While the Candle Still Burns
You hesitate to start
You just stand there with your hands bare
And wonder who you are
.
He isn't sure he exists without him.
Because the two of them have always existed together. Two parts of one whole. Two bodies, one heart. One half-empty, grieving heart.
For days he doesn't move, hardly breathes. He lies in his bed and he tries not to see the other, now empty bed. He tries not to hear the celebrating, always the celebrating, in the Great Hall, in the streets, in the taverns. In his room, he does not celebrate. He grieves, and he is alone in this.
He knows that his family is grieving, but it is not the same. He knows that his friends are grieving, but it is not the same, not even close, because they weren't his twin, his other half, his best friend and confidante.
He doesn't know how much time has passed when she enters, bearing a tray of food. She doesn't say anything, but he can tell she knows. Knows his pain, his suffering. After a long while of bustling around with the food, she sits at the end of his bed, facing the chipped dresser.
"Ginny and Harry are playing Quidditch outside," she says. "And Ron is helping your mother with dinner, I think. Bill and Fleur might come over tonight." This conversation is meaningless and they both know it; why should either of them give a damn? For the first time in a long time, though, he isn't thinking about Fred.
"And you?" he asks. His voice is hoarse, and it is then that he realizes how long it has been since he has spoken.
She turns around and faces him, meeting his eyes with no hesitation. "I am here," she says quietly. "I'm not doing anything."
Carefully he sits up and examines the food she's brought. He ignores the toast and takes a small sip of the tea, which tastes wonderful. So this is life, post-Fred; tea still tastes the same and life goes on, and maybe someone does understand where he's coming from.
Eventually he finishes the tea and moves on to the toast, which, he hates admitting, tastes every bit as delicious as it always has.
"Funny," he says, although there's really nothing funny about it. "I thought toast would taste terrible after Fred died. I thought everything would taste bland and lifeless, but I guess that's just me."
He has said more than he meant to, and so he avoids her gaze and takes another bite of the toast.
After a long while, she speaks again. "You're not lifeless."
He looks at her.
"On the contrary, you are one of the most exuberant and life-loving people I have ever met." She is looking at the dresser again and twiddling her thumbs. "And that hasn't changed now that Fred is dead."
"Hasn't it?" he asks, and he could scoff at the desperation in his own voice.
She stands suddenly and paces, then seats herself next to him and takes his hand in her own. "No, it hasn't."
And he thinks that, just maybe, he believes her.