A/N: Just a sort of drabble done to the prompt Charlie and George bond over grief. Not very good, but I wanted to start writing more Harry Potter. Thank you to everyone who added me to their author-watch, and I'll be adding some better stories soon (:
He never did get to say goodbye.
He never had to. If he turned left, so did Fred. If he turned right, Fred was already there. Mrs. Weasley used to say they came out of the womb already plotting pranks, held together by 'a bond of shenanigans.' They took baths together, they played Quidditch together, they got time-outs together. Never separated, never had to say goodbye.
Maybe it was because when George was four years old, his mother took him to get new robes, and Fred had to stay home with dragon-pox. They had kicked up a fuss and cried, but Mrs. Weasley had firmly grasped George's hand with a severe 'Don't be silly, an hour won't kill you.' And what had happened upon their arrival at Diagon Alley? He had nearly been trampled by a gaggle of very dedicated shopping witches. It had been Charlie who had said, upon their arrival back home, "You're luckier together then you are apart."
So they remained inseparable.
When he had lost his ear, Fred had laughingly told him it was because they hadn't been on the same broom.
When Fred had died ...
But he couldn't think about that now.
The funeral was held at the Burrow, and for once the house was absolutely silent, despite being packed to the bursting point. Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Harry were holed upstairs in Ron's room; Bill and Fleur were in the kitchen with Mr and Mrs Weasley. Percy was arriving late. George didn't know where Charlie was.
He had to leave the house, now. He couldn't stand the silence, and he couldn't stand looking across at the empty bed that caught his eye whenever he entered the room. Even that damn ghoul was being quiet, as if the whole world had fallen into silence. Where were the explosions? Where was the noise? Where was Fred?
He crept down the hallway to the stairs as quietly as he could, keen to avoid detection. He had made many secret excursions over the years, but he had always had Fred with him, and he was never trying to avoid his family simply because he didn't want to see the pity in their eyes. Halfway down the stairs, he froze; someone had said his name.
"-Doesn't seem to be recovering well."
"Well, why would he?" That was Ginny's voice, wasn't it? Why did she sound so peeved off, anyway?
"I'm only saying, maybe he should go talk to someone –"
"He's not going to talk to anyone." That was Ronald, then. "Look, you're acting like he's supposed to pop back from this, like it was no big deal. He lost his twin! I don't want to know the guy that just pops back from that."
George caught himself nodding approvingly and quickly descended the rest of the stairs, making a mental note to buy Ron new dress robes as soon as possible.
He didn't meet anyone else until he reached the garden; gulping in deep lungfuls of air, like he had never breathed properly before, he leaned against the side of the house, wondering when the shaking in his hands would stop. No matter how much everyone tried to persuade him otherwise, no matter how many times he replayed that moment in his mind, it played out, again and again: the curse that hit Fred squarely in the chest, the way his grin turned into a grimace, the arc his fall made, the upset of dust his collision with the ground made.
They only times they had ever been hurt were the only times they had ever been apart.
He covered his face with his hands. He could not deny it, it was staring him squarely in the face; it was his fault Fred had died. He should have been there at his side, he should have been there to help, and no matter how much his family tried to disabuse this notion, it was there.
A noise to his right startled George. He looked up to see Charlie, alone, standing with his hands clasped behind his back and looking down at the patch of ground that would cover Fred's body. Of all his siblings, Charlie was the one he had seen the least since the war, and George couldn't help but wonder if he had been avoiding them. Before he could make up his mind to call him or not, Charlie spoke.
"Remember what I told you when you were four?"
As there was no one else in the garden, George knew that he was the only one being addressed, but it was such an odd start to a conversation that it took him a moment to adequately respond. After a moment, he shrugged and ambled over to Charlie's side. "Refresh my memory?"
"You're luckier together then you are apart."
It felt like an icy fist had closed around George's heart.
Charlie looked up to meet his brother's eyes. There were shadows under his own and he badly needed a shave; it looked like he hadn't slept in days. "I know he was going to say this was all worth it, but ..." He gestured hopelessly to the grave. "To be honest, I still can't deal with it."
"I know."
"Mum always wondered why I never dated girls. Seemed to think I was ... you know, playing for the other Quidditch team." A ghost of a smile flickered across his face. "But I never found a girl good enough. Liked dragons too much."
George stayed silent. Although it was mildly interesting (and answered more than a few questions), he had no idea what his brother's speech had to do with Fred.
"Always felt like the oddball in the family, you know? Bill was the popular Head Boy, Ron had Harry, Ginny was Mum's little girl. Perce ... well, he was happy being all superior. You had Fred." He paused. "I actually used to worry about you two. Didn't want to think about what might happen if you two had to go it alone."
George shook his head, unsure what to say.
Charlie clapped a hand on George's shoulder. "He died a hero, you lived like one. That's all we're ever going to be able to say, now. What do you think you're going to regret, most? Besides ..." He gestured helplessly to the grave again.
George finally found his voice. "Not being allowed to say goodbye."