Part 1
Saying Good-Bye
The rain didn't look like it was going to stop any time soon.
It had started the morning of the funeral, and had continued well into the evening, the dark rain clouds blending into the night sky. The Burrow seemed to sag more than usual; it was as if it knew that it had just lost a family member forever. Muddy footprints tracked into the kitchen, which was back to its usual state of uncleanness. Mrs. Weasley, or anyone else for that matter, had not felt up to cleaning for two reasons: one, the heavy depression hanging over the house did not encourage the idea, and two, Fred would not have wanted anyone to clean in his behalf.
The Weasleys sat in silence in the kitchen, their shoes caked with drying mud and faces stained with old tears. Harry and Hermione sat among them, clutching their hot cocoas and feeling terribly out of place. The fact that two Weasleys were missing from the crowded kitchen was overwhelming, and tears threatened to renew themselves in each of the mourners' eyes as they each gazed out the window that overlooked the garden, where the funeral had taken place hours earlier.
George Weasley, his soaking red hair plastered around his face, sat on a mound of mud that had been dug up to make room for his twin's coffin, his clothes muddy and dirty beyond hope of cleaning as he lingered in the pouring rain.
"Someone should go get him," Mr. Weasley choked, breaking the awful silence that hung about the room.
"No," said Bill immediately, his voice shaking as Fleur reached over to touch his arm. "He doesn't want to leave."
George couldn't tell how hard he was crying anymore; the rain fell so thickly upon his pale face. His eyes, red and bloodshot from tears, did not waver from the grave in front of him, newly-set and still covered with fresh mud. It must be deep into the night by now, and the words carved into the grave were growing harder and harder to read.
"Lumos," George muttered, and a small beam of light emitted from his wand and onto the grave.
Fred Weasley
1 April 1978 – 2 May 1998
Died like he lived – with a laugh.
These words were painful, more painful than anything George had ever experienced, even after reading them over and over. Somehow, he had never imagined his twin dying before or after him. He had always imagined them dying like they were born – together. And now, sitting here in his rain-soaked clothes, he was struck full-force with the terrible realization. Fred, his best friend, brother, and twin, was dead.
A strangled, choked sound emerged from his throat, but he did not cry. He was out of tears. In fact, he probably wouldn't be able to cry for another year.
"Fred, you git," he choked, addressing the grave as the smallest of smiles appeared on his face, "you always had to beat me at everything. I hope you're happy. I couldn't even read your dumb eulogy today, could I, seeing as you made me cry. Don't snigger at me. It wasn't funny. Even Auntie Muriel cried, can you believe it? And we thought she wrote us out of her will, the old bat! Well, she probably has, now that I think about it…"
"Arthur, this isn't healthy," said Molly, her voice dripping with concern as she peered at her son through the window. "He'll catch cold."
"Never mind that!" It was Percy who spoke up this time. "Let him finish saying good-bye."
"They've been inseparable for twenty years," said Ginny softly. "I don't think they can finish their farewells in one night, Mum."