Chapter 2 – Percy
He was standing right next to me. He was laughing. It's the way he would have wanted to go. I lay next to him, thrown against the ground by the explosion. He wasn't moving. He wasn't speaking. He wasn't breathing. I tried to shake him, thinking it another one of his jokes. He couldn't be dead. He just couldn't. It couldn't happen. Not Fred. I heard the words escape my lips before I thought them out. 'No - Fred - no!' It wasn't fair. I was standing right there - right there - and he was dead. It should have been me!
I'd just come back. My dream was all falling together. The world would be free of You-Know-Who. The Death Eaters would have their comeuppance. My family would be a family again. Whole. No more suffering. But when it happened... the dream was just that - a dream. All I cared about was my brother, lying dead atop the rubble. They couldn't do any more harm to him, I know, but I was determined to keep them from getting to his body. I lost my head completely, shielding his body from the Death Eaters' with my own. I didn't care that Harry was shouting at me to move, I couldn't leave him. I just couldn't. He was my brother! Ron eventually came over and helped me lift Fred's dead weight and carry him with us, his feet dragging unceremoniously along the ground. I don't know what came over me, but when those Death Eaters came after us, I turned around with every intention to hex them into oblivion.
We lay him on the cold stone floor of the Great Hall beside Remus, Tonks on Lupin's other side. The three fallen allies lying in a row. When Mum came over and saw him lying dead, she went into hysterics. 'He's not... he can't be... not Fred!' She kept saying. I tried to comfort her, to show her that I was really back for this family. She sobbed into my shoulder for awhile, and I felt the dry tear tracks on me own cheeks. I didn't even notice I'd been crying. We were all there; Mum, Dad, Bill, Fleur, Charlie, Ron, Ginny, Hermione, Harry, everyone that mattered except for George. Charlie noticed him standing in shock, framed by the double doors, and got up to talk to him. I wanted to go ... but I couldn't leave Fred. I had been there when ... when it happened. I couldn't leave his side. Not when ... it was all my fault.
We sat making funeral plans for a long time. Dad kept going on about who should come, and Charlie kept talking about something fancy. I thought he deserved it all ... but it didn't feel right. George sat in the corner, brooding. He hadn't cried. From what I know - which isn't much, considering he's avoiding the family - he hasn't cried. He spoke, for the first time, settling the matter. Everybody paid attention. Even Mum stopped crying. Hearing him speak was like hearing Fred speak. He was our one connection to our late brother. He knew him the best. He looked me in the eye and said, 'It should be small. Just us. Plain and simple, nothing too fancy. And we won't wear black. Black always depressed him.' I just nodded. It was all I could do. George had the final say. If I would listen to anyone, it would be George.
I tried to visit George the next day, but he wouldn't come to the door. I must have stood outside for hours, hoping he'd come to the door. He didn't know, but I needed to talk to him. I needed to re-connect to the family. I needed to tie up loose ends. I needed to know what he was like. I couldn't say ... You know. I think he was still mad at me. Either that or ... I didn't want to think about the other reason. The possibility of losing not one brother but two was unbearable. I knew he was there. He had to be. Ginny had already been there to see him. I left, knowing it was something he needed to go through alone.
I returned to the Burrow, where I was staying with my family for awhile. Trying to re-connect. They had accepted me back as warmly as if I had just gone on vacation. I know that they knew I'd come around, that I just needed time. It was stupid of me to leave. Especially since ... I'll never know my brother. Not properly. I think for them it was like having the old me back again. I stayed shut up in my room, staring out the window, not really looking at anything. I let my mind wander into the nothingness, overcome with grief for my little brother. I remember the day he and George were born. Vaguely, but I still remember it. They were so cute, but I remember even then they were little pranksters. They always loved causing mischief. I recalled all the memories I had, reliving them alone in my room. I don't remember eating. I remember the room darkening, and lightening, but I don't remember falling asleep.
I spent hours, maybe days, in my room, thinking of how I could change it. It should have been me. I know it. Take me instead! Please, just ... bring him back. He needs to be here. I should have been the one ... I would go on like that for hours at a time, talking to nobody in particular. Just wishing to make the exchange. The pain was so bad I would lay on my bed for lengthy periods of time, unable to move. Unable to speak. Only able to cry. But the tears never came. The grief was torture. But I still couldn't say ... You know. I would hear Mum crying all the time. Nights where I managed to sleep, I would wake up and hear her crying uncontrollably. I couldn't fall back asleep, because hearing her crying brought back the pain. All at once.
It was a week after it happened that the letters started coming. I gather from Charlie that George was getting them too. Letters from random family friends sending their apologies and condolences. Like it helps, to be reminded of your grief day in and day out, magnifying the pain tenfold with every letter. They sent all sorts of gifts - mostly money. My parents would never keep it, but the letter sat in a pile, gathering more and more everyday. The Ministry one came the day before the funeral. I suppose they were trying to make amends for their mistakes, but I know now how wrong I was to side with them. I heard from Charlie that George burned his. I did the same, knowing that it was the right thing to do.
There was so much despair in the Burrow. Harry and Ginny sat in the living room for most of the day, everyday, talking and crying; Ron and Hermione did the same, but in his room. Bill and Fleur had returned to Shell Cottage, but Mum spent all day crying and Dad spent most of the time preparing for the funeral. There seemed to be no other topic among us. Every night we all got together in the sitting room and had 'family time', a new tradition. Most of the time we talked about Fred, or George, or Charlie, or Bill and Fleur, as none of them were staying in the Burrow. But there were always the long silences where nobody talked, and we were all lost in thought. Most of my thoughts were dark, of ending it so I could be with him, other thoughts brighter, reminiscent of the happy times, when there was no darkness, when we were all a happy family.
A week ago we held the funeral. It had been two weeks since ... well ... Upon George's request, we all wore bright coloured robes. Dress robes. I wore the green robes I had worn to the Yule Ball three years previously. Charlie showed up in his bright red robes, looking very much like a tomato on fire. Not a round tomato ... but you get what I mean. It was simple, just the family, Harry, and Hermione, with a minister. The headstone was plain white, the inscription shining in the sunlight.
Fred Weasley
April 1, 1978 - May 2, 1998
Beloved Son, Brother, Friend
George didn't come to the funeral. We waited for him as long as we could, trying to give him time, but I understood. He couldn't bear to see all of us gathered for Fred, looking sad. I wouldn't cry. I couldn't cry. I knew then that Fred wouldn't have wanted me to. He always loved making people laugh. He had never liked to see anybody feeling sad. He never let any of us stay sad. It's one of the things I loved about him. I stood at the side of the grave for a long while after the funeral. Looking down upon the fresh mound of earth. Staring at the words engraved in the headstone, willing it all to go away. Wishing it all to be a dream. He wasn't supposed to be the first one of us to go. I sat beside the grave, trying to let go. I couldn't. It was too painful to try.
Eventually Ginny came back to get me. Sweet girl. She knew him well too. 'He was here, you know. George. Came to watch. I don't think he can ...' Her voice broke. She was never the type to cry. She sat down beside me and we talked. Mostly about Fred. What he was like. I finally got to know my sister. My only sister. She knew him better than anyone expected. It helped, talking to her, talking to somebody about it. She always understood me.
Yesterday, we all went to see George. He finally let us in, with a surprise. He had found Fred's Will. Nobody knew Fred had left a Will, not even George. George looked drained, like he wasn't all there. We could tell he hadn't eaten, hadn't slept, hadn't cried. He hadn't grieved. We all worried about him, but we understood. We'd all gone through it. He just needed to do it alone. Charlie told me George feels like half of him is gone. I can't blame him. I just wish he would talk to us about it. About him.
Fred left us all something different. When it came to me, I couldn't hide my surprise. He had left me all his school things. I'm sure it was his idea of a joke ... he loved making fun of me for being book-ish. But I appreciated the thought anyways. I was happy enough I hadn't been forgotten. The worst part is, every time I write something I'll think of him. Every time I hear a joke, every time I read something I find humourous, I'll remember him. Remember him criticizing the bad jokes and coming up with ones ten times funnier.
I regret now all the times I ever told him off. Everything that happened makes me realize he was just being himself. He was the Fred we all knew - or thought we knew - and loved. All his quick quips, witty remarks, they were all him being him. I never thought I'd have to let him go. I'm not ready. I don't know if I'll ever be ready.
I am at his grave again today. I spend a lot of time here now. It's dusk now, and George comes and stands next to me. He doesn't say anything, and neither do I. We just stand, and everything that needs to be said is communicated in the silence. I look up at him, se the tear tracks on his face. He'd been crying. He'd finally let go. He'd grieved. The sight of him gives me the strength to begin to let go. George holds out a folded piece of parchment. It's written in Fred's hand - a letter to George. I read the letter several times, seeing the tear drops marking the parchment where I suppose both twins had cried. I can't hold back my own tears. Seeing his final words to his twin makes me realize that I'm ready. I hand the parchment back to George, who begins to walk back to the Burrow. He stops and looks back at me, asking if I'm coming. I go to join him, whispering only one word as I leave. I've let go.
'Goodbye.'