And all I’d wanted to do was save him. It was like nothing, everything, something was gone, and it was all my fault. If I’d have gone with him, if I’d have been there, it would have been okay, it would have been better.
If I had been there, Fred Weasley would not be dead.
It’s like... my other half is gone - literally speaking, since twins really are two of a kind. There are two to a duo, and now... I’m solo. Who would have thought? It never even crossed my mind what life would be like without Fred. I never thought it because, really, Fred is me, and I need him to be there for me. He’s my shoulder, my foundation, and without him, I come crumbling down.
It’s so strange when someone you know dies. It’s so different than just hearing about it. You may know what I’m talking about; the heart-wrenching grief, denial, chronic depression. It’s all real to me now.
I’ve never been just a normal guy twin-less, but now I have to be. I have to get over his death and I have to be strong, because if I’m not strong, he’ll forget about me wherever he is, and I can’t be forgotten. Especially by myself.
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He stood there, unmoving, blinking in the light of the sun. It was ironic, really, how the sun shone so bright. I wish I could have stolen the sun for that day, so it would fit the mood, but I couldn’t. And it hurt.
It hurt so badly to see him like that, pretending to be okay. It was hopeless, really. Everyone could see it; it was in his eyes. They could all see the pain in him, how he was crippled now without me. I watched horribly as emotions flickered across his face. Pain. Horror. Sorrow. Betrayal. I didn’t mean to have it happen this way, if that helps. I meant to be with him all of his days and I meant to always be there for him, the way he was for me.
He hasn’t shifted, not daring to move in fear I might curse him or something. But I couldn’t now, could I? And I wouldn’t either; I would never curse my own brother.
It was paining him, I could tell. The way I’d left him, he thought I’d meant to. But I didn’t. I wish I hadn’t; I wish I had never left him alone in the shop that day. But I’m glad too. He thinks that if he was there, he could have stopped it. The way I see it, I should have stayed there, because if he had come, we would both be here. Gone. “In a better place.” I can’t think the words to myself “ how sad is that? It’s hard to imagine that now I’m just... gone. It seems like only yesterday we had gotten a hold of Mum’s wand and had changed Ron’s teddy bear into a spider. Man that was the best. (Ron probably didn’t appreciate it, but it was fun nevertheless.)
Oh, and when we finally left Hogwarts! That was a glorious moment, my friend, it was. I’d sell my broom to see Umbridge’s face again; it was brilliant. The swamp, the fireworks, oh, the sweet memories!
All of our pranks, all of our escapades…I wouldn’t trade them for the world. They are what I remember most and what George will remember most.
He thinks I’m gone. He thinks I’ve deserted him, but I haven’t really. See, if I had, then there would be no memories. If I had deserted him, I would have left him cruel and a more bitter man. But no, he’s got memories of me, and all the strength I had. And besides, I’m not really gone. I’m just invisible.
~*~*~
No one could see Fred Weasley that day. Well, obviously, they saw him, his body and his coffin, but they really didn’t see him. He was just a world away, in a dimension they couldn’t see but he could see them, floating just above everyone’s heads.
He had his legs crossed (he was floating, see) and was resting his chin in his hand, elbow on his knee. There were people here at his funeral that he would never have imagined would come. Percy was the first person he noticed.
Isn’t it interesting how just one death can fix everything? The broken promises, horrible mistakes, and misled loyalties can all be fixed with a common bond, a common loss. It’s sad how that loss had to be one so great.
It wasn’t that Fred hated his studious brother. On the contrary, he had a secret admiration for him; the way Percy could control a situation, the way he went through with his decisions and actions, the way he was so determined, helpful and resourceful. Yet, because of that determination, because of that stubbornness, was the reason for Fred’s surprise.
Percy had, during Fred’s life, gone from brother to friend to victim to prefect to Big Head Boy to traitor. It had seemed during his life inconceivable that he might once again be part of their happy family. Fred didn’t feel anything against him now; feelings like that didn’t matter much. All the resentment, the rage “ it was all gone. He didn’t care when Percy embraced their father. In fact, he merely wished that he could join them.
It’s sad that when you’re dead, everything makes sense. You finally realize all the people who helped you and you didn’t know, but now all you need is one thing. Forgiveness.
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He shifted to his other arm, turning away from the scene of his father and brother. It was almost too much. Almost.
He found himself facing another unexpected face. It was Severus Snape, the Potions Master at Hogwarts. Fred floated over next to him; he was now at his, Fred’s, coffin. Fred watched him carefully and was surprised to see sorrow in his eyes.
Professor Snape was always an interesting character to Fred. Like Percy, he held quiet admiration at the strength Snape held and was always pleased with himself whenever he caught the professor off-guard, the traces of a smile on his lips. He knew he liked Fred and George; they were potion masterminds. Sure, they abused this fact many, many times, but they were still geniuses. Sometimes in class they would turn in a potion more complicated than the one asked for and even though outwardly he appeared annoyed, they knew he was pleased. Proud, almost.
Fred watched as Snape placed a used dung bomb in the coffin. Fred couldn’t help but break out into a smile. Maybe Snape knew the students better than they thought.
It wasn’t fair. Practically every student of his left Hogwarts thinking he was a greasy git, but again, that image is overrated. He cared; he was human, after all. Too many people had overlooked that fact and promptly labeled him as The Evil Teacher.
Fred looked at the professor’s now empty hands. They were shaking and Fred wished that he could read the turmoil going on inside the man’s head. He watched him turn away and walk from the funeral home, his cloak swishing at his feet as he Disapperated.
It was one of the other things that could only be comprehended with death. Understanding.
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He looked around, finally deciding to take in his surroundings. They were nice; George had obviously used much of their now-acquired money. He noticed a rather striking painting in the back and floated over to it.
Godric Gryffindor. They say he was the bravest, most noble man to have ever lived. Fred knew this painting well. He’d spent many a night staring at the man’s kind eyes, roguish face, and collected air. It was the painting from above the fireplace mantel in the Gryffindor common room.
Way back when, during his first year, Fred had first thought it was a painting of Merlin himself. After saying it out loud though, Percy corrected him. He still looked upon it with awe, wondering how a man could do so much in his lifetime.
He built Hogwarts. He guaranteed generations upon generations of Witches and Wizards an education into their abilities. He promised homes for some, families for others. How?
Fred didn’t know how he did it. How he met the other founders, how they got the idea to do such an enormously amazing thing. It was something he found himself striving for, asking for. It seemed out of character that he, Fred Weasley, prank master, would be introspective, but whenever he couldn’t sleep; his feet somehow brought him back to the common room, staring up at that picture.
It wasn’t a magical portrait either. From what Fred had gathered, it was done by a Muggle whom Godric befriended. The lack of motion might have made it that much more mysterious to him. The way the artist brought so much expression, so much emotion into it was amazing. And yet, even though it was a Muggle portrait, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe it was somewhat magical.
Whenever he and his brother would return from a prank, he felt the eyes of Gryffindor contained disappointment and Fred would avert his gaze as they went up to their dormitory. Whenever he was sad, the painting showed pity, remorse. But the best “look” Fred always thought was that of after a Quidditch match they had won. Pride.
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Fred slowly went down to the ground. Now, for him, it seemed that he was standing with everyone else. It might have been more believable if his coffin wasn’t in the room with him though.
He wandered through the crowd, seeing the faces. He came upon the person he was most anxious to see that even George seconded to.
Angelina stood off to the side, a far-off, empty look in her eyes. Fred cringed; he hated knowing he had done this. He reached forward and tried to grab her hand, tried to show her that he was there, but he passed right through her. The effect on her was worse than he could bear.
She closed her eyes as a tear fell down her cheek. Fred longed to be able to reach forward and wipe it away, to protect her from this awful, claiming, destructive world, but he couldn’t. She opened her eyes, and a torrent of tears started falling now.
It seemed like only moments ago he had her in his arms, the sweet scent of her filling him. Her laugh was like a river, sometimes just flowing naturally, and sometimes overflowing with happiness and amusement. He loved to make her laugh.
Angelina was beautiful. He had always thought it and always would. Her dark, thick hair, her chocolate eyes, her Quidditch trained body; he felt his heart ache. The moments with her were precious, as were all moments now. He heard her half sigh, half sob quietly “Oh, Fred” and his heart gave another tug, another push, wishing to be freed from the confines of his chest and crush itself for hurting her.
He watched her take a daisy out of a large, extravagant flower arrangement. An ordinary daisy next to other flowers much more enticing, but still he thought the daisy looked best in its casualness, in its being so ordinary. He walked side-by-side with her as she placed the daisy in the coffin too, next to the dung bomb. “I love you,” she whispered so only he and she heard it, but it was enough. Neither of them had said it during their time together for fear of rejection, fear of moving too quickly, and fear of them being too young. But now, as he left her side, unwilling to shed tears, he needed it. Love.
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Once he had left Angelina’s side, Fred finally noticed how few people there were left. Angelina had collapsed into a chair on the side, sobs echoing through her and George stood next to the Godric Gryffindor painting, barely blinking. The room seemed so much bigger now with so few people, and yet his gaze still passed over one person.
He did a double take. Why, of all people, would she be here? He watched her come towards his coffin, like so many others. Luna Lovegood, with wavy blonde hair and questionable oddities growing in her mind, stood now in front of his coffin, alone.
What was interesting about her was that in her eyes, in her stature, she carried no expression of sorrow or loss. He wasn’t expecting her to, seeing as he barely knew her, but he still felt a bit put-out that she didn’t care.
Her cloak bore no pocket, and she held nothing, so he assumed she wasn’t there to leave another memorable thing with him. He watched her note the dung bomb and flower and then, in shock, he watched her smile. In her usual quiet, dazed voice, she said, “I leave you nothing but words.”
Fred looked around. Neither Angelina nor George had noticed the girl talking to his body. He turned to her again as she continued speaking. “It’s quite sad, really, how someone like you was taken. Still, it seems that I’m the only one who thinks it’s okay.
“You must be somewhere new or experiencing something wonderful and enlightening, probably. I can only guess. Still, if you were here, I bet it’d be nice to know so many people care. You never really know who really truly cared about you until it’s too late. I think life has a funny sense of irony about that, don’t you?”
Personally, Fred had thought it was one of the more bitter aspects, but continued listening. “Life is too short. You don’t get to know half the people you wish you could and the other half wish they knew you. Well, it’s okay though. Because the way I see it, you’re not really gone. Death is just the next greatest adventure, they say, and I hope you’ll be as colorful a character as you were in life, Fred Weasley.”
She left him with a sense of something he hadn’t yet known during his time being dead. All the information was like a closing, a parting, and he indeed felt enlightened. As he felt something pulling him away to another place, he smiled. All the bits and pieces came together, and now he could only feel one thing.
Peace.