Hello. It's been a long time. This story comes and goes in my mind. Some days it sits awhile and we work together to add a few new pages. There are other days, I will admit, I am still learning where this story is going. I hope you will continue to enjoy it. I'm learning more and more about my characters each and every day. While they are never completely canon and hope to not deviate too much but I can only write what I see of them and how they have grown. Thank you for continuing to read and support my creative endeavors.

As always, J.K. Rowling is the sole mistress of the Harry Potter Universe. This is a story I tell in her honor and favor.

Chapter Ten

They told him that he could go home.

"Are you sure?" Mrs. Weasley asked the Healer's face in the fire.

Quite unexpectedly, in the midst of Hermione quietly working on the baked oatmeal that Mrs. Weasley had crafted for her and Molly's continuous fluttering about the kitchen—the floo network lit up. Neither of them had noticed the face in the fire until Healer Winthrop coughed and cleared his throat decidedly, startling them both from their reverie.

After catching her breath, Hermione answered first. "Good morning, Healer Winthrop. You look as though you've been able to rest, that's good."

Healer Winthrop nodded appreciatively. "Thank you, Miss Granger. We still have many to help but many have been able to return home as well—which is why I've called to speak with you, Mrs. Weasley."

"What?" Molly said haltingly. Up until Healer Winthrop had addressed her directly, she had looked utterly terrified. There could be no good reason for the Healer to be communicating with her in her home. Either something in Fred's case had taken a significant turn for the worse—or the alternative, which Mrs. Weasley did not find any more compelling—there was nothing more they could do for her Fred and he would have to remain as he was with no idea of who he had been or what he could be.

"Your son, Mrs. Weasley." Healer Winthrop began.

He knew that the woman in front of him wanted nothing to do with the news he had to give her. It was never easy. He had watched fathers cry, mothers rage, and families break throughout the weeks since the war had ended.

He had always wanted to be a healer ever since he was a little boy. He wanted to help the weak become strong again, the sick become well, and to help the broken become whole again—his heart was full of the world's hurt and he worked his hardest to bring hope.

He was by no means much of a hero—not in the way of these young adults, indeed almost children; that he had spent the better part of a month caring for—but now that the war was over... The world didn't need more warriors or heroes...now that the war was over...it needed healers.

Something in his heart stirred though as he peered at Mrs. Weasley and the young woman his charge had clung to when first awoken—he wished that he could be their hero now. They looked as though they could desperately use some hope—hope he was not sure that he could give. He could not be their hero. He hardly felt a healer at this moment.

Oh, Fred's body was mending. There were a few bumps, bruises, perhaps a broken bone left on Fredrick Gideon Weasley, there may always be, but time would heal most wounds—but it was just a shell of a man. Even as a stranger, Winthrop knew Fredrick Weasley was still broken, he had shown no emotion at the thought of being released, no joy at reuniting with his family, or sleeping in his own home—nothing. He was unaccustomed to patients who felt nothing.

Pain, he could handle. Fear, he could handle. Joy, he could handle. Sadness, he could handle. Anger, he could handle.

But how did you tell a family you could do nothing to help their son son feel anything more than nothing?

Fred's body was in it's best shape, all things considered, but his heart still would not let his head remember who Fredrick Weasley used to be.

"What about my son?" Molly Weasley said avoiding eye contact with the Healer. She was a strong woman and a fierce mother—she could not let this man see her cry. She had ranted and raved at this man for weeks knowing deep down that he was doing the best he could; but so angry at the loss of her child she could hardly see past her own grief enough to care. Her heart had just begun to rest and heal, her adopting Hermione helped to ease the pain of loss, and perhaps she had been holding onto the hope that Fred's memory loss was all a bad dream—but here Healer Winthrop was in her kitchen with that same sad and tired look on his face.

"Mrs. Weasley, I have no reason to keep your son. Our wards are so full that we have had to turn people away to other hospitals—others who aren't going to make it; others who need more care—Fred doesn't, not the kind that we can give. I know you want a miracle..." Healer Winthrop said roughly. "But I can't give it to you...no matter how much I wish I could. It's time, Mrs. Weasley."

Mrs. Weasley's wand crackled as she gripped it so tightly her knuckles turn white. She knew everything the Healer had to say was true. She knew he had given her son his all, she saw it in his tired eyes, she heard it in his broken voice, she felt it in his rough halting sigh—but it wasn't enough for her. She didn't hate Healer Winthrop, as the poor man must have felt, she just hated everything that this man represented. He was a living picture of the ugly side of war—the broken, the lame, the sick, and the dead—He was their keeper. He was a living testimony that she could save the world but she could not save her son.

"Thank you," Hermione whispered over her oatmeal. Even in grief, Hermione had grace and mercy for the wearied Healer. While she was surrounded by the cluttered warmth of the Weasley's familiar home and love—Healer Winthrop was surrounded by pain and loss. Did he have anyone to go home to at night? Was there someone to heal him? Someone to make the world right?

Hermione drew in a stuttering breath. "It will be nice to have Fred home again. Maybe all of this will help—being home."

How could you forget such a wonderful place—even if his head was broken...could Fred's heart really forget home. "We know that you've done everything you could, Healer Winthrop—and we're very grateful." She whispered glancing at Mrs. Weasley still focused on her cast iron pan, stone-faced and white knuckles.

"Thank you, Miss Granger." Healer Winthrop said. "We all do our part—if I may. I don't know why—but you are the only person with whom my patient has had any kind of emotional connection. He may not remember anyone but somewhere he seems to know you. He may listen to you—he may remember if yours is the voice he hears—but I can make no promises."

Hermione blushed and then blanched. She had spent all of her energy trying to fight the war of the worlds—did she really have the strength left to save her friend—to save her Fred. Yet had he not sacrificed all off his strength to save her life. Would the image of Fred falling before her be forever burned in her memory. If she hadn't foolishly fallen away from Rom and Harry—maybe this never would have happened...she had been looking for him...looking for Fred. If not for her, Fred may never have been hurt...how? How could she possibly heal him?

Because she loved him-

–yet, she was absolutely and utterly terrified to love a man whom she hardly knew

–and yet, here was the moment that Fred really saw her.

"Me," Hermione whispered. "I'm nobody important."

"Everybody's important."

Healer Winthrop held fast the tired gaze with his own heavy eyes. He did not have any more time, magic, or cures to give this raggedy red-headed family and it's friends—but here, in this moment, he had hope. Yes, here in these last few minutes with this family he now knew hope.

There seemed to be no end to the sadness and tragedy in Healer Winthrop's world. Death did not distinguish between good or evil: and though it may trouble our hearts—even villainous men wept for their comrades—their friends. Healer Winthrop had seen all manner of men rushed through the hospital doors—and many a man be carried out solemnly to be laid to rest. He had ached to believe again as he watched helplessly the lives of men slip through his very fingers. His hands, however, were not big enough to stop the very sands of time. He had been a fool to think he could—but never foolish enough to hope.

This young woman in front of him look petrified. She who had faced giants and magic and mad men-had no idea how to live a normal life. She who had broken whatever spell that lay over his patient's heart—looked utterly lost—and yet, in her eyes, he saw undeniably, the light of hope.

The mother of seven had held herself together in the face of sending her children off to war. She had never doubted her son would survive and Healer Winthrop had been berated daily with her boisterous anxious hope.

He hadn't dared to hope before—but the picture of them—the simple enjoyment of breakfast, of keeping house—gave Healer Winthrop hope.

Life goes on—in the midst of—in spite of—trials, tragedy or triumph; life simply goes on. We can make the most of it...or we can chose to not exist at all. Every moment in the midst of war was a choice between defeat or joy. The war was over now and, for the first time, Healer Winthrop could see—the world had enough heroes...

Now, it was time to be a healer.

A healer who knew the power of a hopeful heart.

If anyone could pull through—his patient had a family waiting for him, friends pulling for him, and this thoughtful young woman loving him.

It was time to send Fredrick Weasley home.

(Scene Break)

Home, they said. It was time to go home.

Where was home? Would he like it there? Did he live with any of these funny people? Or would he be all alone?

Those were only a few thoughts that plagued Fred's mind after the man in the white coat broke the dreadful news to him—Fredrick Gideon Weasley was going home.

Worse than cold clinical walls that had surrounded his world that past few weeks; worse than what few images of a ruined castle wreathed in flame and strewn with bodies and the horrific scenes filled in by his imagination whenever he drifted off into fitful hours of sleep; worse than every nightmare he had escaped—Fredrick Gideon Weasley had no desire to go home.

It downright terrified him.

He reached into the dusty depths of his mind

...and he found nothing.

There was no joy or comfort or peace to be found in knowing tonight he would be sleeping in his own bed. That is, if he even had his own bed because Fred knew he wouldn't recognize it without being told by some kind of sign.

What color were his sheets even? Would he still fit under them? Would they feel like rest and sweet dreams—comforts he desperately needed. Or would he feel like a stranger there as well?

"I'm going home." Fred said aloud to the empty room. He thought that if he could just but hear himself say those words—maybe the would feel more real.

"I am going...home"

Nothing.

Fred sighed into the emptiness.

There was nothing.

His body was well enough. The ugly angry bruises that glared at him for taking such reckless risks—so he had been told—were now faded away. Nothing but shadows left on his skin.

He would always have scars to carry upon his brow—the crown of a stitched together raggedy man. However, they almost suited him now as he couldn't remember what his face looked like without them.

Fred would concede that something felt a bit off about the solemness of his features. The tired lines, the furrowed brow, the grim turn of his mouth all seemed so foreign to him; and yet, it was the only face he had ever known.

His left side and his arm had always caused much murmuring from the man in white. Fred had always been asleep for any treatment he had received but he had caught enough blurry glimpses and hushed whispers to know that he had suffered much. His left arm was still sore and weak and the man in white in his hushed and heavy voice had concerns that it might never regain it's full strength; but it would survive the day to day. And he still felt a lingering sense of warmth and pain in his side and Fred often wondered alone in his hospital bed whether this phantom pain would haunt him for the rest of his life. A constant companion in his lonely existence.

For the crux of the matter was not the features on his face, or the weight of his arm, or the fact that, halting though it may be, he had proven he could walk again. The heart of the matter was still—that his heart felt nothing at all.

And now, these healers, as they called themselves, had decided that he could only be healed by going home.

But how could his heart possibly heal...

When there was nothing to go home to...

"I" Fred said again with all the conviction that he could muster. Under the ever present weight of loneliness and despair, though, his conviction soon faltered and he spoke aloud truly the words of his heart. " I don't want to go home."

"Oi, people will think you've gone mad, talking to nothing but the dark."

Fred was startled to see the boy built like a boxer—what a funny thing to remember, the build of a boxer—standing in his doorway. As always, no matter how hard the rowdy red-headed clan tried, Fred could always seen the hurt in their eyes.

This was the first time the boxer had ever visited him alone. In fact, it was the first time, since their first painful meeting when he had awoken weeks before, the boxer had spoken to him at all.

"Hullo" Fred said dully for he could not recall a name at all. He only knew Ginny by name for she had taken to stopping by every night before he fell asleep to tell him some story or other of how he had always been her favorite big brother. He always pretended to be asleep because, sweet a girl as she may be, he could not return her favor.

"Ron," the boxer said. "I'm your brother, your little brother, Ron."

"Hullo, Ron." Fred said slowly testing another name out to see what it meant to him. Still a big frustrating nothing.

Fred envied the sure swaggered gait of this young man as he crossed the room to sit by Fred's bed. There was no limp or lumbering about to get from place to place.

"You don't seem so little to me." Fred said as Ron moved to sit beside him.

"I am a might bit tall," Ron said "But you've got two and a half years of age over me."

"Hmm." Fred sighed glancing over another stranger in his muddled mind. He was a might bit tall, almost as tall as Fred imagined himself to be if he were standing. Yes, he was barely a big brother at all. This man had strong shoulders, wide and broad, built to carry someone's burden. He was long and lean and he had covered the distance between them with surety. His hands were clasped and calloused and Fred knew they had seen battle—they looked like his own hands—scarred with sacrifice. That is where all similarities seemed to end for though they shared the same fiery crop—

This man truly looked the part of a hero.

"Don't you 'hmmm' at me." Ron said in a much harsher tone than Fred had heard spoken to him. "I'm bloody well pissed off at you." He took note of the surprise in Fred's eyes. In all this time though it was about time someone told Fred off.

"I'm...I'm sorry." Fred stuttered out to the boxer.

"What good is that going to do?" Ron said. "You don't even know what you're sorry for."

"Well I..." Fred began but was quickly cut off by Ron again.

"What you should be sorry about: you've made mum cry more times than I can count for starters. I've never seen mum cry so much before and now she does nothing but cry over you."

Fred felt hot tears begin to prick behind his eyes.

"I haven't seen George for weeks—none of us have seen him. George, remember him—you twin. Of course you don't but George sure as he knows you—knows that the one person on earth who he is close to is still alive but doesn't care about him at all. Why don't you try to imagine how hard that must be—how much it must hurt to be the twin who remembers. He doesn't want anything to do with any of us either. So, mum cries more.

Fred gripped at the sheets until his knuckles turned white. He knew his eyes were red from holding back the heat of his tears. His face was flushed with the growing knowledge of how much pain he was still causing. This man may look like a hero but Fred sure felt like hating him right now. Why was this man here if just to yell at him. Couldn't this Ron see that he was hurt enough.

"Ginny has been running herself ragged trying to get ready for you. She's cleaned up your old room in the house. It looks like you never left it. She's spent hours trying to bring you back home just so you can sit here alone in the dark and mutter and cry that 'You don't want to go home'. You don't want to go home? Well, too bad!"

Fred felt his fury rise up in the back of his throat but all he allowed was one hot tear to escape. One lonely tear glistening it's path against the angry blush of his cheek.

"What the hell are you crying over." Ron continued his tirade. "What do you even have to cry over—you can't remember anyone well enough to be upset over them. You're not a baby. I hope you can at least remember that. You do know what a baby is?"

"I'm not a baby." Fred gritted out.

"Well you look like one to me. Lying around and not doing anything for yourself. Babies wait for others to do what they can't do. Not men. Crying over no reason that you can articulate. Babies cry over nothing. You're a man. Start acting like one."

"I am man." Fred muttered against the strain of pain and tears in his voice.

Ron narrowed his eyes. He knew his tone was harsh and his words were hurtful but too long had his brother sat here in the shadows and let what life had been given to him pass by without a second glance.

Ron had spent his whole life looking up to Fred and George. He had wanted to impress them, make them laugh, to be just like them. Like a tempest, they whirled around life, crashed into yours and left everything in shambles, yet you were all the better for having known them. Fred and George brought chaos and joy wherever they went.

There was no more of that now.

But Ron refused to sit here and let his big brother Fred rot in the shadows of despair.

"What was that," Ron goaded on with narrowed eyes. "I couldn't quite here you, baby."

"I am a man!" Fred shouted, all his anger and frustration pouring out as he swayed out of his bedridden state to give the boxer a great shove out of his chair.

Ron started out of his chair and raised himself to his full height. Eye to eye with a fuming Fred Weasley. "What did you say."

"I am a man." Fred said again giving Ron what he deemed a well deserved shove back.

"Then start acting like one." Ron bit out taking a strong step forward unexpectedly knocking Fred back down.

Weaker than he anticipated, Fred found himself falling back onto his hospital bed. But he no longer wished to stay there. He looked up at Ron holding his ground above him.

"Thank you," Fred said softly but firm in spirit.

Ron sighed heavily and fell back into the bedside chair. Truth be told, he had been a bit scared when Fred fell down; but he would not be swayed from his purpose. He had come to wake Fred up—some part of him, any part of him.

"It was nothing, you big idiot" Ron said, but he saw a bit of that old golden glow, in part, return to Fred's face instead of that sickly pallor he had been wearing as of late. His eyes were a little brighter, a little warmer, a little more alive. He still didn't remember a bloody thing—but he would survive.

"I felt something," Fred said. "For the first time—I wasn't afraid."

"Well," Ron said. "Anger is a poor start to finding Fred Weasley again."

"Anything is better than feeling nothing," Fred said, once again admiring and envying the strength and courage of the man before him. He was the first person to care enough to not leave Fred where he was. Perhaps, someday, Fred would be proud to call this man his little brother again. For now, they were more than strangers which would have to do.

"Thank you."

Ron rolled his eyes . "Come on, then. Let's get you home.

Home.

Fredrick Gideon Weasley was going home.

Much Love

~Jillian