Sorry it's been a while, but I've been pretty busy, because it's half-term. I know what you're thinking, I'd have loads more free-time without school, right? Well sadly that isn't true. Normally I can keep my chores to a minimum due to homework and general exhaustion, but not during break. Also, my family and I have been traveling- spending a day in icy wind, eating at fancy restaurants, being bored to death by historic sights no one really cares about (No offense if you like that sort of thing, I'm not a very history-y type of person, sorry) etc.- so I am aware that its been quite a long time.
Mrs. Weasley mops her eyes on a hanky, smiling meekly at Harry, 'In two days. Also,' her voice trembles and she sobs into the fabric, great honks echoing through the room, 'George showed us something. It seems they wrote wills at some point, and it said that, well, that when they die, they want people to wear at least four different bright colours along wit the customary black. S-so, w-we'll be g-g-going,' her voice cracks and wavers as she is overcome with emotion, 'Diagon Alley.' She manages to choke, 'A-and Ron, g-go clean those d-dishes. And Harry, sweetie, go with him.' She lifted her eyes, gazing steadily at Ron, before turning away.
Ron did an odd side step, keeping his face turned away from Harry, and Harry, most definitely not oblivious to such ways, understood that Ron was crying.
He, Harry, that is, had not told a soul about the weird soul-seeing power. It's mad, he told himself, and you actually believe what a picture said? Granted, it was a picture of Dumbledore, but still.
He also wondered briefly if the fact that Fred was already in Heaven meant his soul was too, but for some reason, doubted it.
Harry stands by a mirror, feeling vaguely ridiculous in his black dress-robes, bright pink bowtie, yellow left knee socks and neon green right one. Oh, and crimson hat.
Feeling slightly dizzy, Harry holds a hand to his forehead, and jerks back as the heat burns his hand.
A small part of his mind knew he really ought to tell someone; his head felt really hot, but it was Fred's funeral and if there was one thing Harry was not going to be today, it was a nuisance.
'Harry, you look pale.' Hermione whispers quietly as they meet outside the Burrow- courtesy of apparition- and begin to find Ginny and Ron.
If it weren't such a grief-stricken time, Harry Potter would've laughed at Hermione's ensemble. She was wearing a black dress with hot pink buttons, yellow boots and an orange bow in her hair. Not to mention the bright rainbow scarf.
The two friends found Ron and Ginny by their family, tears swarming in every eye, and through an unspoken agreement, Harry and Hermione back away going straight to their seats, Hermione now with water clinging to her eyelashes.
His seat just in view, Harry doubles over as a wave of nausea and light-headedness washes over him. Though he'd rather die than admit it, he felt miserable. Most the time, everything was swimming before his eyes.
'Harry?' groaning internally, Harry straightens up and swings around, preparing to face Hermione's too observant eyes, but is surprised to see Ginny standing there- when did she get here?
'Are you okay? You look extremely pale.'
She is so beautiful, in Harry's opinion, even with red, puffy eyes and whilst wearing an orange scarf- clashing with her hair-, bright green buttons up her dress, shocking pink tights and a magenta rose in her hair, though, Harry figured, he was probably a little biased.
'I'm fine,' he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, though a stab of pain flew through his chest as he did, 'I don't matter. Ginny, are you okay?'
She gives a large sniffle and nods. 'Yeah, but I'm not giving a speech like you, and Harry, you don't look too well.'
XXX
Ron watches the friend he had come to think of as a brother with aching shame in his heart. He was, quite possibly, the worst friend in the world. Now he knew what it was like to loose a loved one, and it added to the already-heavy guilt weighing on his conscious.
He hadn't been there for Harry when Sirius died. Hardly a single word of comfort had passed his lips in those few horrible months. Oh, Hermione had tried to get Harry to talk, but he, Ron, had just stood in the back, silently hoping Harry would refuse.
Some friend.
And- worst of all- he had told Harry he had it easy, with all his family dead! He had said Harry was lucky. Why? Why would he say such an awful thing? Harry was- though Ron had never thought of it this way- an orphan. He told a bloody orphan that he was lucky to have no family.
Some friend.
No. No, no, no, it got worse. Harry wasn't just orphaned, he was abused. He lived with a family that had tried to throttle him, that beat him if he stepped out of line. Hermione and him had turned a blind eye. "If he doesn't ant to talk about it, don't bring it up, Hermione." He had said.
Some bloody friend.
He had left. Just left while his best mate was trying to save the world. I'd been wearing a horcrux. Ron told himself, and let's face it, Harry had no idea what he was doing.
But that was no excuse! Hadn't he known, from the start, that Harry was acting off suspicions and guesses? Yes.
And Hermione hadn't left. Hermione was faithful. Hermione was kind. She was- quite easily- one of the best friends you could ask for. And he had abandoned her too. Why his two best friends could even look at him was a mystery, he had walked out on the lot of them.
Some bloody friend he was.
So when his best mate walks out to the podium, and began to speak words about Fred- beautiful, fitting words like "bubbly" and "loved to make people laugh"- Ron vows to be there for his scrawny brother, for watching his pale friend console him and his redheaded family hurt. It wasn't fair that the boy he had neglected to comfort was doing just that for him and his redheaded family, that just wasn't right. And soon, when the man's voice starts to crack, break and wheeze, Ron Weasley knew the time to prove himself was here already. Marching steadily -not caring about the stares he's receiving- up towards the stage of the small garden, Ron puts an arm of comfort–it was about time he did some reassuring- around the smaller, raven-haired wizard.
The look Harry gives the redhead was of such gratitude that it- if anything- adds to the other's guilty conscious.
And then Harry starts to cough. And cough, and cough. His knees buckle and he falls to the floor, coughing such a hacking cough that it draws up blood, much to the horror of the crowd.
And then he passed out in a dead faint.
XXX
Harry's eyes widen slightly as his reeling mind takes in the blood on his hand, though his eyes were more focused else-where. Fred's soul, an assortment of bright colours, was fluttering by George, and then rising towards the sky. Before it could finish its journey, a large cough pulled Harry under, and suddenly he was no longer sat on the stage floor, trying to give the last speech as the casket of Fred was floated away towards the burial ground. No, suddenly he was in a spiraling darkness.
This isn't a cancer fanfic, just so everyone is clear. I don't like those.
Please review. Seriously, I only have thirteen. Some people get hundreds! And in all brutal honesty, a lot of them aren't very good, not that my story is better, but it should at least hit fourteen. So thank you if you take a moment to type something in the review box.