Disclaimer: Harry Potter isn't mine; this story is.
A/N: This might have to be the last Weasley chapter. It took me forever, and I still don't know if it turned out quite the way I thought it would, but it is what it is. There will only be a couple more.
Fred's funeral is over, but Harry feels even worse than he did before, and he wonders how that's possible. But whenever he closes his eyes at night, he sees images he knows he will never forget. He wants to forget…
That it rained. That Ginny was shaking the whole day. That Percy almost didn't go. That Charlie was only the reason Percy even made it to the graveyard. That Bill stood white faced and blinking hard the whole time, disappearing for minutes at a time, only to return with his eyes red and swollen. That George wouldn't even speak to anyone except to make a eulogy. That George's eulogy was what it finally took for Ron to crack. That Hermione had to chase after Ron when he bolted, unwilling to let anyone see his tears until later that night when he couldn't help it anymore.
… Harry still has a pit in his stomach when he thinks of it, and he shifts on his cot, looking over at where Ron is sleeping uneasily. It seems like he's worse now too than before, and Harry wishes not for the first nor the fifteenth time that he could just leave.
But maybe he can. The funeral is over, he suddenly realizes, and he could have a legitimate reason to go. He needs to find out about arrangements for Lupin and Tonks. (Even though it would be just as simple to find out from here – this might be his one chance for a respite.)
He eases his way out of the room silently, holding his breath, trying not to aggravate Ron any further. The last thing he needs right now is to wake up and remember everything he wishes he could forget. Harry wishes he could too.
When he gets downstairs, he's relieved to see that no one else is there. He can just leave a note, slip out the door and apparate to – to where? Grimmauld Place, he guesses. Anywhere but here.
He's about to walk out the door when he hears a voice grumble from the corner of the room, "You really think this is the best idea, Harry?"
He freezes. No one was in here when he came downstairs. He's sure of it. But now Charlie is sitting up from where he was curled up in the armchair in the corner, and now Harry also sees that George is in the other chair, but he, at least, is still sleeping. Charlie glances at his younger brother, and Harry realizes that he's sleeping down there to keep an eye on George even if George still isn't talking to anyone. Charlie motions for Harry to follow him outside, and he does, each of them grabbing a coat as they go.
For a few minutes, neither of them speaks. Then Charlie asks, "Why are you going?"
Harry's breath catches in his throat. No one has asked him a direct question in days. He's not sure how to answer, but he finally manages to say, "I – I don't belong here. I can't help Ron; I can't help Ginny, and I can't stand to see them like – like this." He has to look away. This is the first time he's talked to anyone about this since Hermione cornered him at Hogwarts, and he's afraid to say another word.
"Harry," Charlie says softly, suddenly realizing that this kid is a lot more fragile than he seems. He tries to make his voice as gentle as possible. "Of course you belong here. Just having you here makes Ron and Ginny better. You might not see that, but the rest of us do. They need you."
Harry shakes his head quickly. He knows Charlie is trying to help, but he's wrong. They don't need him. They need each other.
"Why would they need me?" he asks roughly. He still refuses to look at Charlie, but he adds under his breath, "this whole thing is my fault anyway."
Charlie feels like he is frozen as he stares at the back of Harry's head. He is the wrong person to be having this conversation. He knew it when he saw Harry come down the stairs, but he also knew that he wasn't about to wake George for any reason whatsoever. There is no help for it, though. He is the one standing here right now, and it's time for Harry to know the truth.
"This isn't your fault," he says, his voice even lower. "I'm the one who didn't even make it to Hogwarts in time for the Battle. If this is anyone's fault, Harry, it's mine."
Now Harry turns around. If there is one thing he can do here, it's let Charlie know the truth.
"No," he says, his voice strained. "If I'd gone into the forest sooner, the Battle would have ended before Fred – before anything bad could have happened. I was too scared."
Charlie puts his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Anyone would have been scared," he says seriously. "But you did what you had to, and then you saved Mum before You-Know – before Voldemort could kill her. Harry, this wasn't your fault. No matter what, Fred knew what could happen. Everyone did."
Harry stares at him. "Well, if that's true, then how can you think this is your fault either?"
Now Charlie is speechless. Because while he's somehow managed to convince Percy that this isn't his fault, Percy hasn't been in any condition to turn this argument back on him, and this is the first time anyone has. He has no answer either. He stares at Harry and finally manages to choke, "that's different" before he turns around again. Now he's about to go back inside when Harry's voice stops him in his tracks.
"It isn't," he says urgently. This is his chance to finally do something right, and he won't let it go. "You were right, Charlie. Everyone did know what they were doing, and if I can't think of it as my fault, then you certainly can't think of it as yours. It's horrible, and it's unfair, but maybe –maybe it isn't anybody's fault. Maybe it's just the way it is."
Charlie can't turn around again. If he does, Harry will see the tears in his eyes, and no one can see that. He just nods and stumbles back into the house. He'll just go to his room and shut the door. He can hide in there. But he doesn't count on George being awake. And he's looking at Charlie now, and Charlie knows he can see the tears he can no longer control. He wants to go up the stairs, but his feet no longer want to work, and he finds himself stumbling back to the couch almost against his will. He slumps forward, hiding his face in his hands. He can't even look to see if Harry's followed him back in. He just wants everyone to leave him alone.
"He was right." It's George's voice, and now Charlie is forced to look up. He doesn't want to, but this is the first time in days that George has said anything other than the eulogy.
He looks at George and shakes his head. "You – you can say that?"
George swallows hard. "I hate it. I want him back. But I can't blame you or Harry or Percy or anybody. Like I don't think any of you would have saved him if you could? But if I couldn't save him, Charlie, then I have to believe that nobody could."
He has to stop talking. He turns away from his older brother, trying to breathe deeply, to return to the state of numbness that's been the only thing saving him for the past week. But for some reason, he can't, and then Charlie's arm is around him, and he just – gives up. He turns and buries his face in his older brother's shoulder, and as his tears soak into Charlie's shirt, he is vaguely aware of Harry walking through the room on his way back up to Ron's. When he manages to take a breath, he mumbles to Charlie, "he didn't leave."
"Uh huh," Charlie mutters. He's glad he managed to do something right, and he's really glad he's stopped crying, but he doesn't feel any better. He can't imagine that he ever will.