Written for Ninja Potter's Glee Prompts Challenge, the perfect marriage of two of my favourite things- Harry Potter and Glee! My prompt was 'Lean on Me' (hence the title), and here's what I chose to interpret it as.
Enjoy!
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Angelina woke slowly and stretched her arms above her head, eyes still resolutely shut in an attempt to hold onto the vestiges of a beautiful dream. Weak spring sunlight filtered through the sloppily closed curtains, warming her exposed skin. The young woman allowed a languid smile to flit across her features as she remembered what date it was and, clutching the pale lavender duvet close to her, rolled onto her side.
"Happy birthday you," she murmured, voice still laced with the huskiness of sleep. Lazily, she rubbed the remnants of sleep from her dark chocolate eyes and opened them. She blinked once. Then again. She reached out her hands and fisted them in the cavernous space next to her. As usual, the other side of the bed was stone cold.
"Happy birthday Fred," she murmured under her breath. Then slowly, almost as though she was underwater, she hauled herself upright and sat there, knees drawn up to her chest and hands cupped over her eyes. She felt so heavy, as though moving even minimally would take too much effort. It was always like this now, to some degree. Today was the worst since... well, since that day. Since she sat holding a trembling Katie Bell in her lap and saw the cluster of red-haired men carrying that white shape into the Great Hall. Since she moved dreamlike towards a wailing Molly Weasley. Since the group parted and she found herself staring down at that face, the face she knew down to the last freckle, that face that smiled resolutely even in death.
Even in death.
Sometimes it made her feel sick to her stomach. Sometimes she wanted to curl up in a ball and cry until her tear ducts ran dry. Sometimes she wanted to scream and throw her mum's fine china at the wall and push away everyone that came near her. But mostly, like today, she just felt numb. Like living was too much effort anymore.
A sigh fluttered through her pursed lips and she swung her legs down from the bed. Her hand shook only minimally as she grasped her wand and murmured an incantation. Her wardrobe door swung open and she made her way to it blankly. She rifled through the single small rail with blind disinterest, before finally removing a pair of blue jeans and a white tank top. She threw them on and tossed a long lilac cardigan around her thin shoulder blades before making her way downstairs.
In the kitchen, her mother was busy at the stove. Calliope Johnson was a voluptuous woman, her ebony body curving in and out in all the right places. Like her daughter, she wore her black hair in braids, but unlike Angelina she wore a glowing smile as she hummed under her breath. The strong scent of a fried breakfast assaulted the younger woman's nostrils and she had to fight the urge to vomit. With an affected little shudder, she drew her cardigan closer to her body and took a seat at the scrubbed wooden table.
"Morning sweetheart," Calliope called, turning to face her with a knowing smile. "Breakfast?"
Angelina shook her head weakly.
"Cuppa?"
"Yes please," she said quietly, grateful to accept the piping hot mug her mother offered to her. Calliope pulled up the chair next to her and sat down, clasping her daughter's hand in her own. Angelina smiled tearfully at her and squeezed, revelling in the comfort the contact gave her. "Thanks Mum."
"Always darling, always," her mother replied softly. "Are you alright?"
"I'm... coping. It's just hard, you know?"
"Baby, what happened that day would be hard for anyone... The Towler boy is in bits, and he wasn't even at Hogwarts when it happened. Losing your friends, it was bound to have an effect on you."
"My friends," Angelina echoed faintly. "Yeah, my friends."
Before they could continue their conversation any further, a noise from the staircase heralded the arrival of her father. Mr Johnson was a slight man, but his face was the very image of his daughter's. He wore a navy dressing gown and a pair of slippers Angelina's younger brother Max had bought him for Christmas, red with stuffed Father Christmases embroidered onto the front. As he descended towards them he removed a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from the pocket of his robe, rubbed at them with a cloth and jammed them onto his nose. When he saw his two girls sitting at the table, he smiled and hurried over to ruffle their hair affectionately.
"Everything alright here?"
"Angie's just having a bad day love," Calliope informed him over her daughter's head. "Nothing our little fighter can't handle."
"That's my girl, chin up," John encouraged her, giving her shoulders an extra comforting squeeze.
"Breakfast love?"
"Callie, you spoil me," he smiled at his wife, taking the seat she had just vacated. Calliope bustled around the small kitchenette, hunting for plates and glasses and cartons of orange juice. Once more Angelina resisted the temptation to throw up as her mum plated up the greasy pile of sausages and bacon rashers with a veritable mountain of bright orange baked beans. The toaster gave a little 'ping' as a couple of slices of golden toast popped out of it and the thick aroma of freshly-brewed coffee filled the cosy little room.
"Here we are," Calliope proclaimed, thumping the plate down on the table in front of John. The man gave a wolfish grin and began to attack the food he had been offered. He paused with his fork still in his mouth and wrinkled his nose in distaste before reaching for the salt shaker in the middle of the table.
"Daddy," Angelina said in a stuffy voice. "The Healers say too much salt is bad for you..."
"She's right you know," Calliope warned her husband, but John just pulled a face and tipped the salt shaker to sprinkle some salt over his meal. With a crash, the lid tipped off and a miniature mountain of white salt granules tumbled onto the plate. John and Angelina stared in disbelief. Calliope stifled a giggle. "Well, we did warn you!" she managed to choke out. Her husband and daughter just stared.
"Callie...?"
"April Fools!" she proclaimed, swiping at a tear of mirth. "I'm sorry honey, just my little joke."
"Angie?"
For Angelina had clambered shakily to her feet and pushed her chair back with a squeal of wood against tile. April Fools. Those two little words. She used to associate them with fun and hilarity, with pranks, with planting birthday kisses all over Fred's face beneath the oak tree overhanging the Black Lake. Now they were synonymous with tears welling up in her eyes, with feeling like her chest was on fire with suppressed emotion.
"Angelina, are you alright?"
"Angelina? Angelina!"
"I-I need some air," she whispered faintly. "I need some air."
Before either Calliope or John could argue, their daughter had disappeared out the back door and into their small postage stamp of a garden. Her fingers were trembling and her breath caught in her throat. She clasped her hand tightly around the long, thin shape of the wand buried in the pocket of her jeans and closed her eyes, turning a graceful pirouette into nothingness.
She reappeared instantly in the field behind the Burrow, knee deep in mud and untamed grass. She could, of course, have apparated to the front of the house and knocked on the door. But the truth was, she didn't think she could face it. If she went to the door, she would have to face Mrs Weasley or Ron or Ginny or worse, George. George, who had his face. George, who had his laugh. George, who had his smile, that bloody infectious smile that nobody could ever wipe off his face, even when he was just lying there, still and unmoving...
No, she would not be going to the front door.
Instead, she dodged a rogue gnome who was attempting to gnaw on her exposed ankle and made her way to the small picket fence that marked the boundary of the Weasley household. She propped her elbows against the dilapitated wood and rested her chin on her arms. It was a crisp spring morning now, but Angelina remembered sunnier summer days, days spent pressed up against this very fence as Fred planted kiss after kiss on her giggling form. She remembered the feeling of his hands roaming over her curves, of the soft texture of his overlong red hair as she fisted her hands in it, of the way his mouth curved up into a grin, even when he kissed her. She remembered his smell, one vaguely reminiscent of gunpowder and chocolate, and the way his blue eyes lit up when she came into view. She remembered the butterflies that leaped in her stomach at the very mention of his name, the days spent racing each other up and down the Quidditch pitch before collapsing in a hysterical, giggling heap in the freshly-cut grass, arms intertwined and heads bent close together.
She shouldn't have come here. It hurt too much.
"Happy birthday Fred," she muttered darkly, feeling tears tugging at her eyes as the fire in her chest exploded, fanned by the bellows of the memories she had been trying so hard to suppress. She crossed her hands across her chest to hold herself together and turned to go. She swiped at her watering eyes and was just about to disapparate when she heard it.
A noise. Small at first, but then it grew louder.
A sniff. A sob. A moan.
"Fred. Fred. Fred!"
Angelina couldn't help herself; curiosity had always been her weakness. Crouched low to avoid being seen, she peeked through a gap in the fence.
A small tombstone sat among the higgeldy-piggeldy bushes and flowers in the Weasley garden. It looked mostly the same as it had the day of the funeral, almost a year ago now. Somebody (her best guess was Mrs Weasley, although Hermione was a possibility too) had gone to painstaking lengths to keep the area around the grave free from weeds or any form of debris. A charm had been placed on the flowers that sat there, mementoes to lament the loss of Fred. Angelina could still see the glint of the golden locket she had dropped among the brightly coloured petals of the bouquet Katie and Oliver had brought with them. The grave was perfect, immaculate, and kneeling before it was a figure so pitiful Angelina immediately felt guilty for crying. What right had she to mourn, compared to him? She could try to blot out the memories, but how could he? How could he even begin to attempt to forget, when every reflective surface taunted him with reminders of the brother he had lost?
"George," Angelina breathed. He glanced up wildly.
His hair was messy and unkempt, much longer than Angelina had ever seen it. She wondered if it was an attempt to hide the hole where his ear had once been, or if he simply lacked the energy to maintain it. He was deathly pale and spectacular purple shadows bloomed beneath his glassy blue eyes. He wore an ancient, moth-eaten Chudley Cannons t-shirt and grey sweatpants, and his feet were bare, white as bone against the dark earth. He was trembling from head to foot with a mixture of cold and salty, violent tears. His face was the very image of Fred's in everything but his expression. For Fred had never worn such a mask of grief. His lips were permanently turned up, his cheeks creased with laughter, but here was George with his face sagging with pain. He looked barely able to support his own weight, as though he hadn't been eating.
With a shock, Angelina wondered if this was the appearance she gave in her parents' eyes.
"George," she said again, her voice a little stronger this time. The young man continued to stare.
"Ange?" he asked, and his voice was hoarse, almost as though he had forgotten how to use it.
"Yeah, it's me."
"Wh-what are you..."
"I loved him too George," she said shortly. George gave her an appraising look and then nodded his approval.
"Well don't just stand there!" he exclaimed in a faint impression of his former exuberance. The forced, almost hysterical tone of his voice made her wince. "Come in, won't you?"
Angelina swallowed and nodded slowly, her hand already undoing the rusty bolt on the garden gate. She walked slowly and erectly into the garden and approached George and the headstone warily. With trepidation, she raised her gaze to read the words engraved in the smooth white stone. She hadn't had the nerve or the energy to do so at the funeral. They read:
FREDERICK GIDEON WEASLEY
1 April 1978- 2 May 1998
Beloved son, brother, friend and prankster.
Angelina couldn't stop a smile from leaping to her lips at the sight of this last word; nothing could have been more fitting. Wistfully, she reached out a hand and stroked the words.
"He always insisted that would be on his gravestone," said George in a strangled voice. Angelina moved back to stand next to his crouched form, her smile now tinged with rueful sadness. She gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze.
"And far be it from us to argue with Fred Weasley, eh?" she whispered. "That boy always got what he wanted."
George gave a strangled noise, halfway between a laugh and a sob. He seemed to slump beneath Angelina's touch and his shoulders bobbed with emotion.
"Why can't we have what we want?" he moaned miserably. "Why can't we have him here with us, Ange?"
"I've asked myself that question every day since it happened," she replied, flopping down in the dirt next to him. "I've asked myself and asked myself, but the answer is I don't know. All I know is that he's gone, and there's nothing I can do about it. And I miss him, George, I miss him. And maybe I don't have as much right as you, but I do miss him and I-"
"Loved him," the redhaired man finished in a tiny voice. A small smile played on his lips. "I know. You and Fred might not have told anyone, but I knew. I knew everything about Fred. I could tell something was up with him the past couple of years, and he used to go all funny when you were mentioned, like Percy with that Ravenclaw prefect. It wasn't all that hard to figure out really."
"I should have known you wouldn't be kept out of the loop for long," said Angelina ruefully. She paused and glanced at him. "I'm sorry we didn't tell you. We- he g-gave me a ring, and I swear we were going to, but then... then..."
And before she could prevent it, a sob escaped from her frail frame. She took a furious swipe at the tears spilling onto her cheeks and gulped in air in a rattling breath.
"I'm sorry," she gasped, steadying herself. "I don't know what came over me, I don't..." Her voice quavered, shook and died for a long moment. She pinched the bridge of her nose tight until the flow of tears had been stemmed. "I'm sorry," she said again.
This time, George was the one to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. He squeezed tight, and the touch was so familiar, so similar to that of his twin that Angelina had to hold her breath to stop herself from giving in to her emotions again. She compromised by leaning into his touch, leaning against his collarbone.
"I didn't think anyone else got it," George whispered. "This feeling, like part of me was missing, like I wasn't me without him. The others, they grieved, but not like me. They didn't shut down like I did. They're moving on now, slowly, but they are moving on. But I haven't been able to, not like Ron and Percy and the others. It feels like... like he..."
"Like he'll pop up at any moment with a ridiculuous smile on his face and shout 'Gotcha'?"
George gave another half-laugh.
"Pretty much. It still doesn't seem real, and it still hurts. It's like, without him, I can't do anything. I can't be George without Fred. He was always the dominant twin, you know. The loud one."
"I think you were both pretty loud," Angelina smiled, pulling away from him. "And I know Professor McGonagall would agree with me."
George echoed her smile at that and the two lapsed into silence for a period which seemed to stretch on forever. Angelina studied her own hands, clasped in her lap, and she could see out of the corner of her eye that George was staring, mesmerised, at the gravestone before them. Usually, it was the image of Fred that haunted her. Now however, the image of this ghostly shadow-George filled her mind. She shuddered affectedly.
"I heard you shut the shop," she said after a moment. George glanced up again, almost guiltily, and shrugged.
"It was our thing," he explained. "It's not the same without him."
Angelina stared at the headstone for courage. Here, now, she could almost hear Fred's voice egging her on. She turned her gaze to George and scowled.
"How could you?" she exclaimed. "How could you George? You think Fred would want this? You think he would want you to just give up? On your baby? On the place you worked so hard to build? Fred loved that shop George, it was his everything! You can't just let it fade away, just another vague memory of Fred Weasley. You can't! You... you..."
Nice one, she could imagine him saying gleefully. That'll do the trick. Play on his emotions. I've taught you well, young grasshopper.
"I know," George sighed heavily. "I know, but I just... I don't know how to."
"I get that, I do, but you have to find a way," said Angelina softly. "For Fred."
"For Fred," echoed George. He swallowed audibly and nodded. "For Fred."
"I'll help, if you like."
That's my girl.
"You will?"
Angelina nodded fervently. "I'd like to. It's the best way there is to commemorate Fred's life."
What better way to remember a prankster than with pranks, right Ange?
She took George's hand and squeezed it. For a moment, he did not respond. But then he squeezed back and enveloped Angelina in a brief embrace. The two held each other fiercely, each leaning into the comfort the other provided. Angelina had thought for so long that nobody could understand her pain. George thought he was the only one still feeling like this. Now they both knew better. Angelina leaned her forehead against George's collarbone and George rested his chin lightly atop her neat cornrows. Over her head, he nodded to the grave.
"Happy birthday Fred," he whispered, a sad smile on his face. Angelina glanced at the headstone and then up at the remaining twin before her.
"Happy birthday George," she reminded him. George clambered slowly to his feet and extened a hand to help her up. He swept the dirt gently from her shoulders.
"Want to come inside?" he offered hesitantly. "Mum got herself into a bit of a state, and when she gets in a state, she cooks. A lot."
"Are you sure?"
"Honestly, you'd be doing us a favour. Please? There's cake."
"Oh, well in that case, I'm there!" Angelina teased playfully. Together, the two made their way back through the overgrown garden towards the back door. They paused just outside one final time and glanced back at Fred's grave. Angelina smiled tearfully and withdrew her wand, taking aim.
A shower of multicoloured sparks exploded above the headstone with a noise like gunfire and they remained, hovering above it, a fitting tribute to the colourful character that was Fred Weasley. George squeezed her arm again.
"Thanks for coming Ange," he said gratefully.
"Of course," his companion whispered. "I just wanted to be close to him today."
"Me too."
The pair walked in the back door of the Burrow and joined the bleak birthday meal, but the day seemed a little brighter to them both. Later, they would eat their body weight in birthday cake just to appease Mrs Weasley and end up falling asleep on the sofa. They would spend a lot of time together over the coming months too, getting Weasley's Wizard Wheezes up and running again. It wouldn't be easy; it would bring all the pain of losing Fred rushing back to the surface once more. But it would not be as unbearable as before. For now they had each other, united in grief. George would try to drown his sorrows in Firewhiskey, and Angelina would be there to bring him home and sober him up. George would find Angelina curled up in a ball in the back room of the shop, clutching one of Fred's old t-shirts and sobbing, and he would pick her up as gently as possible and cradle her until she faded into sleep.
No, it would not be easy. But they would have each other, a confidante to lean on when it got too much. And eventually, things would start to look up. They would get their heads together and start coping properly. They would throw themselves into the rennovations of the joke shop, re-open it to the delight of the wizarding public and eventually buy up Zonko's, as the twins had always intended.
They would do it together.
And they would both know that Fred would be proud. After all, he had always told Angelina he could unleash her inner prankster.
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Meh. I don't know what to think. Review? Please?