You Found Me

Christmas had always been my favorite holiday and, as I'd found, spending it with the Weasleys made it all the better. There was incredible food in abundance, gingers practically everywhere, and hand knitted sweaters. Harry Potter would be around, we could all make fun of Percy with little or no consequence, and Mrs. Weasley would fuss over me like my own mother never did. Nothing could be better, I thought, and for a long time, that seemed to be true.

I didn't honestly know what to expect the first Christmas after Fred's death. I suppose I assumed that there would be plenty of secret crying and maybe an 'I miss Fred' thrown out every so often. Other than that, though, the whole thing was a mystery to me. I tried to imagine it while throwing clothing – both George's and my own – into a suitcase with no attempt at folding or tidiness. George was down in the shop, making sure everything was in order for the after-Christmas rush we'd be returning to in three days' time. I could hear him moving boxes and cursing occasionally. He'd been in a sour mood since we'd gotten out of bed. I didn't want to get in his way or really bother him, though. I'd expected him to be this way at Christmas.

I finished the packing and set about tidying the flat a bit, extinguishing the bedroom and kitchen fires, washing the breakfast dishes, stacking books and pricing charts neatly on the kitchen table. It was nearly eleven-thirty when George came back upstairs, red-faced and sullen. I glanced at him nervously.

"Well, then," He said, running his fingers through his hair. "We should get a move on. Mum was expecting us ten minutes ago."

"Right. Bags are in the bedroom." I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder, as if I really needed to illustrate the point. It was his bloody flat, too, for God's sake. I scratched the inside of my right elbow and followed him across the room.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, gazing absently into the room. I stood behind him and, as I was reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder, he seemed to come back to himself. My hand dropped, useless. He moved to lift one of the bags and slung it over his shoulder, and I reached out to take the other one, but he clasped my outstretched hand in his own before I could. He didn’t say anything, and neither did I. I just looked up at him and he looked out the window. I could hear the clock ticking in the other room.

Sometimes this happened. Sometimes he'd walk into a room or look at a photograph or stand in the middle of the joke shop storeroom and freeze for a minute. I think he was remembering the fact that Fred was gone because sometimes he'd start to look horribly sad. One time back in July just after we'd returned from our honeymoon, he'd actually cried silently, slumped against the shop's front door. I didn’t really know what to do in such situations. Usually I just let them happen because, even though Fred had been my best friend and George and I were married, I couldn’t imagine what it felt like for George. I guessed losing a twin was like losing part of you, maybe even the part you liked best. For a long time, I didn’t think I'd ever be able to look at George the same way without Fred by his side. I never told him, though. He probably felt so much worse than me, anyway, and I didn't want to make him feel even more awful on top of that.

We stood there for a long time, awkwardly hand in hand, not saying anything. He finally pulled me toward him and I wrapped my arms around his middle because most of the time, things like that were enough. God bloody well knows I didn't have a single word to say. Nothing would have been right. We both knew that.

"Well, we should really go." He said after what had to be five minutes.

I nodded against his chest and pulled away, not before he'd taken a bit of my hair in his hands and let it slide out from between his fingers. That's when I knew he'd be okay for a little while, at least.

We left the flat and strolled down Diagon Alley, holding hands like young married couples are wont to do. There were hardly any people around because it was the day before Christmas Eve and most were at home doing whatever it is that people are supposed to do before Christmas. The Leaky Cauldron was even emptier.

"Tom?" George called out once we were inside. The hunchbacked barman looked up from his battered copy of the Daily Prophet.

"Ah, Mr. George! Happy Christmas to you!"

"Happy Christmas," George said shortly. His hand tightened around mine a bit even though I knew he liked Tom quite a lot. For all his rotten teeth and crooked spine, he really was a nice little man who liked to give us free drinks. "Can we use your fire?"

"Ah, home for the holidays, is it? Certainly, certainly!"

We proceeded around mismatched tables and stools toward the fire and Tom met us there with his bowl of Floo Powder. George pushed me forward first. I took my fistful of powder and stepped close enough to the flames to feel their heat.

"Don't follow too close behind." I said shakily over my shoulder to him. It was one of my biggest secret fears to stumble out of some stranger's fireplace somewhere in Romania or wherever, and according to stories I'd heard, someone following too close could make you do just that.

"I won't." George actually smiled.

"The Burrow!" I shouted, throwing down my Floo Powder and leaping into the green flames that sprang up as a result. There were a few seconds of bouncing aimlessly through heat and dust, several blurred images of Floo Network fireplaces that I saw from behind tightly clenched eyelids, and then the eagerly welcomed feeling of standing firmly on solid ground. I opened my eyes completely.

The kitchen at the Burrow was empty. I could hear the muffled voice of Celestina Warbeck coming from the living room, but there was nothing else. I briefly feared that maybe I'd gotten knocked off course after all, but George came spinning out of the fireplace behind me less than a minute later. He stood next to me and brushed the soot off his clothing, clearly unaffected by the serious lack of a bustling ginger woman and the nonexistent sounds of chopping knives and stirring pots. I couldn’t think of a time when I'd arrived and not had delicious home-cooked meals practically shoved down my throat by my mother-in-law.

George took my hand, ignored my bewildered expression, and tugged me behind him into the living room.

For a moment, I couldn’t bring myself to speak. There were people everywhere, and the atmosphere very closely resembled Christmases past, with everyone gathered around the fire. But there were no games of exploding snap or talk about the current state of the world like there would have been two years previous. It was like everyone had fallen asleep with their eyes open.

Ginny and Harry – who I'd recently found out were dating again – were sitting hand in hand by the fire. Ron and Hermione – also dating – were sitting close to them. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley sat in their respective armchairs on the far side of the room, both clutching glasses of eggnog which were nearly empty. Bill and Fleur occupied the couch with Charlie, and Percy sat on the floor against the nearest wall, his horn rimmed glasses white in the firelight. They all collectively looked up when George and I entered, but there was a minute or two of unmoving silence in which we all simply stared at each other. I hardly dared to breathe.

"George." Mrs. Weasley finally said, her voice feeble. She heaved herself out of her chair and moved toward us, her arms outstretched. George let go of my hand and bent over slightly so that his mother could throw her arms around his neck, which was normally quite far out of her reach. He hugged her back.

"George, oh, George." Mrs. Weasley kept saying, until she released him and held him at arm's length. I waited for the usual comment about how thin he was, but it never came.

"Lacey, dear. How are you?" She turned to me and hugged me tightly.

"I'm fine, thank you." I said into her shoulder, not bothering to return the question for fear of her snapping and bursting into a fit of sobs. Her chin was already trembling.

"Well," She said, stepping back and smoothing a hand over her hair. "Well, I'd better get supper on the table. After all, it is almost Christmas and everyone has come all this way…" She murmured absently to herself all the way into the kitchen.

There was a round of tense hellos, then George and I made our way up the stairs to deposit our things in the bedroom he used to share with Fred. Much like the first day after Fred's death, I half expected him to not want to go in, but he fearlessly pushed open the door and stepped inside. I followed close behind.

"That wasn't excruciating in the slightest." He said dryly, dropping the bag he was carrying onto his bed. I saw him glance over at Fred's side of the room. His eyes lingered there for an imperceptible amount of time and then he was looking down at the floor again.

"It's very strange." I said quietly. George stared at me.

"Yeah." He said, sighing and sinking down until he sat on the edge of the mattress. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Yeah, it's weird. It's because Fred's not here."

"I know." I sat beside him. He put a heavy arm around my shoulders and left it there, pressing me into his side with the weight of it. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too."

We unpacked our things and went back downstairs, where we sat with Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Ginny. They all looked equally as strained and sad as I felt. Ron patted my knee, which he did a lot now since he'd become my brother-in-law. I squeezed his wrist.

"Hi." He said, nodding at George and I.

"Hi." We replied in unison. Ginny and Hermione smiled at me. Harry nodded.

"How is everyone?" I asked in a voice that was hardly above a whisper.

"Sick of the quiet." Ginny hissed, glaring around the room at no one in particular. "It's driving me mad. You two were the first ones to say bloody anything for hours. It's been awful. I should've stayed at Hogwarts." She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Let's go for a walk." Ron suggested, and none of us really had to agree to it. We all simply stood and walked out, passing Mrs. Weasley's disorganized mess in the kitchen. I wasn't even sure she'd seen us go.

Once we were out in the orchard, we stopped, collectively sighing and breathing in the air that was actually quite balmy for December. George picked up a withered apple from the ankle-deep grass and tossed it into the air a few times.

"So, really," He said, catching the apple a final time and throwing it against a tree trunk hard enough that it shattered into pulpy, brown pieces. "How is everyone, now that we're out of earshot and no one will burst into tears at honest talk?"

"Bloody awful." Ron said with a sigh. He flopped down onto the grass and the rest of us followed suit, settling into more relaxed positions than we had in the house.

"Don't hold back, now, Ron." George grinned.

"Blimey, George, Mum's been a mess." Ginny said, leaning slightly into Harry. Ron nodded.

"She's been crying for days. She was fine until Ginny came home for Holiday. Then she started forgetting to cook and staring at that bloody clock she's got." He said, jerking his head back toward the house.

He meant the clock in the kitchen with the Weasley family's faces for hands. Fred's picture had simply disappeared, leaving only an empty frame on the end of an immobile hand shaped like a teaspoon. The worst part: the hand had frozen on 'mortal peril', stopped in the last moment before Fred's death. I hated that clock. I wouldn’t be able to look at it every day without wanting to set fire to it. It was a wonder Ron or Ginny hadn’t done it yet.

"I just feel so awful." Hermione said, shaking her head sadly. "I can't imagine what she must be feeling."

"I can." George said grimly, and he and Ron looked at the ground. The conversation stopped for a minute.

"How are you, Harry?" I said, reaching for George's hand.

"Fine," He said with a shrug. "I'm enjoying the vacation, you know? With Voldemort gone, and all." He smiled and the rest of us laughed quietly, gingerly dancing around the subject and going silent again.

After what seemed like forever of silence in the presence of my friends, I flopped back against the ground with a heavy sigh.

"I hope it's not like this forever." I said, "Silent and awkward and everything. I think Fred would kill us."

"He probably would." George agreed with a sad smile. "He'd probably bloody hate us all for the way we're acting."

"It's his own bloody fault." Ron said bitterly. "He's the one that's not bloody here."

"Oh, it’s not his fault, Ron." Hermione corrected gently.

"I know. But he's my brother. It's easier to blame him."

"Let's play Quidditch." I suggested quickly, and was surprised when Harry automatically agreed with me even though I probably shouldn’t have been. For one thing, he was the best Quidditch player anyone had seen in a long time and passing up a game would be a little out of character. For another, he was a bit of an outsider. While not an official member of the Weasley family, he was close enough to them to know how sad everyone was, but still not close enough to be included. If I wasn’t in the same situation, I was in one very similar.

We all filed to the broom closet and then back out into the orchard where we split into teams and flew into the air just below the tree line. George flew close and leaned in to kiss me, then flew off again to his end of our makeshift pitch.

For a while, things felt normal, and that was okay. I even saw George laughing and looking like his old self once or twice. I hoped the good moods would last longer than the Quidditch game.

We were getting massacred already, 90-10.