Linnaea borealis grows naturally in the fields near the Burrow. George keeps a potted one by his bedside anyway. It needs a little bit of shade to flower -- not too much, just enough. Just the hint of a shadow cast across its base.

Sometimes Percy thinks George is going to whither away now, too. He does what he can, but it isn't the same. Too much, or not enough, and he isn't Bill or Charlie, or Ron.

Ginny visits once a week, and George will talk to her when it's dark out, and he can't see the twinflower blooming. They speak in hushed voices, and Percy can't make out the murmurs, doesn't even try after the first few months, till eventually things will grow quiet. That's his cue to sneak upstairs and cover them with a blanket.

It's always the same, Ginny curled around George, head on his chest, his arms holding her close, and Percy wants to wipe away their tears. But he isn't Harry, and he was never Fred.

He pulls his mother's quilt from the closet, instead, and waters George's flower.