Written for the Dumbledore Armada Discord Server Weasley Family Reunion Flash Comp hosted by KoraKwidditch!
WINNER: Best Angst
There was something incredibly eerie about staring down at the body of someone who looked exactly like you. Save for a missing ear and a few extra freckles on his face, he was in every way physically identical to the man that laid motionless in the ornately carved pine box before him. It was with some sick twist of humor in his mind that he suppressed the smirk at what Fred would say in this moment. Probably something incredibly inappropriate for a funeral—something like I put the fun in funeral, get it Georgie? But, it would make him laugh aloud, he was sure.
He finally tore his eyes away when he felt the stare of his mum burning into the side of his face. Had his ear not already been lopped off, he was sure it would have melted under her gaze. Slowly, he turned his head toward her.
She looked worse off than he could ever remember seeing her. Her hair far more greyed than it had ever been before, her face more lined. Dark purple rings had taken up residence under eyes that were perpetually puffy and she seemed to be constantly trembling. Her unsteady hands a constant giveaway—despite the steadiness of her gaze.
He tried to offer her a small smile, because this day was just as hard for her as it was for him. Her frown deepened and his dad's hand moved to cover hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Right. It probably came off more of a grimace than a smile and he turned his head back toward the front, ignoring the droning of the Ministry official. His mind was completely blank as he blinked slowly, the only sound really invading his thoughts came from his left side as Ginny wept.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a moment of silence fell over the crowded garden and George sighed. This didn't feel right—it's certainly not what he would have wanted. "Larger than life" and "ready for anything thrown his way" were things the frumpy official had said when describing Fred. This pisspoor excuse of a funeral service certainly didn't live up to that.
He suppressed the urge to laugh again.
Live up to that. Get it, Freddy?
A sloppy sounding string quartet played a soft melody as the Ministry officials wrapped up the service and vanished the box from the pedestal it stood. They explained that there would be refreshments for those who stayed behind to comfort the family and most of the crowd cleared out. He was thankful for that, honestly. Half the people here barely tolerated them through school and only respected them once they had proven they were more than silly tricks and puking pastilles. But, then again, they weren't really, were they? They had essentially built a joke shop empire on selling nosebleed nougats and daydream potions to ickle firsties.
George edged around the crowd, making his way into the lopsided house he'd grown up in, to the kitchen where he could be alone for a minute. It was a strange feeling—being alone. After twenty years of being attached to someone, he wasn't sure how to move in a space that two people no longer occupied.
He knew, without a doubt, they were all waiting for his moment of realization. He could feel the concerned glances his way at every supper, the worry in the way Bill would squeeze his shoulder, the sympathy brewed into every cup of tea Ginny left outside their bedroom door.
His. His bedroom door.
There had been a moment on the sixth of May, when he looked in a mirror that hung on the back of their—his—bedroom door. It was the first time he had looked at himself since before the Battle and he couldn't bear it. His fist connected with the glass and he watched as it splintered beneath his knuckles, cracking and crashing onto the floor. He had stood, stupidly staring at the mess he created and wondered what kind of joke Fred would make about this moment.
Well, I'm shattered.
The first time you punch me in the face and it's a mirror? Typical, Georgie.
Upon reflection, I think you might be a bit cracked, mate.
George sighed again, shaking the not-so-distant memory from his head and rummaged through the icebox, pulling out a bottle of Butterbeer and twisting the top off. He fell into one of the old chairs at the table, drumming his fingers against the wood as he drank the too-sweet drink.
He should be shattered, shouldn't he? The entire family walked on eggshells around him like he already was. As if he'd start screaming and crying at the drop of a knut and lose himself completely in anguish at the loss of his twin. But, contrary to what they all believed, he was fine. Really, he was.
Of course, he hadn't been able to eat a proper meal in the last fortnight and he avoided mirrors now...but, he was here, wasn't he? He was at every sodding supper his mum called him down for. He showed up at every damn memorial and funeral he was contacted about. He had talked Percy off the metaphorical ledge when he began going on and on about how it was all his fault.
Sure, he didn't say much to anyone. But, no one would joke with him now, would they? No one would tap their elbow against his and laugh at the way Charlie finally let mum cut his hair or how obvious it was that Ron and Hermione were a thing now—no matter how private they tried to be.
He owed Fred ten Galleons for that, actually.
George brought his eyes up from the table and swept them over the walls. The house looked the same as it always had, it certainly didn't feel like it was going to crumble any time soon. At least, no more than it usually did. And, if the very structure that held them all so close for so long could stand cockeyed and wonky and no one questioned it—then why should they stare so closely at him for being solid on his own two feet?
His eyes landed on the clock on the wall, hanging next to the entrance to the sitting room. Little spoon shaped hands with all their pictures pointed to home. Except…
Wait a minute…
George furrowed his brow, slowly lowering the nearly empty bottle of Butterbeer from his lips as he counted the hands. Eight. There were only eight now. That wasn't right. The bottle made a soft plinking sound as the bottom connected with the table and he counted on his fingers as he squinted at the hands of the clock. Dad, Mum, Bill, Charlie, Perce, Me, Ronnikins, Gin…
Where the hell is Freddy?
He stood up quicker than he intended, the chair squealing as it slid against the floor and he cringed at the sound. In three strides, he stood before the clock, gently moving the hands to see the pictures and names on the spoons. He recited the names over and over, counting on his fingers as he went. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
Again and again, the same eight faces smiled back at him.
No, no. That's not right. That's not...where is Fred's hand?
Something hot burned behind his eyes, his chest constricting painfully as he forced breath in and out of his lungs. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and could taste the coppery flavour as he bled in his mouth, counting and moving the hands again. He stepped back, staring in disbelief and then he saw it—a glint of silver on the floor.
He watched as his own hand trembled—that's new—as he picked up the sliver that laid directly beneath the clock. He flipped it over and his already shallow breath caught in his throat. Fred stared back at him from the palm of his hand and George felt nausea roll against his stomach, the acrid taste of bile burning in the back of his throat.
No. No, you can't have fallen off. That's never happened.
He rose up to his full height and pressed the bottom of the hand to the clock, feeling the little notch click into place. He dropped his arms to the side and watched as the little spoon rotated around the face of the clock, looking for a place to land before coming loose and falling to the floor again.
"No," George said, his voice cracked from disuse. "No, you're home. You're in the garden right now! You're here!"
He pressed the hand back onto the face, waited for the click, watched it spin and fall. Each time, anger surged inside of him, bubbling to the surface and forcing his fingers to press harder against the clock. He grabbed some spell-o-tape from the drawer, tried a sticking charm, melted the end of it to the end of his own and still, it fell.
"No!" George cried, his fingers smashing against the clock, desperate to get the hand to stay. "You're here!"
He held the mangled clock-hand in his fist as he felt the hot trail of tears run off his chin. He swore loudly, cursing the stupid clock for everything it had just done, for dropping Fred's hand to the floor like he didn't belong. Like he wasn't in a fucking box in the garden right now.
"George," a soft voice called from behind him.
He turned around and saw his Mum standing near the table, her eyes rimmed with red and her shaking hand covering her mouth.
"He's still here, Mum. He's still home! He's out there—right now! He's out there!" George flailed his empty hand wildly in the direction of the garden, his hand opening to drop the spoon back to the floor.
"Goddammit," he hissed, stooping over to snatch it back up before trying to smash it back into the clock where it belonged. Right next to his own hand, where it fucking belonged.
"George, stop. Stop!"
He felt his mum's hand on his forearm, holding him back from beating the bloody clock again with a surprisingly strong grip.
"You'll break the clock, dear," she murmured, her hold just below his elbow going lax.
Seconds later, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling his head to her shoulder and running her palm in soothing circles between his shoulders as she shushed him like she did when he was little.
"He's still here, mum," George whispered, sounding pathetic even to his own ears. "He's still here."
"He'll always be here, George."
"The clock...that clock is broken! I-I have to get you a new one—it doesn't work. It keeps—"
"Darling, the clock isn't broken."
He pulled from her embrace and wiped his face on the back of his sleeve, "I'm not ready, Mum. I'm not ready to say goodbye."
"So, don't," she said, simply.
He sniffled and nodded, "Will you hang on to it?" He held Fred's clock hand out to her, insistently. "Please?"
She nodded slowly and George tapped his wand to the end of the spoon, watching as a thin chain grew from the end. He undid the clasp and fastened it around her neck. His mum leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek before busying herself with the kettle. When she set the steaming mug before him, she didn't even yell at him to take his feet off the table.
Larger than life, ready for anything, that was what the official had said. But, as George sipped the tea he doubted those words. No one could have been ready for this.
.
.
a/n: Thank you to everyone who read and voted. I'm apparently not capable of writing a Weasley fic without making myself cry.
xoxo
Mimi