AN ~ Believe it or not, this is my ever first piece of Harry Potter fanfiction. I was watching the Deathly Hallows Part 1 today and oh god do I love Molly Weasley. I'm dreaming up a set of oneshots featuring her and Arthur throughout the series, so look forward to that when I get some break time or when my muse drives me so crazy I have to write at 1am as I currently am.

In explanation of my slow updates to other fics; I got a new computer a few months ago and the transfer of all my has been happening waaaaaay slower than I thought it would. So sorry! Again, holidays are coming up soon so that should all be sorted without waiting too much longer.

I'd say enjoy, but that would be inappropriate. This is a Fred-death moment based heavily on the book; I would have liked to have seen something more like this in the movie. See you on the other side. *Salute*

Close to Home

You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity.

The rushing of air and the crashing of stone on stone tumbled to a halt. The shouts died off. The Order and their allies watched, hearts in their throats, as their opponents disappeared into black mist. Then they turned to wherever disaster lay about them, to bring the bodies to the Great Hall.

.o.o.o.

"Take this, would you dear," Madam Pomfrey mumbled, her voice slightly absent – perhaps distracted, perhaps distraught – as she pressed a bottle of ointment and a cloth into Ginny's hands and gestured over her shoulder without looking. Ginny turned, following the gesture, and kept her eyes on the ground to block out as much of the carnage as she could, even as the images built themselves around her, in her periphery, as she crossed the floor to where Firenze was lying, bleeding.

"Th-thank you," he stammered, face gaunt and tired, leg trembling under her hand as she applied Madam Pomfrey's solution to his wounds. Smelling the acrid herbs, and the blood, Ginny's head began to spin. Her mouth had long since gone dry, but now she could feel the dust of the walls of Hogwarts filling her lungs, and it was suffocating.

"No problem," she mumbled as she stood, black patches rising and falling in front of her eyes until she finally stumbled, only to be caught by one bony hand, and set upright once more.

"Are you alright, Miss Weasley?" Professor McGonagall's crisp brogue almost echoed through the haze. Ginny blinked wide eyes, unsure what to make of the question, let alone how to answer it. The Professor sighed and, with a more gentle tone, added; "We've not seen the worst yet, I'm afraid."

From behind them came a creak and a jangle, and then a familiar wooden crash. The remaining able-bodied witches and wizards in the room reached for their wands, but did not draw them: they all knew what was coming.

McGonagall gave Ginny's shoulder one last encouraging squeeze, drew herself up and strode away to address the casualties. Ginny turned more slowly with the Professor's movement, shuffling her feet until she faced the door. She was still far from wishing she had gone home – no part of her wanted to leave while her family was still here – but she had seen too much, far too much; she didn't think she would be able to stand any more carnage. How could anyone? How was it possible that there could be more death and damage than what was already here?

And yet there was.

There was so much more. Minerva McGonagall watched them come. Her determined stride weakened until she stopped, body loosely prepared for combat but having almost lost the capacity to move at all. A veritable sea of people staggered past and around her into the Great Hall. Some bore their own injuries, while others were carried or stumbled along on the shoulders of loved ones and veritable strangers. Many of them were students, who Professor McGonagall had mentored and watched over for years. Matilda Meyer: she had just won an internship with the Healers at St Mungo's. Dave Stirling: she had tutored him in Transfiguration for his OWLS. He had worked so hard just to scrape an 'acceptable'. Colin Creevey. Blessed Colin Creevey. As a Hufflepuff student carried the Gryffindor past to lay him in the growing rows of the dead, Professor McGonagall's heart stuttered, recalling the boy's lifeless face after the Basilisk attacks that seemed so long ago now, but that had been a part of this all along. Before she could turn and face the graveyard that had become of her beloved Hall, McGonagall caught sight of a familiar pair of redheads at the back of the incoming crowd. One carried the other; limp, pale, cold.

When Ginny saw them, she shrieked as if she were a patchwork doll, and had a pin through her the size of a bayonet. She barely heard the bottle of ointment clutter to the floor behind her as she flew across the room to her brothers.

"Fred, Fred, wake up," she begged, sobbing as tears scorched her cheeks. She touched his face, his hair, his jacket, but nothing drew a response. His skin was cold and his eyes were shut, his head lolling over George's arm with a light smile on his face; an impossibly bright light in a fortress of darkness.

"Ginny," George mumbled. "I have to put him down. I-I can't carry him any more. I can't-"

With a heavy gait he shoved past his sister, who erupted into sobs so fierce she couldn't breathe. He lay his brother down beside the countless other, faceless dead, and knelt by his head. Unlike he had anticipated on some dark mornings, listening to the names of the dead read out on the radio, this did not feel as if he'd lost a limb or an organ. In fact, after the initial shock, there was a distinct lack of physical pain. Rather, he found he simply could not come to terms with the fact that one human being was a whole, complete entity. How could it be?

Professor McGonagall wiped her eyes with her dusty sleeve, but she didn't have time to properly gather herself before the canon of misfortune fired once more: the straggling remains of the Order appeared in the doorway, led by Arthur and Molly Weasley.

"Everything all right, Minerva?" Arthur inquired, approaching with concern creasing his face as he tucked his wand away. He over the scene behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. "Relatively, of course. It's a bloody wreck," he quipped, with characteristic cheerfulness, "but when this is all over she'll fix up I'm sure."

McGonagall could make no sound in response. She could only stare as Ginny locked her arms around her mother's neck and sniffled into her cardigan, and as Molly embraced her daughter without knowing the reason behind those tears. Then Molly looked up from her daughter's hair, straight at the stoic, teary-eyed Professor.

"Minerva," she whispered. "Who?"

Arthur had already seen it. He couldn't take his eyes off it now, even as they filled with tears. "Oh God," he choked. "Molly-" He reached an arm out sideways briefly, as if to hug her. Ginny stepped aside, wiping puffy red eyes, and Molly hurried forward to fill the space. Almost instantly, she lunged forward again.

"My boy!" She threw herself across Fred's chest, sobbing. With one hand she clung to his shirt, and with the other, clenched George's proffered hand. In silence, her husband stroked her hair as tears slid down his cheeks and dripped unimpeded onto his shoes.