2 – Not at all like talking to you

Dear Fred,

how are you? How's being dead treating you?

See, this time I got the beginning right. Yay for me. Anyways, here I am, writing to you again. It feels surreal, and, no matter what Ginny says, it does so not feel "like talking to him in a way" – I mean, come on, where are all the witty remarks, all the sarcastic little quips, and who's gonna finish all my

See. Not at all like talking to you.

And why, then, you might ask, am I doing this? Why am I sitting here, dipping my quill in ink, putting it to parchment and spewing my heart out to someone who will never, ever read this? I don't know, to be honest. Ginny came into our room a few days ago, sat down on the windowsill and told me, carefully avoiding looking at your (still unmade) bed, that she's writing to you every day, and that these letters really help her cope. She sends them out with Errol, and he never came back with one still attached to his leg, so she feels like somehow you are receiving and reading them. Our little sister, always the dreamer, eh? I'm smiling tearfully now, if you must know, because this is naïve and heartbreaking and clever all at once. We taught her well, Ginny. She's the only one who's actually talking to me and looking into my eyes while doing so. Bless her, really. Without her I might have gone insane. It's quite tiring having everyone avoiding looking me in the eye, or to even address me without that certain sharp intake of breath that indicates how much we all lost when we lost you.

You dying really sucked all the life out of our family. Mum's so sad that I can't even be in the same room with her for more than a few minutes. She was so strong in battle, even after you… left. She was stronger than any of us, still is, but it breaks my heart seeing her chopping vegetables all day to feed the mourning crowd living under her roof now, always blaming onions for her tears, just so she can keep up the illusion of strength. She thinks she has to be strong for us, but her eyes lost all their life, she's not eating, and every time she puts a plate out for you, she turns white as a sheet and grabs it, without a word, to put it back in the cupboard. But we all see how her heart's breaking in these moments, and we all choose to ignore it, because our own hearts are just as broken.

I think that's what hurts the most, seeing how badly you are missed. My pain is unbearable on its own, but adding theirs to it… I can't stand it, I can't really think about it, or my brain will implode. It feels like we all died a little. Dad… he stopped being Dad. He's always home now, never going to work, never leaving his armchair anymore. He stopped reading the papers, too, only uses it to hide his tears from us. Quite the silent sobber, Dad. Unlike Ginny, who cries openly (and snotty, if I might say so) and isn't ashamed of her feelings. As I said, we taught her well.

Percy took it the hardest, though. He keeps mumbling "should have been me" under his breath, which everyone chooses to ignore as much as Mums breaking heart and Dads silent tears, since no one knows what to say to him. And of course it shouldn't have been him, Merlin's beard!, but it shouldn't have been you, either. It never should have been you.

I think I might have to end this letter for now, it's getting hard to see through my (silent, but snotty) tears, but I guess I will keep writing to you for a while, it doesn't really help, but… well, it doesn't not help, either.

I miss you, Freddie. I miss us.