Morning guys/gals. Please enjoy having a gander at my latest Fic; this chapter's been fun to write, so I hope it's fun to read. WARNING! Lots of angst! Please leave a review. It doesn't have to be long – even improvements and criticisms are welcome! TTFN.
George was dreading his 21st birthday. He was dreading it because he knew that his mother would spend every spare minute of her week before knitting a brightly coloured jumper with an immaculately shaped 'G' on the front, even though he knew that she still did it even though she never had enough time to sit down. He was dreading it because he knew that Ron would visit The Burrow with Hermione, and Ron would retell the same old stories about his work as an Auror, and Hermione would make them all feel horribly guilty as she nattered about her rewarding work with S.P.E.W. He was dreading it because his father would harp on about random muggle crap that he found at work because he never knew what to talk about anymore. He was dreading it because Harry would come over with Ginny and they would be gloriously happy because Harry had just been made the youngest ever head of his department, and Ginny was well on her way to receiving top scores for her NEWTs. He was dreading it because Teddy would wander around table pulling on trouser legs and gurgling as Mrs Weasley stuffed him full of homemade food until his hair turned purple. He was dreading it because his older brothers wouldn't come because of "work commitments" but really because they didn't want to see an empty seat at the table. He knew that the bright jumper would make him look even paler and gaunter than usual and that Ron and Hermione's work would make him even feel even more forgettable than ever. He knew that his father's terrible jokes and unfailing happiness would just remind him how much he couldn't be bothered anymore to crack a fake smile or poke fun at his dad. He knew that Harry and Ginny would remind him how he was the most unimpressive person sitting at the table. He knew that Teddy would make him feel like the monster under the bed, and that that stupid empty chair at the end of the table would remind him that Fred was dead. Gone. And never coming back.
It was all he could think about. Every day since the Battle of Hogwarts, Fred had never left his mind. The physical scars were healing, but the emotional scars ran deep. They'd won. He could have been happy. He should have been happy. But who could be happy when their whole world had been ripped apart? His brother had become a memory in a second, and now he was weak with the effort of hauling himself around with only one body to support what used to be two minds in complete synchronisation. The rest of the Weasleys were suffering too, but not in the same way. They didn't have to wake up knowing that every day was going to be harder than the last, or dread falling asleep knowing that their dreams would just remind him of what should have been, and that waking up would just remind him that the thing he wanted most in the world had just been dangled in front of him like a puppet. However the rest of his family felt though, they never spoke about it. Everyone was so busy. Barely anyone seemed to even look at the empty chair anymore. They didn't even talk about Fred at the funeral. Lot of people turned up. Everyone chatted. Except George, anyway. He knew lots of people had tried to tell him how good the Wet-Start Firework display was. How Fred's face was so accurately formed by a thousand beads of orange light in the inky sky. George just hid in the room that he didn't have to share anymore and cried into the wall clutching the last ugly mauve jumper that Mrs Weasley had ever knitted with an 'F' on it.
The night before George's 21st birthday, dinner had barely finished when George shot upstairs to his room, avoiding the inevitable awkward chatter and then stony silence as the fire died in the grate, followed by the downcast gaze of his parents and a confused Teddy. As the creaking of the stairs slowly faded into silence, tears started to leak down Mrs Weasley's face.
"Oh, Arthur! I f-feel so h-helpless! I hardly know how to t-talk to my own s-son anymore!" she sobbed.
"Come on now Molly. George still needs time. He's had to learn how to live his life on his own. He's never been lonelier in his life."
"Bu-but A-Arthur I'm h-his mother! Why c-can't I e-ever seem to d-do any g-good for him anymore? Sometimes I f-feel like I b-barely know my own s-son!" Molly gulped, her eyes reddening further.
"George just needs to know that everyone's here, and everyone loves him. I think tomorrow will help. It's been ages since the whole family's been properly together, and seeing everyone might just remind of what life was like, you know, before. Besides, I've arranged for a few of his old school friends to pop over just to say hello. They'll help us win the old George back." Arthur reassured her, putting his arm around her waist and stroking her hair.
"I-I just m-miss F-Fred so much! E-Every day, just s-seeing George r-reminds me that I-I failed to l-look after one of my b-babies. I have n-nightmares, such h-horrendous nightmares! Whenever I-I close m-my eyes, all I can see is F-Fred, j-just lying there..." Unable to speak, Molly leant into her husband's shoulder and wept freely, waiting for his reassuring voice to tell her everything was alright – hoping that she was just being silly.
"I know, dear," Mr Weasley murmured, "I do too."
Next chapter coming soon...