Written for: Round 3 of QLFC
Team: Kenmare Kestrels
Position: Chaser 2 — Furby (90s Nostalgia)
Prompts:
(object) jumper/sweater (sweater used)
(colour) powder grey
(dialogue) pay attention to me
Word-count (excluding title and notes): 2,855
Note: I have to admit ... I really love this fic. I cried a bit, writing it. Highly unusual.
Beta: CelestialRosegold
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speak furby to me
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"We shouldn't be doing this," George says, but his voice is excited and his eyes are bright. "Mum'd have our heads."
"Absolutely right, brother mine," Fred agrees, beaming.
They've snuck their way out of Hogsmeade after downing a Butterbeer each, giggling and sharing conspiratorial glances. Even now — after leaving school in a blaze of pranking glory — they still feel like naughty children. Somehow a frank conversation on the not-so-bright future had devolved into getting tipsy and making their way to the Muggle World. They'd both dumped their robes in their shops and are strutting around in their shirts and jeans, carefree and cold. Today is a day for forgetting their troubles. They just need to forget about Voldemort and Death Eaters and the Order. Just today. Things have been far too serious, lately, and the twins just don't do serious if they can help it.
As George peeks round a corner, he hears a loud honk. He jumps, surprised and exhilarated — a car, blazing down the road. "Have I told you" — George says reverently — "that I love you?"
Fred throws an arm around his shoulder. "It's because I'm so handsome, isn't it?" he preens, running a hand through his ginger hair and flashing a crooked grin.
"So handsome," George agrees, and shares a near-identical grin. "But clearly I'm the handsomer bloke." For a moment they stare at each other, all serious, but then Fred's mouth twitches, and so does George's, and the Butterbeer is hot and delicious in their stomachs, and then they're laughing — slapping their thighs and howling out their amusement into the crisp air.
A woman struts passed them and throws them a disgusted look. Her nose tips up snottily.
George chokes at the sight of that pompous face and practically falls over. The amusement is infectious, and soon enough Fred has joined him on the pavement. When they can finally breathe again, they clamber to their feet. High spots of red decorate their cheeks.
"Come on," Fred says. "There's stuff to be seen — "
" — and mayhem to be caused — " George continues.
" — and old biddy ladies to annoy!" Fred crows, and leads the way.
Muggle London is fascinating. There are cars zooming around, and most of the people walk around with their faces buried in little rectangular boxes. George is mesmerised. Fred has his face pressed against the glass.
"Fred," George demands, tugging at his brother. "Look! What are those Muggles all holding?"
"They're like our owls," Fred says with utmost confidence. "They're called fellytones, I think." He's still staring through a shop's window.
George frowns. "What're you looking at?"
"These things!" Fred breathes. "They look like owls."
"So?" George asks, shoving his own face up against the window to see what's so interesting.
It does look a bit like an owl. In fact, it rather looks Errol. It's small, and its eyes are massive and glassy. To him, it looks vaguely demonic. "Creepy," George notes. "I love it."
Fred shoots him an offended look. "Brother mine, it's not creepy — it's adorable. Look at its little plushy feet and that wild tuft of hair."
George turns to stare at it again. It's alright, he supposes.
"Oi," they hear. The shopkeeper has exited the shop. He plants his hands on his hips. "You boys comin' in? Havin' a look at the Furbies, eh? Quite popular with the lads and lasses, eh? Come on, then, come on," he ushers them in.
Nate — reads the pinned name-tag — picks up the one Fred had been staring at. "Look," he says, and presses it. The thing begins to spew nonsense, its little beak working wildly.
"So it is possessed." George's eyebrows fly up.
Nate shoots him a funny look. "It's speaking Furbish" — he says slowly, as if George is particularly thick — "because it's a Furby."
"Wicked," Fred breathes. "What else can it do?"
Nate the shopkeeper beams. "Well, it learns English the more you speak to it. It's intelligent, it is."
"It does? It is?" George asks dubiously. Muggles!
Nate shifts. "Well, yeah."
The shifting is suspicious, and Fred and George trade looks.
"They also dance!" Nate breaks in, and fiddles with the Furby. Dance it does — a bit awkwardly, but admittedly it's cute.
"Dad would go bonkers over one of these," Fred says.
George eyes the Furby. Fred was right. It was everything their father loved — Muggle-made, colourful, intriguing, full of fun, noisy, and creative with a dash of cuddly. "He would, wouldn't he?" George muses.
Nate waves the Furby around. It's still wiggling its muh-can-ee-cal tush.
"Are they expensive?" George asks, because Fred looks so wistful, and just an hour ago he'd admitted to George — through alcohol-slackened lips — that he wished Dad would speak to him more; pay attention to him more; see him as Fred, not just one of the twins.
Fred shoots him a look. "We don't have any Mug — uh — money," he says regretfully.
Nate's face falls. He chews on his lip. "Whatchu boys be wanting wit' a Furby, anyway? Your Da, you said?"
"Yeah," George jumps in. "It's too late for his birthday, but for Yule — uh — Christmas — "
" — it'd be the perfect gift," Fred finishes off. "Our dad" — he looks to George — "he's taught us a lot about … about … about finding the joke in the tragedy — "
" — and having fun with the world around you," George adds. "Christmas is some time away, sure, but it'd give us time to make — "
" — a few … adjustments" — a naughty look — "of our own. It's a real pity. Sorry for wasting your time, mate." Fred turns to the door.
"Now hold on," Nate says. "I'm a da myself, you know." He looks to the floor. "Haven't much got a relationship with my daughter." He looks up again. "I fink I know all about the importance of the joke in th' tragedy." He sets the Furby down in the window display. "You know what? I have a Furby in the back. A little kid broke it and the mother refused to pay for it," he adds in disgust. "I was gonna try and get it fixed or somefink. But you blokes can have it. Make your adjustments or what-have-you." He abandons them for the storeroom door.
Fred's eyes are bright. "This is awesome," he says. "We'll mess with it a bit — maybe make it say certain things — "
"What if we spoke through it?" George brainstorms.
"Even better," Fred says fervently.
"Here, boys," Nate says, and shoves a Furby into Fred's hand. It's not in any packaging, and is slightly dusty. It's a plain black Furby, with white claws. "It's the Witch's Cat Furby. It's a basic edition, nothing special, but I've also gotta make myself a livin', see," he says gruffly.
"It's purr-fect," Fred says, his face lighting up. "Thank you."
Nate smiles. "Yer welcome. Now get outta my shop so I can help payin' customers, yeah?"
They scramble — cheeks red, eyes bright, teeth glimmering. There's stuff to be seen; mayhem to be caused; and old biddy ladies to annoy.
The day is but young, and so are they.
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And one of them? One of them stays young … one of them dies young … one of them is buried young.
His mum is crying. He thinks he might be crying, too. Fred's memorial service is sickening. All this use of past tense — 'was', 'used to', 'loved', 'back then'. All these sorry looks and weepy eyes. All the free food from friends and loved ones.
All this remembering of Fred — these memories — because he's dead and he's not coming back.
George turns away and clambers up the stairs to their old bedroom. His head feels dizzy, like he's falling asleep — a gentle, lulling dizziness. And he feels sick — as though he's dirty, as if he can smell blood, and that dirt and that scent is clogging him up.
He bursts into their room and sits on the bed. It's abnormal, sitting in this room. Like nothing has changed. As if Fred is just in the loo, or hiding in the closet. George releases a breath and lowers his head into his arms. This isn't right. He can't even feel his pain — he literally cannot. There is a great divide in his mind. It's like the pain is so strong that he can't comprehend it. Like … like … how you can't taste boiling tea, because your tastebuds are scorched. That's it. His heart is scorched, as ridiculous as it sounds.
He just —
He's in shock.
Fred can't be dead, because that means George is dead, too. He'll live — but he won't be alive.
There's a bloody difference.
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Arthur's hands are clasped around a mug of tea. It's too hot to drink. So he doesn't drink it. The steam wafts over his face. It's an uncomfortable feeling. He doesn't much care. He's not sure where all his children are. All he knows is that he'll never find one again. Never hug one again. He staggers to his feet, almost drunkenly, but he hasn't drank a proper drink in years. His chest feels raw. He feels fragile, like one touch might shatter him. One more bad thing. How could this have happened? How could he have let this happen? He was Fred's father! His father. He was there when the twins were born. He held Fred in his arms — so small, so delicate, so alive. And now dead. Wasn't right, to slaughter one so young. Not like this. His chest ached. It bloody ached. He'd never felt pain like this. And it's all his fault. He should have — he should have protected him. He should have sent everyone elsewhere — overseas, like Hermione had done with her parents. Children protecting their mothers and fathers! He should have protected Fred!
The ache crests. It just keeps on growing — some insurmountable tsunami. He deserves this. He deserves this pain. And it isn't enough. This was his failure. He turns and makes his way up the stairs. He feels old. Too old — he has aged so many years. It's not right for parents to bury their children. His eyebrows knot together and he bites his tongue. Where has all the laughter gone? It's died with Fred. It's been buried with Fred — buried alongside him and his Weasley sweater. Seven is a goodly number — and now there are only six Weasley children. He knows Molly will always be looking for the seventh. Maybe she'll forget, for a moment, and absently count … one, two, three, four, five, six … six … six … and she'll think she's missing a child. A moment of panic. And then she'll remember: she will always be missing a child. Panic will turn to pain. There will always be pain. She will always feel the consequences of his failure as a father. He shakes his head — bitterly, angrily; filled with resentment and heartache.
He stops. He's in front of Fred's bedroom. He lays his palm against the wood. Oh, Fred, he thinks, and he's choking; he's bloody choking; he cannot breathe.
He eases the door open. His eyelashes are trembling. Arthur freezes.
Fred? he thinks. Fred is sitting on the bed. Fred is here. "Fred?" the name wobbles past his lips. It is said so softly. It is said so gently. But it shatters the world, because this name has power behind it.
Fred looks up. Fred's face is a wretched, sad thing. "George," says Fred.
"Oh," Arthur exhales. He nearly falls to his knees. "George. George." Such an old, useless man.
George nods.
Arthur thinks he should apologise. He thinks he should do a lot of things. He looms in the doorway — a ghost; barely there.
George looks down. Arthur joins him on the bed. He raises a hand. It hovers over his son's shoulder — but he can't bring himself to touch George … not when he's wearing a face like that.
"Hi, Dad," George croaks out.
"Hi, son," he returns.
They stare at a poster.
"I think — I think I should give you something," George says.
"Oh," Arthur says. It's not a question. It's a dead reply.
George rouses himself and reaches for something underneath the bed. "We found it for you. We thought you'd like it. We made some adjustments to it."
Arthur doesn't look away from the poster.
"It was Fred's idea. His gift, really."
Arthur jerks. He turns.
George is holding out something. It looks almost like an owl. It's an owl, carrying a message from the dead, he thinks wildly, almost hysterically.
"It's a Furby. A Muggle toy. Fred and I — we tweaked it with magic. We thought it would be a good Yule present."
"Fred's gift?" he wheezes.
George solemnly holds his eyes. "Yes. Fred's gift."
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Fred's gift speaks. Fred's gift speaks not because it has batter-ees, but because his genius Fred enchanted it. He fixed what was broken. Arthur bows his head. His wishes Fred were here to fix what was broken, now.
It's three in the morning. Molly is sleeping, restlessly, crying out in her sleep. His children are in their beds. Except one (always missing one, now).
And here he is, sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a Furby. The more he speaks to it, the more it speaks to him. But the part that has him awake at three in the morning — the part that has tears streaming down his face — the part that has him clawing at his chest, literally — the part that has him crumbling with pain —
That part is this: the Furby speaks in Fred's voice ("We only got to do Fred's voice. We were going to do me, as well, but …).
Fred is speaking to him.
Fred, he thinks. "Oh, Fred." Is it natural to hurt so much? Is it natural to cry like this?
He squeezes the Furby's tummy gently — as gently as he can manage, in his desperation to hear more from Fred.
"Hey, Dad," comes a cheeky voice. "It's your most handsome child! Oh, did you know that the Muggles have a song called 'Talk Dirty'? So I'm going to talk Furby to you!" The voice dissolves into wild laughter. "Grease and stains" — Fred starts to sing —"they are such pains!" Fred blabbers on. The things he says are nonsense. How many nights has Arthur sat at this kitchen table, clutching a Furby? How many nights has he gently squeezed it? How many nights has he closed his eyes and pretended Fred was still here?
How many?
Too many.
How many nights has he held a gun in his hands? And it was powder grey … like sadness crushed into fine particles … A gift from an Muggle Relations friend. A gift in more ways than one.
Another gentle squeeze to the Furby (maybe a squeeze to a trigger).
"I love you!" Fred says, and Arthur says, "I love you."
"Arthur?" he hears. He doesn't turn. It's only Molly.
Another squeeze. "So this one time," Fred begins. "we snuck into the Prefect's loo, right — "
"Arthur, please," Molly begs. "Come to bed."
He ignores her. He's listening to Fred — can't she tell?
" — and we filled the bathtubs with — "
"Please," she says, desperately. "Please, Arthur."
" — his face was priceless — "
"It's enough, Arthur. It's been so long."
" — we ran like Fluffy himself was after us, I tell you — "
"Pay attention to me!" she cries out, and reaches for the Furby, and tears it from his hands, and throws it over her shoulder, and he springs up, a roar on his lips, and he raises a hand to hit her, and her eyes widen.
He pauses. Every muscle is tense. Fine shivers wrack his body. His hand is inches from her cheek.
"Who are you?" she croaks out, pale and sad.
Who is he without Fred? "I don't know," he says, and shatters into a million pieces. Away, away, away.
She holds him tight as he disintegrates.
"I miss him," he says to her.
Her hands tighten around him. "I miss him, too," she says. "Oh, god, I miss my baby. I would — I should have — "
"I know," he says. Merlin, did he know. He can see the Furby over her shoulder. It's lying on the floor. It's silent. Fred will always be silent. His breath shudders out of him.
"I'm sorry, Molly, I'm sorry," he cries out, like a child, burying his face in her neck and breathing in the scent of her. "I should have protected him for you."
Her tears are cold on his face as she presses close to him. "It wasn't your fault. He wanted to fight for what was right — "
He weeps.
He weeps all night long.
They weep together.
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(George looks up at him. George is thirty years old, now.
Finally, Arthur can ask this — finally, he has healed enough — "Why?"
George knows exactly what he means. "He needed to find the joke in the tragedy."
Arthur looks down. At last, he smiles. It is a tired smile — worn and pained at the edges, but sincere enough.
Talk Furby to me.
He nods. The joke in the tragedy is not a simple pun — it is something far greater still.)