A/N: Thanks to all of you for reviewing and I'm sorry for the long wait for the update. It's hard to top my last chapter, and I'm pretty sure I didn't anyway.
Chapter 4 - Bill
The tears were falling fast and thick down Fleur's cheeks. I held her in my arms, unable to do any more while facing the shock of the sight before me. My little brother, laughing in the face of death like he always said he would. I couldn't move any muscle in my body, just stand there like a cruel rigor mortis in reverse. He couldn't be dead – I was the one that felt lifeless. I could feel the tears running faster down my cheeks by far than those of my wife. They ran down the scars on my face, burning as they caressed the broken skin. This scar – the scar of losing a brother – would never heal. There would be no 'partial effects'. Just the one effect. Just the loss that follows.
Mum was crying the most, I think. My vision was so blurred with tears it was hard to tell. Through the thick wetness I saw a ghostly vision of my late brother framed in the doorway. When my eyes cleared, I realized it was George, horror-struck by the loss of his twin. We were all horror-struck. I remember thinking to myself, It's only George. I was disappointed. It felt like nothing – he felt like nothing compared to Fred. Now, I can't believe I ever thought that. It must have been the grief. At that moment, nothing mattered more to me than having my brother back. I wanted – no,needed the impossible. We all did.
Charlie went to talk to George. None of us could do much more than cry, or stare into the shadows, lost for words. At one point, Ginny walked away. She didn't say a word, merely left. I think it was too much for her to bear. It certainly was for Perce. He was hysterical. He repeated the same words over again, blaming himself. I blamed myself too. You're wrong! I wanted to shout out. It's my fault! I failed him, as a brother, as a friend. I was never there to help, never there to listen! Fred always had a way of making other people see their mistakes. I didn't see mine until he was already…
Gone. He's not. It's a joke, a prank. The kind of thing that Fred would find hysterical. Any moment he'll crack, rolling on the floor in laughter. Then I regained my sense. Fred was never that cruel. He would never be that cruel. He'd never have the chance.
We took responsibility for transporting the body, father and I. We brought him back to the Burrow, brought him home for the last time. We all knew, going into it, that this was the final battle. I guess we never realized how final it would become.
I must have cried for hours. The tears were still falling, slowly and unnoticed, as we sat in the Burrow, arranging a funeral. Fleur was distraught, I held her close in my arms as we felt the loss together, sharing the burden. Inwardly, I knew we didn't share it. She couldn't feel my pain at that moment. My little brother. He had always been my little brother. Even after Ron was born, he'd always been the little one, always been the silly one. He'd always brought the laughter into our lives, the dual act of Fred and George. I can't even imagine what it must have been like for George. He wouldn't look any of us in the eye. He refused to speak. He refused to cry.
Dad brought the topic round to guests, but Charlie dragged it back to the service. He said he thought Fred deserved the best. I agreed with it all. Perce didn't feel right about it. I agreed with that too. Mostly I agreed with George. His voice, so like Fred's, made time stop. The room stood still for a moment, while George input his opinion. Even Mum stopped sobbing to listen. 'It should be small. Just us.' He said. 'Plain and simple, nothing too fancy. And we won't wear black. Black always depressed him.' I wouldn't question George on this. He knew best for this. It was the only thing he said. I think it was the same for me, the less said, the easier it was. But we were wrong. It was never easy.
I couldn't speak. I couldn't think about eating, or sleeping. My eyes had run dry, and no more tears would come. I couldn't say the word. I couldn't have said … You know … If I'd tried.
I returned to Shell Cottage with Fleur the day George went back to his flat. I'm like a zombie. I still haven't spoken much – maybe three words. I've barely eaten. Sleep won't come easily, and it won't stay. My waking hours are filled with thoughts and painful memories. He haunts my dreams. The entire cottage is engulfed in a dampened mood. Fleur is no better off than I am. She left to go see her family two days after we returned to the cottage. She hasn't come back. I'm not worried about her, I know she's okay. I'm not okay. I won't be okay ever again.
On the fourth day the letters came. It's heart-wrenching, reading the sad condolences that amplify the pain to an unbearable magnitude. Every card is a reminder of the pain, of the loss. Every card is a word I can't say, a thought I don't dare form. Every card makes it real. I can't accept that. I won't accept that. Every gift of money that flies through the window makes the reality crisper in front of me, and still I ignore it.
I wore my blue robes to the funeral. Fleur came for the beginning, but left before the end – went back to her family. We were like a rainbow. The minister was shocked, and not a little surprised to see us all standing there in bright colours at a funeral. It didn't bother me. I knew that Fred would have appreciated it. It was a week ago, two weeks after he'd … left us. The way I think about it, he could have just gone on holiday.
The headstone was neutral, impartial, impersonal. I didn't like it much.
Fred Weasley
April 1, 1978 – May 2, 1998
Beloved Son, Brother, Friend
We got a message to the cottage yesterday, inviting us to go and see George. It was surprising, to say the least. George let us all in and sat us down. He drew breath slowly, before speaking. 'I've found something.' We all hung onto his words. He sounded pained, as if every word came at great personal risk. 'F-Fred left a… well, a Will.' Mum started crying again. I felt the bitter tears return to the back of my eyes at the mere idea.
Why would he have a Will? He was only 20! It's like he expected to die, like he wanted to make sure we could move on if he did… I'm the oldest brother, if anyone should have a Will already, it should have been me! Fred was always resourceful like that: brilliant, ahead of everyone else. I don't even think Mum and Dad have a Will. It was what the Will contained that came as a surprise.
Fred's most prized possession, after the joke shop, was a painting that hung in his room. He found it somewhere when he was 7, and refused to part with it. He called it his inspiration. George was reading the will in a shaky voice. 'To Bill, I leave my painting. It always inspired me, like he always has. I give him now my inspiration.' Those words will haunt me for the rest of my life. They mean so much. He means so much. He always will.
I decided to stay in the Burrow. I've been here since the Will was read. It's better, I think, to be here at home with my family. George still hasn't been in contact. The house is filled with quiet contemplation. There isn't as much crying now, but tears are everywhere.
I'm in my old room. It feels good to be back home again. To feel like I'm part of a whole family. This family isn't whole. We'll never be whole again. We lost Percy so long ago. Now he's back, but he was never really gone. Fred's gone. He's gone to a place he can't come back from.
The house is in a stupor, one which I think will last a while. We buried Fred just beyond the yard, by the old apple orchard where we used to play Quidditch. I can see the headstone from my window. I often catch myself staring out at it, out at him. Today, Percy is there. He was there.
I look on in surprise as George appears. It's the first time I've seen him there, at the grave. The two of them stand still, silhouetted against the hill as the sun sets. The pair of them start walking towards the house.
I run down the stairs to meet them outside. Perce looks shaken, and George no more calm than he has been the last few weeks. They've both been crying. George finally gave in. He holds out a folded sheaf of parchment to me. 'It's from Fred.'
I look on in shock as he walks into the house. I walk absentmindedly to the grave, turning the letter over in my hands before finally opening it. Tears adorn the page, softening the parchment from the crisp yellow it once was. I can only guess that they belong to Fred, George, Perce, and Charlie. As I read the letter, my own tears add to the mix, absorbing quickly into the paper. It's hard to let go. He knew it would be. But he knew how to tell us it's okay to do it, too.
I pull out my wand, and utter a short spell. The last gift I'll ever give him.
Fred Weasley
April 1, 1978 - May 2, 1998
Laughing Still, in the Face of Death
It's something I know he would have liked, something he always liked to say. I put the letter in my pocket and whisper into the winds, before trudging alone back to the house.
'Goodbye.'