The little boy opened the door abruptly and climbed the stairs leading to the attic. When he reached the top, he paused to look around and narrowed his eyes. It was dark in the room and he couldn’t see a thing. He stomped his feet on the hard wood floor, put his hand on the stairs ramp and called out with an impatient voice, “Dad! Are you coming?”
“Don’t yell like that, I’m right behind you,” a male voice answered him. George Weasley appeared at his son’s side a moment later, holding his own wand in his right hand. He lit it and pointed it in front of him. A few pieces of furniture lay around, along with old chests and cardboard boxes. He noticed the old armchair his mother had given to him when he had moved into this house five years ago. She had offered him many other useful things to furnish the rooms, but this chair was just a bit... worn. Plus, his wife didn’t really like it, so they had just tossed it aside and bought a new one to replace it.
He coughed a little, his throat a bit itchy. They didn’t come up here very often and the dust floating in the air reminded him of the little cleaning session he had promised to do a month ago. It hadn’t escaped his mind, just been pushed in a far corner where it couldn’t bother him.
“We’re never going to find them. It’s too dark!”
His son brought him back to their preoccupation, annoyance showing through his voice. George could feel him stamp with impatience beside him. He smiled as he recognised this personality trait he used to have as a child. He was always eager to discover new things, to plan a new prank with his brother or just to find an original way to annoy his younger siblings.
“Let me see,” George said. “I’m sure we’ve got an old oil lamp somewhere...”
He walked past his son to reach an old chest of drawers lying on the left side of the room. On top of it, he found the oil lamp hiding under a white table cloth. George pulled on it and realised too late he had just made a mistake. He immediately found himself surrounded by a cloud of dust. He sneezed a few times while trying to disperse the fine powder with his hand. He heard giggles coming from behind him.
“Now, now, what are you laughing at, Fred?” he asked, pretending to be offended.
The laughter stopped instantly. “Nothing, Dad. You just looked a bit funny.”
George turned around to watch him. The little red headed boy was looking at his hands sheepishly. His father smirked slightly and waited in silence until Fred raised reluctant eyes towards him. He simply winked, which made his son react.
“Dad!” he exclaimed. “That’s not fair. I thought you were really mad at me.”
“When am I mad at you, can you tell me that?”
Fred gave him an angelic smile.
“See!” George pointed out. “With that kind of behaviour, I could never hold anything against you. Now, come on, let’s try to light this lamp up.”
Fred rushed to his side. George waved his wand and a warm glow illuminated the attic. They both turned around to contemplate the room. More chairs, a bookshelf full of books and trinkets... and the chest they were looking for.
“Over there, son.” George pointed at the far end of the room and Fred ran and kneeled down in front of the piece of furniture.
“Are you sure it’s the right one?” he asked.
“Pretty sure,” George answered. He was pretty certain that all the old stuff he owned, whether it was related to his childhood and teenage years, or the few years before his marriage, had been stored in this chest. From the outside, it looked like any other chest, made out of oak wood, with carvings on the lid and a big metallic latch. But its contents were nothing ordinary. It was full of memories. He watched his son open it with excitement and rummage through the old clothes without approaching. He wanted him to make his own discoveries.
“Oh, it’s perfect!” Fred exclaimed suddenly, holding a long cloak in the air. “Oh, there’s a hat too! Dad, can I take them to make my costume?” He glanced at George in expectation.
George smiled. “Sure. Go show what you’ve found to your mum.”
And the boy rushed out of the room, leaving his father staring at the open chest. He stood there for a while, feeling an unexpected sensation of excitement rising in him. What else was in there exactly?
Before he knew it, he was plunging both hands through the remaining clothes. After a few moments of rummaging around, he reached what felt like the hard cover of a book. He took it out, as well as a metal box. He sat down on the floor and took a quick glance at the book. It was from a French author. George processed that information for a few seconds, searching through the sections of his past. The book, then the box... it could only be related to one specific period of his life. To one person in particular.
His excitement started to change into nervousness. If the box was there, it meant that he had in his possession an object far more important. He took his time, waiting until his heartbeat slowed down a bit, and took off the box’s lid. A pile of letters, a ticket for a play... and a necklace. He delicately lifted the silver chain in front of his face. The blue stone hanging on it slightly glowed in the pale light coming from the oil lamp. There it was. He hadn’t seen it in a long time.
Fight With Me by Viv
Story Notes:
This story will deal with sensitive subjects in future chapters. Please keep this in mind while reading. Thank you!
Chapter Notes: A big thank you goes to my beta Fresca/Colores!
Chapter Endnotes: Thank you for reading! Don't be shy to leave a review; constructive criticism is always appreciated!