forum: the houses competition

house: ravenclaw

year: four

category: drabble

prompt: [Setting] - Graveyard (Additional Restriction: [Character] - Bill Weasley)

ave atque vale

words: 908

It was odd seeing George on his own.

Bill looked at his brother, delirious and broken as he hunched over the Leaky Cauldron's bar, drowning his sorrows in the strongest Firewhiskey that Tom had. His grin was maniacal—terrifying, almost, drained of the mischief it had once possessed. George was a grotesque image of what they had lost in the war. He reached for his absent brother in the empty space next to him, tears welling up in his eyes as he realised that Fred would never come back.

Without Fred, there was no George and without George, there was no Fred. Bill could never remember a time that they were apart, had never imagined that they could be separated.

But here he was, his hand on George's shoulder as the latter sobbed for Fred, occasional cackles escaping his mouth—it was almost as if he didn't know what to do with himself anymore.

George looked up, his blue eyes bleary and watery. A look of shock and joy took over his features and he grasped Bill's shirt. "Freddie? Is that you? I knew you'd come back, I knew you would."

Bill felt his heart shatter in his chest, as he gently pried George's white-knuckled fingers off his shirt. George's tone was full of conviction; he truly believed that Fred was back.

"C'mon then, Georgie, let's get you home," Bill said tremulously. "You've had quite enough."

George did not protest. He stumbled as he got off his chair, unsteady and clumsy. Tom mumbled an insincere thanks as Bill set down a few Galleons on the counter. He reckoned that the wizened barman had seen far too much of his brother since the war ended and was more than happy to see him go.

George muttered under his breath, tripping over nothing as Bill led him through the damp, lamp-lit streets. He didn't listen to George, but occasionally heard him say, Freddie, Fred, is that really you?

Bill did not answer.

It was only when George collapsed in his bed, with a blissful smile etched on his features, that Bill allowed himself to cry—loud, gasping sobs escaping him as he finally allowed himself to grieve for his lost brother.

George had a determined—almost angry—aura when he approached Bill next.

"I want to go there," he said without preamble, ignoring the buzz of raucous conversation around him.

Bill set down his glass of Butterbeer and unwound his arm around Fleur. It was Harry's birthday—probably the biggest celebration the Wizarding World had ever seen—and his mother was hosting the party, filled to the brim with victorious witches and wizards, all with grins on their faces. Bill had never seen his people so happy, not even after the First War had ended.

Well, except for George, that is.

"Where?"

"Fred. I want to visit Fred."

Bill didn't hesitate. With a nod, Bill walked out of the meadow, away from the revelry and waited for his brother to join him, before disappearing into thin air.

The Memorial Cemetery was a beautiful place, located on the crest of a hill in the mellow countryside of Cheshire, where the Potter estate was located. The Manor was long gone, but the land still remained and Harry had immediately offered it up as a spot for the graveyard.

Wildflowers swayed in the breeze, tiny little spots of colour amongst the drab shades of grey and white of the tombstones. Fred's grave was directly beneath a birch tree, where the dappled sunlight made beautiful patterns as the emerald leaves swayed back and forth. Bill could not imagine a better place to lay Fred at rest.

George sat next to the marble tombstone, brushing leaves and dust off with a wave of his wand.

Fred Gideon Weasley

April 1, 1978 — May 2, 1998

Mischief Managed.

"Thank you," George began. Bill looked up, his eyebrows raised.

"That night, you didn't deny that you were Fred," George continued. "I was drunk, delirious, but… just for that night, in a twisted way, I felt complete again. I knew it was you when I woke up, but… well, thank you."

Bill rested his hand on George's shoulder. He didn't speak; he didn't give George paltry assurances about how everything would be alright, that he would heal with time. He wouldn't and Bill knew that. None of them would.

The wind was gentle and sweet, carrying the whisper of promises and laughter. It was almost as if Fred was there, his crooked grin in place—one that crinkled his eyes and bespoke mischief. Bill watched as George sighed, looking up at the sky, smiling. It was almost as if a burden was lifted off his shoulders, one that he'd been carrying around for too long.

With one last look at Fred's grave, George got up, dusting the blades of grass off his knees, unshed tears glittering in his eyes. Bill conjured a bouquet of sky-blue irises, holding it out to his brother with a smile on his face. With the slightest bit of hesitation, George took it with trembling fingers and gently settled it by the headstone.

"Goodbye, Freddie."

It was only a whisper, but it was enough. With a bright smile, George turned to Bill. He slung an arm around George's shoulders, as he talked amicably about opening the shop back up and all the new ideas he had for it as they sauntered down the hill, the summer sun shining down brilliantly upon them.

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