Gift Fic for Masteroftrouble
Title: Losing Lazarus
Author: ????
Recipient: masteroftrouble
Pairing(s): None; gen featuring George, Fred, and Draco.
Word Count: 1480~
Rating: G
Summary: George cannot shakes the feeling that the man he has just seen wandering about Knockturn Alley might just be Fred, and so he follows him.
Warnings: angst
A/N: masteroftrouble , I took one of your prompts out for a wander and this is what I came up with.
He sees Fred everywhere.
Or, at least, he did; at first.
Oh, there were the obvious occasions - looking in the mirror, for example, was hard after the war - but it was the times when George wasn't expecting it that it was the hardest.
Which is why he is now stumbling drunkenly down Knockturn Alley, following a man who, he swears on - well, his brother's grave - could be Fred.
Only it couldn't; it can't.
But George cannot shake the feeling that it just might be.
And so he follows him.
*
Everything around him is blurred now. It is dark; too dark and what little light there is appears smeared to him, like greasy fingerprints on glass.
“Fred,” he calls out. “Fred!”
There is no reply.
“Fred!”
He trips over his own feet and falls to his knees in the dirt. He claws at the ground, scrambles to an upright position and ploughs on until -
“Hello, Weasley.”
George shakes his head as though the sudden, jerking motion will clear his mind of all the clutter that resides within; as though things will sparkle with a heretofore unknown clarity and it will all make sense; everything.
“Weasley?” Draco asks. He extends a hand and, in an uncharacteristic gesture of concern, places it on George's shoulder. George shrinks from the touch.
“Where'd he go?” he hisses.
Draco looks about. He blinks. “Where did who go?”
“Fred; where did Fred go?”
Draco furrows his brow. “Fred?” he asks, “As in - your brother?”
George scowls. “Yes; as in my brother,” he says impatiently. “You must have seen him, he came right past here, I saw him, I know I did I -”
Draco's eyes search George's face for a sign that he might be - well, he doesn't quite know what, exactly, but some sort of indication that things are not quite right. “Listen, Weasley,” he says, “George. Fred - Fred died.”
George shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly. “No. I saw him. I know that I did. And you did too.” Suddenly, George's features flash with something dark; he rounds on Draco, causing him to stumble back.
“You saw him, didn't you?” he whispers, his voice as coarse as the pavement on which the two men stand. He clutches at the collar of Draco's robes, his fingers twisting in the fabric. “You did, didn't you? Didn't you?”
Draco shakes his head. “No,” he mouths silently. “No.”
“Don't lie to me, Malfoy.” He shakes Draco violently.
“Let go of me, Weasley,” Draco says angrily. “I didn't see anything. Anyone.”
George swallows. It hurts, like the mirage of hope he had just seen had shattered in his throat; now made glass, shards sharp and painful, jut and scrape awkwardly inside his mouth and throat. He releases Draco from his hold.
“You're right,” he says quietly, “Fred … it can't be Fred. I'm - I'm sorry, Malfoy.” The words are flimsy as they fall from George's lips, cobbled-together out of grief and exhaustion.
Draco nods. He smooths his robes. “It's fine,” he says coolly; disinterested.
“Yeah, well -”
But before George is able to finish what it is he intends to say, the man he has been following peers around the corner up ahead -“Draco,” he calls out, “Is everything alright?” - and as his voice - that voice, familiar; known to George as well as his own - floats on the balmy night air, and George falls silent.
Shock settles on his features: wide-eyed and open-mouthed he simply stares. He looks from the man - from Fred - to Draco and back again. “You lied to me,” he whispers not to Draco but, rather, at him. “You lied to me.”
“George, listen,” Draco begins but, looking past him, George thrusts him aside and approaches Fred.
The two men stand opposite each other: George stunned and teary-eyed and Fred his head cocked in confusion.
“My,” he says, “Don't we look alike?”
“What are you on about?” George says, taken aback. “Of course we do, Fred, we're -”
“Fred?”
George is silent, unsure of what to say.
“I'm sorry,” Fred says jovially though not unkindly, “I think you must have me confused with someone else. My name's not Fred.”
“Yes, it is,” George replies. “You're Fred, and I'm George and we're -”
Fred shakes his head; he lets out a small laugh. “I'm not Fred,” he says. He smiles. And George searches - desperately, fruitlessly - for the flicker of recognition in his brother's eyes, but there is none.
“Draco,” Fred calls, looking past George, “Are you coming in?”
Draco approaches the twins: he nods and passes them, rounding the corner. Fred follows and George, dumbfounded, can only stare.
“Well,” Draco calls back, “Are you coming Weasley, or what?”
*
George trudges up the stairs to the flat. It is cramped and, as George closes the door behind him, he gets the feeling that the walls might just collapse around him or the floor might give way, so stuffed with unpacked boxes is the small room.
“Can I get anyone a drink?” Fred asks as he disappears around a corner and into what George assumes is the kitchen.
“Just coffee,” Draco replies and George, shaking his head, is stunned by his behaviour. As though it is the most normal thing in the world that they are standing here being offered a drink by George's dead twin brother.
Only he's not dead.
“What's going on, Malfoy?” George asks, clapping a hand on Draco's forearm. “What the bloody hell is this? Is this some kind of sick joke? You parade some sort of Fred look-alike about to mess with me or -”
“No,” Draco says contemptuously, pulling away from George's touch. “It's not a joke.”
“Then what? What?”
Draco does not reply but takes a seat on the near-by sofa. He takes a deep breath. “The Battle,” he says, “Fred survived it.”
“What? You mean … but how is that even possible? We had a funeral and -”
“But you never recovered a body, did you?”
“No, we didn't. They said that with all the damage and everything...” George says sadly. “So it's really - but how? I don't -”
“There was a problem,” Draco says. “The explosion. With everything that was going on, no-one is exactly sure what happened, or how, but with curses ricocheting everywhere, near as the healers can tell, he got hit. And when it hit, whatever it was - well, it didn't kill him, exactly but -”
George shakes his head. His fingers are trembling and his throat is hoarse. “But I don't understand, Malfoy,” he says, “If he was alive, if he was found, why didn't someone tell us? Tell me? He's my brother and he doesn't even know it and -”
“Look at him, Weasley,” Draco says, “he doesn't remember you; recognise you. He might as well be -”
“Don't,” George hisses, “Don't you dare.”
“I was only trying to -”
“I know what you were trying to do,” George advances on Draco, “I know what you were trying to do, and I don't care. Fred - or, or whatever he's calling himself - was - is - my brother. My family. He is not your personal plaything; your road to - what? - redemption? Is that what you thought, Malfoy? Is it? You had no bloody right to keep this from me; from us.”
George is shaking with anger and frustration and emotions he can't even put a name to as he speaks. His face is flushed; his freckles, always so prominent on his pale skin, are no longer visible beneath varying shades of pink.
Draco purses his lips; he clears his throat. But he does not speak. The air in the room is heavy; stale and suffocating.
“Coffee's ready,” Fred says cheerily, as he enters the room carrying a small tray. He sets it down on the table. Hands on hips he looks from Draco to George and back to the coffee. “Well, shall we?” he asks, gesturing to the table.
Draco tears his gaze from George's and takes his seat. George, however, does not. “No,” he says quietly. His voice is small and fragile in the face of what he has stumbled into.
It is all too much for him to bear.
“No thank you,” he says again. “I think - I think I'll just be off.”
“Well,” Fred says, “It was nice to meet you.” With that, George turns and, steadying he heaves open the door and departs, Fred's farewell still hanging in the air.
*
On the landing outside the flat, George repeats Fred's words over and over:
It was nice to meet you
It was nice to meet you
It was nice to meet you
And, as his tongue wraps itself around the last syllable, his voice fails him; his insides fail him.
He slumps to the floor, and he cries, swallowed by his grief and the realisation that he is losing Fred - all over again.
Author: ????
Recipient: masteroftrouble
Pairing(s): None; gen featuring George, Fred, and Draco.
Word Count: 1480~
Rating: G
Summary: George cannot shakes the feeling that the man he has just seen wandering about Knockturn Alley might just be Fred, and so he follows him.
Warnings: angst
A/N: masteroftrouble , I took one of your prompts out for a wander and this is what I came up with.
He sees Fred everywhere.
Or, at least, he did; at first.
Oh, there were the obvious occasions - looking in the mirror, for example, was hard after the war - but it was the times when George wasn't expecting it that it was the hardest.
Which is why he is now stumbling drunkenly down Knockturn Alley, following a man who, he swears on - well, his brother's grave - could be Fred.
Only it couldn't; it can't.
But George cannot shake the feeling that it just might be.
And so he follows him.
*
Everything around him is blurred now. It is dark; too dark and what little light there is appears smeared to him, like greasy fingerprints on glass.
“Fred,” he calls out. “Fred!”
There is no reply.
“Fred!”
He trips over his own feet and falls to his knees in the dirt. He claws at the ground, scrambles to an upright position and ploughs on until -
“Hello, Weasley.”
George shakes his head as though the sudden, jerking motion will clear his mind of all the clutter that resides within; as though things will sparkle with a heretofore unknown clarity and it will all make sense; everything.
“Weasley?” Draco asks. He extends a hand and, in an uncharacteristic gesture of concern, places it on George's shoulder. George shrinks from the touch.
“Where'd he go?” he hisses.
Draco looks about. He blinks. “Where did who go?”
“Fred; where did Fred go?”
Draco furrows his brow. “Fred?” he asks, “As in - your brother?”
George scowls. “Yes; as in my brother,” he says impatiently. “You must have seen him, he came right past here, I saw him, I know I did I -”
Draco's eyes search George's face for a sign that he might be - well, he doesn't quite know what, exactly, but some sort of indication that things are not quite right. “Listen, Weasley,” he says, “George. Fred - Fred died.”
George shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly. “No. I saw him. I know that I did. And you did too.” Suddenly, George's features flash with something dark; he rounds on Draco, causing him to stumble back.
“You saw him, didn't you?” he whispers, his voice as coarse as the pavement on which the two men stand. He clutches at the collar of Draco's robes, his fingers twisting in the fabric. “You did, didn't you? Didn't you?”
Draco shakes his head. “No,” he mouths silently. “No.”
“Don't lie to me, Malfoy.” He shakes Draco violently.
“Let go of me, Weasley,” Draco says angrily. “I didn't see anything. Anyone.”
George swallows. It hurts, like the mirage of hope he had just seen had shattered in his throat; now made glass, shards sharp and painful, jut and scrape awkwardly inside his mouth and throat. He releases Draco from his hold.
“You're right,” he says quietly, “Fred … it can't be Fred. I'm - I'm sorry, Malfoy.” The words are flimsy as they fall from George's lips, cobbled-together out of grief and exhaustion.
Draco nods. He smooths his robes. “It's fine,” he says coolly; disinterested.
“Yeah, well -”
But before George is able to finish what it is he intends to say, the man he has been following peers around the corner up ahead -“Draco,” he calls out, “Is everything alright?” - and as his voice - that voice, familiar; known to George as well as his own - floats on the balmy night air, and George falls silent.
Shock settles on his features: wide-eyed and open-mouthed he simply stares. He looks from the man - from Fred - to Draco and back again. “You lied to me,” he whispers not to Draco but, rather, at him. “You lied to me.”
“George, listen,” Draco begins but, looking past him, George thrusts him aside and approaches Fred.
The two men stand opposite each other: George stunned and teary-eyed and Fred his head cocked in confusion.
“My,” he says, “Don't we look alike?”
“What are you on about?” George says, taken aback. “Of course we do, Fred, we're -”
“Fred?”
George is silent, unsure of what to say.
“I'm sorry,” Fred says jovially though not unkindly, “I think you must have me confused with someone else. My name's not Fred.”
“Yes, it is,” George replies. “You're Fred, and I'm George and we're -”
Fred shakes his head; he lets out a small laugh. “I'm not Fred,” he says. He smiles. And George searches - desperately, fruitlessly - for the flicker of recognition in his brother's eyes, but there is none.
“Draco,” Fred calls, looking past George, “Are you coming in?”
Draco approaches the twins: he nods and passes them, rounding the corner. Fred follows and George, dumbfounded, can only stare.
“Well,” Draco calls back, “Are you coming Weasley, or what?”
*
George trudges up the stairs to the flat. It is cramped and, as George closes the door behind him, he gets the feeling that the walls might just collapse around him or the floor might give way, so stuffed with unpacked boxes is the small room.
“Can I get anyone a drink?” Fred asks as he disappears around a corner and into what George assumes is the kitchen.
“Just coffee,” Draco replies and George, shaking his head, is stunned by his behaviour. As though it is the most normal thing in the world that they are standing here being offered a drink by George's dead twin brother.
Only he's not dead.
“What's going on, Malfoy?” George asks, clapping a hand on Draco's forearm. “What the bloody hell is this? Is this some kind of sick joke? You parade some sort of Fred look-alike about to mess with me or -”
“No,” Draco says contemptuously, pulling away from George's touch. “It's not a joke.”
“Then what? What?”
Draco does not reply but takes a seat on the near-by sofa. He takes a deep breath. “The Battle,” he says, “Fred survived it.”
“What? You mean … but how is that even possible? We had a funeral and -”
“But you never recovered a body, did you?”
“No, we didn't. They said that with all the damage and everything...” George says sadly. “So it's really - but how? I don't -”
“There was a problem,” Draco says. “The explosion. With everything that was going on, no-one is exactly sure what happened, or how, but with curses ricocheting everywhere, near as the healers can tell, he got hit. And when it hit, whatever it was - well, it didn't kill him, exactly but -”
George shakes his head. His fingers are trembling and his throat is hoarse. “But I don't understand, Malfoy,” he says, “If he was alive, if he was found, why didn't someone tell us? Tell me? He's my brother and he doesn't even know it and -”
“Look at him, Weasley,” Draco says, “he doesn't remember you; recognise you. He might as well be -”
“Don't,” George hisses, “Don't you dare.”
“I was only trying to -”
“I know what you were trying to do,” George advances on Draco, “I know what you were trying to do, and I don't care. Fred - or, or whatever he's calling himself - was - is - my brother. My family. He is not your personal plaything; your road to - what? - redemption? Is that what you thought, Malfoy? Is it? You had no bloody right to keep this from me; from us.”
George is shaking with anger and frustration and emotions he can't even put a name to as he speaks. His face is flushed; his freckles, always so prominent on his pale skin, are no longer visible beneath varying shades of pink.
Draco purses his lips; he clears his throat. But he does not speak. The air in the room is heavy; stale and suffocating.
“Coffee's ready,” Fred says cheerily, as he enters the room carrying a small tray. He sets it down on the table. Hands on hips he looks from Draco to George and back to the coffee. “Well, shall we?” he asks, gesturing to the table.
Draco tears his gaze from George's and takes his seat. George, however, does not. “No,” he says quietly. His voice is small and fragile in the face of what he has stumbled into.
It is all too much for him to bear.
“No thank you,” he says again. “I think - I think I'll just be off.”
“Well,” Fred says, “It was nice to meet you.” With that, George turns and, steadying he heaves open the door and departs, Fred's farewell still hanging in the air.
*
On the landing outside the flat, George repeats Fred's words over and over:
It was nice to meet you
It was nice to meet you
It was nice to meet you
And, as his tongue wraps itself around the last syllable, his voice fails him; his insides fail him.
He slumps to the floor, and he cries, swallowed by his grief and the realisation that he is losing Fred - all over again.