A/N: Written for The Hunger Games: Fanfic Style Competition on HPFC. You don't know how excited I am for this competition. LET THE GAMES BEGIN.
Prompts used (Five out of the ten provided): Molly Weasley as a character, "What are we going to do now?", word count of 625, angst as a genre and despair as an emotion.
Thank you so, so much to DobbyLovesSocks for betaing this for me; you're a star, Dobs!
There is a dead boy at your feet.
He is quiet and still and so deathly pale – but these are things Fred has never been; this is a face you have never seen. Not on him.
Arthur trembles. His eyes, blue and empty and sorry, don't ever leave your son's face. The guilt rises in your chest like a wave, a wave that is pulled to Fred, and then to George, and to Ginny, to Ron, to Harry, until you are drowning in your own sea of despair.
Arthur blinks.
Fred doesn't.
You pull Percy close to your chest. He is trying to teach you how to breathe again, trying to teach you how to cry, how to grieve.
Arthur whispers to Fred. You're sure he's saying sorry, saying we love you, saying this never should have happened, over and over and over – your heart is pleading with him to stop.
"What are we going to do now?"
"Mum," Ginny breathes from beside you. "We'll be okay."
But you know she doesn't mean it.
"He should be here," you say softly, in the middle of Christmas dinner. "We shouldn't be doing this without him."
Your family looks at you and you know, oh, Merlin, you know, how very much they want to move on. It's written in the shock on their faces, the colour flushing their cheeks, the silence lingering after your words.
Arthur stares.
"Molly," he says quietly. "Not now."
Your hands shake against the wood of the table but the dull rhythm of your fingers calms you, consoles you, when nothing else, nobody else, will.
"He should be here."
George is pale. He throws his knife and fork down onto his plate with a clatter. His clenched jaw screams that he is holding back the tears that you cannot, and you want him to cry, you want to see him break down like you know he needs to.
You want to see him grieve.
"George, please," you whisper, but your voice is cracked as the rubble beneath the body of your son. "George, look at me."
He does.
And it's just another dagger, because no matter how hard your family will try to move on, to forget...they can't.
George blinks.
(Fred doesn't.)
"It's okay," you say, but you know he will never listen.
"I'm sorry." He closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose. "I'm sorry for being him."
"You're not him," Hermione says kindly. "You needn't be sorry, George."
"I'm him to you," George snaps. "All of you. I'm the reason you can't let go, Mum, and I'm sorry. I don't want – I just – I want you all to be happy again."
Ginny reaches up and puts an arm around his neck, pulling him down so that his tears stain her shoulder.
"You are George Weasley," she says. "You always have been, and always will be, George Weasley. We love you, and we're so grateful that we can still tell you that."
George snuffles into Ginny's jumper. You're sobbing into your own sleeves and whispering, "I'm sorry, George, I'm sorry," and hoping everyone understands.
"He should be here," George says, nodding slightly, and picks up his fork.
And life goes on.
The baby is warm and heavy in your arms. This is a familiar comfort.
"Fred," you whisper. It is the second time you have whispered that name so sweetly to a newborn. He kicks his legs, stretches his arms.
"Fred," Angelina says, smiling, and George takes her hand.
"Freddie," he says, and you can hear his pain, his joy. "My Freddie."
"He should be here," you say, but it is not bitter this time, not at all.
"He is," George says, smiling at his son. "He already is."