Molly Weasley stood at her kitchen sink, elbow deep in cold, sudsy water. Her bloodshot eyes stared blankly ahead and the pot she was scrubbing was already spotless to a fault. She wore clean black robes, new and neat looking, but her attention was not on her clothing. Her thoughts ran around in circles and she felt dizzy with exhaustion and sorrow. Her house was quiet – a rare occurrence, especially for the Weasleys. But who could blame the silent inhabitants? Their loss was one that could not be healed over time. Of all her children: Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, Ron and Ginny, George was the one she couldn’t have imagined dying. She had found, though, that life had an unpleasant way of doing exactly what you wouldn’t expect. Her poor George. She had never really praised him or Fred for the work they did. They had been so successful in making friends and in setting up jokes and pranks. Even their shop had been doing so well… before. Fred had closed the shop now; he couldn’t cope with it on his own.

She had never told George how much she loved him, how proud he made her. All these things added up to the burden of guilt which already weighed down on her tired shoulders.

If only I had a little longer with him,she thought sadly. Just one more minute, to say goodbye.

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Arthur Weasley sat, stony-faced, facing the Minister for Magic. The man across from him refused to meet his eyes but kept shuffling papers on his desk, looking uncomfortable.

“Arthur,� he began after a moment. Mr Weasley turned a frosty stare on him. “Arthur, I’m very sorry for your loss. My deepest sympathies to you and your wife. If you would like an escort of Ministry officials for this afternoon, I could always arrange –� Mr Weasley cut him off with a curt shake of his head.

“Thank you, Minister, but no. The funeral will be a quiet affair, friends and family only.� Rufus Scrimgeour frowned slightly at this but Arthur ignored him. An awkward silence followed, in which Mr Weasley looked pointedly at the ground. Then Scrimgeour cleared his throat.

“Arthur, I can’t change what happened to Geoffrey –�

“–George–,� Mr Weasley interrupted, suddenly looking angry.

“– yes, George,� Scrimgeour continued hurriedly. “But I want to help. The Ministry wants to help. Give us a chance. We can make things easier on you and your family. I want you to take up a new job, in another office – a more important one.� He stopped once again at the look on Arthur’s face.

“Again, thank you, Minister, but no,� Mr Weasley said, cool once again. “As you rightly said, nothing you can do can help, or change, what happened. No amount of money can buy George back so I think I’ll stay where I am.� Half rising out of his seat, he added; “Now if you’ll excuse me, Minister, I must be on my way.� Scrimgeour nodded and Arthur departed, feeling slightly sick. He walked quickly down the hall and turned into a smaller corridor where he stopped, leaning his head tiredly against the cool wall. He didn’t know why he had refused the job. As welcome as promotions were, work was suddenly unimportant. He thought back to Fred and George in their Hogwarts days. They had always said they didn’t care about their exams. All they had wanted to do was have fun, play jokes, and later set up a joke shop. Arthur had never thought George had much determination. His son had sailed through school with a minimum amount of marks and more trouble than anyone else in the family, except maybe Fred. If he were honest with himself, Arthur would say that he hadn’t felt that the twins would get very far. He thought, even during the war, that they would be hanging back, still fighting, but out of harms way. No– he hadn’t thought; he had hoped.

George had proved him wrong. Mr Weasley had seen his son running to help Harry; he just hadn’t connected anything to it. He hadn’t expected it to be the last time he would see George alive. He had always considered George to be the one whose life would be fun and full, if not exactly successful.

I wish I had a little more time, he thought miserably. Just one more minute, to say I believe in you.
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Harry Potter strolled through the high grass of the Weasley’s back garden. It seemed like almost yesterday when he, Ron, Fred and George had been out there, tossing gnomes over the hedge. He grinned, and then stopped. It wasn’t a time to be smiling. George’s funeral would be later that day; he had just a few precious hours to get his head together. The Weasleys had insisted he stay with them, even during their time of suffering and loss. He felt uncomfortable. He and Hermione were strangers once again, intruders on the family grief, just as before. Not even Ron was good to talk to. And Fred – Harry could hardly look Fred in the eye anymore, not without knowing the pain he had caused him. He had destroyed the happy family, all because he hadn’t been able to hold off a few Death Eaters. George had come running to his aid, right into the lion’s den to help him, and George was the one who hadn’t come out alive. It was supposed to have been Harry, The Boy Who Lived, and the Chosen One who was to carry out the prophecy. Harry had never expected to come out alive. He had thought that the battle was going to kill him, whether or not Voldemort died too. George had been his friend and the brother of his best friend, not one Voldemort and his cronies would have known. Harry was the one who should have died, not George.

If only I had a little more time, he thought regretfully. Just one more minute, to say thanks.

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Percy Weasley paced his office anxiously. Every few seconds he would check his watch, but time seemed to have stopped. George’s funeral was in a few hours and he didn’t know what to do. He wanted to be there, to say goodbye to his brother, but he was afraid. There, he had said it. He was scared of what his family would say to him. He had abandoned them, left them in the time he was most needed and now he couldn’t go back. He had made an effort to be forgiven, that day at Christmas, but he had been rejected, turned away by Ginny, Fred and George, the ones who had probably been the most bitter when he had stormed out more than a year earlier. He hadn’t gotten a chance to explain, to apologise– not to George anyway. Ginny had forgiven and forgotten already, it appeared, but Fred was still sour. Percy didn’t blame him. He had known his family would never be as warm to him. He had apologised to Harry too, for all the things he had done or hadn’t done. Harry was the only one torturing himself as much as Percy was. Pecy scowled suddenly. Before George’s death, his work had been everything to him. Turning away from his friends and family had left him alone and struggling. Now, he had quit the job he had worked so hard to achieve and started work at St Mungo’s as part of the support staff. He was doing something good, putting his life back on track. Percy sighed and stopped his continuous steps across the room. He wished with all his heart he could talk to George. That was the only wrong left to right, or the most important one at least.

I just needed a little more time, he thought guiltily. Just one more minute, to say I’m sorry.

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Hermione Granger sat in the Weasley’s sitting room, Crookshanks on her knee. Her hand rubbed his head almost mechanically and certainly without thought. A vigorous fire lit the grate and shadows danced in the furthest corners of the room. Despite the heat from the blaze, the room remained cold and lifeless. Crookshanks stretched and slowly kneaded her leg with his claws, his yellow eyes reflecting the flickering light from the flames. Hermione stared into the fire, not really seeing it. She had sat in this same room many times before but now she wasn’t sure whether she was in the right place. The house was as cold as this room, the only thing colder being the sheets of ice that wrapped themselves around her heart. She forced herself to delve into her whirling mind, trying frantically to sort it out. Memories blended so easily with her present thoughts that it was hard to separate on from the other. She purposefully tried to remember everything about George, but his face was fading already. She remembered in her fifth year, and in his seventh, when Dolores Umbridge had tried to take control of the school. The memory still brought an unwilling smile to her lips. The twins had defied her, and the Ministry, and run away to set up a joke shop. A part of the pond they had left was still in the corridor; no one had tried to remove it. She remembered when they had given Harry the Marauders map in his third year, and when Ron had been made prefect, how she herself had actually managed to frighten them by telling them she would tell their mother. She laughed at that. It was hard to make either of the twins see sense in anything, but once they saw the sense, they would stick to it. She still wished she could talk to the two again. She wanted to reminisce with the others about the fun times they had experienced, in Hogwarts or out of it. George had been a good friend, almost a brother, and she didn’t like the weight she felt at having to go see him being covered with piles of earth.

I really wish we had more time, she thought wistfully. Just one more minute, to tell you how much you mean to me.

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Ron Weasley lay on his bed, staring at the wall. The Chudley Canon wallpaper was peeling and faded, exposing a lot of the grey concrete beneath. Pigwidgeon hooted sleepily from his place on the window. His cage badly needed a cleaning but Ron wasn’t bothered. He couldn’t be bothered doing anything, really. All his life, he had felt overshadowed by his older brothers. At times, he had almost wished they didn’t exist. How much easier it would have been, if they had never lived. Then they couldn’t have died.

Ron had always wanted attention for being himself. He had wanted to stand alone in the spotlight. Like in the Mirror of Erised. He had wanted them to be gone, but not to be dead. If he had ever wished that fate upon them, he silently begged their forgiveness, cursing himself for his own selfishness. He didn’t want them dead. None of them. Not even Percy. The loss, the misery, the denial of the truth. These were all familiar now. His family felt them, his friends felt them, and he felt them. He had survived the reign of the most feared wizard in existence. He had fought his followers. He still lived, despite the pain and suffering that had been inflicted upon him. And now, he was falling apart. George was dead. Gone. Never coming back. He would never speak with him again; he would never hear his voice, or see his face. Oh, but he would. He saw it every day in Fred’s. That only made the pain worse. How horrible Fred must feel, every time he looked in the mirror, only to see his dead twin grinning back at him. Ron found it bad enough. He had always been angry at George and Fred. Whether it was tricking him into eating awful sweets, or playing jokes on him, or teasing and humiliating him in front of other people, or tormenting him about being a Prefect, he had always felt a kind of sourness against them. Older brothers, pains to the end. But the end had come. They hadn’t been a pain then. They had been fighting, at his side, protecting him, his family, his friends, everyone around them. Only they had forgotten themselves. In the rush of adrenaline they had all felt during the battle, they had run blindly into danger. That was what made him the angriest at them. George had run after Harry, having known about the danger, having already figured out their percentage chance of finishing the battle alive. Anger flared up inside him again as Ron thought about his brother’s sacrifice, only to be extinguished by the deep undercurrent of sadness. The rage evaporated. He was left horribly empty. He found he wanted to be angry, wanted something to fill that space that George had left, that vulnerable spot where he was most likely to be hit.

I wish we had some more time, he thought helplessly. Just one more minute, to say I forgive you.

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The funeral was a quiet affair, as Arthur had said it would be. The family sat in the front row with Harry and Hermione beside them. The few remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix huddled in the second row, their heads bowed in respect. Other friends and relations filled the last three rows of chairs, which were set up in the graveyard. It was an open funeral, with just a small stand at the front where people would address the gathering. Remus Lupin limped up to say a few words on behalf of the Order. Molly sobbed quietly in her seat beside her husband, who had his arm around her, his own face scrunched up as though he found the weak winters light blinding. Ron’s eyes were red and tears streamed down Ginny’s face. Fred was staring stonily at the horizon while Percy’s expression was one of grief and misery. Charlie cried openly and Bill put his arm around Ginny’s trembling shoulders. Harry and Hermione looked miserable, expressions of greatest sadness on their faces, which still showed signs of tears shed earlier. Several different people got up to speak, the last being Lee Jordan. His invitation to the funeral had been one of the first to be sent out. Already he had expressed his grief and sympathy to the family but had also asked to be allowed a short speech at the end. He now stood at the microphone, a scrap of paper in his hand, and a sad, unsure smile playing on his lips.

“Hi,� he began. His voice was low and strained, as though he was having difficulty getting the words out. “I’m Lee Jordan, and I knew George while he was at Hogwarts.� He stopped to clear his throat awkwardly. The crowd waited in respectful silence. “George was a good friend. He –� Lee stopped again, looking a little lost, as though he didn’t know why he was standing in front of everybody. “– I – I don’t really know what to say,� he struggled hoarsely, looking around helplessly. Then, he felt he had to say something. He glanced at his scrap of paper. Useless. Written words. They didn’t mean anything. Finally he began to talk, his desperate attempts for people to understand him making him speak quickly, fumbling with the words. “At a funeral once I heard someone speak of how kind and good-hearted the dead person was and, well, having known this person, I didn’t think the words fit well with him. Don’t get me wrong, he was a good person… but those weren’t the words I would use to describe him.� His voice strengthened as a look of understanding spread across Harry’s face.

“George – George lived life to the fullest, did whatever he felt like doing and was always in a cauldron full of trouble.� There was a general murmuring of appreciation and a few people chuckled. “George was someone who could have made the Bloody Baron laugh if he had put his mind to it. He stood up for us, through thick and thin, from sneaking food into the Gryffindor common room after Quidditch matches to setting fireworks loose to Dolores Umbridge’s great annoyance.� This time everyone laughed. Lee grinned. “One of his best moments, I’m sure. But– George was strong, brave and, well, a true Gryffindor to heart, to say the least. So Mr and Mrs Weasley, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Ron, Ginny and Fred, I’m terribly sorry for your loss.� His voice took on a serious note and this time his smile was miserable. “We will all miss George, whatever our reason. Mine will be that I am being denied the company of a very good friend. George,� he said to the open grave before him. “I wish you were here to share this day with us. Hopefully where ever you are you’ll find what you want, even if we need you more here.� His voice cracked and he managed a muttered, “Thanks,� before he returned to his seat, wiping his eyes furiously. The crowd clapped quietly and slowly, one by one, began to form a long line all the way up to the Weasley family to offer condolences. There was Lupin, Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Mad-eye Moody, Professor McGonagall, Flitwick and Hagrid, Angelina Johnston, Alicia Spinnet, Katie Bell and Oliver Wood. Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas. The list went on and on. Lee Jordan was last, still scrubbing at his face. He just shook their hands and rushed away. Then the family stood up, Harry and Hermione also presenting sympathies. The gathering left; the funeral was over.

Only two remained. The man who was going to place the mound of earth in the grave, and the deceased’s twin. The man left after a moment as the clouds gave way to their sadness and rain poured down on the small graveyard, as though the skies themselves were crying.

________________________________________________________________________

Fred Weasley stood facing his brother’s grave, ignoring the ice-cold rain that ran down his face, dripping from his red hair and trickling down the back of his neck. He wished he hadn’t come to the funeral. It would have been better to stay away. He wouldn’t have had to look all those people in the eye as they told him how sorry they were for his loss. His loss. He wasn’t the one that had died. He hadn’t run to save Harry. He hadn’t taken on those Death Eaters. He hadn’t been hit in the chest the Killing Curse. He had just stood and watched as his brother’s legs buckled, as his knees hit the ground, as his blank eyes stared up at the skies as though asking ‘why?’ Fred didn’t know why. He was still trying to figure it out.

He stared down at the dark coffin that held his brother’s body. An oak tree sheltered the grave so no rain reached the wood. Fred didn’t want to stand in the shade. He didn’t want to be protected anymore. He didn’t want to stand by and watch everyone else die. But what else could he do?

He wanted to talk to his brother. He wanted to discuss the shop, the family, Hogwarts, anything; anything except death. Fred didn’t believe in fate or prophecies. His brother hadn’t either. Which made Fred believe that nothing him, or anyone else, could have done would make a difference. Therefore, he didn’t hold grudges against Harry; Harry hadn’t asked for George to go help him. He wasn’t angry with Percy; Percy couldn’t have saved his brother even if they had been talking.

“Are you trying to drown yourself?� a voice said from behind him. He jumped and spun around to find Hermione watching him. She wasn’t wearing a coat either and didn’t seem to care about the water that was already catching in her bushy hair.

“I was thinking about it,� he replied, turning back to the grave. She smiled sadly, sighed, and came to join him. They stood in silence for a moment.

“Are you okay?� she asked. “I noticed you didn’t say much at the funeral.� Funeral. How he hated that word. A feeling of nausea and dread settled in the pit of his stomach at the sound of it.

“I’m fine,� he said in a strangled voice. “Just … tired.� She nodded.

“I just came back to tell you your mum’s looking for you. She’s getting worried.� The way she looked at him told him Mrs Weasley wasn’t the only one concerned.

“I’m fine,� he assured her again. “Tell them I’ll be back in a moment.� Hermione nodded again before looking back at the grave.

“Just one more minute,� she said softly, more to herself than to him. Abruptly she smiled and patted his arm before disappearing with a sharp ‘crack’. Fred gazed at the spot where she had been for a few minutes. He glanced back at the grave.

“I often think I would take anyone’s offer if they said I would be able to talk to you,� he said aloud, his voice hoarse but devoid of any emotion. “But now I realise that just one more minute … no, that wouldn’t be enough time to say all the things I want to tell you.�

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AN: Hope you enjoyed this story and thanks a million to my wonderful beat, the fabulous Hatusu! Thank you!!! ;)