AN: Hello! This is my re-start of Master of the Hallows, which I realised didn't make much sense without some kind of background before hand, so I give you The Simple Life of Fred Weasley!
I know I've already changed it a few times, but I'm trying to perfect my story, so reviews for improvements are very welcome and I will try to improve my writing if it's too confusing or you think it could be better somehow.
Cheesestring xx
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognise, even though I wish I did.
The story begins
There's a small village in the outskirts of Essex, where those who know of magic, whether they are the relatives of muggle-borns who failed to inherit the spark that magic needed to thrive, squibs or perhaps even wizards, though this is a rarity. At the moment, only one wizard family lives in the safe confines of Mayerdale, where they can practice magic freely without worrying about the clueless muggles realising there was another world right under their nose. It's this family our tale revolves around, the little family who live in ivy cottage, the last little house on the third row. Ivy cottage, which was number 7, although all of the villagers knew it as ivy cottage because of the thick layer of ivy which hid the red bricks of the cottage under a coating of silvery leaves, was often visited by an army of red heads, though they prefer to stay secretive rather than mingle with other residents.
It was a strange little house; the cottage's garden was an oddly wild despite the tamed attitude the residents kept towards it. The grassy lawn was moan every month or so, keeping it green and short, but the large oak tree in the centre was surrounded by what seemed to be large weeds and the paving stones had grass poking through the gaps between the slates. Tonight, the full moon glistens in the sky, flooding light into one of Ivy Cottage's bedrooms, where an average height man curled up with his wife in a deep slumber. The room its self is painted a deep scarlet with a fluffy, hazel carpet and gold borders while the bed had red, silken covers and deep brown pillow cases; clearly these people were Gryffindors. At the foot of the bed lay a small King-Charles Spaniel with hazel and cream fur that had grey flicks scattered across it and dried mud up his legs. The little dog, whose red collar tells us his name is Rollo, whimpers as a white figure walks into the room, a figure that belongs nowhere and everywhere at once; a figure that should be have been in the halls of Hogwarts.
The figure appears bruised and weak, though he may just be underfed. The ghostly man creeps around the floor, his feet never really touching the floor while his messy hair flows in a non-existent wind. He moves his right hand, which clearly has words etched into it, though his image is blurry so the words are un-readable. In fact the only clear feature in his entire image is a thin lightning bolt scar just visible beneath his fringe and the only coloured feature he holds are a pair of vivid, green eyes. This figure isn't dead, you can tell by the especially faded presence his 'ghost' has, though he clearly isn't living either. It's as if his body is frozen in time and his soul has escaped to prevent his mind from cracking under the pressure being in such a state creates. He walks towards the woman, apparently much to the dog's annoyance, as Rollo stands and growls at the figure, who grins back at him in reply. The figure strokes the woman's face, making her smile and lean into his touch as if she's missed him, although she visits his comatose form often. He sighs and climbs across the bed, pausing over the man with a sad smile before hopping of the bed, soundlessly. The figure kneels beside the man as the dog whimpers and as the man takes a deep breath and rolls over in his sleep, the figure being breathed in too, his faded form disintegrating into dust-like particles while the man simply splutters in his sleeping state. With that, the room returns to its previous, peaceful atmosphere, allowing the sleeping couple to dream without any further disturbances for now, though the dog moves to lie besides the woman, his paws making a faint padding noise across the floor.
A wind howls around the quite room, rattling the windows and thus ending the deep slumber of the man. It was nothing new; he'd always been a light sleeper, which was unfortunate now, but it was useful during the war. He shivers at the mere thought of the word. That war, it still haunts his nightmares and the only thing that calms him after those terrible dreams is the tender grasp his beloved wife holds him in while he shakes and cries. As if she hears his thoughts, his wife turns over in her sleep. The slight snore that escapes her lips as her hands seeks out his body makes him smile at her, his shaggy ginger hair falling into his glittery blue eyes as he scans her body, his gaze fixating on the deep scars in her arm for a second, which causes him to frown fiercely, before they rise to her frizzy curls, which are spread across the bed behind her like a bushy brown halo. How did he get so lucky? He wonders that often, as does his wife but neither knows the answer, not really.
Then again, the picture on the bedside table gives them a clue. It's an old picture of a younger version of his wife in a very familiar forest. He'd grown up just through there, on the outskirts of Ottery St Catchpole in a crooked house with five brothers and a baby sister. She, on the hand, grew up in London, living above her parents' dental practice, where she used books to find a place she belonged, a place filled with magic and fantasy. She hadn't known that world was real, not until she turned eleven, but he was born into it, though as a consequence he began his life during war. His earliest memory had always been his mother's screams when she found her brothers dead, screams he had mimicked when his best friend and brother had lost his ear. The mere thought of the memories sends a crippling shiver down his spine. Of course, he'd spoken to all of his brothers about his dreams- or most of them at least- and every time, he'd only feel guilty for bothering those who had been through just as much, if not more, bringing back that pain that bombarded them whenever they thought about anything remotely close to the thought of those events. The more he thinks on the matter, the more he thinks of what his decisions did to them and although most are good, there are some horrible things happened to people he loves because of him.
He's awake now, though he wishes he wasn't. In his dreams, his sister is still alive, married to the boy she loved. In real life, the duo haunts the halls of Hogwarts, unable to come together until their spell is broken through some almost impossible prophesy only he and his wife know. Another long story he didn't even know the entire truth to. A voice in the back of his head told him things would be explained soon enough. He sighs and looks back at his wife, his beautiful, caring wife. At least he got his fairytale ending. He has his beautiful princess who, right now, is carrying their first born while his twin and sister-in-law await the arrival of their first born too. His store remains unharmed, though rebuilt, in Diagon Alley as well as his new store in Hogsmeade while the Death Eaters, or what's left of them, rot in the new, dementor-free Azkaban prison. He sighs with content as his eyes close and after a while, sleep takes a hold of him again. Yes, Fred Weasley has a perfect life now, but it hasn't always been like this. In fact, his life only really began to improve when he was 11.
Yes he'd always been happy and his life had been good, but he had never met anyone outside of his large family. He and his twin, George, had always longed for another companion, one who would laugh at their jokes and play with them without judging them as 'blood-traitors' as the people in Diagon Alley had once. Though that's not what led them to the woods that day, the day they met Hermione, but Fred couldn't be happier with how things turned out with her, at least. He smiles in his sleep and pulls Hermione into his chest, his arm draped across her waist naturally while her legs intertwine with his. He knows what's going to happen, his story is going to be told, even the parts he didn't know himself, the parts that he didn't witness but still made him the person he is and all his sleeping mind can think is 'at bloody last'.