I haven't written much for Fred and George for a while, and while drama/angst is my favorite genre, I'm going to do another depressing one-shot for everyone's favorite dead fictional character. Anyway, I'm writing this. It's kind of a companion to When He Was Twenty, but this can be read by itself (but I encourage you to read both). So please review.
Fred Weasley, age 20, died Saturday, 2 May, 1998, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in the Battle of Hogwarts.
A memorial service will be held on Monday, 4 May, 1998, at 12:00 P.M., on Hogwarts grounds for Fred, as well as the other 54 fallen, with Professor Minerva McGonagall officiating. Visitation for Fred, as well as the others, will be 3:00-6:00 P.M. Monday on the Hogwarts grounds. Fred, and 43 others, will be buried on Hogwarts grounds on Tuesday at 11:00 A.M.
Fred Fabian Weasley was born 1 April, 1978, in Ottery St. Catchpole in Devon, Great Britain, to Arthur and Molly (Prewett) Weasley. He has a twin brother, George Gideon Weasley, and has five other siblings, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Ron, and Ginny. He began showing signs of magic when he was only five years old, and he attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry 1989 to 1996, when he and George fled from the school in a scheme created to assist Dumbledore's Army and pursue professional interests. Notorious pranksters, the pair founded Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, a joke shop in Diagon Alley, where they quickly became successful inventors and entrepreneurs.
Fred was passionate about his family and friends, as well as his career, his work in the Order of the Phoenix, and purely making people laugh. Fred enjoyed playing Quidditch, in which he played Beater's position. After leaving Hogwarts, he joined the Order of the Phoenix and was a veteran of the Battle of the Seven Potters. Beginning in 1997 and continuing through 1998, Fred was part of a radio program called "Potterwatch" under the aliases "Rodent" and "Rapier", and assisted the Order of the Phoenix.
Fred is survived by his parents, Arthur and Molly Weasley, brothers Bill, Charlie, Percy, George, Ron; sister Ginny; girlfriend Angelina Johnson; friends Lee Jordan, Alicia Spinnet, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, and Luna Lovegood.
Fred is preceded in death by grandparents on both sides of his family, uncles Fabian and Gideon Prewett, friends Nymphadora (Tonks) Lupin, Lavender Brown, and former professors Remus Lupin and Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody.
We will always remember his infectious humor and compassion and justice.
George Weasley sits in a drunken stupor in the corner of the Hog's Head. Nobody wants to be caught looking at him, but they steal glances at him every so often, just to see. It makes them feel worse and it makes them order a stronger drink. When the funniest person they know is trying to drown himself in a bottle, it tends to have this effect on people.
He finishes his shot, and Aberforth, the century-old barman, replaces it with another tumbler. He goes from gin to vodka to whiskey to absinthe. He uses the torn newspaper as a drink coaster and the ink smudges underneath the alcohol spilt on it.
He closes his eyes. When they were two, when Fred was still here, he'd rarely go to a pub as shifty as the Hog's Head. But things were different now. He was alone. It was a pity.
Everything was wrong. This was not the life he wanted to live. Everything was fucked, and nothing would ever be the same. It was foolish to think things would be nice, enjoyable.
For the past two days, ever since the burials, he has drank. He has a room in the inn across the street, and when he wakes up in the morning, he treks across the cobblestones to cure his headache with more poison.
It should be different. This wasn't the life he wanted. It was hell.
He'd do anything to be with Fred. Anything. He'd drink himself to the grave. He needs something to hold onto, he needs a solace, a refuge, something to keep him steady, something, anything. But he is marked, he is damned, and they can all see it.
Nobody tries to stop him. It comes as a relief to him. But they all have lost someone, or something, or at the very least have heard about the death of one of the most esteemed businessmen in Diagon Alley.
When they were two-when they were twins-they used to tell jokes. But that history is a million eons away.
Once, when they were nineteen, and in hiding in the room above the shop, they went out on the roof at night. They didn't go out much. They stayed inside unless they had to do something for the Order. Nobody saw them. Nobody even knew if they still existed. Everyone wondered if they were dead, and now they have an answer. They're dead. Both of them, now.
But anyway, they went up to the roof, and they watched the lights from the city gleam. They stayed until the faintest gleam of dawn appeared on the horizon, staining the clouds golden and crimson, before slipping back downstairs. They had sat there in silence most of the time, until Fred turned to him.
"I'm worried about Angelina," his brother said.
George shrugged. "Angelina's smart. She'll be okay."
"I-I love her, George. I love her more than anything."
"That's…commitment?" He'd never understood love. It was elusive, it was bold. It was omnipresent, it was nonexistent.
"What if she dies?"
It was a serious moment. We were being serious for once. He looked at Fred and a lump formed in his throat. Maybe he didn't know what love was-the kind that drove people past carnal knowledge-but he understood family. And he knew that he loved his brother more than anything.
"She won't die."
He hadn't even considered the possibility if Fred died, and it was suddenly a very real, very present predicament.
He'd had to stay strong after Fred died. He had had to fight, and he had had to avenge. And he did. But now it was over, and he had time to grieve. Twenty years he'd been with Fred, and he would be unsurprised if he spent the next twenty years mourning.
He watches the people move around him, and he wants to be them, to trade in his life for theirs. Because before, nothing was this horrible.
He finishes his drink and stands, staggering haphazardly through the bar. A young woman stands beside him to keep him steady, and while he wants to send her away, he doesn't. She leads him across the street, and when he tries to use the key the innkeeper gave him, his hands are too shaky. She takes it from him and opens the door. He lurches inside, but before he shuts the door, he turns around.
"How did you do it, Angelina?" he asks, desperation creeping into his voice. Choked, he stops for a moment. "How'd you do it?" Tears roll down his face and his voice shakes. "I can't do it." Quiet sobs rack his body. "I can't do it, and you're fine. How'd you do it?"
She stares at him, and for the first time he sees pain, irreversible pain, in her eyes. "I didn't, George." Her voice is quiet. "I didn't do anything George. I just quit looking back."
"I don't want to forget him," he says in a hoarse whisper.
"Maybe we don't have to."