Falling For

Fred was buried on a soft day, the sun leaking through the trees we stood under. There had been nothing but tears and exhaustion for the part of the Weasley family. Although we had won the war, and Voldemort was dead, it still felt like we had gotten nowhere really fast. No one exactly knew how to deal with the situation. The whole family of redheads looked down trodden and broken, something that could have been fixed by the twins antics… but there were no twins anymore. Just George. And George was not in the mood for any tomfoolery.

Bill and Fleur had agreed to stay at our house for a few weeks, keep us on track and away from trouble. I knew they were there mostly to keep George on par, make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. Not that he would have, it was more of a safety net for Molly’s worries. They slept on the fold out couch in the lounge room. No one went near Fred’s room. In fact, the first thing I did when I came home after Hogwarts (alone, as George stayed with his family for a few nights) was shut his door. It was so quiet in our apartment, a place built for four now suddenly too big for just me.

I had remade our bed, hand washed all the dishes, made three plates of brownies and had polished every bit of furniture we owned. I had to keep myself as busy as possible, trying to escape the ghosts of creaky floorboards and the pregnant silence of no one home.

As I was folding laundry, I sorted the piles into three like I usually did. First mine, then Fred’s, then George’s. I piled his and mine together, taking Fred’s under my arm and carefully pulling out of the laundry to climb the stairs to the main apartment. As a reflex, I pushed into Fred’s room and set the clothes on his bed. The smell of his cologne and the sight of his unmade bed and messy, overflowing drawers caused me to freeze up. Backing out of there, I cringed my way into a headache.

Pushing my hair off of my forehead, I stepped into the kitchen, stirring up a tea and leaning against the bench. Staring out into the lounge, I gripped my mug tightly. I couldn’t stand the silence anymore, so I whipped around and took a pencil from the holder.

George, Bill and/or Fleur,
I’ve stopped into Noël’s to see how he is doing. I’ll be back at about 5.
Mignon




Noël was holding up well. Apart from the huge silvery-pink scar that had found his stomach, he was more than content with the outcome of his incident. We chatted over wine for a while, colour returning to my face as everything I had been aching over for the past weeks simply drained away. It was nice to get away from the silence and the death. Noël was a great pick-me-up.

Returning home by five, like I had promised, I found that only George was home. He was lying on our bed with his hands over his face; letting his breaths seep through the gaps in little hisses. I crawled over towards him, resting my head on his chest quietly. His hand found my neck and he ran it down the curve of my spine, up and down and up and down.

Still not knowing what to say, I lie there and let him think to himself. What exactly could I say? He’s dead George, it’s time to get over it? Probably not. All I could do was let him grieve at his own pace, even though that pace had been three weeks with no speaking and barely any eye contact. I was going loony with age-old hysteria. I just wanted him to touch me and tell me that it was going to be okay. I shouldn’t have even wished that. It was selfish. But I was selfish.

The tears that I had spilt for Fred had stopped the night he died. I was still in my cocoon of happy numbness, wrapped up in the thick blankets of sordid obliviousness. I’m sure George noticed this, because when I wasn’t looking he had his eyes scanning my face like a policeman. He must have thought I did not care. I surely bet I looked like I didn’t.

George hissed with tears again and I kissed the tips of his knuckles.

“It’s okay, baby.” I told him. “It will be alright.” Kissing the pads of his fingers, I buried my face into the palm of his hand. It curved to meet the shape of my jaw, his hands that were once so rough felt like the finest silk. His fingers tangled in my hair and I looked up at him, my eyes softening at his red face. “Oh sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not y-your fault.” He stuttered out, pulling away to hide his face. I forced his hands from his eyes and leant down and kissed him, trying to be as soft as I could.

“I know, but I’m sorry.”

George looked up at me, and whatever strength he hid in his eyes finally shattered. He began to hiccup and his chest shook and I cupped his face. His eyes, so torn and humiliated, shut suddenly and he let out silent tears.

“It’s just not fair.” His voice was like a child’s. “Out of everyone, everyone I have ever loved, it had to be Fred. Why Fred?” He gasped “It’s like a part of me has died and there is no definite way to bring it back.”

My watched beeped; telling me it was 5:30. My eyes softened and I leant up and kissed him on the nose.

“It hurts now but soon all it will be is happy memories. I promise.” I ran my thumb over the corners of his eyes, collecting his tears. “But for now, it’s dinner time. What do you feel like?”

“Nothing.” I crawled off of him, watching him sit up to watch me leave. I rolled my eyes.

“How about some fish? Stimulate your brain.”

“But I don’t want fish for dinner!” He huffed at me, throwing himself back into the bed.

I scoffed at him, and he paused for a second, sniffing out a laugh before heartily breaking out into chuckles. Watching him rub the remaining tears away with his sleeves, I leant against the doorframe.

“I think you’re going to be okay, George.” I blew him a kiss and he smiled at me – the first genuine smile I had gotten in weeks.