6 May 1998

Percy placed the cardboard box full of his clothes down on the floor and stared around at the old bedroom. It looked exactly like he remembered it, and yet, it felt as though he were seeing it for the first time. The familiar dents and bumps on the ceiling, which he had once hated, now filled his heart with fierce nostalgia. And the burn stains on the wall, from the time the twins—aged seven—had accidentally set fire to his curtains, filled him with a rush of mingled fondness and remorse. He had screamed himself hoarse at the twins that day. Swallowing heavily, he reached out and touched the charred, yellow edges of the curtain.

"How's it feel to be back?"

Percy turned around. Ron was standing in the door frame, holding a cardboard box full of Percy's books. Together, they had spent the morning emptying out Percy's little flat in London and bringing all of his possessions back to the Burrow, where he would be staying for the rest of the summer.

Percy smiled. "Strange," he said quietly.

Ron nodded. "I know what you mean," he said seriously. "Feels like I've aged a decade since the last time I was here."

Percy stared at his younger brother. When Percy had left home, three years earlier, Ron had been a moody teenager. In just three years, he had turned into a fiercely loyal and incredibly brave man. And Percy had missed it all.

"Perce?"

Percy blinked. "What?"

"Where d'you want me to put these books?"

"Oh," Percy shook himself. "Er—you can just leave them by the desk over there."

Ron nodded and moved to deposit the books at the foot of Percy's desk.

Percy turned to look out of his bedroom window, from which he had a clear view of the Burrow's back garden. His heart gave a little jolt. George was lying in the overgrown grass by the pond, staring up at the sky, a large handle of Ogden's firewhisky clutched in his hands. Even as Percy watched, George took a long swing directly from the bottle. Percy's stomach twisted with a dull, hollow guilt.

"He's lucky Mum's not home to catch him like that," Ron said in a low voice.

Percy looked around. Ron had joined him by the window and was staring at George, as well.

"Where is Mum?" Percy asked, turning his back on the window and kneeling down to retrieve a stray sock from the floor.

"She and Dad went to Hogsmeade," Ron said in an odd voice. "To make the—funeral arrangements."

Percy closed his eyes, wishing he hadn't asked.

"And Bill and Ginny went to Muriel's, to clean out the guest rooms—and everyone else is at Hogwarts, helping with the rebuilding," Ron continued valiantly, in a rather obvious attempt to move past his previous statement. "I'll probably head over there, too, once I've helped you unpack."

"You don't have to stay for my sake," Percy said immediately. "I'm sure they can use all the help they can get with—"

"It's fine," Ron interrupted, bending down and picking up Percy's cauldron. Then, he glanced back at the window, frowning, and Percy realized that Ron was staying back at the Burrow for two reasons. Two brothers.

For a long while, they worked in silence, shelving books and folding clothes into drawers. They could have used magic and finished the job in a tenth of the time, but Percy knew that both he and Ron were doing everything by hand for the same reason. It was much easier for Percy to ignore the shards of glass—Fred, Fred, Fred—that seemed to have taken residence in his heart since the battle when he was keeping his hands busy.

Suddenly— "Oh, bloody hell."

Percy turned around. Ron had dropped a stack of books to the floor and sprinted to the bedroom window, his face set and white. Heart racing, Percy hurried to his brother's side and looked through the window as well. His stomach dropped.

George was hunched forward, shoulders shaking violently as he repeatedly struck the grass with his firewhisky bottle. The glass of the bottle splintered, scattering everywhere.

"I'll go," Ron said quickly, sweeping out of the room and sprinting down the staircase.

Percy rubbed his eyes under his glasses. He knew why Ron had not asked Percy to accompany him—it was for the same reason Ron had insisted on staying at the Burrow to help Percy unpack. While George had been generally withdrawn and conspicuously absent during the last few days, he had yet to say more than two words at a time to Percy. It was Ron and Ginny who were taking it in turns attempting to drag George out of his room for meals and showers. Percy wasn't sure that their efforts were actually producing results, but George seemed to respond particularly well to Ron, nonetheless.

Percy watched from the window as Ron dashed out onto the lawn and grasped George by the shoulders, forcibly restraining him, saying words Percy couldn't hear. And George, though he looked unwilling and angry at first, gradually stilled. Percy was seized, once again, by the painful realization that his siblings had grown up without him.

Swallowing, Percy turned back around to face his old bedroom. If he finished the rest of the unpacking with magic before Ron came back upstairs, then they could both leave for Hogwarts sooner, perhaps bringing George with them. The reconstructive efforts back at the castle would provide a much more effective distraction than the memories that haunted his old bedroom.

Percy drew his wand. Then, suddenly, he froze.

A soft rattling sound was coming from his desk drawer.

Percy clenched his wand, staring at the drawer apprehensively. Bill, as the family's only curse-breaker, had taken it upon himself to conduct a thorough sweep of the house before they had moved back in, identifying and removing any foul, ill-intentioned enchantments that the Death Eaters had left behind when they had come calling during the Easter holidays. Had Bill missed something?

The soft rattling came again, this time triggering something in Percy's memory—the voice of his third year Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Osborn Trickelbank: "Boggarts are particularly fond of inhabiting dark, confined spaces, such as wardrobes, drawers, and cupboards."

Percy released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It was just a Boggart; he could handle that himself.

Raising his wand, he pointed it at the drawer. "Alohomora."

With a muffled creak, the drawer opened.

Percy screamed.

Moments earlier…

"I'm fine, Ron."

"Come inside, George. It's bloody hot out here."

"Are you bloody listening? I'm fine, Ron."

"Yeah? What's your plan?" Ron demanded. "Are you just going to sit out here and drink all aftern—?"

"Do I really look like a bloke with a plan?"

Ron stared at his elder brother. George was still trembling slightly, his posture unsteady, the whites of his eyes rimmed with red. But he was wearing the defiant, resolute expression that the twins had always worn so well. The only difference was that his eyes were missing their usual spark of good humor, their characteristic twinkle. They looked strangely lost without it.

Ron shook his head, turned around, and headed back in the direction of the house. He was halfway across the yard when he heard it—a terrible scream from Percy's bedroom window.

Ron's heart stopped. There was a soft thud from behind him as George dropped his firewhisky bottle and leaped to his feet, his bloodshot eyes widening in alarm.

Without even a moment's hesitation, without even a fleeting glance at one another, the two brothers bolted down the remainder of the yard and raced into the Burrow. They took the stairs two at a time, sprinting down the second floor landing; Ron threw open the door to Percy's bedroom.

And then, in a split-second, Ron felt every breath leave his body, as a horrible, chilling déjà vu stole over him.

Fred was lying on the bedroom floor, unblinking, unmoving, and plainly—

"NO!" Percy cried in a strangled voice. "NO, GEORGE! It's not really him! It's only a Bog—!"

But it was too late. George had taken one look at the horrifying scene before him and stumbled back out of the bedroom, thundering down the staircase.

Ron made to go after him, but—

"R-riddikulus!" Percy croaked.

With a loud crack, Fred's pale, still body began to bleed from a wound in his forehead.

"R-r-riddikulus!"

Crack! Fred was sporting a black eye, and the right side of his face was covered in bruises. Percy's breathing became raw and ragged. Ron couldn't stand it any longer.

"Get out of the way," he told Percy severely, stepping in front of his brother.

Gripping his wand, Ron braced himself for the enormous, hairy, milky-eyed spider.

But then, there was a crack, and a fresh wave of terror built up in Ron's throat like bile.

Hermione was writhing on the floor, her eyes rolling backwards, screaming—screaming—the words that had plagued Ron's nightmares for six weeks. But now, he was forced to see, with his own eyes, every ounce of pain, and agony, and anguish that she had felt—

"We found it—we found it—PLEASE!"

Ron was only dimly aware of Percy yelling out in fright. And suddenly, Ron was not in Percy's bedroom, at all. He was back in the cellar of Malfoy Manor, helpless, terrified, utterly desperate, as he banged on the walls and clawed at the door…

"It isn't the real sword—it's a copy—just a copy!"

But they had escaped. Dobby had saved them, helped them to Shell Cottage—and finally, another memory came to Ron's mind—he and Hermione were sitting on the rocky cliffside, listening to the soothing ebb and flow of the sea, as the cold, salty wind whipped about their faces…Hermione was laughing, her eyes gleaming at some stupid joke he'd told…

Raising a trembling hand, Ron pointed his wand at Hermione's sobbing, struggling form.

"Riddikulus!"

Crack! Hermione stopped screaming. She was smiling, now, that soft, gentle smile, as she lay on the floor, her hair and clothes fluttering in the light, seaside breeze…

A warm, fierce rush of confidence filled Ron's body. He pointed his wand again, squaring his shoulders. "Riddikulus!"

The Boggart exploded, erupting into a million infinitesimal wisps of smoke, and disappeared.

Ron stared at the floor for several minutes. Then, without a word, he dropped his wand and fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands.

For a long while, all that could be heard in the little bedroom was the two brothers' heavy, jagged breathing.

"Ron," Percy whispered, after what felt to Ron like several years. "Ron, why was—that—your Boggart?"

Ron ignored his brother, clutching his hair so tightly that he could feel his knuckles whitening.

"Ron—"

"I don't want to talk about it, Percy," Ron said roughly.

"But Ron, if that's—whoever did—that—we can't let them get away—"

"They won't," Ron said harshly. "They're dead."

Percy inhaled sharply and fell quiet. Ron felt a twinge of guilt. But then, he thought of Hermione's twisted, tormented face, and a surge of nausea overcame him. He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth.

Another awful silence seemed to fill the room, stretching between them. Ron tried to organize himself, organize his thoughts—but it was too hard. He had no idea where George had disappeared to, and he had just relived the two worst nights of his life…and Percy…Percy had seen it…

"Should we look for George?"

Ron glanced at his brother. Percy's face was still white to his lips beneath his freckles.

"There's no point," Ron said hoarsely. "He could be halfway across the country by now. But if he's not back by dinner, we'll go after him." He paused, swallowing heavily. "Perce, don't tell Hermione—"

"I won't," Percy whispered. Then, with a shuddering breath, he cradled his face in his palms. "What do we do now, Ron?"

Ron cleared his throat, glancing at his wristwatch. "We should probably get to Hogwarts. I told Harry and Hermione I'd—"

"No, Ron," Percy's voice was choked and numb. "I meant—what do we do now? What do we…how do we…?" he trailed off shakily.

Ron stared at his brother. Suddenly, he heard George's angry voice in his head: "Do I really look like a bloke with a plan?"

His heart constricted overwhelmingly with emotion. And then, for truly the first time in four days, it hit Ron, all at once—how much he had lost, how much they had all lost, how much they would never, ever be able to get back. They would never be the same people again. Ron would never again be the naïve boy who had only heard of Voldemort in newspaper clippings and hushed, overheard conversations. He would never again be oblivious to death, to destruction, to the dull, ever-present ache of losing a brother. He would never hear Fred's laugh again. He would never see Fred's eyes light up in amusement. He would never—

The sharp, harrowing thoughts lodged themselves in Ron's throat, tearing at him from within, and the pain was too much, and he couldn't hold it in any longer—and he broke, for Fred, for George, for his mother and father…for Hermione, for Harry, for Ginny…Lupin, Tonks…Tonks's mother, left alone to care for a three-week-old baby…

And then Percy was there, and he clung to Ron for all he was worth, his eyes shining with tears, as well. Because for all their differences, they weren't so very different at all—both shadows of their past selves, two lost boys in a new world, struggling to find their way back up to the surface.

Author's Note:

Oof. That was really heavy. Sorry about that. :'(

This was again for the Cinema Competition. The prompt was The Dark Night: Write about the dark, or alternatively, angst (I think I tackled both in this story). And my optional quote was: "Do I really look like a guy with a plan?"

I hope you guys liked it. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Ari