy it for her newest cousin.

--

George’s day started off on a better note than each day since the war had ended. He had been sure that his life was over, without Fred, his other half; nothing seemed to mean anything anymore. The red haired man had gone into a depression. Being six months after the war, things were being rebuilt and lives were being patched with the beginner’s hands at sewing. He knew, just like everyone else in the Wizarding world, that it would take time to heal the wounds. They wouldn’t fully heal, but it would be bearable. 

Packing his clothing tightly into the trunk he was going to use, George had decided for a change. His father had finally gone on his dream vacation, if it could be called that. A cruise ship to live for a week like a muggle; his mum had been less than thrilled since her place was always the caretaker and on the cruise she hadn’t been able to cook or fuss over everyone like she was used to. George had been persuaded to give it a try and what better time to try than now, when he was going to be gone for a week on a combination work-and-vacation trip to Scotland? He had seen it as a well-deserved event. 

The photographs of himself and Fred hung on the walls: a playful, brotherly shove there, a wicked smirk or grin, matching gap toothed smiles; a picture with Ron and Ginny. They did little to still his depression and heartache. How could he move on when the one person he knew the best, and who knew him the best, was gone? They say that soul mates don’t have to be romantic. They are simply the person who knows you the best—the one that can get into your head without being in the same room, or even the same country. Fred, without a doubt, was his soul mate and it had hurt when that bond was severed. For a long time, up until he had been given closure, he had been angry. He had been angry at everyone and everything, including himself. He should have saved Fred, he should have been there. This wasn’t in the grand plans of how they seen things. He wanted Fred to be the best man at his wedding; he wanted to name Fred the godfather of his children. He wanted to grow old and still be able to laugh with his brother. He missed Fred terribly; the ache was a deep, dull constant pain in his heart. No healer or amount of herbs and medicines could fix him.

Ron had helped as much as he could around the shop but it wasn’t the same. Ron didn’t think like he or Fred. There was no joking when Ron punched in the numbers and worked late at night to keep the burden from his brother. They had grown closer within the six months of the war’s ending but it didn’t feel right. 

With his bags packed and everything in place, the brown eyed man looked slowly around his home. Isabelle was coming over to say goodbye. She had played a hand in his road to healing; the portrait of his brother, enchanted beautifully to be a part of Fred that would never die, hung in the Burrow. It wasn’t the same, but it was comforting. George could not hug the painting in the same way he could hug the flesh and blood brother he had lost. 

With nothing to do but wait, the man sat on the couch in the living room with his head in his hand. One hand trailed to the remnants of his ear, shreds at best really. 

He should have been there for Fred, like Fred had been when he lost his ear.

George wished that there was a way to change everything.