The Other Side of Goodbye

The Other Side of Goodbye

Chapter 4: The Funeral, part one

Fred had never been much for waiting. He could not even begin to count the number of times his mother had called him "impatient". Nor could he figure out how many times George had told him to wait just a moment more before springing a prank to life. He had always been a creature of impulse. He had never understood the use of a pause or hesitation.

Even if Fred Weasley had not been dead, he would have been bored out of his mind with all this bloody waiting.

He wanted, no, needed to see George. He had no method of telling time where he was, for it seemed that his watch had broken when the brick wall had fallen on top of him and it was always day among the clouds. The vague wonderment of why that was crept into his brain, but quickly vanished as he attempted to count away the hours… or days… oh, how long had it been since he had been taken?

James did not seem nearly as anxious, but every now and then he would shift as though he too were uncomfortable. Fred wondered if James was just as anxious to return to Earth. After all, he had been up here considerably longer and Fred had noticed that James was paying as much attention to Harry as guiding Fred through death would allow.

He wondered if, maybe, James had taken on the task of helping Fred because it was a chance to see Harry…

"Can we go back yet?" Fred inquired hopefully.

"No, Fred… I'm sorry, but it's only been a short while. Be patient."

Fred shifted against the pillar of cloud he was leaning on. Just as he had as a little boy, he struggled to keep quiet, but found he simply couldn't. He got up and began to pace to and fro. A slight smirk found its way to his lips when he remembered his mother telling him to sit still and be patient.

Suddenly it seemed too long ago.

"Fred, you need to sit still so I can cut your hair, darling," Molly Weasley chided lightly as she struggled to keep hold of her five year old son.

"I don't want you to cut it, mum!" Fred answered hastily, trying to jump down off of the stool he was sitting on. "It's fine the way it is!"

George sat nearby on a chair, hands in his lap and his feet swinging beneath him. He was much better at staying put than Fred, though he was very fidgety as well. "Would you just let her do it, Fred, so we can go play??"

"See? Now listen to your brother and sit still," Molly grabbed Fred by both shoulders and planted him firmly on the chair. "It'll only take a minute, Fred, but I'm tired of you and George running around looking like you've been living in the Forbidden Forest."

Fred tried with all he had to stay still, but he simply could not do it. His mum seemed to realize he was trying, and allowed him to swing his feet a little, twiddle his thumbs, and tell jokes to his twin.

Fred's smirk spread into a smile when he recalled that all his life had been spent that way—fidgeting and joking. In hindsight, it had probably not been wise of his mother to allow him to do those things while cutting his hair, because allowing him to do something once made him think he could get away with it every single time.

Somehow, she had become much less accepting of his fidgeting during haircuts as he got older, and Fred imagined that no matter what she said, she had been grateful that Fred and George had wanted to grow out their hair in their fifth and sixth years. Then again, she had been just a smidge too happy to hack it all off for their seventh year. But even then, Fred was berated for tapping his toes and turning his head to talk to George--

"If it were at all possible, you'd wear a hole straight through that cloud," James muttered, flipping through a book. Heaven had quite the literary selection, and James had popped out of the Go-Between for a moment to grab some reading material. "Be patient, Fred."

Fred thought of how Hermione would be excited to see Heaven's library. He smirked momentarily, for his joy faded when he recalled Hermione at the bottom of the staircase, gazing at Fred's scarf and tears dripping from her eyes.

He missed Hermione. She had been fun to try to rile up. He and George had always loved to try and get her going over some joke.

"Obviously you didn't watch me as well as you thought," Fred quipped, trying to take his mind off of the bushy-haired girl. "Never been much of the patient type."

James looked up momentarily and let out a half-laugh. "True. Sirius was the same way. Never could sit still for more than a heartbeat."

"It just seems—" Fred paused, shook his head, and corrected himself, "seemed a waste of life, that's all. You're meant to live it, not sit around waiting for something to happen." He paced a bit quicker. "Can we go back yet?"

James snapped his book shut and glanced up toward the sun. He narrowed his eyes and seemed to think for a moment.

"Are you trying to blind yourself?"

"No… just… Fred, are you absolutely sure you want to go back right now?"

A twinge of confusion filtered through his body, but Fred did not hesitate. "Of course, you great git! I'll take what I can! I just want to see them again—"

James got to his feet and held up a silencing hand. "Fred, just let me explain something before we go back, okay?"

Fred did his best to bite back a smart remark. He took in a deep, unnecessary breath and nodded his head. "Go on. What is it, then?"

It appeared that James, who had been dead much longer than Fred, had not yet grown accustomed to giving up human mannerisms either. He swallowed and glanced down at Fred's shoes before looking back up to explain. He shifted his weight to a different foot and crossed his arms. He looked very hesitant to say whatever it was that he was about to, and just as Fred was about to haul off and shake it out of him, James finally spoke.

"Today… today's your funeral, Fred."

The shock of the words hit Fred full-force and for a time all he could do was blink in response. Somehow, even though he had accepted (more or less) that he was dead (but not at all happy about it), he had never paused to think about what would happen to the body that had sheltered him in life. His death had been painless, and even though he now stood transparent upon a cloud, he had not really realized that he had no body. Of course, he had seen it, lying there in the Great Hall with a smirk on its face—his face—yet…

Perhaps he was used to seeing his body belong to someone else. There was an exact replica of him walking about, though now it was missing an ear. Still.

The thought of his body, which had kept him so warm, and allowed him to feel the cold… that had shed his tears and shown his smiles to the world… told his jokes and healed his wounds… the heart that kept him going, the lungs that gave him breath, the throat that had given him voice… feet that had danced nights away and hair that made him a Weasley… scars that told his story… the mind that kept his personality, his memories, his ideas, thoughts, hopes, and dreams…

It was all going into the ground today.

He suddenly felt as though he were caught in an icy blast of wind. Why hadn't he noticed before that he was cold? He looked down at his feet, silently marveling that they were somewhat transparent. His body… it was gone, and he was cold, and all he wanted was a goblet of hot butterbeer and the crackling fire in the living room of The Burrow.

But he couldn't have that anymore.

"O-oh," he finally managed, and James looked sympathetic. He crossed his arms and mimicked James' awkward stance. "I… I understand."

"Do you?" James asked quietly. "Are you sure you want to be there?"

Fred pushed his brows together and cast a sideways glance at a puff of cloud. He knew it wasn't there, but all he could see was George's face, crying. All he could remember was his mother sobbing in the Great Hall. All he could hear was Ron trying to shush Ginny while he struggled to keep his sorrow at bay. All he could feel was the grief of his family, tightening the air and pushing in on him until he felt like he would crumble beneath it, helpless to stop their tears.

"Yeah… of course. Might give me a bit of closure. 'Sides…" His eyes welled but did not overflow. "Can't expect the family to… to go through that… alone."

James heaved a sigh and shrugged. "Just remember this was your decision."

Fred nodded, a strange sensation gripping him as James reached out to take them back to The Burrow. A flurry of images rushed through his head—coffins, tears, headstones, black clothes, clouds—he tried to make them stop. He swallowed, attempting to push back the fear that was knotting his stomach. He was caught strongly between the desire to see his family and the desire to wait until he was in the ground.

With the blink of an eye, they were falling, falling…

When Fred found himself lying face down in the grass this time, he was nowhere near as excited to be home as he had been before. It took him a moment to find the courage to look up from the ground, his fingers knotted in the grass as if that would help keep him stable. He inhaled sharply when James called his name, and looked up.

The sun was shining down almost too brightly, and the flowers were in full bloom. Mrs. Weasley's garden looked like it may have been Eden, had it not been filled with so many tearful people. There were clusters of professors beneath the trees, groups of students near the hedges, and knots of redheads here and there. A few of the remaining shop keepers from Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade stood together near a table of food, half-heartedly sipping at punch that was salty with tears.

And there, beneath the willow tree, was a coffin… the coffin… his coffin. The lid was in two parts, with the part that would cover Fred's torso and face open.

He had never wished so badly he was having a nightmare.

Fred somehow managed to get to his feet, and before he could stop himself, he was nearly beside the long wooden box. He felt James grasp his arm gently, and he looked at the angel. He shook his head, and James nodded, letting go of him and watching as Fred slowly approached his final resting place.

His breathing was hesitant and every few steps he had to pause. Dread was mounting in his chest… he needed to see… but could he handle the sight? He could have if George were beside him, if mum were here… He had never felt this scared and alone, not even as a child. It was as though he were not nineteen years old, as though he had never fought in battle, and as if he had never known someone who had died. He felt like he was a little boy, terrified and wanting to cling to the hem of his mother's apron or to his twin.

But he forced himself to remember that he was Fred Weasley: Gryffindor, mischief-maker, and victim of war.

With one final heave of breath, he forced himself to look into his coffin.

Had he still been in his body, he would have vomited.

The strangest rush of feelings overcame him, so strongly that he felt the need for a physical reaction. He shouted out as he looked down at his body, but only James Potter heard him.

When had he ever been that pale??

Fred stared down at his body and realized with a horrible sensation that it was his. He was used to seeing his body walking around with somebody else behind the wheel, but now that he was looking at this… he could no longer fool himself into thinking he was simply watching George sleep. There were scars that George did not have, both of his ears were still intact, and the ghost of a crooked grin that was slightly different than his twin's still haunted his lips. He was too pale now, so… empty.

So still.

He shivered and his lower lip trembled. He wished he could cry, or vomit—just something more than stand there and shake like a little boy lost in a thunderstorm. He wanted his twin, or his mother, or both… someone to comfort him and tell him that he would be okay. Wipe away tears he wished would find their way to freedom. Fred collapsed to his knees with his hand on the edge of his coffin, and it was not long before James knelt beside him.

"Why did I have to go?" Fred asked, voice quivering above a whisper. He turned glistening eyes on James. "Did I do something wrong?"

James shook his head slowly, looking from the fallen Weasley to the inside of the coffin. "I wondered the same thing for a long while… but then I was told that I hadn't. No explanation as to why I was taken, just a small argument to my reasoning. You did nothing wrong, Fred."

"Then… then why?"

He moved his jaw as if he were trying to force out words. He said nothing and shook his head. "I can't answer that."

Fred steeled himself and struggled to his feet. He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling a little cold as he began to walk through the sunlit garden. He was struck by how many people there were… some he never would have expected at his funeral.

"All these people… they're here for me?" Fred cast his gaze around the over-crowded backyard.

"Of course! You were popular, of course, but you were also a tremendous friend. Not to brag, but this is quite similar to my funeral. Only the most important people to me were not present, save for Remus and Dumbledore." James looked temporarily saddened by these words, or at least as saddened as an angel could look. "At least you've got everyone you cared about here."

"Professor Sprout?" Fred wondered aloud, catching a glimpse of his former Herbology professor. A short, hasty laugh tumbled out of him at the memory of the short witch swatting him with a trowel after he and George attempted to steal one of her plants for experimentation. "She hated me!"

"Quite the contrary, it seems." James folded his arms over his chest and halted next to Fred. He issued a small chuckle, and Fred thought that he was probably playing a similar memory through his head.

Indeed, Professor Sprout was sobbing her eyes out and dabbing at her nose with a tissue as she spoke with Ron. Ron was trying to hold his own sorrows back, Hermione clinging to his arm in a gesture of comfort. After a moment, Sprout threw her arms around Ron, who finally broke down and allowed his tears to flow.

"She was quite fond of you, Fred, except when your jokes involved her plants. She was the same while I was at school." He smirked slightly and shook his head. "Beat the living daylights out of Sirius when he tried to make Snape eat a poisonous plant out of her personal collection."

James' smirk was too much for Fred to handle, for it reminded him of the one on his own dead face. He wanted to collapse onto the bench behind him, but he could not since it was already occupied and James was beckoning for him to follow. "Sorry," he muttered as he accidentally passed through a guest that he dimly recognized.

"You don't have to apologize, Fred, he didn't feel it."

"Sorry. Habit, I guess."

As Fred turned sorrowful eyes around him, a figure seated on a bench amidst his mother's daisies caught his eye. Forgetting that he was supposed to be following Harry's father, he slowly made his way toward the figure, realizing immediately who she was. He sat beside her, his eyes brimming as he gazed at her sorrowful face.

Angelina Johnson, in his entire recollection, had only ever cried in front of him when she was injured in a quidditch match. She was always cheerful and brazen, filled with life and determined that tears were usually just a waste of time. It had been what attracted him to her—well, aside from her outstanding beauty and ability to play quidditch. Now she was sitting among the friendliest of flowers, her favorites (he had given her a bouquet before the Yule Ball), with tears dripping out of her eyes and her fingers clutching what Fred recognized to be one of the Weasley sweaters he had given her after having outgrown it. She did not sob or gasp for air. Indeed, she may have been a statue that was merely being rained on. She had decided against black robes for the occasion, and went instead with a bright red pantsuit.

Red was Fred's favorite color, and he'd told her that once. He could not remember why, but he was quite sure that it had been during an Astronomy lesson in second year.

"Angelina…" he whispered, scooting a bit closer. "I know you can't hear me, or feel me," he said as he reached for her hand, coming close but not making contact, "but I'm here. I'm sorry I had to leave you this way…"

Someone was tugging on his arm, urging him to follow. "Come on, Fred."

With a great effort, James tugged Fred away from Angelina physically, though Fred would not take his eyes off of her. "I loved her," he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. "Why couldn't I have realized that sooner?"

James exhaled through his nose, remained silent. He put an arm around the redhead's shoulder, giving him a quick, hopefully comforting squeeze.

Fred looked at his angelic companion, eyes filled to bursting with sorrow. "I never thought I'd wish I could cry."

James released a single, mirthless laugh. "Yeah. I understand that. I still want to be able to do that from time to time."

The lost Weasley opened his mouth to reply but stopped short. A strange sensation was permeating his being. It was foreign, yet somehow familiar. It was like an internal shiver—almost like the ones he would get before finishing George's sentences. The shiver morphed into a sharp pain as it shot to his skull, and clanged around in his mind until it suddenly came to a halt. Fred stumbled and fell to his knees, James catching him before he could hit the ground. He closed his eyes and tried to steady himself.

An earpiercing shriek… pain unknown to anyone who has never lost a piece of themselves. Searing fire burning through him in the form of an earsplitting cry of desperation.

Fred opened his eyes. "George?" He looked at James. "What—what's going on?"

James sighed and looked down at the boy he had taken under his wings. "Because you and George still share a soul, you can still feel each other. When you were alive, you shared each other's pains and joys even before you'd spoken about them. His thoughts were yours and vice versa. It is the same now; only the emotions must be much more strongly felt by one before the other senses them. I imagine what you just heard and felt was George's pain."

Fred was on his feet so quickly that it seemed unnatural. If it were at all possible, he appeared more distraught than James had recalled seeing him thus far. He swallowed and took a step back. He seemed to be shivering, as if it were suddenly very cold outside. Though he was already transparent, he began to fade in and out as though his soul were pulsating.

"Where is he? I need to see him," he whispered urgently. "I need to know he's okay—"

James reached out and grasped Fred's shoulder. Instantly, the two found themselves in what had once been Fred and George's flat in Diagon Alley. However, Fred could not recall it being in such a state. Yes, the Weasley boys had been a messy lot, but this was absolutely out of their league.

Shreds of paper everywhere, furniture overturned, dishes smashed.

The only things left untouched had belonged to Fred.

George was pacing the living room so quickly that he was bordering on jogging it, pulling on his hair and breathing harshly. He stopped after doing a few lengths, and Fred could feel the fury building up within him. George looked around as if searching for something, then let out a gut-wrenching cry of anguish that nearly equaled the one that had echoed through Fred's mind. He slammed his foot into the corner of an overturned chair and broke down into tears, collapsing to the floor.

"GOD DAMNIT!" he shouted. His features contorted into utter sorrow and he pulled his knees to his chest. "I can't do this," he told himself.

Fred was instantly by George's side, trying to tell him that he was there, he would talk, he would understand, but George made no indication that he was there. "George—"

George looked toward a picture of he and his twin on the opening day of their shop, hanging crooked on the wall opposite. They were smiling and waving, arms slung around each other's shoulders as fireworks went off in the background. "Bastard," he told the photograph. "Leaving me here like this…" he shook his head. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. It's just… you went where I can't follow, and I can't even tell everyone what I want to because I keep waiting for you to finish what I start. I keep waiting for you to open the door and come in, but you never do."

Fred inhaled deeply and tried to overcome the emotions welling up in his chest. "I'm sorry, George. I'm so, so—"

George shook his head, shaggy red hair toppling into his anguished eyes. A small, almost lifeless grin made itself known on his lips. "You're probably up there laughing at me right now, telling me to buck up and quit being a pansy."

The deceased twin slowly moved to kneel in front of the living half, invisible. He shook his head and let out a shuddering breath. "Why would I do that? No… I wouldn't laugh… this has got to be the furthest thing from funny I could ever think of."

"I don't want to disappoint you, you know. But you… you were always the leader. The first to speak, the first to walk… the first to breathe. Everything I have ever done… you showed me how to do." George was lost in a torrent of sobs for a moment, pulling his knees so close that James wondered how it was possible. "Now you're gone and I can't remember… I don't know what to do with myself. Sometimes I forget… how to walk, to blink, to breathe… How do I get through this??"

"With me," Fred replied quietly.

George thought he heard the curtain ruffle in a soft breeze.