Siriusly (hahaha get it it's a pun) though, what better day to post this kind of stuff than the 14th anniversary of Freddie's death?
I didn't realize how much b/s I went through before we actually got legit story.
As soon as that's typed up, that'll be posted. Serious crossing of fingers for today.
Anyway, be sure to leave your thoughts. I'm sure it's what Fred would've wanted. :')
From the moment my wand 'chose me' (as Mr. Ollivander had said), I was immensely attached to it. Oak with dragon heartstring, twelve and three quarter inches, slightly springy; I had committed the entirety of its composition to my mind within days. It had turned into my child the day I wrapped my fingers around the wooden handle, feeling a magical pull as I managed to not destroy Ollivander's shop with the chosen wand. Of course, my older sisters found it utterly hilarious, me treating the stick of wood like a living, breathing creature, but that's what it was to me: very much alive. That's what the very thought of the wizarding world was to me when I was young, though; alive, breathing, with the sights and sounds of all things magical. I've always been able to do this, like some subconscious switch that allows me to see abstract ideas with a concrete form, give life to the inanimate or just non-existent. It's this ability, I'm sure, that prevented me from going absolutely mental after Fred died; his presence was always in the Burrow, I know it was, and I managed to give that presence a life inside my head. Thus, I often had Fred's voice up there, ever the annoying git most of the time, and felt it only through him that I managed to get George going at at least a minimum human level.
I still don't know if that voice was actually Fred's, speaking to me in some ghost form, or if it was just my own voice, revealing the things that I was too scared to acknowledge as the true.