who's ready to forget?
Characters: Fred Weasley, George Weasley
Summary: They were not. But the show must go on nonetheless.
Prompts: Party, "What do you mean not your fault?", "Nostalgia forgets to visit this street. It is too busy with treehouses and rope swings, it doesn't have time for all of this grey." – Hieu Nguyen
Semi-AU
How had this all started again? Ah right. Percy had died. This was how it had all started. Percy had pushed Fred out of the way, taking the lethal blow for his younger brother, sacrificing himself for a man who had called him selfish only weeks before, who had accused him of not caring for the family at all.
And nothing had ever been the same again.
A war always changed the people.
Death changed people.
But surviving also changed people.
Fred was just too painfully aware of how close it had been, how close it would have been for him to be the one his mother cried for, for him to be the one beneath the white marble and beneath tons of flowers – because Perce had died a hero, not a traitor. And he also knew that he had been too harsh on his brother, that he had taken his frustration of his brother's decision to believe in the government a little too far. And maybe Percy's decision to turn his fear – the fear of what You-know-who's return would mean for the wizarding community – into denial (because what did not exist could not harm anyone, right?) had been justified as well.
It was common knowledge that it took some people longer to come around than others – and it was ever so unfair and wrong that Percy had been killed just when he had seen the way, seconds after making his first joke in what seemed to be a lifetime.
But it had happened.
And the dead had it easy. It was over for them. It was over and it could no longer hurt. The ones left behind carried the burden for them. It was Molly who cried over a son she had not hugged before the battle. It was Arthur who beat himself up because it had been his son, maybe not his favourite but his son nonetheless. It was Charlie who was suddenly missing a younger brother he had used to tease because this was what older brothers did. It was Bill who threw his old chessboard, the one he had not touched in years, against the world because his old partner was no older around and no matter how good Ron was, he was not Percy. It was George who had taken the part of passing out Percy's belongings to his old friends – because Percy had had friends as well and Penelope Clearwater was crying and it was such a goddamn tragedy. It was Ron who had not touched any chess figure in weeks and months because "My brother, you know! My youngest brother! Got past McGonagall's giant chess set!" and the memory was anything but kind. It was Ginny who seemed to have lost her ability to conjure a Patronus and this was the bitterest of it all because though their relationship may not have been the best, she had cared about her brother and she had known that he had loved her as well.
Yet it was Fred who had never been this silent before.
To George, it seemed like his twin was barely there anymore. Fred had not been inventing anything since the Final Battle. He had not even made a single suggestion as of what was to happen with the store now. The only thing he seemed to do these days was to sit in the living room, hands on his lap and staring at the picture frame on the where the family was complete and happy – as happy as they had ever been. Maybe content was the better word because they had always been content.
"Fred."
The twin who had seemed centuries older ever since the battle raised his gaze, eyes forlorn and empty. "Yea?" he asked, sighing as if even this was taking everything from him, as if he was back on the battlefield, as if Percy was dying in front of him again.
"It wasn't your fault, you know?" George said a little awkwardly yet not for the first time as he still hoped and prayed that Fred would finally start to listen to him – not that they had ever been listeners. They were men of action and when there was something to do, god help them, they could and would do it. But they were no men of the word. This had been Percy and to a lesser extend, Bill and maybe even Charlie. Ron, too, perhaps. But not them, never them. If they were living in medieval times, they could be the lancers but never the advisers.
"What do you mean not your fault? It was my fault, goddammit. Start accepting that, Gred."
Fred's voice was bitter and sardonic but it was still him, beneath all that anguish, all that pain – because he had not died with Percy and he was still himself, somewhere under all that rumble and the ruins of an entirely destroyed childhood … because they, too, had been adults and children at the same time, up to the days when everything had gone wrong.
"Don't let mum hear this," George said, leaning against the couch. "She would jinx you into next week … and we both don't want that, huh?"
"Maybe I can get into St. Mungo's and have Lockhardt curse me," Fred muttered under his breath before he shook his head. "Who am I even trying to kid?"
"Hopefully not me because you can't do that," his twin stated drily. "Listen up, we will go back to London soon, back to the apartment. You will be closer to Lockhardt and the sweet Elysium of oblivion that way."
"You are using awfully big words lately."
Silence.
"Perce was writing a book."
"Fitting."
"Yea."
"Did he get to, you know, finish it?"
"Seemed like it, yea," George said, raising his hands. "I … I am not much of a reader, you know that. But, well, I read a little of it. It was some bittersweet love story, kinda weird for me because I had never thought that Perce … nevermind, I asked Gin what to do. She gave it to McGonagall."
"Why would she do that?" Fred inquired, a frown appearing on his face. "That was Perce's book, not McGonagall's. It's like his, well, legacy or something."
"She can have it published or something. Or so Ginny thinks. I believe McGonagall mentioned once that she was writing for some super special Transfiguration magazine in Ginny's class. So our dear old head of house got connections," the brother with the missing ear said. "I bet there will be some big party when it really gets published. He'd deserve that much."
"Perce hated parties."
"He hated it when there was too much butter beer, too much canary cream. And even if he really had hated them, he would have liked it as long as he had been in the centre of attention. You know that as good as I do, Forge."
"Yeah, good old Gryffindor spirit. All for recognition."
"So if the book gets published, you will attend the obligatory party?"
"Yah, he'd hate it more if I stayed away, wouldn't he? So the least I can do for him now that it's all over is to attend the hypothetical party that will celebrate him," he said with a shrug. "Don't get me wrong … I feel seriously terrible about all of this but … being stuck in the past and being in denial about something … isn't that exactly what brought us into this situation in the first place? So, you said something about getting back to the shop, didn't you?"
This was not about forgiveness. Fred could not forgive himself that easily. This would have been disrespectful towards his late brother. But he could live on. Percy had been not a despicable man and his family knew this. Now at least. He would not have wanted them to carry the burden of his death – which did not mean that they could and would move on like he had never existed in the first place. They would miss him forever, of course they would.
But they had to remember that he had died to save his brother, that he had given his life to save Fred's and this was why Fred was basically honour bound to live on, to live in his brother's place even though he would never been able to walk even a single mile in his shoes.
"Yeah," George said with a sigh. "There was this pretty deep and kinda meaningful line in the part of the book I read … something about how nostalgia forgets to visit this street 'cause it is too busy with treehouses and rope swings – the places where the kids used to play – so it doesn't have time for all of this grey. Probably something about how he missed being home while he was stuck in London playing the diligent and dutiful member of the ministry or something."
They were brothers, all of them.
Well, not Ginny. But among all his siblings, there was just one Fred and he understood his brother. He understood the bitterness, the thinly concealed anger and the even worse hidden guilt. And this was the point. He knew that Fred was hurting. He was hurting as well. They all were. George had not forgotten Penelope Clearwater's tears, tears that had been fitting for her name. He had not forgotten anything.
But they could not let it weight them down.
The show had to go on.
And the fireworks had to erupt.
Because this was what it meant to be Fred and George.
Well, it was not all. But being pranksters surely was part of it.