Disclaimer: No I don't own. Got it?
AN: Written for The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition round 2.
It never gets any easier; George thought to himself as he straightened out his somber black robes and checked his face for the final time. No matter how many times he attended the funeral of someone he cared about, it never got any easier.
"George…" the voice of his older brother Bill cut through his grief. He could see in the mirror that his brother's hand was shaking slightly. He straightened his robes once more.
"I'm coming," he said and he turned to face his brother. "I just…needed a moment."
Bill put a hand on his brother's shoulder. For a moment he thought the older man was going to hug him, tell him that everything would be okay. He wasn't really sure how he would react to that. Fortunately Bill didn't do anything and instead simply looked him in the eye.
"Listen, I know that it's hard, but we all miss her and if you need any help-"
"I'll be fine," George said quickly, cutting his brother off. "I'm not going to end up in the bottle again."
Bill looked dubiously at him and George frowned.
"She pulled me out of the bottle. I won't climb back in," he paused and looked through the living room door to where his daughter and son were both waiting. "Besides, I don't have that luxury."
"Yeah, well if you want to talk…" Bill said and George gritted his teeth. Bill might have meant well, but he didn't seem to understand. If he talked, George wasn't sure he could stop and he didn't need or want that. Not now, if ever. He looked over to his son and daughter once more. Fred might like to pretend that he was all grown up at the age of sixteen, but right now he looked just like a child. A child who needed his parents more than ever. As for Roxanne…
She saw her mother die. Fourteen years old and she saw her mother die in front of her. The two of them had been out on a shopping trip, a girly girls day out. A fight had broken out between a couple of foreign dark wizards that had evaded detection and a random killing curse had hit Roxanne's mother right in front of her. It was meant to be a treat and it ended…
It had ended with nightmares and tears and pain and they needed him to stay together for them.
"Bill, if you're going to offer comfort to anyone, offer it to them, okay?" George asked, gesturing to his children. "I don't have that luxury."
"But-"
"Bill, I'm not interested! I. Don't. Need. To. Talk!"
Bill stared at his brother in shock. George stared at his brother in shock. He hadn't meant to shout like that, but he had just…it had been just too much. But what was worse was the look Bill gave him. It wasn't one of anger or hurt. He could have handled, even understood those two emotions. No, it was one of sympathy and understanding. George wasn't sure that he could handle sympathy and understanding, so instead of saying anything, he just stomped past his brother into the living room.
"Fred, Roxanne, it's time to go," he said solemnly and the two of them stood up. Fred's eyes were moist and George made a mental note to keep a close eye on Fred. He put a hand on Fred's shoulder and a moment of understanding passed between them.
"Hold on tight," Bill told Roxanne as he took a hold of her arm and with a crack, they vanished. George grabbed Fred's arm and followed suit.
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It was a beautiful day to be outside in. The kind of day that was good for flying in. The kind of day the family would normally be playing impromptu games of apple Quidditch or eating ice creams outside Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour.
In short, it was not the sort of day to be sad on. No, the cloudless sunny day demanded to be celebrated, to be enjoyed. To George it felt like an insult. The skies should have been howling, screaming at another person in George Weasley's life now gone before their time.
And it uncomfortably reminded him of his brother's funeral. That had been a warm sunny day like this one. He suspected that he was going to end up really hating sunny days.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Angelina Weasley and to say our final farewells to an exceptional witch and the mother of two fine children."
There was a slight sob from beside George, followed by a rush of tears as Roxanne began sobbing uncontrollably. George hugged her and she held onto him like her life depended on it. It was tempting to join her in her tears, but he knew she needed him to be there for her. On his other side, he could see Fred staring resolutely ahead and clenching and unclenching his fists, almost as though he was trying to stop feeling. George remembered doing something similar at his brother's funeral. Didn't work then either. If George's experience was anything to go by, Fred would start crying before the end of the funeral.
The Minister droned on, dryly extolling the virtues of a woman he knew nothing about and George resisted the urge to stand up and shout. Anger, grief, sadness and a million other emotions swirled around inside him and he steeled himself against them. He didn't have the luxury of allowing them to rule him, at least, not yet. He gritted his teeth and said nothing.
Fred broke down sometime after the coffin was lifted. It started with a choke as he struggled to stop the tears. This was quickly followed by another and within moments he was crying fiercely. Roxanne, who had stopped sobbing for the time being, let her father go and George pulled Fred into a comforting hug.
"You know, at this rate I won't need to wash my funeral robes. All these tears will have washed them for me," he joked weakly and Fred gave him a teary, watery smile.
"Of all the j-j-jokes you've ever made and t-t-that's the best y-y-you can come up with?" he asked, hiccupping slightly. "What would the Maruaders have made of that?"
"Probably not a lot," George replied and for a moment their eyes met. Then, without warning, Fred began sobbing again.
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Two months later.
The flat was quiet without Fred and Roxanne in it. Too quiet for George's taste. Quiet gave him time to think, time to feel, time to…
Time to let his mind go to places where he didn't want it to go. Fortunately, he had something to keep his mind busy. His daughter had written the first letter of the year to him and he had to write back.
He picked up a quill and opened a new pot of ink.
Dear Roxanne,
He paused and put a hand on his chin. He wasn't entirely sure what to say. Or rather, he wasn't sure whether he should mention the person he had seen in the shop earlier that day. Dipping his quill in the ink once more, he continued writing.
I see that your brother has had a busy first week back at Hogwart's. That prank of his was truly inspired and I think that pranksters past and future will look to it as a shining example of daring and sheer Gryffindor courage in a prank. He really knows who to go for, doesn't he?
The shop is fairly busy, but a lot quieter than it was during the holidays. Most of the regulars have already gone to Hogwart's and only a few remain. There was one customer who looked just like your m-
George's hand suddenly started to shake and no matter what he did, he suddenly found he couldn't write another word. It was as though he was being possessed. Or at least his hand was.
Then it happened.
He didn't cry. Tears of sadness tugged at his eyes and yet they didn't fall. Instead, he just sat there, paralysed by waves of grief until the first rays of sunlight peeked out over the horizon. Grabbing a handful of floo powder, he tossed some into the flames and stuck his head in the fireplace.
"Ron! Ron!" he called out and a bleary-eyed Ron looked down at his brother, before suddenly waking up with a start. He looked down at his brother with concern.
"George, are you okay?" he asked quickly. "What's wrong? Do you need something? Have you done somet-"
"Ron…would you mind running the shop today? I…have to do something," George said hesitantly Ron nodded.
"Yeah, sure, I'll be right over," he said and George smiled at him.
"Thanks, it's just…it's something important," he said and he pulled his head out of the fire. Straightening up, he stepped out the front door and apparated away with a crack.
He arrived at just the right spot. Unlike the day of the funeral, the weather was downcast and the first few drops of rain were beginning to fall. He looked down at the gravestone of his wife and ran his hands over the stone. And as the rain began to fall in earnest and run down his face, it was hard to tell where the tears ended and the rain started.