Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Finals

Team: Chudley Cannons

Position: Chaser 3

Prompt: Your character must naively believe something won't be that bad.

Optional Prompts: 2. (quote) "Don't waste your time with explanations. People only hear what they want to hear."- Paulo Coelho, 11. (song) "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac, 15. (word) fragile

AN: Thanks to Ray and Hannah for helping me with this story! I've had such a great time writing for this competition. I couldn't have asked for better teammates; the Cannons have become like family, and I'm so glad I made the choice to join this team. So proud of us for making it to finals! Go Cannons!

Well, I've been 'fraid of changin'

'Cause I've built my life around you

"I saw them, Ginny."

George stopped beside the open door mid-stride. He eased himself into a balanced stance and craned his head a little closer.

"Saw who, Harry?" Ginny's voice was low and measured, as it always was whenever she talked to Harry after the battle.

"Them," Harry said. George heard him take in a deep breath. "My parents, and Sirius, and Rem—" His voice broke, the last name swallowed by a sob.

George did feel sorry for a moment—he wasn't so callous not to. He felt a little guilt, too, having intruded on what was clearly a private moment. He knew he should leave. But he had lost his twin brother, so George was angry, George was sad, and he supposed that excused his actions. So he silently begged Ginny to ask the question he needed to be answered.

His sister didn't fail. "How?" she whispered, and George's heartbeat sped up as he leaned closer. He could see them now, huddled on the edge of Ginny's bed.

Harry looked down at his lap, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "You've heard of the Deathly Hallows, right?"

Ginny's brows furrowed. "What do those have to do with—oh." She took Harry's hand in hers. "They exist, don't they?"

Harry gave her an imperceptible nod, eyes fixed on their joined hands. "The Resurrection Stone," he started, "it's real. Dumbledore left it for me."

George's breath had snagged somewhere in his throat as he listened, eyes wide.

"You don't have to talk about it," murmured Ginny, squeezing Harry's hand. "You have time. All the time in the world now, and I'll wait. I'll always wait."

George suppressed a sound of indignation. Harry might have all the time in the world, but he didn't. His fragile head felt like it was going to crack open from all the thoughts that kept him awake night after night.

Harry shook his head. "No." He paused. "No. I think I need to."

Yes, George thought. You do.

"It was before I went to Voldemort—in the forest. I held the stone, closed my eyes, and when I opened them, they were there. As if nothing had changed." Harry finally looked up, his gaze stricken. "My parents—they were young, Ginny. And Sirius, Remus—it was like they never—they never—" He clamped his lips together.

George screwed his eyes shut, imagining another face, a person that he'd built his life around. He could see the laugh playing on his lips, the disheveled red hair with a cowlick jutting out defiantly from the back of his head—the same way George's hair did.

"I let go of it," Harry murmured, his words almost swallowed up by the silence draping over the room like an uncomfortably heavy blanket.

Both George and Ginny blinked.

"I let them go," Harry said, louder this time. "I needed to."

"So it's in the forest?" asked Ginny.

Harry nodded.

"And you're okay with that?"

Blinking away a stray tear, Harry closed his eyes. When he opened them, his gaze was clear. "Yes." He nodded to himself, almost to reassure himself. "Yes, I think I am."

"Good. I'm proud of you, Harry. I'm proud that you chose to live. Never forget it," Ginny said, leaning forward to brush a kiss over Harry's forehead, but George didn't hear her. No, only one part of that conversation stuck with him. He'd heard what he wanted.

He pressed his forehead against the cold wall for a moment, inhaling, exhaling, before he walked away quietly, his footsteps a whisper along the worn wood.

It looked like he'd be spending the next few days in the Forbidden Forest.

The forest was warm and humid, the effects of the previous night's rain still suspended in the air. The sun glared down at George, slightly hindered by the sweeping branches of the trees, as he dropped to his knees, rummaging through the leaves. This was his twentieth day in the forest, searching for a bloody stone that seemed like it refused to be found.

George had discovered on his first day that Summoning charms, whether rudimentary or advanced, didn't work—he should have expected it wouldn't be easy. Nevertheless, he didn't shy away from the task at hand. He had spent the last few weeks sifting through the foliage and dirt, hoping with every stone his fingers curled around that this would be it.

He spent as long as he could in the forest, sometimes resorting to a murmured Lumos to provide light when the sun had nearly slipped away into the horizon. He returned home only when even dusk had bid the world farewell. He would be covered in dirt, leaves sticking to his pants, but no one questioned it—he suspected they were happy he was finally leaving the boundaries of his room, that he seemed less fragile.

George looked at his watch. It was a little past noon; he still had a lot of time.

He thought he would have been bored by now, but, to his surprise, he wasn't. He'd developed a little trick that he was sure his family would disapprove of, judging from their long spiels about trying to move on.

George imagined what he would say when he saw his twin again. Imaginary conversations played through his mind, and sometimes he would talk to himself, deepening his voice slightly to match his twin's.

(Perhaps he was going a little mad, but George didn't care.)

He shifted, moving to sit down for a moment of respite, when he felt something sharp prod his palm. George picked it up, body trembling with hope. When he uncurled his fist, his breath caught in his throat.

A small stone sat in his palm, nestled into the calluses. The jet black surface gleamed in the sunlight, and George made out a faint gold engraving that adorned the top of the stone. Heart drumming a violent rhythm against his chest, he squinted at it.

It was the symbol of the Deathly Hallows.

George knew it was. He'd seen it so often as a child when his mother had read the story from 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard.'

This was it.

The story—it had warned of eternal pain. George remembered holding onto Fred, burrowed under the covers, while their mother described how the man had been driven to suicide after seeing his deceased bride.

(Would that be so bad? George wondered.)

But George was stronger than that. He had to be.

Now, the only thing that stayed imprinted in his memory was the fact that the man in the story had been able to see his loved one. The other explanations were useless to him.

He closed his fingers over the stone and rose. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. I'm ready to see you, Fred. I've waited three months.

When he opened his eyes, he was there.

There.

Him.

Right in front of him.

He was wearing the same shirt he had worn the day of the battle, but it wasn't bloody. It wasn't covered in dirt.

George fell to his knees, his mouth frozen open in a mix between a sob and a laugh.

"Your knees are weak already? It's only been three months," said Fred, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. "Old man." He laughed, and George thought he had never heard a better sound.

George could only offer a strangled cry in return. "You—you—you're here."

"Where else would I be?"

"Merlin. Bloody hell. You're here. Bloody hell. Bloody hell," George mumbled, the words falling out his mouth clumsily. He rose unsteadily and scrambled forward, his fingers wavering in front of Fred's fragile translucent figure, afraid that he would break him. He let his arm drop, a sigh pushing out from between his lips. "I've—I've missed you. Merlin, I've missed you so goddamn much, Fred."

The smirk slipped away, morphing into a melancholy smile. "I've missed you, too."

The corners of the stone prodding his palm, George spent the next four hours talking, shifting from one topic to another without pause, half of his words swallowed by laughs—the first time he could remember laughing since the battle. There had never been anyone else he could talk so easily to—no one but Fred. No one but his twin. Who was here. With him.

(Was Fred fading? No, it was just the sun.)

"You'll never leave me, right?" George jostled the stone in his palm. "It'll be okay now. You're here."

Fred shifted, eyes suddenly glinting uneasily.

"You're staying with me," repeated George. "We'll always be together."

"George."

He pressed on, ignoring the frown quirking Fred's lips. "Nothing will have to change. It'll be you and me again. We can take on the world together. Right, Fred? Right?"

"George." Fred's face was set with the look of a man who had accepted fate—that wasn't right. Fred didn't accept anything. Fred did what he wanted.

(Didn't he want to stay?)

"I can't stay."

"You can."

"I can't, George."

(Did Fred look sad? No, he was just playing a prank.)

"You can!" George shouted. "Goddamnit, you can!" His knees suddenly felt weak again, and he fell, the leaves crunching under his legs.

He didn't realize he was crying until he tasted the salty tang of tears on his tongue. His gaze blurred. But he could see the trees more clearly through Fred. His twin was fading.

"You can't do this, George," Fred said, dropping to his knees before him. "You have to go on."

"But I can't," croaked George. "Not without you." He reached forward, and when he tried to hug Fred, his arms passed through, as if they were simply going through air. He realized he had to squint to see his twin now. The outline of his figure had almost blended into the trees, the details of Fred's shirt no longer visible.

"I'm sorry, George," Fred said. And he did look sorry.

(But George had never hated his twin more than he did now.)

"How can you leave me again?" asked George, lips quivering. "Again, Fred."

"I'm not leaving. Not really." Fred mustered a smile.

"Don't give me any of that sentimental crap. It's not enough."

"I can't give you more," Fred murmured, his voice weaker, fading like the rest of him.

"I—I built my life around you. What am I supposed to do now?" George couldn't tear his eyes away, even though every second of seeing his twin fade made his heart feel like it had been ripped apart and trampled. He wanted to memorize the face before—though all he really had to do was look in a mirror.

"Change."

"But I don't want to change. I can't."

"But you have to." Fred was barely visible now; his somber expression flickered in and out of existence. "I can't stay any longer." He gestured at himself.

"No—no, you can't—" George reached out again, and in his haste, the stone slipped from his hand, landing with a plop on the ground before rolling down the hill.

Fred disappeared.

George stumbled up and chased after it, tears dripping down his cheeks, a roar ripping from his throat.

But it was too late. The stone had found its home among the leaves and dirt again, taking Fred with it.