Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling.
Hey Fred,
Remember how we were going to have those prank wars at each other's weddings to see who can manage mischief without the aid of the other better?
Remember how we were going to leave the joke shop to each of our children?
Or how we were going to be baffled if one of us coincidentally brought up a pair of twins?
I do.
I sleep with my back to your bed every night, no matter how uncomfortable I get, because even though it has been months, your unobtrusive corner bed portrays imprints and a wad of covers peeled back from the last night someone slept on it.
It is hard enough to forget when your mind is perpetually screaming it at you, and your absence is there to replace your former shadow.
With this, continuing the joke shop was unbearable and seemed practically pointless. I could hardly go on by myself trying to make children, teenagers, adults laugh when not even I could produce a genuine smile. If anything, I made the abundant happiness that the shop provided vanish with my lacking appearance and inability to revive my former self before the war.
I recall you telling me once that you were going to leave the larger portion of the shop's profits to replace my maimed ear.
One ear is easier to live with anyways; it makes it more difficult to perceive all the recent talk of death. Especially yours.
If I could, Fred, I wouldn't allow it.
I would've used it to buy back your life. I know that is impossible, though.
Because you are priceless.