"Too big to fail."

George began, the paper between his fingers shaking silently. There was a breeze outside, a steady bitter wind that blew around the mass of people seated outside the burrow. He stood up in front of them all, eyes blurry and face scrunched up, sniveling and trying desperately to hold his composure in front of his family. But it was so hard to hold it all in. He had known his brother the best. He was the one who understood him the greatest.

"That's what Fred told me," he continued, "When we first started the business. 'We'll be too big to fail George,' he reminded me daily, a pat on the back and a leap and a bound over the desk. He'd strut out of the room, confident, cocky. And I would always shake my head. I never knew what it meant- too big to fail. I didn't get it. And to be honest- I still don't-"

He choked off for a moment, fingers clenched around the parchment, crinkling the edges. Carefully, he brought his blurry eyes up and gazed at the crowd. His eyes lingered at his family, his mother, father, sister, Bill, Charlie, Ron and Fr-

Fred. But he wasn't there. The seat where he had been seating was vacant, as if it were a vicious memory of the space he should be. But there was no vacant seat next to that. Fred had not just gone to the bathroom- no, he had not left because he was not coming back. He was just gone.

"Fred was-or is I should say, a part of me. I can't shake him loose, I can't shake him free. And honestly, I don't want to. He was a good person. The better half-" he choked off again, staring at the grains of the wood stand under him. He felt tears threaten- and with a painful struggle, he shoved them back. "He is the better half of me. He was the business man. I was the pretty face. Which is ironic, if you think about it hard enough-we're identical. Mum would get us confused. And while I would frown, Fred, he'd play along-because he was like that. He thought on his feet. It made him good at his job. It made him a good friend. It made him more than just a good brother."

"He was calm and collected. He'd always been. He was fearless at the same time-stupidly fearless sometimes as well-" he took a pause and looked toward the sky, it was an odd goldish grey colour, but it fit the mood well. "There is no one else like him. I don't think anyone here can disagree with me."

"Fred was talented. On the field, he had so much to him. His spirit would enlighten the players. Oliver-" Fred looked at the ex-captain near the back of the rows, eyes full of tears and running down his face, "Oliver said it himself. We were the best pair of beaters. But it was all Fred. And while he came off arrogant, he was humble. Fred was the most humble brother I've ever known. He knew where the line was drawn. He knew when to push, how hard and what to expect in the reactions. And I loved that the most about him. He pushed the envelope."

"Did you know once," George said, wanting to tell this story about Fred, "We were sitting on our brooms, fifth year, I believe, and it was practice, just practice. Harry, I think you'll remember this as well," He gestured toward Harry, seated by Hermione in the front row next to his father face wet with tears. George swallowed hard. He couldn't finish the speech-it would be too painful. " And he looked down at the field, and turned to me and said 'George, times are changing. I can feel it.' And I remember glancing sideways, asking him what he meant by that, and he answered 'I don't know. I can feel it in the air. But's it's a change for the good. At least I think it is. Something's good about to happen to us."

"Optimism. It's a word to describe him. We complimented each other. He was white, and I was black. But now the other half is missing. I can't make grey anymore. I can't even see the light. There's not a moment-" he choked and swallowed hard. His composure was fading fast. He still had a few more pages to read. But he couldn't do it. "Not a moment that goes by that I don't feel him here-"

Fred pointed hard to his chest, his eyes blurry and mouth agape- almost sobbing but not quite, just gasping. "I feel him here, everyday. And I can't get him out of my mind. I can't get the look on his face out of my mind. Stunned- that's what he looked like. And I won't forget. And personally, neither should any of you. Because I'm done-" he said, crumpling up the paper in his hands, "With this speech I wrote out. I wrote it just two days ago in the office, staring at his empty desk."

George stepped out from behind the stand and tossed the paper to the ground. "There was this quill on his desk. A normal, white feather quill, resting-still and unmoving. And all I could think as I saw it there was about how often he used it. He signed the lease to the storefront. He signed letters with it. Everyday he'd pick up the quill and write with it-scribble down words while throwing jokes my direction." He looked out at the crowd, watching the people suddenly cry openly. It tore at his heart- tugging painfully at the string holding it in place. The tattered holes in it's delicate skin swayed in the breeze as he inhaled harshly-trying so hard to not lose it in front of them. "And I'd wittingly toss them back. And he'd do this all while he'd be working, with that quill. And at the end of the day-when all was said and done, he'd put the quill in the desk-"

He became quiet and still, eyes focused on the ground, "He'd put the quill away. Business finished. But it's out on the desk. And I'm looking at it-he never put it away. So what do I do? I go over and but it away for him."

The whole place was silent then. Listening to George, his words, so beautiful and so lovely. He turned away from the crowd and stepped toward his brother's coffin with teary eyes. Slowly, carefully, he ran his fingers over the polished wood, placing it palm down against the smooth top. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the rich scent of the burrow. Somewhere in the distance he could smell him- smell his scent. He was like fresh rain in a forest, and he could smell him-like he was there next to him.

"Too big to fail," George said again, back turned to the crowd. Carefully he turned around and looked at them, eyes misty, strong. "I never knew what he meant by that. But I get it now. Too big to fail. We're too big to fail. Fred, Fred and I, and Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Mum, Dad, Charlie, Bill, Fluer, we're too big to fail. Because we are a family-and he knows that. And while those words he said to me, etched into me, were spoken to me about the business, I feel them here, in the crowd today. We're too big to fail. Fred is gone-but his goodness will stay. As long as remember that he's not going anywhere. He'll be in the ground-but his spirit will live on through us. He's in each and every one of us. He'll always be. After all, Fred is too big to fail."

George turned his eyes up to the sky and watched it turn grey. In almost slow motion he watched a drop of water fall from it, watching it land between his thumb and forefinger on the coffin, sliding down the wooden surface before another drop took it's place.

"Hey George," Fred said, seated next to him atop the castle's windows. George removed his eyes from the darkening swirling sky above and looked at Fred. His face was serious, smoothed over with stress and age-age a man as young as him should not be feeling. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm all right," George said, a little shocked, "How about you?"

"Peachy," Fred said, "It's like a walk in the park. We'll be back to business by the morning."

George smirked and nodded his head, looking back to the sky. "You're probably right."

"Of course I am," Fred said, swinging his legs out in front of him, "I always am."

He smiled one last time at his brother and turned his face back up to the sky.

"You're a good bloke," George said.

"You too."

George didn't go to work the next week. But on his desk sat a box, address to him. When he finally did drag himself into work, he stared at it before opening it. Inside was a picture frame-a photo of him and Fred with large smiles staring back at him. Carefully he picked up the note at the bottom of the box and unfolded it. The last thing he'd ever written was in George's hands.

Too big to fail. To my better half.

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