DH ficlet. SPOILERS
I'm really rusty (God, has it really been almost a year since I posted any fic?), but this has been rolling around in my head since I finished the book and I needed to get it out. So.
Title: That Most Lonely Thing
Rating: PG
Summary: Is it him? Or is it me?
Warnings: Angst
Disclaimer: Everything here belongs to other people, and I'm playing with it without their permission.
Author's Note: This is more or less a companion piece to my sadly prophetic And Let You Go.
George has few memories of the Battle of Hogwarts, but the ones he has are sharp.
He remembers the knot of excitement and nervous tension squeezing his heart as he hurried out of the Room of Requirement, surrounded by his brothers, his mother's frantic voice ringing in his ear.
He remembers marching toward the secret entrance on the third floor with a line of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws at his heels, their faces drawn and pale and their mouths set in grim determination.
He remembers looking over his shoulder just in time to see the back of Fred's head disappear around the corner, Percy in step beside him and another group of frightened students traipsing along behind.
He remembers he didn't say goodbye.
The actual battle went by in a blur. When George thinks about those moments, all he gets is a flood of sense memories: flashes of light, echoing screams, the smell of smoke, the taste of blood.
He didn't feel it when Fred fell.
He remembers the endless trek back to the Great Hall when the hostilities broke. His feet were heavy and his throat sore from the curses he'd shouted, but his hands were shaky with adrenaline. Bill was waiting for him by the huge double doors, and George knew at a glance something was terribly wrong.
"George," Bill croaked, grasping him by both shoulders. His scarred, grimy face was streaked with tears, and George could feel the blood draining from his cheeks.
"Who is it?" George said.
Bill shook his head.
"Who?" George demanded, heart pounding in his throat. Bill could not answer, and George pushed him roughly aside.
He remembers stopping short at his first sight of Fred, and the wave of terror that swept over him like cold fire. Which one of us is it? he thought wildly. Is it him, or is it me?
After that, he remembers almost nothing. Later he found himself kneeling by Fred's body, holding his twin's cold, dead hand in his own cold, dead hands. He doesn't know how he got there, and no one has ever told him. Percy sat beside them for a while without speaking, his hand resting lightly on George's shoulder. George supposes he could ask Percy what happened during those moments he can't recall, but he hates Percy now, not because he deserted the family but because he was with Fred when he died.
These days, George finds he can't sleep at night. Or rather, he can't be awake during the day. Mum sometimes tiptoes into his room in the late afternoon to check up on him, or to offer him some food, but he's always asleep on his good ear so he can't hear her whispering to him. He doesn't get out of bed until long after The Burrow is asleep, and then he wanders down to the sitting room to sit alone in the dark. He never lights the candles or casts Lumos, and over time his shins have become bruised from barking them against the furniture. He can live with it. It's better than taking a chance on catching sight of himself in the mirror by the door, and the sickening swoop of grief that accompanies it.
Is it him, or is it me?
He remembers he didn't say goodbye. It never occurred to him that he should.
Title: That Most Lonely Thing
Rating: PG
Summary: Is it him? Or is it me?
Warnings: Angst
Disclaimer: Everything here belongs to other people, and I'm playing with it without their permission.
Author's Note: This is more or less a companion piece to my sadly prophetic And Let You Go.
George has few memories of the Battle of Hogwarts, but the ones he has are sharp.
He remembers the knot of excitement and nervous tension squeezing his heart as he hurried out of the Room of Requirement, surrounded by his brothers, his mother's frantic voice ringing in his ear.
He remembers marching toward the secret entrance on the third floor with a line of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws at his heels, their faces drawn and pale and their mouths set in grim determination.
He remembers looking over his shoulder just in time to see the back of Fred's head disappear around the corner, Percy in step beside him and another group of frightened students traipsing along behind.
He remembers he didn't say goodbye.
The actual battle went by in a blur. When George thinks about those moments, all he gets is a flood of sense memories: flashes of light, echoing screams, the smell of smoke, the taste of blood.
He didn't feel it when Fred fell.
He remembers the endless trek back to the Great Hall when the hostilities broke. His feet were heavy and his throat sore from the curses he'd shouted, but his hands were shaky with adrenaline. Bill was waiting for him by the huge double doors, and George knew at a glance something was terribly wrong.
"George," Bill croaked, grasping him by both shoulders. His scarred, grimy face was streaked with tears, and George could feel the blood draining from his cheeks.
"Who is it?" George said.
Bill shook his head.
"Who?" George demanded, heart pounding in his throat. Bill could not answer, and George pushed him roughly aside.
He remembers stopping short at his first sight of Fred, and the wave of terror that swept over him like cold fire. Which one of us is it? he thought wildly. Is it him, or is it me?
After that, he remembers almost nothing. Later he found himself kneeling by Fred's body, holding his twin's cold, dead hand in his own cold, dead hands. He doesn't know how he got there, and no one has ever told him. Percy sat beside them for a while without speaking, his hand resting lightly on George's shoulder. George supposes he could ask Percy what happened during those moments he can't recall, but he hates Percy now, not because he deserted the family but because he was with Fred when he died.
These days, George finds he can't sleep at night. Or rather, he can't be awake during the day. Mum sometimes tiptoes into his room in the late afternoon to check up on him, or to offer him some food, but he's always asleep on his good ear so he can't hear her whispering to him. He doesn't get out of bed until long after The Burrow is asleep, and then he wanders down to the sitting room to sit alone in the dark. He never lights the candles or casts Lumos, and over time his shins have become bruised from barking them against the furniture. He can live with it. It's better than taking a chance on catching sight of himself in the mirror by the door, and the sickening swoop of grief that accompanies it.
Is it him, or is it me?
He remembers he didn't say goodbye. It never occurred to him that he should.