Summary: Fred writes a series of letters to his family to be opened in the event he doesn't survive the war.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Love, Fred

Chapter Two: Dad

Dear Dad,

You're sitting across the living room from me right now, putting together wedding favors. You don't look particularly happy about it, but you and I both know it's better than facing Mum's wrath. Ron's being smart for once- he's upstairs hiding. I suppose it doesn't matter in the long run; she'll just drag him down eventually.

You think I'm writing the guest list for Mum for the eight thousandth time, but I actually did it hours ago. Even George thinks I'm writing it, and I never keep secrets from him. It's always so strange when there's something one of us knows but the other doesn't- it's like keeping a secret from yourself. Do you remember the time George and I didn't speak for a few days when we were kids? This was well before Hogwarts, and to be honest I don't even remember what the argument was about in the first place. Do you know what stands out to me the most about the whole thing? How thrown off the rest of you were by it. Everyone was flustered, especially Ron. He was young, still carrying around that raggedy stuffed bear, and he kept asking over and over if George and I were getting a divorce. I think he'd heard Charlie or Bill use the term and wasn't quite sure what it meant yet.

You took me fishing the next day, which was kind of funny seeing as we both hate to fish. Neither of us acknowledged it, but it was the first time we'd really spent time together, just the two of us. I kept pausing to let George finish my sentences, and then I'd remember that he wasn't there. If one of us doesn't make it through the war, will the rest of our lives be like that?

Well, that took a suddenly morbid turn. Sorry about that. I suppose I should explain myself- I'm writing letters for everyone in the event I don't survive the war, and with that kind of subject matter it's difficult not to wade into morbid territory.

If something does happen to me, I want you to be prepared for George and how thrown off he'll be by it. That fishing trip was bizarre; it was almost like half my body was gone. George told me later that he felt the same way when you took him out the next day. But at least when we were on that boat each of us knew the other was back home, and it was only a matter of waiting a bit. If I'm dead, it's not going to be that easy.

Would you do me a favor? If I'm dead, would you take George fishing and tell him I said that even though the wait will be longer this time that I'll see him again? I'm not fully sure of what the afterlife is like, but I'm pretty sure we're reunited with our loved ones there. At least, I hope we will- I need to believe that we will be. Don't tell George I said that last part.

You've just spilled the wedding favors everywhere, and now you're scrambling to gather them up before Mum comes down and blows a gasket. I used to wonder how you'd never had a heart attack, but then I see how you are with Mum when the two of you think no one is watching. I see the way you both relax and seem as though you're an extension of the same person. Sort of like the way George and I are.

I wish I could tell you these things to your face. I'm really not this maudlin most of the time- you know that. It's easy for George and I to joke around and pretend nothing bothers us, but the problem with that is after a while everyone actually believes that nothing bothers us. But what's the alternative? I worry about the war and dying and losing the people I love, but I can't do a damn thing about it. Why not joke and laugh when the alternative is moping about miserably?

You know what I mean about putting on a brave face. You're a father of seven, it pretty much comes with the territory, doesn't it? Even when you were in St. Mungo's after your run-in with that snake you kept pretending everything was fine and it was all just a big adventure. I really respect you for that- it helped calm us all down during a time when we should have been comforting you.

This is all very muddled, isn't it? One minute I'm talking about arguments and fishing boats, the next I'm talking about dying and St. Mungo's. It's hard to organize something like this neatly, though. When you were injured I remember thinking that if you'd died there would have been so much of you that was still lying around. Your Muggle gadgets would be strewn about the shed; your slippers and robe would be tossed over the side of the bed; random To Do lists and notes with your handwriting would keep cropping up for months afterward. Death isn't something that's done neatly, not to the person dying or to the people left behind. So I suppose it makes sense that this letter is the way it is.

If I die, I want you to remember me the way I was in day-to-day life. I want you to remember me as a prankster and a joker and a mediocre student but a brilliant entrepreneur. But at the same time I want you to know that underneath it all I understood more than I let on. Once, when I was about nine, you said to me that we had the same sense of humor. Beneath all that I think we're the same in other ways- we don't often let on how worried we are, and how we don't know what's going to happen next.

But we keep on going, don't we? Somehow we keep on going- I won't lie and say that everything's going to be fine if I'm dead, but everything keeps going on for the people left behind whether they want it to or not. Don't hold it all in. Otherwise you'll end up writing bizarre letters like these, and one mad letter writer in the family is more than enough, isn't it?

Love,

Fred