Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine; this story is.
A/N: I took a guess as to which twin was older. I've seen theories about both, but I have no recollection of JKR saying definitively either way. This way, my little scene makes sense, and you can all start breathing easier.
Arthur stared at the ceiling, listening to Molly's steady breathing beside him. He wondered how quiet he would have to be if he tried to get out of bed without waking her. After another moment of staring at her sleeping form, he decided to risk it. He hardly breathed as he got into regular clothes and then opened the door only wide enough to slide out. Once on the landing, the door closed silently behind him, he let out a deep breath. As he made his way down the stairs, he thought, as he passed Percy's door, that he heard voices inside, and he shook his head. Percy must have been having a nightmare. Whenever that happened, he had a tendency to talk in his sleep. Arthur couldn't blame him.
Once he got to the kitchen, he grabbed his cloak off the hook by the door and slipped outside. Even though he'd never consciously made the decision, there was no question in his mind about where he was going. There was – there was one person he needed to tell – alone.
He disapparated as soon as he was out of the Burrow's protective enchantments, and moments later, he found himself in the one place he'd never thought he'd have to go to visit any of his children. But here he was, and there was the grave, and there was no denying that it was here where he would always have to go if he wanted to speak to Fred. Well – he suddenly realized – not always.
For what must have been minutes but felt more like hours, he stood and stared at the headstone, and it didn't hurt as much as it had been for the past two years. It didn't take Hermione's brain to figure out why either. Arthur stood there for so long that his fingers started turning numb, and finally, he cleared his throat.
"Well," he said aloud, his first words spoken since his arrival. "I guess I'll be seeing you soon then."
But as he turned to walk away, he felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on him. Because there was George. And there was very little doubt that he'd been there at least long enough to hear what Arthur had just said.
For what seemed like an eternity, father and son stared at one another. Finally, George spoke. His voice was deceptively casual.
"What are you doing here at this time of night, Dad?"
Arthur thought of turning his question on him, but one look at George's face made the answer clear. For some reason that none of them would ever really be able to understand, he could tell that this was one of those nights for George – one of those nights when the thought of spending the rest of a lifetime without Fred seemed unbearable, when he could hardly catch his breath because all he wanted to do was having his sentences completed just one more time. But knowing all of this didn't make him ache any less for his son, and he knew that he would have to answer honestly and answer now. As much as he'd dreaded telling him, he knew now that he'd never really had a choice.
But even as his father watched him, formulating the words he somehow knew he didn't want to hear, George found that he couldn't look at him. He walked over to the grave, carefully looking only at the headstone, and with his wand, produced some flowers. Arthur watched him and wondered if – on some level, at least – he didn't already know.
"I – " Arthur started, but then he couldn't continue. This was not what he had envisioned, not at all, and the words stuck in his throat. But then George turned to look at him, and the look in his eyes meant one thing to his father: no more stalling.
"I came here to tell Fred about the diagnosis I just got at St. Mungo's, George." His voice was calmer than he'd expected it to be, and he felt slightly relieved. There was no way this conversation could happen if he didn't stay calm. He let out a deep breath and continued.
"Your mother and I decided to tell you kids about this in age order and – well – Fred is – was – older than you. We were – we were going to tell you tonight." He hoped George wouldn't be able to tell that he was lying. George, however, was too stunned by this news to pick up on his father's deception.
"What – what was the diagnosis?" he asked quietly. His voice shook, and he swallowed hard. He was staring at the grave, though, instead of his father, and Arthur found it easier to answer when his son's eyes weren't on him.
"It's – it's what the muggles call a tumor, George. The healer said – well, she said I only have a few months."
George was still staring at the inscription on the headstone, but now the words blurred. For a moment, neither of them spoke, and then he slowly turned to look at his father.
"Dad …" he whispered, and his lip trembled. Arthur felt his own face crumpling for the first time since he'd gotten the news, and he stepped forward quickly, his arms going around the child who had already suffered so much.
For a long time, the only sound in the graveyard was George's wrenching sobs, which he fought mightily. After what felt like an eternity to him, he pulled away from his father and drew his sleeve across his eyes. He turned then but not to his father.
"You take care of Dad, Fred." He wanted to say more, but he couldn't force the words out past the lump in his throat. He felt Arthur's arm go around him again, and he leaned against him. They both stared at the headstone until they became aware of how very cold it had gotten.
"Come back with me," Arthur said quietly. "You can stay in Percy's room with him if you want. He came last night, and when I left, I kind of got the impression that he wasn't sleeping very soundly."
George hesitated for a moment, but he suddenly realized that he could not say no to his father now. He didn't want to either. If Arthur were going back to the Burrow right now, then George couldn't imagine another place where he'd rather be. With one last look at Fred's grave, he allowed himself to be led away.
