Response to Challenge #179: The Circular Challenge
Title: The Blame Game
Characters: Fred and George Weasley
Rating: PG
Summary: After Dumbledore's funeral, the Weasley twins muse upon the role that they played in Dumbledore's death.
Note: This is my first time, be gentle! Took me half an hour exactly, and I don't think I rushed it too much.
"That," said George Weasley, "was absolutely horrible."
"Too right," replied his twin, Fred, dropping his black dragonskin jacket on the floor in the hallway of their flat. "I mean, did you see-" Fred trailed off. He had been about to crack a joke about the ugliness of the guests at their old headmaster's funeral, but George did not look in the mood for jokes. It was a rare time that either of the brothers were not in the mood for a joke, but twin telepathy was not necessary to deduce that this was such an occurrence.
Fred strode to the kitchenette and emerged with a large bottle of Firewhiskey and two glasses. "Sit yourself down, and we'll talk."
The twins flopped down on to some squashy, chintzy sofas. It was a high priority task to furnish the flat to their taste, but with so much work to so at Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, there was no time for interior design. Fred poured a healthy measure of spirit for himself, and an even larger one for his brother.
"To Dumbledore," he toasted, solemnly. George grunted in agreement. His eyes were wet. Fred felt a tug of shame: why was George so bereft at the loss of their headmaster while he, Fred, was not? After all, both had the same relationship with their headmaster: they had both been ticked off by him for a prank or two (though both suspected he had been secretly amused). They had both fought Voldemort under his command with the Order of the Phoenix. Fred had felt shaken by the loss, understood its enormity and felt sad about the death of one of the most decent wizards ever to live. But he had not cried and his twin was now weeping openly.
Fred topped up George's glass. He knew his brother better than anyone in the world and knew that once the drink had been drained, George would be willing to talk. Until that moment, he sat, awkwardly contemplating why George may be so affected by grief when he was not. Perhaps, Fred thought, it's me being an awful, cold person, and George is reacting like any normal human being.
"You're not being cold," George sniffed, draining his glass. Fred smiled. It wasn't exactly twin telepathy. Their minds just worked in exactly the same way. Usually, at any rate.
"What's up, then?"
George grabbed the bottle of Firewhisky and poured himself another glass. Fred's stomach dropped. Whatever was bothering George was big, bigger than he could have possibly imagined. Maybe George was in love with Dumbledore, Fred thought, then fought to stop himself cracking up at the idea.
"D'you think... maybe... it was our fault, wasn't it?" Fred sat up as though electrocuted. The thought had not even crossed his mind, but as George stammered it out, he realised exactly how much they had contributed to Dumbledore's death.
"I doubt it, mate," Fred said, though he was sure his twin would not believe it.
"Fred," George replied, his voice sounding slightly stronger, "I saw the look on your face. You feel it too."
George was correct. Fred's face crumpled, he did not even bother to hold back the tears as he felt a wash of guilt rushing over him, it was like drowning in ice cold water.
"Malfoy used our Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder," he said slowly, "to sneak the Death Eaters in." A long-forgotten memory of Hogwarts returned to his mind. "And Montague... the Vanishing Cabinet. If we hadn't... if we hadn't put him there then-"
"I know. It was... it was us."
Fred was never usually one for physical comfort, but at this time he needed it. Although he would never repeat this to anyone, he wished for that moment that their mother was their, to reassure them, to hold them, and to say it wasn't their fault. The next best thing was George. Fred moved to George's sofa, and wordlessly they embraced, sobbing. George's presence was comforting. He was warm and, most importantly, felt equally awful.
"Fred," George said, his voice muffled by Fred's armpit, "hramfffqueer."
"Eh?"
"Gerroff me, you queer," George clarified.
Fred produced a sound that was half sob, half laugh. The net result was a large amount of snot being liberally sprayed everywhere.
"Sorry," George said, "I just realised, while you were there, it wouldn't have made a blind bit of difference that we might have given Death Eaters a means to get in. It was Snape. Snape and Malfoy."
"But- Bill wouldn't be- if we-"
"Look," said George, sounding more convicted by the second, "they probably would have found a way. Dumbledore wouldn't want us sitting here looking like Moaning Myrtle, playing the blame game, would he? I don't know, I just suddenly felt that while you were huggling me like a big girl's blouse."
Fred felt the shame lift from his shoulders like a phoenix taking flight. Evil always found a way, it was true.
"What made you realise?"
"I don't know," George said bluntly, "I just felt it. I felt like I didn't need to cry or feel guilty, that it wasn't our fault. Must have been the Firewhisky."
Fred nodded. He suspected that his brother had actually felt comforted and was thoroughly unwilling to admit to it. Twin telepathy, maybe. He poured out two more glasses of Firewhisky.
"To Dumbledore," he toasted once again.
"Dumbledore," George agreed, "greatest wizard to ever have lived, no wonder the dark side wanted him dead."
Fred drained his glass. The fiery drink hit the back of his throat and caused him to choke slightly, driving snot out of his nose and liquor out of his mouth.
George laughed, still teary, and wiped his face.
"That," said George Weasley, "was absolutely horrible."