Guten abend!

Okay, I wrote this a really long time ago in a really angsty mood, right after reading Deathly Hallows (again) and trying not to cry all the way through the battle (yes, AGAIN). Thus all the angsty angstyness.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any part of the franchise.

WARNING: delves into angst, death, funerals, and spoilers. Don't think there's any swearing in it.

In any case, welcome to Three Days.

EDIT: Yes. I edited it a little bit. Only changed one sentence though. And added one sentence. Old readers, see if you can spot it. If you do you get a prize.

three days
by shu of the wind

On the day of the funeral, the sun shone for the first time in three days.

Angelina Johnson sat in the third row from the back, right on the end, watching through the screen her veil provided and feeling the burn of tears press against her eyes; the eulogy, given by the same man who had married Bill and Fleur and eulogized Dumbledore himself, had already faded into a sort of buzzing that could barely be discerned from the silence around her. Everything had faded except the sight of the coffin sitting just above the slick mud left behind by the rainstorm that had nearly caused a flood in two counties.

She hadn't planned on attending the funeral. Seeing Fred like that…it had been absolutely unbearable after the battle three days before, but now? It would be even worse. This was organized mourning, something she had never been able to stand, not since her aunt had died when she was six years old. She'd never been able to stand watching a coffin being set in the dirt, never been able to stand saying goodbye to someone she loved.

But she had come anyway. And, surprisingly, it hadn't been Katie who had convinced her. Percy Weasley had approached her the day before, while she had been helping Professor McGonagall clean up the entrance hall. Voldemort's body had been moved out of the castle, but Angelina would probably never look at that room in the same way again.

She'd been surprised when Percy had greeted her as though the world was normal and relaxed, and she wasn't cleaning bloodstains off the stone floor of Hogwarts. She'd heard from Ginny, the only Weasley she had spoken to in three days, of Percy's return; of Fred (it hurt to even think his name) forgiving him. So she'd let him speak, instead of simply turning and walking away from him for hurting his family so badly.

But what he'd said had surprised her even more. He'd come to ask her - to beg her, if necessary - to come to the funeral the next day. At first she had shaken her head, opening her mouth to protest, but then Percy had simply looked at her, almost as if he was daring her to say no. To say it aloud that she wouldn't attend Fred's funeral, when they'd been friends, for seven years, and more-than-friends on and off again for at least three and a half years now.

So here she was, watching the little man eulogize Fred, listening but not really to the words that were supposed to memorialize the boy and then man she had known as Beater, jokester, on and off boyfriend, and, most of all, as one of her best friends. They were just words. They didn't mean much.

Angelina turned her head, catching sight of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Mrs. Weasley was sobbing on her husband's chest, her grief so palpable it forced the tears even harder at Angelina's own eyes. Quickly, she shook her head, trying to keep them back. Fred had always hated it when she had cried; she wasn't going to do so now. Mr. Weasley had closed his eyes, as though unwilling to see the coffin; his face was very white.

Slowly, her eyes slid off Fred's parents to his brothers and sisters, related or not. They were given the first two rows, on either side of the path up to the coffin itself, nestled under a tree at the Quidditch pitch on the Weasley's property.

The first was Bill, who was sitting beside his wife, scarred face drawn and expressionless. His eyes were empty. Fleur had tangled their hands together, her shoulder bumping his to remind him of her presence at his side, and was returning as much pressure on his fingers as she was getting, her pale, beautiful face damp and determined to be his connection to life.

Charlie had no Fleur. He had his elbows on his knees, face in his hands, not crying but simply wrung out like a wet dishcloth and waiting, just as Angelina was, for the eulogy to end, so that he could feel something real again. She wondered whether he would return to Romania very soon after this, or if he would remain with his family. She suspected he would remain with his family, to offer comfort and receive it in his turn.

Ginny came next. For the first time Angelina could ever remember, the strong, spunky, independent redhead was sobbing uncontrollably, her face pressed into Harry's shoulder, her hand clutching Charlie's sleeve. Harry himself looked pale and drawn; as Angelina watched, two tears slid down his face, the only indication of the torture he was probably undergoing. He'd been adopted by the Weasleys as a brother; he was suffering the loss of Fred as much as any of them.

Tears dripped off the end of Ron's nose. Like Fleur, Hermione had a fast grip on Ron's hand, tethering him to earth, her face just as white and just as tear-streaked. She had her head resting on his shoulder, arm around his waist, and this seemed to comfort Ron more than anything else. As Angelina watched, he kissed the top of her head fiercely, sliding his own arm over her shoulders, and Angelina bit back the stab of pain at the memories that brought along.

Percy looked as though his soul had been shattered. His horn-rimmed glasses were fogged; she could see his hands shaking, even from here. Angelina wondered absently why she couldn't cry, why her tears were imprisoned behind a stone wall in her eyes when all these men, strong and selfless, were shedding tears of pain, but the thought slid away again as she focused on George.

His face was a painful shock. Just like Fred. He was, possibly, the only one who wasn't crying. If Percy looked broken, George looked as though he had suffered the Dementor's Kiss. As though he had no soul at all; that it was lying in that coffin with his brother, his best friend, his twin. Angelina watched him for the longest, waiting for some sign of life, that he still existed: but there was nothing. His freckles stood out very dark on his pasty skin; his hands were clasped in front of him; and his eyes were totally blank. The space where his ear had been was obvious - had he combed his hair to make it that way?

Is that what I look like? Angelina thought, shocked. Tears filled her eyes, but didn't spill over. They couldn't. Why did I come here?

The eulogy continued; sometimes, random phrases would filter into her ears: "endless courage…" "wit and daring in the face of danger…" "an ability to make others laugh…" None of them seemed to fit. Fred had been a vibrant being, enthusiasm and cutting humor and affection and a shield for everyone's deepest fears, all wrapped up in a blanket of courage and that Weasley determination to see something through to its end, consequences be damned. Fury at Percy's betrayal; determination to open Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes; unshakable devotion for every member of his family, even the one who had fled and returned in the moment he was needed the most. But over every bit of that, over everything that could possibly be said about him, every word that could be used to describe him, he was one thing above all. He was - and always had been - simply, irrevocably, wonderfully, exasperatingly, sincerely: Fred.

Damn sight better than what that bloke's spouting, Johnson.

Angelina covered a watery, shaky smile at the words. That had been Fred, Fred all over, and she closed her eyes to hear better.

Oi! Angelina! Want to come to the ball with me?

You dance like a ghoul learning to flail, Johnson. A quick grin. Let's go.

Take that Quaffle dead or alive, Angelina.

George, I think we've outgrown full-time education.

Didn't know you had it in you to compliment someone on their flying, Angelina. Maybe Wood's still alive after all.

Angelina gasped, covering her mouth with one hand. Every word was rushing through her head, every look, every touch, every damn conversation or exchange or full-blown bloody argument was speeding through her, things she couldn't even remember talking about, classes she couldn't really focus on, Quidditch practices filled with laughter and jokes she hadn't recalled in years.

Pull yourself together, Johnson.

Angelina obeyed the unspoken command, blinking furiously behind her veil - she'd put one on to hide her face, not wanting to be tugged aside by one of the Weasleys - as the little man stepped down from his perch, grimacing as his shoes sunk a good three-quarters an inch into the mud. The coffin had been placed in the ground, buried while she had been remembering. People were getting up from their folding chairs, talking amongst themselves, wiping tears from their eyes. It was a fairly small gathering; if she wanted to escape without being noticed, the time would be now.

And yet somehow, she couldn't pick herself up out of the chair. She sat there, in the mud, her veil hiding her face from the rest of the crowd, as in twos and threes, the crowd of friends - she recognized Lee Jordan among them, looking the most groomed she had ever seen him, and Hagrid, long time contender with both of the twins to keep them from getting into the Forbidden Forest, walking together down towards the Burrow, talking quietly together - passed her by. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Auntie Muriel, Fleur's parents and sister, Verity, the clerk at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Andromeda Tonks with baby Teddy asleep in her arms - they all were silent as they headed down the hill. Verity was sniffling a little. Katie and Oliver walked by without recognizing her at all; Katie was crying, and Oliver had his arm around her shoulders. Alicia was glaringly absent.

Come on, Angelina.

Harry and Ginny passed her next; Ginny didn't seem to notice her there, but Harry gazed at her for a few moments, not recognizing the strange witch in the veil and dark clothes, before continuing on his way down the hill. Bill, Fleur, and Charlie were the next to pass by; none of them even glanced at her, connected together by hands and words and hearts, as they trooped down the hill, followed closely by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ron and Hermione. Angelina felt cloaked, invisible, hidden from their eyes, and she wasn't sure if she liked it.

Percy was the last to go. He paused by the edge of her chair, surveying her with red-rimmed blue eyes, before inclining his head.

"He doesn't need me right now." He said quietly, turning back to look at George. Fred's twin had pushed himself up out of his chair, and crossed to the grave, standing at the end of it with slumped shoulders and bowed head.

"Then who does he need?" Angelina asked, just as quietly, though she already knew the answer Percy was trying to not-so-subtly lead her to.

Instead of answering, Percy simply turned away and followed his family down the hill, his glasses sliding down his nose.

Angelina hesitated, waiting until every single distant figure had entered the house, before she pushed herself away from her chair. It was as though someone was prompting her, leading her on; she felt like a marionette with its strings being manipulated by some unseen hand.

George didn't move or speak as she walked to stand next to him. Up close, the resemblance was a little easier to ignore; she could pick out the differences she had memorized long ago in order to tell them apart. The fact that George had more freckles sprinkled over his nose; that his hair had always been a little longer than Fred's; and, most of all, his hands, which were longer and a little more dexterous than his brother's.

Angelina lifted her hat from her head, leaving it on the chair as her hair tumbled down her back. She'd always kept it short for Quidditch, but it had grown out during the past year; it now just barely brushed past her shoulders, slightly wavy from being pinned up inside the hat all morning.

"George?" She asked hesitantly. He jerked his head slightly at the sound of her voice, as though shooing away some biting fly, before looking towards the headstone again.

Angelina read it.

Fred Weasley
April 1, 1978 - May 2, 1998
Beloved Son, Brother, and Twin
Remember to Laugh

Angelina studied the carved words for a few moments before turning back to George, turning her head slightly so she could look into his face. They were almost of equal height.

"George?"

"Angelina." His voice was hollow, and quiet, as though it was echoing from very far away. "I didn't think you'd come."

"Percy convinced me." Angelina said, her own voice sounding a little hollow. "I wasn't planning to in the first place."

George didn't smile, though he seemed to relax a little bit at the words.

Angelina didn't ask if he was okay, since it was so obvious he wasn't. Instead, she simply waited, keeping her gaze fixed on George and not on the grave at their feet.

Do or die, Johnson. Do or die.

"I never thought it would be him." George said. "Or Tonks, or Remus. Never them. Maybe someone else, but never him. Never them."

Angelina shook her head in silent agreement.

"I keep expecting to see him, Angie." George didn't break his gaze on the gravestone. "Around the corner. At the table. Fixing one of those punching telescopes. Somewhere. Anywhere. And the worst part is," his voice broke. "I do see him sometimes. In the mirror. In water. He's right there. And I can't touch him. I'm scared to look, but I also have to. I have to - to keep him there. If I don't, he'll disappear. I'll disappear."

There was a long pause.

"I heard him all through the ceremony." Angelina confessed; her eyes burned again. "Pull yourself together, Johnson. Over and over again. And everything else. Not even very important things. My captaincy. The Yule Ball. Everything. I can hear him -" she tapped her temple. "In my head. But I turn around, and -" her voice didn't break, though it came damn close. "And he's not there. He was just…talking. I didn't hear a word of the eulogy. And I don't really want him to stop."

Hurry up, Angie.

Finally, finally, he turned to look at her, blue eyes wet. Angelina met the clear, empty stare, feeling her own eyes fill and spill over - the dam had finally been worn away.

"Angelina." He sounded lost, almost questioning whether she existed. "Angelina?"

"I'm right here, George." She wiped her eyes, watching that glassy, empty shield finally start to come down. It wasn't just Percy who looked shattered anymore.

"I don't want him gone." The words were just the tiniest bit defiant, as though he was expecting the age old answer: That Fred was gone, and that they couldn't do anything about it. Angelina shook her head, reaching out to brush her fingertips over the hole where his ear had been. George didn't flinch or pull away; he simply watched her, waiting for her reply.

"I don't either, George." This time, her voice did break. "I don't want him gone. He c-can't be gone. I keep thinking I'm just going to wake up, and this has all been a dream, and that he's still there, but it d-doesn't happen." Angelina bit her lip, wiping her eyes again. "And the worst thing is, I can't even remember why."

They both moved, then. Angelina stepped forward just as George reached out, so they ended up meeting in the middle; Angelina pressed her face into his shoulder, inhaling the smell that was similar and yet fundamentally different from Fred's - it still had gunpowder and smoke and that earthy Burrow scent, but there was something a little softer and not sweeter exactly, but almost a little gentler. Somehow, it made things the slightest bit easier.

She only accepted the comfort for a few moments before she realized how badly George was shaking, that he was sobbing far harder than she had ever planned to, and Angelina lifted a hand, resting it gently on his head as he rested his forehead on her own shoulder, smoothing her slightly shaky fingers through his hair as the cloth of her robes grew damp against her skin. She didn't even notice her own tears.

It was getting on to dusk when he finally lifted his head, shaking it a few times like a dog trying to free itself of water, before sliding his arm around her shoulder, holding her close to him. Angelina, seeking the same sort of comfort, put hers around his waist, wiping her eyes and nose on her sleeve. She could always clean it later.

Neither of them spoke for a little while, each of them looking at the grave once more before Angelina Summoned her hat. Carefully, she wormed one of the fake flowers off the top - black, like the rest of the fabric - and dropped it at the head of the grave before drawing her wand to Transfigure it, feeling she should leave something behind but unsure as to what.

Then, after a moment, the answer came to her, and she waved her wand.

The cloth figure shimmered for a moment, caught in magic, before it transformed into a flower, which very much resembled the ones Fred and George had created as an end product for one of their trick wands. She didn't think it would die, especially considering Fred's grave had been enchanted with protection spells, but she could come out later to check if it was all right.

Angelina glanced at George, searching for disapproval, but found none; she stowed her wand away again.

Then together they turned, and walked back down the hill into the house, where they found Percy sitting in the kitchen with a mug of tea clutched in his hands. He looked up when they came in. Angelina glared at him, daring him to say something, but Percy did not speak; he simply inclined his head in an acknowledgment and a thank you.

Johnson, my work here is done.