Never the Right Time
Characters: Ron, Fred, Molly, George, Percy.
Length: One-shot.
Tagline: No matter how many ways you think of the right words to say, it's never the right time to say goodbye.
Synopsis: Just after Fred's death, Ron's mind whirls at the right words to say, the perfect line to say to his brother, to no certain avail.
A/N: Italics are thoughts and parts of memories.
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It was over. The war for the prevailing of the good in magic had ended. Victory tasted so sweet that Ron could feel it practically dissolving into the salty taste on his tongue. Hermione was close to him, her eyes bright and her smile more real than he'd seen it in over a year. That victory had made him want to cheer, to burst into song and dance like the ending of a fairytale, but the fairytale ending was too far away. So far away, in fact, that Ron wouldn't have seen it if he were looking for it. But right now, there were other things to consider: the casualties of war.
Already there were witches and wizards scattered about, pushing aside all thoughts of a cry of triumph, the perfect victory speech to end the horrendous encounters they had all been forced to endure. Hermione quickly rushed off to aid in the search and count of the dead, a grim task that even Ron couldn't picture himself doing. That was, sadly, until he saw a sick sight he'd never let down. To the northwest direction of where he had been standing, was his mother. Ron grew confused, as she was in hysterics. Nearby stood Percy and George, also hysterical, and Ron's heart sunk—he knew something was very wrong.
Quickly, he dashed from his place, expression stoic as he reached where his mother was hunched over a ghastly figure. That figure was Fred. His face was hauntingly humorous and distant. Fred Weasley was dead.
The thought struck Ron like a gunshot to the head. Fred dead? No, it can't be. Not Fred. Not him. Not now. Ron tried to rationalize this the best way he could but between his mother's shrill cries and George's defeated sobs of ultimate suffering, he couldn't properly think through what he had to in order to get through this. Sadly enough, Ron wasn't crying. Not just yet. Right now, he was thinking of the right words to say goodbye. What would Fred have said? Sickly, his brother's taunting voice echoed inside the jumbled traffic jam that was, essentially, inside of Ron.
Sorry, mate. Better luck in the afterlife.
At least he's lucky enough to get out of this while he has time. It's too late for us now.
Rest in peace, kind stranger. Send me a post if you find the time.
Let me know if it's hot enough down there for you.
I'll put in a good word for you.
I wish I could've known the dark side of you better…but, alas…
Poor chap. Ah, well. At least he died with his boots on.
Sadly enough, none of those phrases could have been said by Fred alone—George was always the second half of that humor. Not anymore. Ron turned his head upwards, seeing the look on his brother's face. As Ron would come to discover in the coming decades, that look would never be fully erased from the living twin's visage. This saddened Ron deeply, wishing to discuss things with George about becoming his better half. He knew in his heart that he could never, ever replace Fred—nor did he wish it—but he still wanted to be there for his brother, to comfort him at his direst need.
Ron realized he wasn't crying about this while the rest of his family was suffering from hysterics. Perhaps it was because he was too busy thinking, so he stopped thinking. Instantly his thought perception cleared away, becoming quite plain in his mind. Fred's dead. It happened. Yes, Fred. Yes, him. Yes, now.
"Why?" he said aloud, partially on accident. He caught his mother's gaze as she placed her free hand on Ron's head, beginning to stroke his hair comfortingly. "Why Fred?" At this point, Ron's eyes welled with tears, spilling out of them as though he hadn't cried in years. Ron had been on his knees, but fell forward, pounding his fists against the dirt, resting his forehead on the ground as his body shook with sobs. His fingers slipped into the dirt, clutching a mound of it in his fist, his knuckles turning white. His vision blurred as he felt his mother's touch attempting to soothe him to no avail.
The next thing he knew, he felt Hermione's slender arms slip around him, pressing him close to her. Until that moment, Ron's entire body was locked and tight—straight as a board—until she held him. His entire body released its tension, collapsing in her arms, hysterical along with the rest of his family.
Ron had tried to think of the perfect words to say, the perfect line and the one that Fred would have applauded him for saying, but as he had figured out the hard way, it's never the right time to say goodbye.
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A/N: That was random. I thought of it and had to write it. Hope you enjoyed it!