A/N: This is an exactly 500-word oneshot about Angelina reacting to Fred's death. It's probably towards the darker end of things I've written, so proceed with caution
Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, Fred would be alive.
It was too much. It was entirely too much for one heartbroken girl to handle. It was too much to see an exact replica of the man she had loved and recently lost walking and talking, like he no longer could.
It was too much to see his bright red hair. So much like his hair, the hair she had pulled, almost set on fire, tried to cut, and run her fingers through. The hair he hadn't been bothered to wash or comb for months. It was too much.
It was too much to see his baby blue eyes. His eyes were glazed with tears, because his other half, the other person with those same eyes, would never be able to use them. Those eyes that had been full of mischief and mirth, now red and puffy from crying. It was too much.
It was too much to see his tall, lanky body draped across the couch, feet on the table despite constant admonitions against the habit. The couched looked too big, too lonely, too empty, without him and try as he might, he could not fill up the space on it, the space had been meant for two laughing boys, not one. Seeing the empty space was too much.
It was too much to hear his laugh. They'd had the same laugh. But when he laughed at his tripping sister or clumsy brother, it didn't sound the same. The laughing wasn't loud enough, it didn't reverberate as much, and it wasn't as contagious. The half-laugh was too much.
It was too much to hear him talk. He would pause in the middle of his sentences, like he used to, but now, there was no one to fill in the gaps. Their voices, completing each other's sentences, had always sounded like it was one person speaking. Now that it was actually one person, it sounded like only half. Hearing him speak was too much.
It was all too much for her. Every time they met, she wasn't really seeing him; she was seeing the space next to him, forever empty. The space where he should have been.
It was too much to see him, looking so much like his brother it hurt. It was too much to see the similarities – the way they rolled up their sleeves on warm days, the way they both drank tea with two spoons of sugar and no milk, the way they scratched the backs of their necks when they were confused, the way they tilted their heads when they looked at her.
It was too much to have this constant reminder of him.
And yet, the first time their lips met, everything changed. It was no longer all too much. No, she realized, that's the exact opposite of it. The similarities are not too much. In fact, they are not enough.
It was no longer too much for this heartbroken girl to handle – it was no longer enough for her to hold on to.
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