Flowers for Scabbers

Chapter Twenty

Fred Didn't Even Drink Tea

"Love?" Molly called out softly as she walked into George's room. "George, sweetheart, you can't just stay in here forever."

"And why the bloody hell not?" George spat out as coldly as ever, his shoulder shaking.

Quidditch wallpapers and experimental projects had been torn to shreds and were now lying on the floor. The closet looked like it had been Confringo-ed. All of Fred's clothes were thrown haphazardly into a pile at the corner of the room. They even still smelled like that stupid arsehole, which was funny, because he never thought that Fred had had a scent before they had to stick him six feet under, like his life hadn't had a fucking lick of meaning. George buried his head under Fred's duvet, suffocating under the scent of his twin. Bloody sickening, the whole thing was.

"Darling, it…it breaks my heart to see you like this," Molly's voice cracked. George scoffed. What was he going to do about that? Oh, he was breaking his mum's heart! Quick! Let him bury this pain in his chest somewhere where she couldn't see least she got upset. "I know that it's been a tough few days. With Fred's…and his funeral."

"Go away," George weakly stated. What in Merlin's name did she want? Couldn't she see that he wanted to be left alone? Preferably forever?

"I know that you want to be left alone, but…but if you want someone to talk to, I'm here," Molly said, as if George was ever going to take her up on that.

"I don't want to talk," George spat out the words like they were venom.

What was he going to tell her? Mum, I miss my twin very much! And she was going to be shocked by that? She already knew everything that he wanted to say to all of them. How the wrong twin died, because Fred would get over it if George was that one that croaked. How disappointed George was that they just let him die. How he was angry at Fred for letting himself die.

"Well, would you…would you like something to drink then?" Molly was flustered then, and George just stared at her like she was mental. Was a drink going to bring his bloody brother back in from his grave? She eyed the empty firewhiskey bottle beside him. "I can make you a nice coffee or…or…" her voice was stammering, as she eyed George's thinning frame. "A nice hot chocolate. And wouldn't you like a nice hot meal? I can make you some soup or…"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake… SOD OFF, MUM!" George didn't care about how rude it was to say that to your own mum. He just wanted her to go away.

She burst into tears immediately after and George felt like the most deplorable human being on the face of the Earth. But didn't care, not for a single second. "I just thought a hot chocolate would be nice!" Molly waved her hands around dramatically. "You're scaring me, George. You really are! You've…you've being so cold to everyone… you won't talk to anyone. And it can't be healthy what you're doing—all this drinking! Why don't…why don't you come down for a nice meal? I've-I've made a potato and beef stew and…"

"I'm frightening you?" George mocked. "That's what's all this is about? Well, I'll just go then, won't I? I know when I'm not wanted!" he grabbed his rucksack, which was empty, but he didn't care. He just wanted to make a point—

"Where are you going?" Percy's voice was acrid as he stood there by the door. Of course, the perfect twat had to trot in there straight after their mum started sobbing, his face contorted into the most perfect poker face.

George didn't have to answer to him either. "Nowhere," he said. "I was…I was just making a point."

He collapsed onto the bed. He was so exhausted that even leaving it for a few minutes made his heart race.

Molly tensed up the second that Percy walked into the room, as if he were You-Know-Who himself, reincarnated straight at their doorstep. They might've forgiven him, but it didn't mean that everything went back to hugs and kisses now, did it? Not that it was ever like that for the pompous prick. He never cared much for those.

"I don't want a hot chocolate," George wearily said.

Molly nodded her head. "Of course," as if that were the answer she was looking for. "You do know that no matter what, we love you very much, alright. You do know that, don't you?" her voice was shaky, and George just nodded his head mutely.

"Mum," Percy placed a hand on her arm. Their mum had tears running down her cheeks, which were streaky and red even before he'd come in. Great. He'd made his mum have a breakdown, and to be perfectly honestly, George didn't feel a hint of remorse for it. His parents wouldn't be able to tell if the house had caught fire. They didn't deserve to have things easy for them. "Why don't you go downstairs for a while?" his voice was calm and controlled.

"You don't get to tell me what to do in my own house," Molly told him, pulling her hand away.

Percy looked visibly hurt by that, but George found himself rooting for their mum. "Fine," Percy said. "Then we can all talk together." Molly looked like she'd rather hang herself than talk to him.

"I have nothing to say to you," Molly angrily replied. George wished they could fight about everything outside of his room.

"I'll stay here then," Percy crossed his arms over his chest, no sign of backing down.

Were they serious? Were they really bickering when Fred was dead? George couldn't believe how selfish they were.

"Do what you want, Percival," her voice was icy, cold, just like his was to her. She had been like that ever since the adrenaline of the war had faded away and she was left realising all the things that happened between them. "I don't care anymore."

Percy said nothing as she walked past him and left the room.

"What do you want?" George wanted Percy out of there as fast as he'd walked in.

He hated him. He hated his put-together-ness. He hated the fact that he somehow had the strength in him to wear colours that matched and do his hair. He hated that he wasn't suffering just as much because this was his fault too.

"H…hey," Percy said quietly as he edged towards George and sat down at the foot of his bed.

George closed his eyes. He gripped tightly onto his duvet. His knuckles had turned white. He couldn't stop fantasising about attacking him, tearing off that perfect red hair and clawing out his bright blue eyes. This was his fault that this had happened anyway. He was the one that just had to show up and ruin everything. He was the one that just had to take away all those years of Fred's life, feeling guilty and wrought with worry over something that they did when they were fourteen. Fourteen! Sodding bastard. George hoped he rotted. He wasn't going to spend another second thinking about him or the potion. He could drop dead in front of his eyes right now and he wouldn't care. In fact, he should've died in that lake. Then they would've gone about with their lives without a second thought of Percy bloody Weasley.

"How about we…we get you out of this room for a little while?" Percy spoke to him softly, like he was speaking to a child. George stared at him like he was mental. "Just for a little walk," his voice dropped down a few octaves. "We can drop by somewhere for a…" his eyes dropped down to the firewhiskey bottle, same as Molly. "Cup of tea."

George didn't answer him, just scoffed. Was going for a walk supposed to make him feel better?

"A walk and a cup of tea?" George repeated in a high-pitched voice, mocking him.

Percy didn't look amused. "You don't need to be so rude," as if he were the one that lost his better half in a war.

They lapsed into silence with Percy looking down at the ground, completely struck. What? So that was his brilliant idea all along? Worthy of twelve O.W.L's. Yes, let's get George out of bed! A nice walk and he'll be back to normal!

"Tell me, Perce, is that the advice you give yourself every time you want to slash your arms?" George asked him, each word bitterer than the next. Percy winced at the thought. George's eyes scanned his arms, as if he could tell that he did. But he knew that he had to have. He bet that Percy couldn't fail a test without decorating his arms with his own blood. "Why don't you go for a walk?" he mocked. Was that supposed to cure him of his grief?

Percy turned away from George. "I can't help it all the time," he said through gritted teeth. "It's an illness."

"All the time?" George sat up right then because he was ready to fight with him. Truly ready to break his face if he could, snap his spine. Ready to stop thinking about Percy 24/7 and have a life that didn't involve feeling guilty beyond belief because they just happened to care so much about him in the first sodding place. "I have a hard time believing that you actually try—seems like you just do it without thinking that it's effecting anyone else, like everything else you've ever done."

He could see Percy tensing up, and his eyes watering.

"What's wrong, Perce?" George looked away from him, not caring if he hurt his feelings. "Hit a nerve there?"

Percy didn't say anything.

"Do you know what?" George let out a strangled sob. "I wish it was you instead of him," he hurt so much. "I wish…"

"I know," Percy answered, and he didn't sound angry at him for it.

George closed his eyes. "You know," he pursed his lips. "Well, great! Great sodding job you're doing, Perce, knowing everything," that wasn't even any good and he didn't care about that either. "What's that supposed to do? Make everything better? Or were you counting on the walk just like mum counted on a bloody mug of hot chocolate?" he was seething.

That feeling was swallowing him whole. How could you live like this when you could barely get a bloody cup of tea without feeling paralysed and remembering how Fred took it?

(Well, he didn't take tea any way. He was the coffee kind of bloke, but that was beside the point…)

"I can't help you through your grief, George, if you won't let me," Percy sounded unfazed.

"How are you going to help me through my grief?" George challenged, because what was Percy going to say? He didn't believe that. "You want to help me? Then go away," he said. "I want you bloody gone."

It had been a month and a half since Fred's death and all George had done was sleep and cry. He was going mental, he felt like, the mental twin. He had no light in his eyes, no joy in his step, no nothing to his bloody nothing. He just felt like nothing would ever matter. He woke up in the middle of the night, panicking, shrieking Fred's name. He felt traumatised, with visions of Fred's body flashing in his mind ever so often. As if he could even bloody forget.

"Well…I'll…I'll be gone soon," Percy whispered, curling his legs up so that he could stare at the floor. "For good."

The way that he said it had jolted George back into reality. His voice wasn't full of disdain or pain. He sounded relieved. The last time he'd heard Percy sound like that was Christmas Eve 1984. Percy had a massive golden present under the tree, and he'd spent the whole afternoon trying to convince his father to let him open it a day before. When he'd gone to sleep that night, in their shared beds (before Percy had his own room), he'd turned to the twins and said he didn't mind waiting. I'm going to get to open it soon. It was that very same tone and that sent shivers down George's spine. He was sobered back into reality, into what he'd just told someone that had tried to kill themselves for Merlin's sake. He could feel the judgemental look on Fred's face. I thought you knew how to deal with all of this, he could practically hear Fred say to him, his hands shaking, his eyes turning into a hard brown.

"Oh, who bloody cares?" George knew he'd regret it the second he said, but it felt so good. Liberating. "Nobody knows." And then another flash of rage. "And don't you dare tell them because they're mourning Fred. This is Fred's time. You can't bloody take that away from him too." He realised how jaded it was. But he meant what he said. "I won't let you."

He knew that Percy couldn't stop himself from dying any more than Fred could anticipate being crushed by debris. But George was sick of the Percy show.

When George looked over at Percy, he could see him pursing his lips a little more tightly. "I'm not leaving here if you won't go on a walk with me," Percy announced a little hotly. A pang of disappointment formed into his chest. Why was he disappointed? That Percy was trying to be level-headed in a bloody impossible situation? That Percy wasn't willing to take the bait and just leave?

George was annoyed but he gave up. "Fine," he Accio-ed his shoes, which hadn't seen the light of day since Fred's funeral. He only owned one pair of ratty, almost-ready-to-fall apart plimsolls. George had put them on and stood up, with an irritation expression on his face. "You've got ten minutes," he warned. "It'll be a quick cup of tea."

"Let's go," Percy stood up.

They were able to leave the house without alerting anyone, which placated George a little bit. They'd gone off to Diagon Alley at Percy's insistence, with its now wonky-looking cobblestones and destroyed shops. George was feeling better already! Wouldn't you feel brightened up when you were faced with the destruction and decay of that the war had left? Percy didn't look like he was budging. He walked fast enough that George could barely keep up with him. And this was a bloke that had been comatose for a month, barely leaving the bed for a shower not too long back!

They got into the front of a deserted-looking tea shop with cherry wood signs and erratic, massive hyacinths and daffodils practically invading the shop window. The sign outside was hand-written and looked to be made by a four-year-old with its gigantic enthusiastic letters. It advertised clotted cream tea, lemon scones and chocolate tarts. George's stomach turned at the description. He could practically feel the heaviness from the cream sit in his stomach, but at the same time, his stomach started gnawing at him. When had been the last time that he'd eaten?

But he wouldn't give in. Childish as it sounded, he wouldn't get a single thing just to prove a point.

George felt his whole body freeze the second that he walked in and he found Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell and Lee Jordan sat at one of the tables with a steaming pot of tea in the middle. There were a few plates of buttery-looking shortbreads, stale looking ginger nuts and overly frosted butterfly cakes too. All of them looked wrought with worry.

When he looked back, he saw Percy was outside of the teashop already, manning the door like a bodyguard.

George barely made it to the table without wanting to break down. This was cruel, having him see his mates when he just wanted to crawl under the duvet and cry. He barely made it to the table before he sat down with a wheeze. His hair was unkempt. He hadn't eaten or showered or slept in days, and it showed on his unhealthy, ashen skin and his dry, crackled lips. George ducked his head down when he felt everyone's eyes on him.

When George sat down, he'd been worried about the questions. How are you? Shite, what about you? The same, he imagined the conversation going round in his head.

But all that happened was that Lee poured him a cup, leaned his head back and said "Cheers."

"Cheers," George answered back. He wished that he were drinking firewhiskey, but the warmth of the tea and sugar jolted him back to the reality. He was suddenly very aware of how bloody disgusting he must look like. He felt a shot of electricity shoot up his spine, and a choke-sob made its way out of his mouth.

Lee cocked his head to one side, dreadlocks spiling. "You look like shite."

George nodded his head. "Yeah, I do," he knew that he did. Lee didn't look so bad for someone that had gone through a war. Well, he was not ready to be on Witch Weekly magazine but he didn't look like he was about to be checked into St Mungo's like George did. He sunk down to his chair. He wanted things to go back to normal, but he also never wanted to stop remembering Fred. How could those two feelings exist at the same time?

It had been a month and a half since Fred was gone. A week since they'd put him under. It was supposed to be easier.

"We're scared for you, mate," Lee suddenly said, breaking George out of his reverie. "We never see you anymore."

"Yeah," Angelina and Katie agreed at the same time, but their voices were so soft that it did nothing to break the tension in the little teashop. George had looked around. They were the only ones there, and the windows were looking up into Diagon Alley, which didn't look as cheery as it should be after a war had ended.

Angelina moved her hand to his and George felt himself shudder. "Did you ever think about…about getting help?"

"Help?" George couldn't think about the next hour. "You want me to get help?" he said the last part like it was a threat. He could just about see Fred sitting across from him, just as shocked and a little amused. Because obviously if he were the one that had gone, he wouldn't need help. "Help with what?" he knew that what he was going through was normal. Just because he didn't believe that he'd ever cope didn't mean he needed help!

"I don't want to forget Fred," George almost defended himself, but it hurt to say his own twin's name out loud. His hands were shaking so much that lukewarm tea was spilling all over his trousers.

"Nobody's telling you to forget him, mate," Lee's voice was so calm and collected, as if he'd just seen his future through a crystal ball and had become zen afterwards. It should be infuriating but George felt calmer, like he was the one that was overreacting. But he wasn't, was he? "Nobody's ever going to forget him, not ever." George nodded his head, his hands clenching tightly into fists. "But don't you think it'll be easier if you can say his name without looking like you want to dig a hole for yourself and sleep right next to him?" Lee's statement was brutal, but it was honest.

"Do you honestly think that he'd be ecstatic, seeing you like this right now?" Katie asked softly.

"I reckon that he wouldn't mind if you started laughing at his funeral," Angelina supplemented and he knew that deep down, she was right. Fred wouldn't care if it took him a minute or a century to get over his bloody death.

George felt his whole body stiffen, thinking about it. He felt like if he had let go even a little, then he'd forget his own twin. That he'd be doing Fred an injustice, but he so badly just wanted to feel better. He knew that Fred just wanted them to be a real family again—and George was mucking all of that up, so why couldn't he just do it? Why did he have to complicate everything? Why couldn't he just let go of this heaving, crushing pain in his chest?

"I know," George whispered. If it had been Bill or Charlie or anyone else in the family that had told him that that wasn't what Fred would've wanted, he would've bitten their heads off. They didn't know Fred like he did, but Lee, Katie and Angelina knew him just as well. They'd been there with him when they were planting joke candy canes in the Christmas stockings, when they'd won their first Quidditch match, when they'd fought through a war. They'd been through every boring Saturday, every never-ending History of Magic class, every afternoon just fucking about in the dorm rooms waiting for something interesting to pop up. They'd been through all of that together, and he knew.

Fred's last wishes hung in the air. If anything happens to me, then you have to promise you'll tell mum and dad about Percy. And-and maybe they can finally get him the help that he needs…of course, Fred's last wishes had to be about Percy. What about his own twin? Why did he have to come second-place to Percy? Why couldn't he say anything about him? And fat chance George was going to tell their mum and dad about Percy. They were going to be fawning over him, forgetting about Fred, who was the important one there. He knew it was selfish and cruel, but he didn't care. And it didn't look like Percy did either. I'm so bloody tired of things being the way that they are. I just want us to be a normal family again.

Bollocks. How could Fred expect them to be a normal family when he'd just died?

At the same time, George felt sick, thinking about how he was blatantly ignore Fred's wishes. Because he could still remember the way his face looked like when he'd said it. There was no hint of humour, no amusement in his voice, no crinkles around his usually laughing brown eyes—he'd been as serious as You-Know-Who coming back from the dead. And he knew for a fact, because they'd drawn up their wills together (one of the most heartbreaking things that George had ever had to do), and they'd divided things as they saw fit, you know, before they'd realised that there was a real chance that one of them could die. George had never come to that reality, when Fred was very sobered. Funny that was. And George knew that a part of him was still in bloody denial, but what was he supposed to do? Just give into the fact that he'd never see Fred again? Just go about, screaming about how he'd want them all to be happy family again and how they should all just go on with their lives, even if he knew that was what Fred would've wanted?

They must've sat there for hours. George had finished his tea, the biscuits, the butterfly cakes and they ordered another round: clotted cream tea, spinach and bacon quiches and an ambiguous-looking chocolate tart.

Did he need help? George found himself wondering. He must've sat there for hours, just wondering, just remembering. And for the first time in a long time, he hadn't felt so sad that he wanted to collapse into the ground next to Fred. He actually felt better, like there was something beyond this heaving grief that was pulling him under. The constant barrage of negative self-talk and dark, morbid thoughts had ceased, if only for those four or five hours that they'd been out. They didn't need to talk, but just them being around him was enough for him to feel like he wasn't going mental.

He'd calmed down for the first time in the last month and a half. George's legs felt like jelly when he'd stood up and he thought he might brave a shower and a real meal with his family that night, even though he didn't want to (and he was bloody stuffed.) But he knew that if he'd just gone back to his room, he might never come out again.

Just before they'd left, Angelina pressed a packet of chocolate Ice Mice into his hand. "For your brother."

Brother? George looked confused. Percy still couldn't be outside, could he? Because it had been bloody hours. But when George and the lot had walked out, George did find Percy sat on the asphalt, with his general area covered in cigarette butts. He smelled like a chimney sweep that was for sure. He looked homeless even in his pale-blue trouser pants, white shirt and navy coat. "Perce?" George sounded out, snapping Percy out of his sleep.

Percy's face was indifferent when he'd asked, "Ten minutes over then?"

George was thrown back by that comment and managed to smile. "Thought to cut it short," he'd helped Percy up to his feet. He watched his brother use a spell just to smooth out the wrinkles in his coat and make sure to siphon any offending smoke stains. George's smile faltered when he noticed how glossy Percy's eyes were starting to look and how twitchy his hands were, like he couldn't stand still. "Are you…are you still using the machine?"

Percy nodded his head, piquing up an eyebrow as if he didn't understand where this was heading. "Yes," he looked surprised, as if it were obvious that he still was. "Why?"

George hung his head. "No reason," he paused. "Do you…do you think we can get a takeaway curry for everyone?"

Getting a curry and eating it didn't mean that he wasn't mourning Fred. He knew how ridiculous that sounded, but he was just afraid of how it looked like, now that he was thinking about choosing something to eat and enjoying it. But Percy just nodded his head, naturally. "You don't think that mum would be upset?" George asked, and winced when he realised that he'd told her to sod off just a few hours ago. He'd been such a horrible person to deal with recently.

Percy shook his head. "I think she'd be glad that you're back to eating again," the way that he said it made George feel like such an arsehole. Because it was true. "I'm sure you're aware but…you can be upset and grieve Fred whilst getting on with your life too."

George knew that was true, but he didn't believe that. And his first reaction was annoyance and resentment. What did Percy know about Fred anyway? He was off his rocker for the past few years, working his arse off until three in the morning. When he came back home, he turned into a corpse. So, what did he even know?

When they walked back inside the Burrow, Arthur froze in his spot. George hadn't noticed but it looked like his father had aged in the last few days. He didn't look like that the last that he'd seen him, and he hadn't noticed. His heart felt heavier just looking at him, looking how distraught and vulnerable he was. It just wasn't right.

"You…you were out for some time, I thought that…" Arthur was stood by the clock.

What did he think? That George had hung himself?

"We'd just gone out for a cup of tea," Percy said, as if he'd been sitting across from him, drinking from the pot.

Arthur stiffened and looked more like himself when Percy spoke. George wondered if he felt the same way sometimes, that he wanted to throttle or to slap Percy just for being around when he hadn't done anything wrong.

"Yeah, dad," George ducked his head so he wouldn't have to look at him and didn't meet his eyes. "I hope you don't mind—um…we've gotten curries for everyone." It was probably the first sentence he'd actually said to his parents that wasn't filled with absolute rage or disdain since Fred's death. "I know mum's probably cooked but—…well…"

"Yes," Arthur sounded surprised, pleasantly surprised. It was shocking that he could brighten his father's day up like that. Just by what? Bringing a curry? "Well, I don't think that she'd mind. Not at all." Then straight after that, he grabbed George into his arms and then buried his head into his hair. "Merlin, I'm sorry, George. I'm so sorry." His dad hadn't killed Fred with his hands, but he sounded just as apologetic. "You frightened us so much."

George hadn't left his room in ages, and the smell of his father's aftershave just made him woozy.

"Mind what, love?" Molly walked inside in record time. George could hear the plastic bags rustling in Percy's hands. "Oh, George! Love, I was so worried! I didn't know where you'd gone and-and—…" she burst into tears again. "We thought that something happened to you. I know…I know that the clock says that you were just out but…"

They thought that it would flip to Fred's, George realised. Or that he'd end up in hospital.

"George bought a curry for everyone," Arthur explained, and he'd said it in a way that made him feel like he single-handedly won the Quidditch World Cup. There was so much pride in his voice that it had made George fill with guilt. Merlin, what had been happening when he'd been in his and Fred's room? It made him not want to go back. Because suddenly, in the bright lights of the living room, he felt like everyone around him were ghosts.

"Oh," even Molly looked overwhelmed with relief. "Oh, that's lovely," she stroked George's cheek. "Are…are you going to sit downstairs and eat it? Or do you want to stay here in the living room? Or do you want to bring it up to your room?"

Percy put the bags down into the kitchen. He didn't look normal, George noticed out of the corner of his eyes.

"Well, I…I suppose that I…" George felt like he'd finally been back to the Burrow as it really was. With its worn-out wallpaper and his well-meaning parents straight into his line of vision. When he saw the look of hesitation on Percy's face, George started to feel a little prickly. But when the colour started drain out of Percy's face, George wanted to dive straight in and catch him, because he looked like he was about to collapse. But Percy managed to compose himself straight afterwards. "I suppose I can eat with everyone else."

An hour later, they were sat around the table, silently eating curries from their plates. Percy was the first to leave, and he'd barely managed down half a naan bread and a few mouthfuls before he had. George felt overrun with guilt. It just didn't feel right, the way that they were all having dinner and just trying to get on when he knew that Percy wasn't going to be around for long.