A/N: So, this is my one-shot for round 4 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition! I had to write about grief without using the word 'grief', and use the first person POV and the words "dawn" and "overwhelmed". I hope you enjoy it!
Voldemort was dead, finally defeated by Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the master of the Elder Wand.
Finally, Tom Riddle was gone.
The moment his body dropped to the floor, lifeless and pale and pathetic, the Great Hall became alive with loud cheers of jubilation, and all of us madly stampeded towards Harry, who looked a bit confused, not that I blame the chap. But after this initial rush of celebration, after I looked back towards the unmoving bodies lying on the floor, after I saw that familiar shock of red hair, I became overwhelmed with the feeling that I had just lost an essential part of myself. My throat constricted and my hands started to shake and my chest hurt with a peculiar ache that started near my heart and shot down to the pit of my stomach with a numbing intensity, and a few moments later I found myself collapsed on the cold, hard floor next to Fred.
Fred.
His eyes were closed and his face was pale, but his hair was as red as ever, and if I hadn't known that he was dead I would've gone to get a quill so I could scribble something on his forehead before he woke up.
But I didn't.
I couldn't.
I stared at the lifeless reflection of myself, memorizing the way the left side of his mouth quirked up a smidge, as if he was trying to hide the fact that he was wholly responsible for the poor bloke who just got turned into a bright yellow canary, except he would never do that – no, Fred would never let anyone else take the credit for a prank he had done. I sat and stared, really, truly looking at him, and saw that his nose was just like mine, slightly on the large side, and his hair was mussed and specked with dirt and other battlefield matter, and his face was streaked with grime from the fighting, and he was so much like Fred that I almost started bawling.
Fred.
Bloody hell, there would never be anyone quite like him. No one could ever possess his genius, his humour, his unerring ability to understand me. There would be no more late nights at the joke shop, testing whatever crazy ideas we came up with. There would be no more Quidditch matches with my best friend swatting at wayward Bludgers alongside me. There would be no more offbeat jokes about my missing ear. There would be no one to scheme with, no one to share insane ideas with, no one to make me feel like a complete person.
There would be no one to finish my sentences.
Even worse, there would be no one's sentences to finish.
And with that depressing thought, I laid my head on his chest and began to sob, tears pouring endlessly onto his bloody shirt. I stayed there for what seemed like ages, ignoring the gentle pressure as someone put her arm around my shoulders, ignoring the coldness of Fred's skin, ignoring the concerned voices around me.
"He's gone," I mumbled shakily, painfully, as I finally looked up, my eyes undoubtedly red and swollen.
"I know, dear," Mum said as she hugged me fiercely, her tears mixing with mine as Dad knelt beside me, his head bowed, his eyes glassy with unshed drops moisture.
"He's gone," I repeated, still not quite believing what my head knew was true.
And then the horrid fact finally sank in, and all I could think was that living without Fred seemed like a very long, painful life, indeed.
Eventually, after my legs began to go numb from sitting vigil for so long, I let myself get pulled to my feet by my parents, and then all I saw for the next few minutes was a small sea of red hair as I was sucked into a Weasley family embrace.
That night, after assuring everyone that yes, I would be fine, and no, Mum, I'm really not very hungry tonight, and Merlin, Ginny, I do not need to talk about it right this minute, so please, just let me up the stairs, I collapsed into bed and laid there until well past midnight, thinking about Fred and the bleak years that I would have to go through without the other half of my soul.
Several years later
I had been pacing up and down the pristine white hallway of St. Mungo's for nearly five hours, feeling rattled and shaky as I anxiously waiting for news of the state of the events taking place in room 93 of the hospital.
"Mr. Weasley?" I jumped up at the sound of my name being uttered by a softly smiling nurse and rushed towards the room my wife, Angelina Johnson, had been staying since her water broke.
"Is she ok?" I asked, nervous and panicked and hopeful all at once.
"She's doing just fine," the woman replied. "Would you like to meet your son?"
Son.
My heart nearly stopped for a moment.
My son.
"Of course," I finally croaked, suddenly feeling as jittery as I had when I asked Angelina to go on a date with me four years ago. I followed the nurse into the room, not quite sure what to expect, and then smiled with relief at the sight of my wife beaming at me with a small bundle of blankets in her arms. I quickly walked towards her and kissed her on the cheek, then turned my attention towards the tiny person with a tuft of red hair adorning his head.
"He's so small," I murmured, staring in wonder at the tiny human with delicate skin and surprisingly bright blue eyes. He responded by blinking slowly, then made a curious sound halfway between a squeak and a gurgle.
"Have you decided on his name?" the nurse asked, peering at us from her position by the door.
I glanced at Angelina and we exchanged a smile and a nod, and then I lifted my head up at, gazed at the pale light of dawn streaming through the windows, and declared, "His name is... Fred. Fred Weasley II."
"I bet he'll be just like his uncle," added Angelina. "He certainly has the hair."
I then looked back at the newest part of my life, joy and happiness and love spreading through my heart as I revelled in the feeling of belonging between the three of us, a feeling that I thought I would never feel after Fred died, but had been experiencing in small, poignant moments in recent years.
I miss you, brother, I thought as little Fred made an adorably grumpy face at me, his lips curling into a tiny pout. But I think I'll be okay, for now. Then, as the sun began to rise and flood the window with glowing, brilliant light, I swore that I saw Fred's figure sifting through the radiance of the sunlight.
I'll see you soon, dear brother, I thought I heard him say. Don't have too much fun without me, you hear?
Wouldn't dream of it, Fred.
I smiled as the hazy shape of the other half of my soul began to dissipate in the light, and, for the first time, did not feel an overwhelming sadness in association with the thoughts of my brother. I would always miss him, of that I was certain, but after all those years of working to cope with his death, I found out that I was ready to move forwards with my life.
Fred would be waiting for me, after all.
Maybe he'd even have some sentences for me to finish.