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 One: Mum

Dear Mum,

I'm sitting in the garden, right next to the apple tree Ginny accidentally set on fire that time she got a hold of your wand as a toddler. It's a lovely day, much nicer than the one's we've had lately. Sometimes it's easy to forget there's a war going on when the weather is this pleasant. When I think of the first war, I think of it as raining nonstop for years. But I suppose there were days when the sun came out that time around as well.

Right now you're going mental, shouting at everyone as you get things ready for Bill's wedding. When I get married I'm going to do it in private and only let you know after the fact. You'll probably forgive me in about twenty or thirty years, which isn't all that bad, considering the chaos I'd avoid in the long run. No offense, of course.

I've been thinking a lot lately. I imagine what it must have been like during the first war. George and I were too young to remember it, and now that everything's started again I wonder what it was like for you and Dad. It's so cut and dry now; whenever I read about it it's with the knowledge that everything turned out all right, at least for a while. At the time you had no way of knowing that, but in my few memories of those days I never remember you being anything but calm and collected.

In the years since then we've talked about the war a few times, but I've never asked you about your brothers. I'm starting to wonder what they were like and if I'll end up like them. I wonder what it's like to die- does it hurt? Or is it fast, like blinking? There one moment, gone the next.

I'm sorry; I'm probably upsetting you. I've always been good at doing that. You like to shout that George and I must enjoy driving you mad, but we don't, believe it or not. We've never been especially good at curse breaking like Bill, or good with animals like Charlie, or brilliant like Percy. Even Ron managed to get more OWLs than we did, and Ginny's smart and great at Quidditch. Give it a few years and she'll probably be better than George and I ever were. I don't want you to think we've been pranksters just to drive you up the wall. It's what we're good at, and I don't feel like an idiot when I'm coming up with new ideas the way I did back at school.

But enough of that. If you're reading this, I'm dead, which means there's probably a lot more on your mind than George and my pranks. I want to tell you not to grieve, but I'm not stupid; I know you're going to grieve all the same. Wouldn't it be great if death were something we could just cry over for a day and then move on? I certainly wouldn't mind that.

Did you know I didn't know you had brothers until I was seven? You never talked about it, but once a year you'd get very quiet, which, no offense Mum, is something pretty noticeable coming from you. George and I used to talk about it and try and figure out what was wrong- you'd always just smile and say nothing was out of the ordinary if we asked. I think our longest running theory was that you were a secret agent and had to keep all your movements for a month a year secret. I'm not sure where we got that one from.

Dad finally told us one day, and made us promise not to tell you. He showed us that picture of you and Gideon and Fabian standing together outside your parents' house as teenagers. That was the first time I thought of you as someone other than my mum. A few years after that, right around the time of year your brothers had died, I was going through your room to try and find some Filibuster fireworks you'd confiscated when George and I had tried to set them off under Ron's chair. Sorry. You can forgive me for that now that I'm dead, right?

I didn't find the fireworks, but I did find a notebook filled with letters. There were two a year, addressed to Gideon and Fabian. I didn't read more than a few sentences before realizing what they were, and I quickly put the notebook back. I'm sorry about that too. If it makes you feel better, I would never violate your privacy like that now. But that's stuck with me all these years, just as the picture did. Your brothers were ripped away from you and you never had a chance to say goodbye.

If I'm dead, I don't know if you had that chance this time either. Probably not- death isn't easily predicted, no matter what Professor Trelawney says. But even if that's the case, I want there to be something, anything, left for you from me. Do you remember how upset you were after the Quidditch World Cup when you thought your last words to me and George might have been about our OWLs? I didn't understand it at the time, but I do now, and I want you to know that I love you. I want you to know that even if the last words we said to one another were harsh ones that it doesn't mean anything. I want you to know that there have been times when I saw you as someone other than my mother, and that I know you're your own person as well as my mum.

I'd like to get to know that woman as I get older. If I do, I'll destroy this letter and no one will be any the wiser. But if I die, I want you to know that, as surprising as it seems, I don't live just to drive you mad. Believe it or not, I've been holding back all this time.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to to jinx the kitchen door shut- you'll probably be able to reverse it in enough time to finish dinner, but everyone's been in a rotten mood lately and we could all do with a laugh.

Hey, I'm not dead yet, am I?

Love,

Fred