Stranger to the Rain
He fights against the hands holding him back, closes his mind to the castle crumbling around him; he hears the curses firing behind him, sees streaks of color as they light to life. His eyes are trained on one thing; Percy, struggling through the debris and stepping out into the open as if curses aren't flying off of the walls Avada Kedavra! and Cruciatus! followed by slumping bodies and bloodcurdling screams.
The tears streaking down Percy's face do nothing to make the feeling of utter panic diminish in his chest. "Fred," Percy says, hoarsely and George feels his heart stutter over a beat. "Fred, he-he's, I tried to ca-carry him. West Hall," he stammers out when George brushes past him without a word.
He takes a couple of Death Eaters down on the way, the spells flying from his lips automatically. There's a girl guarding his body, but it seems a bit unnecessary. This part of the castle is completely demolished; there's no one left to fight here, anymore.
When she sees him, she ducks her head and offers sympathy, but he doesn't hear her.
Fred is smiling.
He's motionless and bleeding, but he's smiling and George laughs, because it has to be a joke. "Hey, I'm here now," George says, dropping to his knees beside the corpse. He brushes his fingers over Fred's face, skin so pale the freckles stand out with shocking clarity.
He picks up his wand, runs a few healing spells and refuses to cry when they show no change, because he knows this isn't a joke. It's not some epic, cruel prank and Fred's not going to pop up and say, "Ha, gotcha," with that infuriating sparkle he gets in his eyes when he knows the joke isn't funny, but he's risked it anyway.
"C'mon, Fred," he says, feeling his walls crumbling as he bumps their foreheads together, noses brushing, and fingers curling on either side of his brother's face. "You promised," he whispers, "you promised me you wouldn't die."
As the words leave his mouth, anger follows them in the form of hot tears leaving streaks on his soot-smeared cheeks. He pulls back and watches them mark his brother's face as well, feels almost like he's looking in a mirror, but he knows the differences, can point them out without even looking.
"Can't do this," he chokes, trembling all over as he pressed his body against Fred's, moving his lips gently against his brother's pulse point and choking on a harsh sob when it doesn't flutter against his mouth. "Can't do this Fred, can't leave me here like this."
"You promised," he sobs, "you promised."
His fingers are clenched around the fabric of Fred's shirt and he wants to scream, shake him, wakeupwakeup, but he can't. Doesn't want to cause more damage to the broken body. He's still clinging to the hope that he'll feel some kind of thrum of life beneath his fingertips.
When Ron finds them after the Battle is over - Voldemort is dead - they carry him to the Great Hall. He settles there with Fred's head in his lap, cradling his face and stroking his hair, and he can't really bring himself to care about the bodies strewn across the ground.
The Dark Lord is dead and the living rejoice, but George would trade this in a heartbeat.
It wasn't worth this, wasn't worth him. Never worth him.
