To Remember
He remembered the call, the announcement: Lightening has struck... The fight is starting. And they were ready, ready to fight and to die... together, always together. They left immediately for the school, rallying the order, any allies they could find for the coming fight. The knowledge that it was finally coming to a head; Harry was back, to lead them out of the wretched war. It was the beginning of the end.
He remembered leading the people on the grounds, both of them fighting, casting all around them for enemies and protection. Light and sound and overwhelming fear and paralysis. But it was all ok, because he was there with him; they were together, and nothing could bring them down.
He remembered the stench of death, and the chaos. He remembered agreeing to separate. Not very far, but just far enough to lead two parties in separate directions. An ambush. It was the perfect plan. In theory.
They never found each other again, in the chaos. But that was ok, because they were the twins, and they couldn't die. Oh, they knew they could die, but surely if one died, the other would too? Neither would live without the other. The would know, and he had to believe that his brother was safe, somewhere out there fighting and laughing.
He remembered the moment it stopped; the voice, high and terrible. It was inhuman, and the message was condescending and infuriating. But it gave them time; time to gather themselves and prepare for the second round. It gave him a chance to find his family, and most importantly, his twin.
He did not truly remember anything that followed. He knew pain, and fear, and anger, and fury. He knew the feeling of being unable to continue, not alone, he could not be alone, no, no, no...It could not be true, could never be true. How could he be dead, the one who completed him? They were never separate, not for long. How could he continue? It couldn't be true, it couldn't, it couldn't, it couldn't...
He vaguely remembered Percy telling him what had happened, the laugh, the joke, the explosion... the crash... the death... But the details were fuzzy; all he really remembered was the numbing, fiery pain. It was inexplainable, how he could feel so much and so little, how he could be so numb and in so much pain, all at the same time. It was too much, and he broke, completely and utterly, breaking down. He barely saw Ron, and Hermione, and did not notice the absence of Harry, not until it was too late, but it didn't matter; what did it matter who lived and died when Fred was gone, gone where he could never follow, however much he may want to? Oh, but he could follow. Perhaps the battle would reunite him with his twin once more. He hoped for it. But he also knew he had to bring down as many of the bastards who had killed his brother as he could. Vengeance... for himself, for his brother, for another broken family.
He remembered being fuelled by the rage, the pure and unadulterated hatred. He reentered the battle with a zealous fury, barely comprehending what he was doing. He was lost in his pain and brokenness.
He remembered the shock at the knowledge that Harry was dead; that he was gone, gone like the rest of them, and with him their hope. What could they do without the chosen one?
He remembered the strength of the one who had always seemed the smallest of them; the one who found the will to rally the others, and remind them that they were not fighting for Harry, but for themselves. He was the one who endured the suffering of the others at the hand of Voldemort, to rally them to the fight again.
He remembered his pride for his mother, through the haze; his pure astonishment at the depth of the love of a mother for her children, as she killed the excuse for a woman who had attacked her daughter.
He remembered the end; Harry was alive, and he was duelling Voldemort, and they were speaking, and then, that final moment, when green met red, and Voldemort crumbled, leaving them victorious. Victorious at the greatest cost of all.
He remembered the need to get away; singing, dancing, feasting... that may be well and good, the war was finally, finally over, but it would never be right. How could it be, all the people who were gone now? People celebrated in the Great Hall, laughing, cheering; they let themselves forget about the people who were not celebrating with the, the ones who lay still and cold in the courtyard. So many, so many dead...
Remus and Tonks, together even in death, hands a few mere inches apart as they lay. Their infant son, who would grow up without his parents. But he had Harry, the saviour, the one who had saved them all. No, dear little Teddy would be alright. Remus and Tonks, they were together. They were young, and they did not deserve to die yet, having just found each other. Little Colin Creevey, the poor child, who had snuck away to fight for his hero. The profound sadness at the loss of a child so young, so completely and awfully young; what would they say to his parents, and to his younger brother Dennis? It would destroy them. It would tear apart yet another family. Mad-Eye, and Dobby, and Ted Tonks, and even Snape, the man they had all hated so much. He remembered the shock of the discovery that the man who had terrorized them for so long was really on the side of the light; that he had sacrificed more than any of the rest of them.
And he remembered the worst pain of all, the one that came with the knowledge that he was completely alone now. Yes, most of his family was there, but without his twin, he had never felt so completely isolated. No one had understood him like Fred, and no one ever would.
He remembered the first Christmas without him; he had spent it drinking his sorrow away, until he faded into oblivion. He had drowned his blood in firewhiskey, alone in the flat above the shop. People had been understanding; no one came to try to convince him to join them. He knew they also would not want his reminder of the loss of Fred. It was a curse, looking in the mirror, seeing what he had lost every day.
He remembered his first birthday alone. There was no party that year, no celebration. He could not bear to celebrate the day alone. It was inconceivable.
He remembered the first time he went to the grave. It took no small amount of courage, and even more liquid courage. It seemed that was all he did these days, drown in his drink. He moved through life in a haze for almost two years. It was their birthday, again. He remembered finally feeling the haze start to lift. The pain was there, but it was new; it was fresh, and it drove out the numbness. Now he could feel again, really, truly feel, and he was ashamed. He knew exactly what Fred would say if he were there.
"What are you doing, drinking your life away? What about the shop, everything we worked for? I miss you too, but you have to keep going, for mum and dad, and everyone else. We'll be together again someday. The world needs your laughs and your pranks. Don't let me down, Forge."
"I won't, Gred," he whispered into the still, silent air. "I won't ever let you down again."
He remembered living; he remembered the shop, and to laugh, and to carry on. Because he was not alone. Fred was with him always. And so he remembered.