Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

TIME MEMORIALS

~00~

He's always liked muggle photos; how they don't move, like they're just frozen moments of time and they won't mock him by waving or giggling they just stay the same. They don't change, not like people.

He spat bitterly on the ground and then turned to stare at the house; the Burrow was always full of people these days as though they were trying to make up the absence of Fred.

He glared at the strip of photos in his hand: he and Fred had gone into muggle London and followed a queue in a photo booth where they had stared blankly at the camera trying to work out what to do until the first flash had gone off, then they had started to examine the box seeing what it did. When the muggle behind them in the line had yelled at them to get out and that they're go was over they had stumbled out woozily and almost walked away completely before he had spotted the strip of photos and stuffed it into his pocket.

That had been almost a year ago now and he had only just found the photos having forgotten all about them. A year ago seemed like a different world now – a world without war, a world that was still almost untouched by Voldemort, a world with Fred in it. He would do anything to be back in that world again.

~00~

Later when the others come out of the house they find George sealing a small wooden box up and sticking the strip of photos to it. They watch him for a bit waiting to see what he was doing, not interrupting because they know he's taking Fred's death harder than they are. He got some out of his pocket and tied it around the box, and then he levitated it up onto a branch; looping the rope around it so that the box was hanging from the tree.

He turned towards them;

"It's a memorial for Fred, just a box full of things that meant something to him, I'll open it sometime in the future when I feel ready –"

"Like a time capsule "Hermione interjected.

"– I think" he said, ignoring Hermione, "we should do one for everyone who," his voice broke, "Who died. One for each of us." He looked down. He could feel them staring at him. There was a brief silence then Molly cleared her throat,

"People who died in the last war too? I mean, they never got anything like this" She clarified. He looked up, a hesitant smile – the first one in many days – crossing his face as he saw the others smiling and nodding at him. He nodded back at Molly who smiled in return. Slowly they moved off to get boxes; Harry was left behind; shuffling nervously,

"Uh," he started, "Should we do Death Eaters to?" It felt odd George thought to have Harry ask him a question; Harry was the penultimate leader, he was not someone who asked; he was the one who answered. It was sometimes difficult to remember that he was still only seventeen.

"Yes." He answered defiantly "They were people too; they deserve something, only on a different tree okay?"

Harry laughed: it was an odd sound after all these weeks living in silence. "And Voldemort?" He asked.

George took longer to answer this time; "No" he said decisively.

"What about Tom Riddle?"

George looked at the boy-who-lived strangely.

"Before he became Voldemort" Harry clarified,

"If it means that much to you then yeah, go ahead. But bury him alright; seeing as he was the root of it all"

Harry nodded and smiled before walking off. George lent up against the tree with Fred's memorial swinging on it hastily wiping away the tears before they could fully form.

EPILOGUE

When they opened the box sometime later, they discovered that George had put a paint bomb inside it and everyone was covered in multicoloured flashing paint for the next month and a half.