I've had most of this chapter written for about six months, but I got stuck on Fred's funeral! Even now I've written it I still don't know what they'd do to do him justice. I hope I gave it a good shot.
Thanks for reading, constructive criticism is always welcome!
|
Milestones | ||||||
|
Category: Post-DH/AB Characters:None Genres: Angst, Fluff, General, Romance Warnings: None Rating: G Reviews: 30 Summary: A selection of one-shots, told from Ginny's POV and focusing on the lives of her and Harry directly after the battle. Kind of a follow on to my one-shot 'Silence', but it's not necessary to read that one first. Hitcount: Story Total: 12919; Chapter Total: 3354 Awards: View Trophy Room Author's Notes: |
Next |
|
||||
|
It was one of those things that she’d never stopped to think about. It had just always been there, like the weight of hair you don’t notice until it’s cut off. She stared at it now. Had it always been that small? That crooked? Always so unfathomably magical? She couldn’t recall a time before this, ever, when she’d not been happy to see it. When the sight of it hadn’t filled her with the memories of bread baking and gnomes giggling, of brothers playing chess in corners, or setting off explosions, or scuffling in the back yard. She wondered what it would feel like if they were all coming home. If they all lived here still under one roof; cramped and noisy, shouting greetings and insults and squabbling over food. How could this be home? How could it be happy again, when those who’d lived and loved in it were fractured, broken beyond repair? The thought of entering, with the sickening knowledge of what they’d lost, seemed abhorrent to her. And yet, how much they’d won. Ginny wasn’t stupid. Her entire family was in the Order: she knew just how badly the war could have gone. It had always been unspoken but ever-present, the unlikely odds of them all coming out alive. She kept reminding herself how much worse it could have ended than this, with more than one empty bed and more than one hole punched through her heart. It didn’t help. Would she feel worse than this, she wondered, if more than one brother had fallen? If her mum had died, or her dad? If her whole family had been obliterated? Ginny didn’t think that grief was a buildable thing though, something that came in increments. She believed that the amount of grief she experienced now was absolute, but was at least tempered by the joy of who she’d kept. It was a constantly warring pair of emotions that left her drained and nauseous. She’d spot Ron every so often, gazing at Hermione when he thought that no one was watching, and her heart would squeal. She’d catch a glimpse of Percy, back once again in the bosom of his family, and she'd find herself smiling. She’d see Harry, worn and thin and exhausted, but whole and undeniably alive - green eyes shyly catching hers, messy hair sticking up worse than ever - and her whole body would thrum. But then she’d see George. It was always a shock, always a moment of suspended surprise when she saw just one twin. A fraction of a second of suspicion that if one of them was missing, then they must be planning some trick. But then it would descend, with a sharp breath and a jolt of pain, a slowly crushing grief sinking into her and onto her, so that she couldn’t breathe with the knowledge of what was missing, of what was so irrevocably wrong about the sight of George on his own. She kept blinking, like she had double vision in reverse, a perverse intermingling of right and wrong. Her heart ached for Fred. She felt a constant hungry, grasping desire to see him, to find him. Her mind refused to compute the incontrovertible, refused to believe that there wasn’t some way, even now, of fixing this. That he couldn’t really be gone. She’d thought she’d lost Harry and he’d returned. Why, why was it not the same for Fred? Her heart wept. But her heart rejoiced as well. In spite of that black moment when it looked like all had been lost, she still had Harry. They’d barely spoken these last few days. They’d been frequently together but frequently apart, pulled in opposite directions and then thrust back together at odd moments like meals, that stood out as jarringly normal against the backdrop of grief and chaos that the rest of their lives had become. Harry had never been particularly eloquent, but he was quieter than ever when she was with him now, for those stolen, rushed moments when they just held each other, forehead to forehead, breath to breath. She still didn't know much about what he’d been through whilst he was away. She’d snatched a few conversations with Hermione, even fewer with Ron, but the older girl had been unusually taciturn and her brother predictably dismissive. She supposed that a year of secrets was a hard habit to break. Ginny sighed and slung her bag onto the rickety pine table in the Burrow’s kitchen. She couldn’t remember crossing the garden, or opening the door. She’d wanted to return with Harry, Ron and Hermione but they’d been stuck in a meeting with Kingsley and McGonagall, so she’d had to resign herself to being chaperoned to the Burrow’s boundary line by Bill. The house was unnaturally silent. Her parents had returned the day before, but dust still lay thick across the counters and she could see through the cracked larder door that it stood empty. It seemed wrong, to come home and not have her mum greet her, smiling and scolding and handing out hugs in equal measure. All at once, the howl inside of her started to build, to threaten to claw and grasp its way out, so that she had to grip the back of the chair in front of her, press a fist to her mouth to try to keep it in. How? How could this have happened? How could the celebrations continue, the world keep turning, when there was a black hole in its middle where her brother had been? Where Remus and Tonks had lived? She thought of the infinite decisions that had taken place to reach this moment, each one a branch down a path, splitting and splitting until she couldn't tell what they could have done to avoid this outcome, when every action could have lost them someone else instead. Millenia of magic and someone had invented a killing spell, but not one for bringing back the dead. There was a noise behind her and she turned, expecting to see her parents, expecting the comforting warmth of her mum's hug, but met green eyes instead of brown. A tall, lanky frame instead of a soft embrace. Harry had returned. She always thought he looked rather lost, without Ron and Hermione flanking him. Like some essential part of him had been taken away as punishment, and he was bearing it as best he could until it was given back. She'd not really thought how it must be for him, now that Ron and Hermione were together. They were his family, the first family he'd ever remembered and claimed for his own, and yet two of the trio now came as one instead. It must be difficult, seeing the girl you viewed as a sister kissing the boy you viewed as a brother. Ginny felt her lips twitch as she imagined the expression on Harry's face if she'd have said that to him. For all that it must feel like they'd abandoned him, she knew he'd been their champion from the start. Knew there would be no one more pleased than him that they'd finally gotten their acts together. Knew that he would find it adorable and gross in equal measure when they went gooey-eyed in front of him. He was watching her, those vivid eyes flitting over her hair, her hands, her face, as if checking that nothing had happened to her whilst she'd been out of his sight. He leaned easily against the doorway, but one hand still gripped his wand, white knuckles belying his casual pose. He gave her the tiniest smile, a mere upturning of lips. “Where are Ron and Hermione?” Ginny asked. She should have opened with something else, something about him and how pleased she was to see him. Should have just walked over and hugged him, but her brother and best friend were so noticeably absent at Harry's side that she couldn't stop the pang of anxiety that made her ask. Harry jerked his head towards the kitchen window, where she could make out a bright red and bushy brown head leaning close together, staring at the treehouse Fred and George had once blown up and been forced by her mother to rebuild without magic. Hermione's hand rubbed slow, gentle circles on Ron's back as he leaned into her. Their silhouettes blurred as Ginny's eyes clouded with tears. She looked away, turned back to Harry, who was still leaning against the doorframe and staring at his best friends. He ran a hand through his messy hair and flicked his eyes back to hers. “You ok?” Such a simple sentence. The kind of thing you might use as a casual greeting, and yet it was so painfully deep right now. So full of meaning, because of course - of course - she wasn't ok, and of course Harry knew it, but Harry was really asking, 'In general, in spite of all this crap, are you still alive and fighting?' Ginny nodded. A simple gesture for a simple question. She was as ok and as not-ok as she'd been when she'd seen him this morning. As sick and exhausted and devastated, and as relieved and whole and happy that it was all over. Grief tempered with joy. Joy with grief. She moved towards Harry and he pushed away from the doorframe and reached for her, one slim hand meeting hers as he pulled her into him. She buried her face in his chest and sighed, the kind of bone-weary sound that says more than words ever could. Harry's arms wrapped around her, wand still clutched in one hand as he slowly smoothed down her hair. Harry had never been big on touch and displays of affection, but Ginny wondered sometimes whether his parents' love in his first year of life had been so powerful that it transcended all the neglect the Dursleys had thrown at him afterwards, and enabled him to react so instinctively to comfort her. She'd never say anything to him about it, because she'd knew he'd get shy and awkward and start wondering how to hold his arms or where to put his hands. She wondered all the same though, at the power of unconditional love. There was a bang behind them and they jumped, Harry already raising his wand before she realised it was Ron slamming into the kitchen with his usual lack of grace. He managed to look even taller and ganglier than when he'd last been in here the summer before. He threw a deliberate look of mock disgust and horror at them as he walked straight to the larder, but Ginny didn't fail to notice the slight redness around his eyes. Hermione shuffled into the kitchen after him, eyes crinkling at the corners as she saw Harry's hand still wrapped around Ginny's. “Ginny! How long have you been back? I'm so sorry we couldn't come with you, but McGonagall and Kingsley wouldn't let us leave without a meeting first and-” she was cut off by a low oath from the pantry that indicated Ron had realised there was no food to be found. Hermione cast an exasperated look at him as he emerged, grumbling under his breath. Harry snorted, the sound rumbling through Ginny's arm pressed against him. “So that's why you came in from outside? I did wonder why you'd stopped cheering yourself up by groping Hermione just to come in here!” Hermione reddened and opened her mouth to retort, but was cut off by Mrs Weasley's voice from the stairs. “Ronald Weasley, I certainly brought you up better than that!” She swept into the kitchen, her eyes red but her lips twitching as she stared down her youngest son. Ron's face nearly matched his hair as he spluttered in protest. Hermione looked horrified. “Mrs Weasley he wasn't — we didn't — we-” “I don't need the details dear,” Mrs Weasley sniffed. Ginny could feel Harry shaking with silent laughter next to her as her mother threw them the tiniest of winks before turning back to Ron. “Take your things up to your room straight away Ronald and don't let me hear of you groping anyone again! I don’t care how old you are, you'll treat this young lady with dignity or so help me I'll use one of Fred and George's Am-” her voice hitched, for the tiniest of moments, and her face crumpled. Ginny reached for her mother as she turned away from Ron, but Mrs Weasley took a deep breath and continued weakly “-one of their Amorous Armour Ampules on you”. Harry was no longer laughing. Mrs Weasley turned back to Ron with a watery smile and smoothed a hand down his cheek. “Off you go dear,” she said quietly. All embarrassment forgotten, Ron gave a her a small, awkward kiss on the forehead as he collected their bags and headed upstairs. Harry, Ginny, Hermione and Mrs Weasley remained in the kitchen. All four stood silent, a tableau of grief as they all tried to think of something to say that was both acknowledging and ignoring the truth. The moment was broken by a loud rumble from Harry's stomach. Mrs Weasley turned to him with a small smile as he blushed furiously. “You're quite right Harry dear. Time for some food.” **** Ginny wasn't sure where her mum had managed to scrounge up enough food for dinner that night, but she couldn't help feeling afterwards that it would have been better if she hadn't bothered. Bill and Charlie had appeared, looking tired and drawn, and bringing news about the funerals of Remus and Tonks, that were due to take place the next day. George had refused to leave his room, just like he'd refused all food since Fred's death, and Harry had been so exhausted that he'd fallen asleep at the table before his plate had been put in front of him. The mood in the Burrow had been bleak, a noxious fog that seeped into every corner, so that they were all so sunk into misery that no one could rouse themselves to comfort another. Mrs Weasley had left the plates, the uneaten food and dirty dishes and retired, sobbing, to her room. The only person who had been marginally useful for the next few days was Hermione. She bought food, cajoled and coerced and threatened the Weasleys and Harry into eating, looked up spell after spell to clean the house, to do the laundry, to get rid of the nest of wrackspurts that had taken up residence in Mr Weasley's favourite arm chair. She comforted and sympathised and, finally, lost her temper when nothing else was working. Eventually, slowly, the Burrow's occupants had started to emerge from the fog. Slowly, they'd returned to work, or to what now passed for it. Guiltily, they'd shared a few stories, a few jokes, a few moments of disbelief that it was all finally over. Funeral after funeral took place, eulogy after eulogy was read and finally, after all the time and no time at all, Ginny had woken up on the morning that would be Fred's. It was early. The pale blue light filtered through her thin curtains, illuminating the faded posters and photos, the damp stain on the ceiling from the bathroom above, the discarded shoes and clothes cluttering the floor around the two single beds squeezed in there for her and Hermione. She couldn't remember what had woken her. She'd had a split second, upon opening her eyes, when the world had been fresh and new and hopeful. Before she'd remembered what day it was, and the truth had come crashing down onto her in one cold wave of despair. Fred's funeral. The words sounded hollow inside her own head. How could Fred have a funeral? He had always been so ridiculously, obnoxiously alive that it seemed unthinkable that he could be anything else. Even now, she still hoped it could all be an elaborate joke that he and George had taken too far. She knew it would only take one look at George to dispel her of that hope. But George didn't appear at breakfast. Didn't appear all morning, and when Bill went to his and Fred's room to fetch him, it was empty. They couldn't wait. Bill, Charlie and Ron had set off to check the joke shop, or anywhere they thought George might have been likely to go. The rest of them, pale and drawn and in pain, set off for the funeral. Bill, Charlie and Ron appeared, grim-faced, as the closing notes of the organ music faded into the air. No George. Molly's sobbing redoubled. Kingsley had offered to officiate for them, and Ginny found some comfort in the smooth bass tones of his voice, rumbling through her as he spoke of Fred's cheerfulness in the face of adversity, his bravery in battle and refusal to bow to evil. Suddenly, she remembered U-No-Poo, and snorted unexpectedly. Mistaking it for tears, Harry reached an arm around her shoulder. Once she'd started though, she found she couldn’t stop. She thought about the ton-tongue toffee incident, and the tears that had streamed down Fred's face as he'd told her. The time he and George had tried to persuade Dobby to dress up as Harry for Halloween, and had only been prevented by Dobby's insistence that he wasn't worthy. The month in her second year when they'd bewitched Percy's breakfast spoon to dance the rumba with the milk jug every morning, just for her amusement. Fred would have hated this, she thought. She had never seen him anything but vivaciously alive and full of energy. She looked around at the sombre faces and listened to the sobs of her family and friends and couldn't help the thought that they weren't doing him justice. She stood up. She hadn't realised she had until she felt Harry's hand on her arm, his shocked face turned up to hers as he mouthed a question. She found herself looking at him from far away. Without thought, she started pushing her way past her family, towards the front where Fred's coffin lay, wand clutched in her trembling hand. She had no idea what she was going to do. She just felt a compulsion to do something. Something other than this dreary service which had nothing, nothing to do with her brother. She needn't have worried. Just as she reached the front, the shocked pause around her rippled like a wave, the congregation stunned by the appearance, with a loud 'pop!', of George, who clutched a bottle of Firewhiskey in one hand and a plate of biscuits in another. The few times Ginny had seen him recently he'd looked broken, the kind of grief that obliterated everything else, but he had a determined look to his face now, a glint in his eye that she'd not seen for a long time. He eyed her in surprise as she stood at the front, clutching her wand and trying to think of something, anything, that would do Fred justice. It took George a few seconds to recover. “Biscuit, dear sister?” He asked. Ginny stared at him. She wondered, not for the first time, if George was quite all there. One blue eye winked at her and she slowly took a bourbon cream. “George!” Molly whispered from the front. She looked part upset, part hopeful at his appearance. Mr Weasley half rose out of his chair. George raised a hand at them, a 'just a moment' signal that, if anything, made them look more worried than before. He thrust the plate of biscuits into the face of Aunt Muriel in the pew nearest him and magicked a tumbler of whiskey into her hand before heading towards the lectern at the front of the room. Kingsley stood aside uncertainly as he strode up and cleared his throat. “I am Fred, back from the dead.” Ginny couldn’t help it. She snorted. It was the worst thing he could have said, the most disrespectful, shocking thing, and yet...it was the only thing he could have said that would break the morbid spell in the room. Fred had hated sadness. He'd lived his whole life determined to spread mischief and hilarity, and now in death his twin was doing it for him. George caught Ginny's eye and winked at her again, and the weight she'd been carrying in her stomach for days suddenly lifted. He proceeded to turn the funeral into a kind of awards ceremony, entitled 'This is your death', in which he conjured up gigantic, moving images of Fred throughout his life. There was a picture of the time he tried bewitching Percy's glasses to fly away from him every time he tried to put them on, with Percy, red-faced and furious, in the foreground and Fred rolling with silent laughter behind. There was one from their trip to Wales when Ginny was nine, when Fred had somehow cast a charm that had backfired and blown up all his clothes, with the result that he'd decided to proudly wear a Welsh flag like a toga all week. A short film from last Christmas showed him bewitching the turkey to get up and dance around the kitchen when Molly tried to put it in the oven. Periodically, members of the congregation foolish enough to take a biscuit would turn into an enormous owl, or a plucked chicken, or a giant panda. Ginny went through half the service as an aardvaark without really realising it. Then there were the serious photos. One that looked like a muggle photo, unmoving, until Ginny realised it was Fred at Dumbledore's funeral, uncharacteristically still. A clip of him broadcasting Potterwatch at Easter. One of him in his quidditch robes, caught in the act of glancing sideways at Angelina Johnson before they stepped out onto the pitch. George was absent in all of them. When the final picture faded away, George stepped back up to the front. “Fred was my best friend,” he began. He caught Ginny's eye, and his stare was not the broken gaze she'd seen so often recently, but the determined, blazing look of someone who has nothing left to lose. “More than that. He was the better half of me. I know what you all think when you look at me. I think it myself when I look in the mirror and see his face looking back at me. I hate that it looks so sad. I hate that it's not laughing. If Fred loved anything, it was making people laugh. He lived his life exactly how he wanted, and he'd hate for us to be here, mourning him like that life was wasted. The photos you've just seen were Fred on his own, being his own person, living his own life, and as hard as it'll be to do it without him, I'm going to live my own life too. I'm going to make as many people laugh as I can, because that's what Fred would have wanted. All he ever did was try to spread some happiness and laughter.” He waved his wand and a glass of Firewhiskey appeared in the hand of each person there. Ginny could see Andromeda Tonks wrestling one away from baby Teddy. George lifted his glass to them. “To Fred.” “To Fred,” they murmured back. Ginny swallowed the burning liquid down, and realised she felt a sliver of hope where before there was just despair. When she looked up, Molly was sobbing into George's shoulder, her words filtering back to Ginny. “So proud! You did such a beautiful memorial to him, Georgie.” She pulled back and smoothed his hair back from his face. She gave a shaky laugh. “I admit I was worried you were going to something silly, but you did beautifully...” George cast a startled, guilty look at Ginny and she felt a sudden sense of foreboding. One by one, the congregation turned into naked mole rats. |
| Reviews 30 |
Next
|
