CrowningAster is officially one of my favorite people on this site. I just want to say thank you to them for helping me with this and basically writing the entire plot. You have good ideas, my friend. This will be a four-part story.
To the rest of you-please say a prayer for me! I'm stressed to the max. Also, prayers to those being affected by ISIS.
1998
Ron counts his losses. It's easy to do, easier than it should be. His head throbs with the continual dull migraine. He sits in front of his desk, looking over the field, wondering.
Fred has been gone for two weeks. Ron counts his losses.
He tries to fill out his application for Auror training, but he can't keep his mind focused. He looks out his window and sees the summer. The blooming flowers and green grass. A storm brews in one corner of the horizon, angry gray clouds tumbling about in front of an endless expanse of blue. Even inside, the air is hot and sticky on his skin. But despite the humidity and heat, Ron is frozen.
Fred is dead. In his heart he knows it, but the rest of him hasn't been as keen on the uptake. He remembers Fred, with all his laughter. It's easier to use euphemisms. Fred is gone.
June, 1998. Fred has been gone for a month. He goes to George's flat to see how he is, because Mum was concerned for him. He knocks once, twice, and when no one answers, he pushes the door open. It's unlocked. Suddenly he fears the worst. Unlocked doors were only signs of the rooms Death had stood.
But Death is not inside. He picks over the bottles and crumpled papers to stand squarely in the living room. A witch sleeps on the couch. Ron stares at her. He doesn't recognize her. Noise in the kitchen jolts him, and he slips through the doorway to see. His brother, standing by the counter, the dishes doing themselves and his wand flicking to fry eggs on the stove.
"George?" Ron dares to whisper.
His brother flinches and the plate in his hand falls to the floor and breaks. "Bloody hell," he mutters. Ron had never heard those words leave his brother's mouth before. "How'd you get here?"
"Your door was open. Who the hell is on your couch?"
George lowers his eyes and mumbles something inaudible.
"Sorry?"
"I don't know," George repeats, louder, his head low in shame.
That was the instant Ron knew George was gone. He helps him clean the flat and they have dinner at the Leaky Cauldron. Ron can't help but notice that George orders a firewhiskey.
July, 1998. Fred has been gone for a month and three weeks. Ron sees Mum crying in the field outside from his window, but he doesn't go to help her, to console her. His eyes are dry but he wishes he could feel something. He wishes he were no longer numb. There's nothing in this world that could appease his empty appetite. Nor competition nor love, nor friends nor drink.
Ron watches Mum cry, alone.
Ron bumps into Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson in Diagon Alley later that week. Angelina is all smiles. Lee offers to take them all to dinner.
"What are you doing here in London?" Lee asks.
"Auror training started," Ron explains.
"Ah," Angelina says. "I wondered if you'd went or not."
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
"I work at Gringotts now," Lee says. "Angelina's studying with Muggles."
"What?"
"I'm going to uni," Angelina explains. "I'm studying Muggle medicines, then I'm going to start Healer training."
"Are you two..." Ron pauses, and the air is heavy with his silent implication.
They laugh. "No," Lee says. "I'm engaged to Alicia Spinnet. Angelina is helping us with the wedding."
"Congratulations."
Lee lowers his voice. "You should go see George."
"Why?"
Lee shakes his head. It's enough of an answer for Ron's blood to run cold. He stands and quickly bids Lee and Angelina farewell. He jogs down the street to George's flat, the cobblestone streets hurting his shins, but he doesn't care. He knocks on the door. It's locked. After almost a minute, someone answers. It's George. Ron sighs with relief.
"Hello," George says. He blinks against the sunlight.
"I was wondering how you were doing."
"Why?"
He thinks back to Mum crying in the field. "You know why."
"I don't."
"Can I come in?"
"You're already here, aren't you?" his brother grunts.
He comes in and sits on the couch. The place is cleaner than it had been the last time Ron had been there, and as far as he could tell, there were no strangers abiding under the roof with them. He glimpses stacks of books sitting next to a shelf in another room.
"Been reading?"
"Yes," George answers vaguely.
"When are you opening the shop again?"
"Eventually," George says gruffly. "Look, I know you didn't come to see how I was. How much money does Mum need?"
Ron gapes at him. There had been times, yes, before the war that Fred and George had covered some of Mum's finances, but never so bluntly.
"Mum wants you to come home," he bursts out, against his better judgement. He rushes on, George staring at him warily. "She cries herself to sleep, George, and it'd be better if you were home for her."
"I'm not coming home," he says flatly.
Ron hates the feeling in his veins, like ice seeping into his bloodstream. He glares at his brother and stands.
"Have a good day." He slams the door in his wake.
July, 1998. It has been two and a half months. George forces himself to read Fred's obituary. He had cut it out of the Prophet in May but had never read the damn thing. Today he does.
Fred Weasley of Ottery St. Catchpole, aged 20, passed away Saturday, 2 May, 1998, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in the Battle of Hogwarts. Fred was killed as the result of a collapsing roof, with a broken neck and massive chest injuries.
A memorial service will be held on Monday, 4 May, at noon on Hogwarts grounds, with Professor Minerva McGonagall officiating. Calling hours will be 5 to 8.
Fred Fabian Weasley was born on 1 April, 1978, in Ottery St. Catchpole, to Arthur and Molly Weasley. He is survived by his parents, and siblings Bill, Charlie, George, Ron, and Ginny, and numerous other family members and friends. He is preceded in death by his uncles, Gideon and Fabian Prewett. He, alongside his twin brother George, founded Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. We will always remember his infectious humor and desire for justice.
George vomits in the sink, bile rising in his throat. His stomach heaves and sweat and tears run down his face. He doesn't know how long he stands there, but it must be a while. Had it taken Fred as long to die?
Who the hell wrote that?
Fred, dying alone.
He washes his face and picks up the first book he finds on his shelf. He'd taken to reading since Fred passed, and rarely left the flat. The words in books are rarely as harmful as the ones he hears outside.
The book is The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath. He hardly wants to read something as depressing as it and returns it to the shelf.
Fred was killed as a result of a collapsing roof.
He covers his mouth with his hand. Don't cry. Don't cry.
Hand shaking, he puts the obituary back into a folder and away in a drawer he prays he never has to open again.
August, 1998. Three months and six days. George sends owls to Verity and Oliver and Lee, his three most faithful employees, and asks if they'd like to open up the store, at least temporarily, for back-to-Hogwarts sales. Oliver says he'll try, but his wife is some eight months pregnant with their first child, and he has to juggle Quidditch practices.
"I can try to come," Oliver offers. "But the English National Team drafted me off Puddlemere for their reserve team. And the baby."
"Congratulations," George says, but he doesn't know how genuinely he means it.
"Thanks. Want to be the godfather?"
"What?"
"I've known you my entire life, be the godfather."
"Okay."
"His name is Henry."
"That's a good name."
Lee never replies to the owl, but he sees him at the Leaky Cauldron one day and runs to ask him about returning to work. Lee quickly replies yes, and then asks if he'd like to be his best man at his wedding.
George sees Verity as she leaves her flat. Her blonde hair is plaited with streaks of charcoal black and blue in it. Verity had always dabbled in the odder of Muggle ways. She dyes her hair unnatural hues and pierces her face. Verity was rebellious as a youth, she once explained. Her mother was a Pureblood supremacist. Her name perfectly describes her, in George's opinion.
"Can you come?"
Verity says she can, as she's currently working a job as a waitress in a pub in the heart of Muggle London, a job she hates. "They always get shit-faced and try to grope me. Of course I'll come back."
"Good."
"You know I miss you bastards," she says. She smiles. George falters. He notices she used "bastards" in the plural. There's only one of them now.
They open a week later, Oliver in purple robes but reeking of sweat and hard work after a Quidditch practice. Verity wrinkles her nose at him. Oliver and Lee discuss Quidditch as the set up the store.
Children filter in and out with their parents. Profits soar. Mothers tell George genuine thank-yous. George spends most of his time working, trying not to remember Fred in everything he does. Which is virtually impossible.
Ginny comes in on the thirty-first of August with Mum. It's her last year at Hogwarts. She smiles and helps George clean the register.
"How're things?"
"Good," he answers curtly, without pause.
"Good." He's relieved she doesn't press him about grief or Fred or any of the aftermath. The silence between them is healthy and comfortable.
They close the next day for the time being, because business is slow in the fall months. He tries to split the money earned with Lee, Oliver, and Verity, but they all refuse, save Verity. He doesn't understand why. Oliver breathlessly tells him he has to go check on his wife, who is due in three days before literally running out of the shop. Lee and Verity help him clean up.
"I'll send owls, maybe around November, to see about opening for the holidays, maybe?"
"Sounds good, Georgie-oh-boy," Verity says. It's what she used to call him. Georgie-oh-boy and Freddie-oh-man.
"You should talk to Angelina sometime," Lee throws over his shoulder as he leaves. "She's worried about you."
Verity takes her quarter of the profit and kisses his cheek before heading out. He takes the remainder of the money to Gringotts the next day.
October, 1998. Fred has been gone for nearly five months. Ron's Auror training is coming along very well. He finds his rank as the second so far in their class, behind a Norwegian witch who'd been recruited. He vows to overtake her by the end of the year. Harry is just behind him, with Neville unfortunately last.
They practice Spells and Charms and learn some. The instructors take them to the Thetford Forest in Norfolk one day and take their wands. They tell them to run on a trail for two hours. Harry tries to keep up with Ron, but Ron takes the lead with his long legs. He weaves in between the trees, dirt and gravel crunching under his feet. He breathes through his nose, feeling his lungs tighten. He stops half an hour in for air, gasping. He reties his shoes and takes off again.
He remembers running with Fred in his fifth year, when he played on the Quidditch team for the first time. Fred had easily outpaced him. His brother had always had a sharp tongue, but he knew when to encourage. When Ron fell behind, Fred would urge him on.
Ron's eyes burn. He ignores it. He's left alone with his thoughts. His lungs are on fire and it feels like someone is kicking his shins. Someone is holding a lit cigarette against his skin.
He coughs and splutters and stops beside a tree, mingled tears and sweat dripping down his face. He touches his shins and finds them swollen. Perhaps he has a stress fracture.
He wonders if Fred felt this, when he was dying. If he felt pain. Or maybe it was quick. He should feel sad and depressed that Fred didn't get the life he should have. Instead he pities himself.
He wipes his eyes and breathes. Then, he reties his shoes and keeps running.
November, 1998. Six months. George cleans his flat and sends owls to Verity, Oliver, and Lee for opening for the holidays. They meet in the deserted store and talk. Oliver's wife Poppy comes as well, with Henry. Poppy is very pretty, with long red hair and green eyes. Henry favors her. Dark circles ring her eyes, and she explains, "He cries all night." Oliver acts in ways George had never before encountered around his family. It's as if he has two modes. He doesn't want anyone coming very close to his son.
"Can I see him?" Verity asks anxiously, peering at Henry.
"Piss off, why don't you?" Oliver says quickly, stepping between his son and her. "Godric, Verity, he doesn't want to see you." George thinks he sees Poppy roll her eyes.
"So do you think we can open for the holidays?" George prompts.
"We've got a match coming up on Christmas," Oliver says. "Against the United States National Team."
"When do you go for the World Cup?"
"In August. It's going to be in Russia this year."
"My schedule at Gringotts is flexible," Lee says. "I can be here."
"So can I," Verity puts in.
"I'll try," Oliver offers.
December, 1998. Seven months Fred has been absent. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes grosses more than double what was expected. On Christmas George stays at the Burrow. He steps into his old room and immediately wants to puke. Here, where Fred and he had spent their entire lives, unmarred until May.
The room itself hasn't been touched since he'd last been here. Maybe no one could bring themselves to do it. He closes his eyes and clenches his fists, unclenches them. Again and again. He closes his eyes but can only see Fred's smile.
He flings open the door and steps out into the hall as swiftly as humanly possible. He runs right into Ginny. She leaps back. He flinches.
"Are you all right?" she asks.
"Yes," he says. He's not crying, but the adrenaline is in his head and he's sweating. He thinks he might pass out. He pushes past her, leaving her staring incredulously after him, a knot of bitter anger forming in his stomach. He runs downstairs and opens the door and races down the drive. He doesn't bother that here, there is snow on the ground, or the fact of him wearing expensive clothes. His chest is threatening to explode. His legs are so tired. Fred is gone. Fred is not coming back. His arms swing at his sides. Ginny doesn't know the shit he's done. He hadn't ran the drive since he was a boy. His chest is threatening to explode. His legs are so tired. Fred is gone. Fred is not coming back. His arms swing at his sides. Ginny doesn't know the shit he's done. He hadn't ran the drive since he was a boy. Chest exploding, legs tired, Fred gone, arms swing, Ginny doesn't know. He's not a boy anymore. Chest, legs, Fred, arms, Ginny, boy. Fred, dying under an explosion, nothing but a drowning man underneath fifty tons of rubble, dead Fred, Dead Fred, Fred dead, chest, legs, Fred, arms, Ginny, boy, the gray sky and death in the air, the lawn covered in ice.
Ron finds him, lying facedown in the snow. He turns him over and checks for a pulse. Ron tries to pick him up and carry him, but unfortunately he isn't strong enough to do that. He shakes him awake instead.
"Get off me," he mutters.
"What?"
"Get off me!" He shoves him, hard, and Ron tumbles backwards.
"What-"
"I'm bloody dying!" George yells, his voice cracking with emotion. It's dark, but Ron can hear the tears in his voice.
"George-" Ron gropes for the right word, stretching his mind out to the east and west to find something to say, but he comes up short.
"I'm dying!" It comes as a shout that dies in a whisper. Roughly he grabs Ron by the shoulder. "Kill me, Ron, please." He's sobbing now, dissolving in front of him. Ron swallows the lump in his throat.
"Kill me," George whispers. "Please."
Could he? "No," Ron says hoarsely. He steps away from him. "I can't."
Ron could have sworn he died that night. Part of him did, anyway. It had gotten to the point that his own brother was demanding he kill him.
Ron cries that night for them all, silently in his bed. He knows Harry, who shares the room at the moment, can hear. But it doesn't matter. None of it matters. Sleep finally snatches him with cold claws, and he dreams of Heaven, with Fred laughing and smiling.