Disclaimer: Unfortunately, any characters in this story belong only to the brilliant J. K. Rowling (:
What Fred Would Say
George and his son waved goodbye to Angelina. She waved back with one hand, the other resting on her huge stomach. She was always cheerful, even in pregnancy, which was what George loved about her.
It was a mild and sunny day. The clear, cool, fast-flowing river that ran along the side of their secluded cottage was glittering under the bright sunlight. This was George's favourite place to be; he had always loved to be outside, and he appreciated the beauty of nature.
His four year old son took his hand. "Why isn't Mummy coming for a walk today, Daddy?" he asked.
"Well, with such a huge stomach, it makes it a bit difficult for her, you understand," he replied.
"But it can't be that hard," Fred persisted. "It's only a tiny baby!"
"It is in a very awkward place though, Fred," George explained. "Just you imagine having to carry a huge weight, every minute of every day, without putting it down. Could you do that?"
"Yes, I could!" Fred said, screwing up his eyebrows defiantly. George looked down at the small child, who had folded his arms in the way a child did who was determined he was right, and raised his eyebrow. Fred stared straight ahead as the two of them continued to walk in silence, George amused by his son's playful insolence.
Fred was a beautiful child. His flaming red hair that already approached his shoulders looked strange against his skin tone. It was highly unusual for red hair and dark skin to mix, but possible (as George and Angelina had proven). Despite his originality, he was no doubt a beautiful child. His brown eyes were large and so dark that they were almost black. He wore denim dungarees, red converse and a red and white checked shirt. Although Fred was very much like George in the way he didn't care what he wore, Angelina loved to dress him in all manner of clothes, so Fred just went with it and didn't complain.
It was only after about a minute that Fred had forgotten his 'mood' and began to bombard his father with questions again.
"Where are we going?" he asked, his voice high and ringing.
"I thought I'd take you to see your Uncle's grave today. You haven't been with me to visit it yet, and it is a beautiful day after all."
"Why do me and Uncle Fred share the same name?" Fred continued.
"Your Uncle was a great man, if you were named anything other than Fred, I would expect you to ask me why you weren't named after him," George replied, laughing.
"What was Uncle Fred like?"
"Well, he was exactly like me, he looked the same and acted pretty much the same as well."
Fred snorted. "He couldn't have been exactly like you! That's impossible."
George raised his eyebrows. "He was my identical twin, so that's what we were, identical. We were born at the same time, bar a few minutes. We really did look exactly the same, I know it might be hard for you to imagine, but even your Grandma had difficulty telling the difference between us, and she gave birth to us." He grinned down at Fred, who looked confused.
"There must have been some differences between you," he persisted.
"Well, I suppose I was the quieter of the two of us, and I thought things through, whereas Fred just acted without thinking. But we both had the same love of mischief and the subtle differences were only clear to us. To everyone else we were the same. It was always 'Fred and George', or 'the twins', never 'Fred' or 'George'."
"It must have been hard for you, Daddy, to suddenly lose him like that," Fred said quietly; he had a sensitivity that most children his age couldn't even imagine.
George didn't answer, and Fred didn't press the subject.
"Oh look, here we are," George told his son as they arrived in a small opening from the thick hedges that lined the pathway alongside the river. It was a kind of meadow; the grass was tall and swaying in the light breeze, and daisies, buttercups, heather and forget-me-nots were scattered amongst the green, creating a riot of colour. There in the middle of the meadow was a simple gravestone- nothing fancy. The grass almost completely covered it, but the grave was carefully kept, keeping away any of the plants that threatened to hide it. George took Fred's hand and led him through the greenery towards the grave.
"I chose this place, I know he would have liked it," George told him. Fred didn't say anything and moved forwards to read the words etched into the stone (he had been able to read for a few months now, and he loved it, reading almost every day).
Here lies Fred, Beloved Brother and Master of Mischief
Rest In Peace
Fred looked up at his father, who was gazing, expressionless, at the grave. Fred could feel tears well up in his eyes, as much for George as for his uncle. George then looked down and saw the tears. He knelt down to Fred's level and wiped them away.
"Don't you cry," he told him, not unkindly. "If there was one thing that Fred hated, it was tears."
"Didn't you ever cry though, Daddy?" he said blinking the tears away.
"I did, everyone cried for him. But then I realised, if I had been the one to die and Fred had lived, I wouldn't have wanted him to cry." He smiled at his son. "After all, what would Fred have said if he'd seen me crying?"
Fred shook his head. "I don't know, what would he have said?" he asked.
"He would have said, 'The only tears I want to see are ones of laughter.' I never, ever saw Fred cry, and he had never seen me cry, not before he died anyway." George took his son's hand in his.
" 'When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.' "
Fred had not breathed through the poem that George had recited. "Cristina Rossetti," George told him. "I never really read poetry. This was read at Fred's funeral by Bill. He may look cool on the outside, but..." George grinned, "...he loves poetry. It was this poem that stopped me crying. I have never cried since then. It isn't what Fred would have wanted."
Fred had stayed silent all this time. George was now looking at the grave, a faint smile on his face. "Uncle Fred must have been a great man to not want you to cry over him." "He was a great man, but not for that reason. Anyone who loves their family wouldn't want them to cry over them." Fred looked confused, and George noticed this. "You will understand, one day," he told him. "Meanwhile, I think we should be getting back, your mother is going to be wondering where we are."
Fred nodded and stood up, still holding his father's hand. The pair walked away from the grave back towards to the pathway. George looked back at the last minute, seeing something that Fred would not. The faint, ghostly figure of his twin at the age of 20 was smiling at him. George grinned back. He knew he was the only one who could see him, and he even knew that it was simply a figment of his imagination. But he didn't care. He wasn't going crazy. It was just a memory.
A/N: I hope you liked this, I think of all my fanfics, whether they be one-shots like this or longer stories, I enjoyed writing this the most. This is my ideal ending to how George coped after Fred's death, and personally this is how I feel he would have acted. The poem, 'When I Am Dead, My Dearest' is one of my personal favourites. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this, sorry for me consistent rambling in my author's note, trust me, it's normal for me. So, please review, it would mean a lot to me, whether it is a good review or constructive criticism! Oh, and any readers of 'Always Hoping', I am working on my next chapter, is just taking longer than anticipated! Thanks for reading :D