Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters.
A/N: This story was really more of an experiment for me, so I could work with writing different characters. I hope you enjoy it, though! Constructive criticism is always welcome.
Well, of course I was upset about it. Not you-know-who, mind you, but Fred. He was my brother. I wouldn't have wished such a fate on my worst enemy, let alone him.
Sometimes I feel bad, though, because the only thing I really remember about that night is right after. I was looking for Hermione-she's my wife now-when suddenly she was right next to me. She told me later on that it was easy to find me because I was the tallest red head out of all of them. I was still in shock right then, so I guess I didn't really realize that I was being somewhat rude in staring at her. I think she must have thought at the time that I was repulsed. Really quite Hermione-ish. Her hair was even bigger than usual even though it was tied back, if that can give you a picture. She had a black eye, and her left eyebrow had a gap where it had been burned. Her upper lip was more stained with blood than I had ever seen on anyone before, because she had gotten a bloody nose. She had a gash across a cheek and a cut on her nose and a bruise on her collar bone, and she was dirty and grimy all over.. I noticed all of this, and then commended myself on being able to notice it. Well, that, and thinking despite it all, noticing that she was beautiful and strong and, just maybe, mine.
I guess I just feel guilty sometimes, because to this day, I could tell you exactly where Hermione's bottom lip swelled the most and the exact length of the bandage she had had on her forehead and exactly what she tasted like as we kissed, and yet I couldn't tell you what Fred's dead body looked like. Maybe a part of me didn't want to look at him. Honestly, I think I did look-I just didn't see. I didn't want to have that picture with me for the rest of my life; I'd rather think of him as the fun-loving jokester he had been in my childhood and teen years.
People have told me I have a tragic past. I don't get that though-tragedy implies death, and I didn't have to endure nearly as much death as most of my friends. Not Harry, whose entire life was cursed with death. Not Fred, of course. I was still second-best, even in something so silly as this. Sometimes I think I feel guilty taking the glory from people, and that's why I hardly ever get it. Although that doesn't really make much sense, does it?