Son,

I don't even know what to say. It was Ginny's suggestion to do this, that we all ought to write you a letter. She thinks it might help and she may be right but I don't know yet. I don't think it will help everyone.
Percy barely leaves his room these days, I think he claims to be working on papers but he just resigned so he can't be. Ron and Ginny never fight anymore, which I couldn't be less happy for, that would be a welcome distraction. Charlie's home to stay for a while and for that I am glad, it's been far too long since he's lived here, at home again.

It was your funeral yesterday. Somehow I really don't think it was right, at all. Only George would know for sure but I suspect it's not what you would have wanted. No one wanted to stay in the kitchen for long, not with your mother and Fleur fussing over…I shudder to think of it, coffins and flowers.

I don't think I've ever done anything so hard as to speak up there, in front of everyone. Even Angelina was there you know, and Oliver Wood….I think that's his name.

George didn't come. He wouldn't leave the room you shared here and when we came home, he was gone.
He's not George anymore, when we do see him he's horribly pale and stony. If I'm honest, and I think you mother feels the same…he's almost dead himself.

I feel so incredibly guilty now, for not letting you two stay together that night. You were always as good as invincible together; you only ever got seriously hurt when you were alone as far as I know. So maybe…maybe it's my fault…

Wow, this is harder than I thought it would be…I can't write anymore, Fred.

I love you, my boy, my son…

Dad