Chapter 34 - Picking Up The Pieces
Ava stood in a daze. The panicked chatter and rising voices around her blurred into a low hum, like distant waves crashing against a shore she couldn't reach. The acrid scent of ash and smoke burned with every inhale, clawing at her lungs and pressing into her skin. She barely registered the gentle pressure of Marcell's hand on her lower back, guiding her forward toward the valley, where the Portkeys shimmered like lifelines in the wreckage.
Before them, a sea of witches and wizards clustered around Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys. Faces pale, robes torn, their eyes haunted, everyone moved with silent urgency, desperate to escape the destroyed campsite and get home. Whatever "home" meant now. As they edged forward with the crowd, Ava let her eyes wander across the field, scanning the faces searching for a flash of red hair. Just one glimpse might have eased the weight sitting squarely on her chest. But all she saw were broken people.
Fathers clutching wands like weapons. Children with ash-smudged cheeks. Women sobbing quietly into the folds of one another's cloaks. Grief hung over the crowd like fog. A sound, a small, muffled cry, pulled Ava from her searching. She turned her head and spotted a little girl, no more than five, curled around a stuffed bear. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and she rubbed her face with one small hand.
Beside her, a woman knelt in the grass, her skirts gathered beneath her as she pulled a trembling child into her arms. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a taut, practical bun, but wisps had escaped, clinging to her sweat-dampened forehead. Freckles dotted her pale, ash-smudged face, and her expression was one of exhaustion laced with fierce, unshakable love. Her hands were gentle but urgent as she ran them over the child's back, murmuring words into her ear like a lullaby spoken through smoke. "There, there, darling… we're almost home."
The little girl clutched a threadbare teddy bear so tightly that its seams were strained. She was perhaps five years old, no older, her small frame shivering under the weight of fear and soot. Her hair, identical to the woman's, hung in limp curls around her tear-streaked cheeks. "Mummy, I'm scared…" she whispered, her voice cracking like fragile glass.
The woman kissed her daughter's temple, her lips trembling against the child's skin as though willing herself to be strong. One hand gently pushed the hair back from the girl's face while the other rested protectively against her back, as if shielding her from the horrors just beyond the hill.
"I know, sweetheart. I know," she whispered again, voice barely audible over the wind. "But you're safe now. We're together. And when we get back… we'll go to Mitchell's, just like we planned. Ice cream, remember?" She gave her a fragile smile, eyes brimming but refusing to spill. "You can get two scoops if you want. Any flavor."
The little girl hiccupped through her tears and nodded against her mother's shoulder, burying her face deeper into the crook of her neck. Ava looked away, swallowing hard. Her arms wrapped tightly around her own body, and she stepped forward in line, feeling as though something in her had unraveled.
"We're next," Marcell murmured beside her.
Ava nodded slightly, barely reacting. Her eyes shifted toward Isabella, who stood across from her near the ornate Portkey vase. Her face was pale, ringed with exhaustion, her usually pristine curls tangled around her shoulders. Marcell stood to Ava's left, silent, his expression unreadable. He hadn't said much since sunrise.
This morning, while servants packed away their belongings in eerie silence, Ava and Marcell had readied themselves without a word. There had been no discussion of the Death Eaters, no mention of the green mark that still hovered faintly in the sky. They just walked. As though if they didn't speak of it, they might leave it behind. Marcell's fingers brushed lightly against hers now, tentative and unsure. Ava looked down at the space between their hands.
"Ron! Ginny! This way!"
The voice struck her like lightning. Ava's head snapped up, her heart thudding violently against her ribs. Her breath hitched as her eyes locked onto a familiar figure cutting through the smoke-stained crowd. Arthur Weasley moved with urgent purpose as he guided his family through the chaos. His eyes swept across the field like he was counting every redhead to make sure they were all still there.
"Come on, Harry… Hermione," he called over his shoulder, gesturing for them to keep up. His voice was strained, tight with worry. Then he turned, raising his voice with the edge of a father's panic. "Boys! Hurry up! We need to leave!"
Ava's gaze followed his, and there they were. George emerged first, knapsack thrown over one shoulder, his face grim but alert. He moved with efficiency, eyes ahead, jaw set like he was holding everything together with sheer force of will. But trailing behind him, slow and dragging his feet through the grass was Fred. He looked… hollow.
Head down, shoulders slumped, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants like they were the only thing anchoring him to the ground. His steps were uneven, and reluctant, like every inch forward cost him something.
Ava's hand flew to her chest, gripping the fabric of her sweater like she might hold her heart in place. She wanted to run to him. Her body screamed for it. To fling herself into his arms, feel the safety she'd lost, hear him whisper that it would all be okay. To be his again. But something cold and sharp coiled in her stomach.
Yaxley's voice echoed in her ears, low and venomous, burned into her memory: "If you think this is over, little mouse… you're wrong. I will find you. And next time, I won't hesitate in killing him."
Her blood turned to ice. Her breath came quicker. If she went to Fred now, if she reached for him, even once, Yaxley's threat would become a promise. She'd seen the look in his eyes. Heard the way he said killing him like it was something he was waiting to enjoy.
Fred didn't know. He couldn't know. And she couldn't let him near her, not now. Not until she could find a way to make sure he was safe. Her throat tightened painfully. The desire to run to him crashed against the wall of her fear. Every cell in her body longed to feel his arms around her but the thought of him dying because of her? Broke her.
Instead, she stood frozen. Silent. Torn in half. A soft brush against her cheek jolted her from her spiraling thoughts. Marcell. He gently wiped away a tear she hadn't noticed.
"Do you know zem?" he asked, his voice careful, his French accent wrapping softly around the words.
She blinked. Her lips parted, but no sound escaped. She looked back at the group Fred hadn't seen her yet. But George had. His eyes locked onto hers through the thinning crowd—steady, unreadable. He didn't react. Just held her gaze for a long, heavy moment, then turned away without a word and continued toward the Portkey.
Mr. Weasley pulled off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow, scanning the thinning crowd with anxious eyes. "Fred! Please! Your mother is probably worried sick."
Marcell's hand slipped from Ava's back. She felt the change in him immediately. The subtle shift in his breathing, the way his posture stiffened beside her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him turn toward Fred, narrowing his gaze with dawning comprehension. The name she'd cried out in her sleep. The way she always looked away when he asked about her past. The silence she cloaked herself in like armor.
Fred. This was him. The boy in her nightmares. The one she couldn't stop mourning. And the one she still loved.
Ava didn't dare move. She couldn't. Fred lifted his head and their eyes met. And for a moment time stopped. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the two of them across the grass. Ava's lungs forgot how to breathe as her heart thundered in her chest. Her knees wobbled beneath her. She wanted, no needed to run to him, to close the unbearable distance between them.
Fred's face, drawn and hollow, lit with immediate relief as his eyes locked onto hers. But then it shifted as he looked ahead of her and he saw the Portkey, the people surrounding her, and lastly her expression. His hope crumbled into horror, his entire body going rigid with understanding. She was leaving. Again. His mouth moved. She couldn't hear him, but she knew what he was saying.
Please. Don't.
His legs moved before he could stop himself, striding forward with fierce determination. His eyes were wide, frantic, pleading. Ava took a trembling step forward towards him.
"Allons-y," Marcell's mother snapped, appearing in front of her like a wall of velvet and will. Her voice was crisp and commanding. "We're going home now."
Marcell's father stepped in from the other side, placing a firm hand on Ava's shoulder. It wasn't rough, but it was final. Fred's steps faltered as he watched it all unfold, his hand twitching slightly at his side. Ava… he appeared to mouth.
"I just want to leave," Isabella muttered beside her, voice brittle. "Please. Let's go."
"On-y-va," Marcell's father barked.
Around her, the others began lowering their hands to the vase and Ava's hand trembled. Fred was still moving toward her, his face caught somewhere between disbelief and desperation. She lifted her hand slowly and he walked faster. She held her hand up shakily, giving him a small wave that felt final.
Fred surged forward, his lips parted in protest, eyes burning into hers. And Ava, her heart in shreds, looked at him one last time. Then she turned.
Her fingers brushed the cool, curved edge of the Portkey and the world vanished in a rush of wind and color, leaving Fred standing in the clearing, reaching for a girl who was no longer there.
The Weasley family trudged up the familiar path toward the Burrow, bathed in the soft gray light of early dawn. No one spoke much, exhaustion hung heavily on them all settling into their bones with each step. Fred walked near the back of the group, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, head low, feet dragging against the dirt path as if they weighed twice what they should. As they rounded the bend and the crooked outline of the Burrow came into view, a cry echoed down the lane. "Oh thank goodness, thank goodness!"
Molly Weasley came bounding down the front garden, slippers still on her feet, a crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in one hand. Her eyes were red, her hair coming loose from its plait, but relief was written plainly across her face. She flung herself into Arthur's arms, nearly knocking the wind out of him as the newspaper slipped from her grasp and tumbled into the dewy grass.
"Arthur…I've been so worried…so worried…" she sobbed, clinging to him.
Fred turned away slightly, unable to watch. His eyes drifted down to the fallen newspaper, its ink already bleeding into the damp earth. The headline stared up at him in bold, black lettering:
SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP
A black-and-white photo shimmered beneath it–a grainy image of the Dark Mark hovering over the treetops, twinkling against the night sky. Even in monochrome, it made Fred's skin crawl. As Mr. Weasley soothed his wife, George stepped beside Fred and placed a hand on his back, nudging him gently toward the house. Fred picked up his bag and nodded, exhaling sharply. They hadn't made it more than a few steps before they were ambushed again, this time by Molly, who seized both twins into a tight embrace, causing their heads to knock together with a dull thunk.
Fred groaned, half-laughing, half-choking. "Ouch! Mum–you're strangling us–!"
"I shouted at you before you left!" she wailed, now openly sobbing. "It's all I've been thinking about! What if–what if You-Know-Who had gotten to you, and the last thing I ever said was about your blasted O.W.L.s? Oh, Fred… George…"
Fred blinked, suddenly overwhelmed, unsure what to say. He glanced at George, who simply shrugged, looking as useless as Fred felt in the face of their mother's grief. Arthur gently peeled Molly away and rubbed her back soothingly. "Come on now, Molly. We're all okay. We're home."
Eventually, they made it inside, and everyone crowded into the Burrow's narrow kitchen. The table was cluttered with abandoned dishes and half-folded tea towels, but no one cared. Mr. Weasley stood by the counter, reading aloud bits of the Prophet with a grim expression. The words faded into the background for Fred, who lingered near the back of the room, shoulders hunched, eyes glazed.
Fred, George, and Ginny had quietly agreed not to tell the others what had happened when they broke away from the group. At least not everything. There was no point in piling more fear onto the family. In the end, they were all safe. That was what mattered. And yet… guilt gnawed at Fred's insides. He had reassured his mother with lies. That they'd never had to fight anyone and that they were lucky.
But Fred had. He'd stared death in the face and worse, he'd stared at her… Ava.
He thought he'd lost her once. Now he'd watched her leave him again. And this time… she didn't even look back. As his mother pulled Ginny into a tight embrace, a bittersweet wave of relief flickering in her eyes, Fred felt his heart sink straight into his stomach. It was the right decision not to tell them. Not to shatter that fragile peace. Even if it meant carrying the weight of it alone.
"Molly," Arthur said gently, setting the paper aside, "I'll have to go into the office. There's a lot of mess to clean up." The others slowly dispersed. Harry and Hermione retiring upstairs, Ginny heading to her room, and his mother fussing with the tea kettle just for the sake of having something to do. Fred waited until only he and George remained in the kitchen. He leaned against the doorway, exhaling a heavy breath as he stared out the window into the gray morning light. His fingers tapped absently against the frame, jaw clenched.
George spoke softly behind him. "You know… we agreed not to tell them what happened. But that doesn't mean you can't talk to me."
Fred's shoulders tensed.
"How can she just do that, George?" he asked, voice tight with quiet fury. "How can she walk away like nothing happened? Like none of it mattered? Like I didn't matter?"
He turned, eyes stormy, dragging his fingers through his hair.
"I thought I was finally moving on," he muttered. "Things were going well. Our sales were up. We were actually making something of this joke shop dream. Every day, I thought about her less. I was happy again, or at least I thought I was."
George approached, resting a hand on his twin's shoulder. "You were happy. You still can be." Fred didn't respond and George pulled a crumpled napkin from his pocket and unfolded it, holding it up like a trophy. "Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," he said with a grin. "Or… the rough draft, anyway."
Fred blinked, eyes dropping to the scribbled design. It was an outline of a crooked shop, complete with bouncing fireworks and floating signage.
"Our owl post business is booming," George said, tapping the paper. "Imagine what we could do with an actual storefront."
Fred raised a brow. "Better than Zonko's?"
George scoffed. "Zonko's hasn't got us." But then his smile faded. "Or… if we had more imagination," he added quietly.
Fred narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're not yourself lately," George said. "You haven't been. You're just going through the motions. She's learned how to move on, Fred. She's put herself first. It's time you did the same."
Fred turned away, crossing the room to set the napkin gently on the table. "I am moving forward."
"Really?" George snapped, grabbing the napkin and folding it back up. "When was the last time you came up with a new idea? When was the last time you actually enjoyed what we're building?"
Fred opened his mouth to argue but stopped. He could've said he was still driven. That he cared. That he was just tired. But this was George. The one person he couldn't lie to. His shoulders sagged. "You're right," Fred said softly. "I just… I loved her more."
George paused for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he stepped forward and pulled Fred into a tight hug. "You'll get through this," he murmured. "You've just got to be Gred again."
Fred huffed a laugh and patted his brother's back. "I know, Forge."
Just then, Ron burst into the kitchen, breathless. "Oi! Quidditch? You in?"
Fred looked up, and for the first time in hours, something in his chest loosened. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You know what, Ron?" he said, grabbing his broom from beside the door. "That sounds bloody brilliant."
