Fic: Rites of Goodbyes
This one is for n_i_j_i.
Rites of Goodbyes
Fandom: Harry Potter universe, post downfall of Voldemort
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Learning to live without Fred takes George on a long, circuitous journey.
In the beginning it was easy. Or as easy as learning to live without an arm, or a leg maybe, which was what many people had lost in the final battle at Hogwarts, despite the best that Madam Pomfrey and a host of healers had done. So many lives were lost, so much of what was known and familiar destroyed. They had worn black for weeks, attended far too many funerals and wakes, in some cases to offer respect more than to console the bereaved, because no one in the family had survived. There was no point, and just plain selfish really, to wallow in one's own grief, especially when the burden of sorrow was shouldered by so many hearts. Others had cried at Fred's funeral. He had a lot of admirers, was deeply loved by many and as deeply missed.
George had stolen downstairs one night when all the tossing and turning in the world could not bring about sleep, especially with the awareness that it was only Percy snoring on the other bed. His wandering was cut short before the kitchen door because of the muffled sobs coming from inside. He heard his father's voice, none too firm, bravely consoling. He almost feared he would break down right there by the kitchen door. But a leaden statue could not cry, could it? Eyes made of stone shed no tears.
After a while, when the weeping in the kitchen had ceased, George cleared his throat and walked in. His parents were sitting at the table, the teapot steaming between them. "Oh, George!" his mother had said, after the now familiar double take, the in-drawn breath. Her face was only slightly flushed, no trace of tears. "Tea, love?"
So they sat in the kitchen having tea and scones, talking about lost friends at three in the morning, properly hushed and sober, dry-eyed and composed. It was easy in the beginning. It had not even started.
***
That year's Christmas his father decided to make it a big celebration. It was almost Bill's wedding all over again but unstained by fear, livelier, more lighthearted if shadowed by grief. He did not know how his father had managed to scrounge up the money, but that year they did not find knitwear among their presents.
"This is nice, Dad, thanks," he said to his father.
"You can adjust the shape and color, see?" A few twists of the dials, this button pressed, that one released, and suddenly a silvery dragon shimmered into being in the sky rippling with clouds of sparks. The dragon writhed its way across the fiery landscape, white gouts of flame fountaining from its snout and scattering into fiery lightning forks before falling like liquid gold rain. "Imagine that, pocket fireworks. I wish I had this when I proposed to your mum." His father grinned like a small boy and snapped the box shut. The colorful scintilla disappeared, leaving only white cold stars in the almost black night sky.
And just like that the pain tore through the protective bubble he had built around his heart to keep it from bleeding every time he realized Fred was not there to deliver the punchline to their joke, or nudge him in the ribs to murmur irreverent things even in the most solemn occasion, or wink or grin or nod in that language of conspiracy that only the two of them spoke and understood. He vaguely wondered what his parents would have gifted Fred. And that, more than that sense of being crippled, unbalanced, ripped open and gutted, was shockingly more painful: realizing that Fred had missed that Christmas, the first Christmas in years they enjoyed without Voldemort, the Christmas their parents gave amazing presents they could have spent hours tinkering with and coming up with the most wicked modifications, the Christmas made possible in part by his death. He thought about everything that Fred would have missed, the good and bad, the funny parts of life, the sadness that could no longer be shared, and he began to choke.
He staggered off, blinded by pain. At some point he felt a hand on his arm and heard Harry's voice, distant and strange, "George, you okay?" But how could he give a flippant lie in answer when he could not even breathe?
***
There were moments when he wondered what Fred's comment would be to, say, the foul paste native Peruvian wizards had scraped off bright poisonous lizards, to be put under the tongue so they could speak to the unseen magical birds that supposedly have lived thousands of years and eaten a lot of wizards, thus possessing their knowledge. "What, you want to tweet?" Or the green liquor somebody offered him somewhere in the frozen tundra of Iceland that had to be lit, burned with a purple flame and made him steam gently from the ears and nostrils. "Should I call you teapot now?" The copper cups he had stroked over and over because the Egyptian man said they could summon desert demons that could take one to buried treasures. The jade disc carved with spells to tame dragons. The hair he burned experimenting with Australian fireseed cacti. The bones he broke trying out some Druidic stone levitating charm. The weeks he spent not bathing and wearing nothing but a loincloth and loops of necklace made of itchy red seeds, sitting crosslegged and chanting chanting chanting until snakes came out of bushes as if charmed. "Probably thought you're dead and ripe for the eating, stinky."
And every time he would laugh thinking about Fred's wry observation. Every single time. Trudging up the Himalayas, lightheaded in the thin air, gazing stupidly at cairns and multicolored buntings, he had barked a hoarse laugh. Neck deep in mud in an unplottable jungle in Belize he had laughed until he nearly drowned. Alone and naked in a filthy hut he could not remember getting into, quetzal feathers around him and scratch marks on his back, he had laughed until he cried. "Shut up, Fred!" he had shouted to the empty room. "I'm doing this for you! I'm living your life too!"
***
He woke up with a headache, not knowing where he was. Half naked, wet and freezing, he could not stop shaking. His mouth tasted like vomit and blood. Hunger burned in the pit of his stomach like glowing ember. A nearby roar and crashing sound told him he was at the beach. He could feel gritty sand under his back and something small with many legs were crawling up his arm. He did not have the energy to even shake it away.
The sky was indigo with a violet blush. Almost all of the stars had disappeared. The whirlwind of confusion in his mind died down and the tar black fatigue and apathy oozed back in. He closed his eyes, trying to remember, but events came to him in bits and pieces. He wondered where the missing parts had gone. When was the last time he could remember everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hour?
There was the bit about a letter from his mum. Though unlike her previous letter there were no florets of dried tears on the page, her usually neat script had wavered toward the end. She had become more desperate and less reticent about expressing it. "Please come home, George. I can't stand the thought of losing both Fred and you."
There was a note from his solicitor about the store's profit and loss; substantially more loss than profit. Customer dwindling as stock depleted and nothing new was created. Verity threatening to leave and set up her own store. He had heard it before and could not understand why people should be indignant about it. Without Fred, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was as good as ruined.
There was a note from Harry, from Ron, from Ginny, from Hermione, from Bill, from Percy, from his dad... He had sat one night, quill in hand, ready to reply at least one of them, but then lost all willpower, scratching a tangle of black with the pool of ink on the paper, wishing he could disappear in it.
He remembered, vaguely, a creaking wooden ship. A thick fume of spilled rum. A cackle in the dark and hands grabbing the satchel holding all his worldly possessions. There was an alarming blank. And something, a pain, a near Splice experience. He was too drunk, too frightened, too confused. He remembered a split second of lucidity where he thought "See you on the other side, Fred" before he lost consciousness.
"I'm tired, Fred," he whispered to the lightening sky.
The corner of his eyes caught a slight movement to his right. His body felt like sacks full of wet sand sewn together but he managed to make himself turn.
The baby turtle did not even flinch at his sudden movement. Eyes on the waves, it kept pushing back sand with its tiny flippers, a diminutive study of determination. Another baby turtle was only a few strokes behind it. Another one was doing a good job at catching up. A smaller baby turtle was having difficulty navigating around a rock. Another baby turtle flopped onto it, blithely stepping on it in its own haste to reach the water. More small turtles, shiny and perfect like toys in the first morning light, were racing across the sand. The whole beach was dotted with them.
He could not help it. He smiled.
"Cute, aren't they?"
A sudden pain burst and bloomed in his chest. Curiously it was not the kind of ache that always makes him want to curl up and shut out the world. It was a lot like the pain of returning circulation to his frozen extremities that night he got caught in a blizzard.
"Probably will sell well with the girls."
He closed his eyes and let the tears fall.
"No," he whispered. "Cold, no fur, smells like fish. No good."
A pause. "You're right." Light and easy like the old times.
He almost did not dare to turn, but he had to know. He rolled onto his back. And stared at Fred. Sitting on the sand, chin resting on one knee, shirtless, identical jeans with the ones he had on. Framed by long red hair set afire by the rising sun, the same face he would have seen in the mirror if only he had remembered to shave. And to smile.
"Hey there, Georgie. You look like the bottom of an owl cage."
The voice would not come, so he whispered, "Thanks. Am I dead?"
"Might as well. You haven't exactly been living this past two years."
"Two years?"
"And a month, give or take. What did I say? You're starting to think like Professor Binns, you are, forgetting months and years like that. What were you thinking?"
He wondered if the illusion, hallucination, apparition, whatever it was would disappear if he tried to touch it. "We always talked about going to see the world; see these places we read about in books. I I didn't... I don't want you to miss any of it."
"But you make you miss a lot of things. Like Bill's baby."
"Bill has a baby?"
"A baby girl. Name of Victoire."
"Victoire? What kind of a name is that?"
"Well, it's Fleur's baby too. Everyone's disgustingly besotted. I think it's the Veela blood."
He lifted himself to one elbow, dared himself to reach, to touch. Fred smiled and met his trembling fingers halfway. Solid flesh, warm skin, firm clasp. He began to sob.
Long arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, keeping him safe, warm like morning sun. "Don't live for me. Live for yourself and I'll live through you."
He could not speak, could not even open his eyes. He drank in Fred, the familiar alignment of their bodies, the familiar scent of him. He breathed. Breathed. It was as if he was breathing again for the first time in a long while. As if he had been submerged before and only broken surface now. Like being born anew.
He opened his eyes to a beach bathed in pale golden sunshine. He was alone. But the hollow places in his heart where there used to be only ice and ache felt warm and full. It no longer hurt to breathe, to think, to remember. He lay down again, exhausted but strangely calm, thinking that maybe even dreaming would be painless now.
He saw a solitary baby turtle dragging itself across the now empty beach. Perhaps it had hatched late, perhaps it had gotten lost in its first attempt to reach the sea.
He struggled to get up and stagger to the little turtle. He scooped it, held the small wriggly creature carefully in his hands, and began to weave his way unsteadily to the sea.
He dropped to his knees and dipped his cupped hands in the foamy sheet of water. The turtle kicked and flapped, frantic and impatient, looking so tiny and fragile in the vast, powerful sea. But once buoyed by the current, once immersed in the water, all that was ungainly and clumsy on land melted away. Flippers spread out, the turtle was suspended in the water, as if flying, at peace, at home.
"Oh," he whispered, surprised into a smile. "Bye!" he called out to it, waving. Laughing. He dropped his hand, staring raptly at the small dot that soon disappeared in the distance. "Goodbye."
~fin
Rites of Goodbyes
Fandom: Harry Potter universe, post downfall of Voldemort
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Learning to live without Fred takes George on a long, circuitous journey.
In the beginning it was easy. Or as easy as learning to live without an arm, or a leg maybe, which was what many people had lost in the final battle at Hogwarts, despite the best that Madam Pomfrey and a host of healers had done. So many lives were lost, so much of what was known and familiar destroyed. They had worn black for weeks, attended far too many funerals and wakes, in some cases to offer respect more than to console the bereaved, because no one in the family had survived. There was no point, and just plain selfish really, to wallow in one's own grief, especially when the burden of sorrow was shouldered by so many hearts. Others had cried at Fred's funeral. He had a lot of admirers, was deeply loved by many and as deeply missed.
George had stolen downstairs one night when all the tossing and turning in the world could not bring about sleep, especially with the awareness that it was only Percy snoring on the other bed. His wandering was cut short before the kitchen door because of the muffled sobs coming from inside. He heard his father's voice, none too firm, bravely consoling. He almost feared he would break down right there by the kitchen door. But a leaden statue could not cry, could it? Eyes made of stone shed no tears.
After a while, when the weeping in the kitchen had ceased, George cleared his throat and walked in. His parents were sitting at the table, the teapot steaming between them. "Oh, George!" his mother had said, after the now familiar double take, the in-drawn breath. Her face was only slightly flushed, no trace of tears. "Tea, love?"
So they sat in the kitchen having tea and scones, talking about lost friends at three in the morning, properly hushed and sober, dry-eyed and composed. It was easy in the beginning. It had not even started.
***
That year's Christmas his father decided to make it a big celebration. It was almost Bill's wedding all over again but unstained by fear, livelier, more lighthearted if shadowed by grief. He did not know how his father had managed to scrounge up the money, but that year they did not find knitwear among their presents.
"This is nice, Dad, thanks," he said to his father.
"You can adjust the shape and color, see?" A few twists of the dials, this button pressed, that one released, and suddenly a silvery dragon shimmered into being in the sky rippling with clouds of sparks. The dragon writhed its way across the fiery landscape, white gouts of flame fountaining from its snout and scattering into fiery lightning forks before falling like liquid gold rain. "Imagine that, pocket fireworks. I wish I had this when I proposed to your mum." His father grinned like a small boy and snapped the box shut. The colorful scintilla disappeared, leaving only white cold stars in the almost black night sky.
And just like that the pain tore through the protective bubble he had built around his heart to keep it from bleeding every time he realized Fred was not there to deliver the punchline to their joke, or nudge him in the ribs to murmur irreverent things even in the most solemn occasion, or wink or grin or nod in that language of conspiracy that only the two of them spoke and understood. He vaguely wondered what his parents would have gifted Fred. And that, more than that sense of being crippled, unbalanced, ripped open and gutted, was shockingly more painful: realizing that Fred had missed that Christmas, the first Christmas in years they enjoyed without Voldemort, the Christmas their parents gave amazing presents they could have spent hours tinkering with and coming up with the most wicked modifications, the Christmas made possible in part by his death. He thought about everything that Fred would have missed, the good and bad, the funny parts of life, the sadness that could no longer be shared, and he began to choke.
He staggered off, blinded by pain. At some point he felt a hand on his arm and heard Harry's voice, distant and strange, "George, you okay?" But how could he give a flippant lie in answer when he could not even breathe?
***
There were moments when he wondered what Fred's comment would be to, say, the foul paste native Peruvian wizards had scraped off bright poisonous lizards, to be put under the tongue so they could speak to the unseen magical birds that supposedly have lived thousands of years and eaten a lot of wizards, thus possessing their knowledge. "What, you want to tweet?" Or the green liquor somebody offered him somewhere in the frozen tundra of Iceland that had to be lit, burned with a purple flame and made him steam gently from the ears and nostrils. "Should I call you teapot now?" The copper cups he had stroked over and over because the Egyptian man said they could summon desert demons that could take one to buried treasures. The jade disc carved with spells to tame dragons. The hair he burned experimenting with Australian fireseed cacti. The bones he broke trying out some Druidic stone levitating charm. The weeks he spent not bathing and wearing nothing but a loincloth and loops of necklace made of itchy red seeds, sitting crosslegged and chanting chanting chanting until snakes came out of bushes as if charmed. "Probably thought you're dead and ripe for the eating, stinky."
And every time he would laugh thinking about Fred's wry observation. Every single time. Trudging up the Himalayas, lightheaded in the thin air, gazing stupidly at cairns and multicolored buntings, he had barked a hoarse laugh. Neck deep in mud in an unplottable jungle in Belize he had laughed until he nearly drowned. Alone and naked in a filthy hut he could not remember getting into, quetzal feathers around him and scratch marks on his back, he had laughed until he cried. "Shut up, Fred!" he had shouted to the empty room. "I'm doing this for you! I'm living your life too!"
***
He woke up with a headache, not knowing where he was. Half naked, wet and freezing, he could not stop shaking. His mouth tasted like vomit and blood. Hunger burned in the pit of his stomach like glowing ember. A nearby roar and crashing sound told him he was at the beach. He could feel gritty sand under his back and something small with many legs were crawling up his arm. He did not have the energy to even shake it away.
The sky was indigo with a violet blush. Almost all of the stars had disappeared. The whirlwind of confusion in his mind died down and the tar black fatigue and apathy oozed back in. He closed his eyes, trying to remember, but events came to him in bits and pieces. He wondered where the missing parts had gone. When was the last time he could remember everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hour?
There was the bit about a letter from his mum. Though unlike her previous letter there were no florets of dried tears on the page, her usually neat script had wavered toward the end. She had become more desperate and less reticent about expressing it. "Please come home, George. I can't stand the thought of losing both Fred and you."
There was a note from his solicitor about the store's profit and loss; substantially more loss than profit. Customer dwindling as stock depleted and nothing new was created. Verity threatening to leave and set up her own store. He had heard it before and could not understand why people should be indignant about it. Without Fred, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was as good as ruined.
There was a note from Harry, from Ron, from Ginny, from Hermione, from Bill, from Percy, from his dad... He had sat one night, quill in hand, ready to reply at least one of them, but then lost all willpower, scratching a tangle of black with the pool of ink on the paper, wishing he could disappear in it.
He remembered, vaguely, a creaking wooden ship. A thick fume of spilled rum. A cackle in the dark and hands grabbing the satchel holding all his worldly possessions. There was an alarming blank. And something, a pain, a near Splice experience. He was too drunk, too frightened, too confused. He remembered a split second of lucidity where he thought "See you on the other side, Fred" before he lost consciousness.
"I'm tired, Fred," he whispered to the lightening sky.
The corner of his eyes caught a slight movement to his right. His body felt like sacks full of wet sand sewn together but he managed to make himself turn.
The baby turtle did not even flinch at his sudden movement. Eyes on the waves, it kept pushing back sand with its tiny flippers, a diminutive study of determination. Another baby turtle was only a few strokes behind it. Another one was doing a good job at catching up. A smaller baby turtle was having difficulty navigating around a rock. Another baby turtle flopped onto it, blithely stepping on it in its own haste to reach the water. More small turtles, shiny and perfect like toys in the first morning light, were racing across the sand. The whole beach was dotted with them.
He could not help it. He smiled.
"Cute, aren't they?"
A sudden pain burst and bloomed in his chest. Curiously it was not the kind of ache that always makes him want to curl up and shut out the world. It was a lot like the pain of returning circulation to his frozen extremities that night he got caught in a blizzard.
"Probably will sell well with the girls."
He closed his eyes and let the tears fall.
"No," he whispered. "Cold, no fur, smells like fish. No good."
A pause. "You're right." Light and easy like the old times.
He almost did not dare to turn, but he had to know. He rolled onto his back. And stared at Fred. Sitting on the sand, chin resting on one knee, shirtless, identical jeans with the ones he had on. Framed by long red hair set afire by the rising sun, the same face he would have seen in the mirror if only he had remembered to shave. And to smile.
"Hey there, Georgie. You look like the bottom of an owl cage."
The voice would not come, so he whispered, "Thanks. Am I dead?"
"Might as well. You haven't exactly been living this past two years."
"Two years?"
"And a month, give or take. What did I say? You're starting to think like Professor Binns, you are, forgetting months and years like that. What were you thinking?"
He wondered if the illusion, hallucination, apparition, whatever it was would disappear if he tried to touch it. "We always talked about going to see the world; see these places we read about in books. I I didn't... I don't want you to miss any of it."
"But you make you miss a lot of things. Like Bill's baby."
"Bill has a baby?"
"A baby girl. Name of Victoire."
"Victoire? What kind of a name is that?"
"Well, it's Fleur's baby too. Everyone's disgustingly besotted. I think it's the Veela blood."
He lifted himself to one elbow, dared himself to reach, to touch. Fred smiled and met his trembling fingers halfway. Solid flesh, warm skin, firm clasp. He began to sob.
Long arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, keeping him safe, warm like morning sun. "Don't live for me. Live for yourself and I'll live through you."
He could not speak, could not even open his eyes. He drank in Fred, the familiar alignment of their bodies, the familiar scent of him. He breathed. Breathed. It was as if he was breathing again for the first time in a long while. As if he had been submerged before and only broken surface now. Like being born anew.
He opened his eyes to a beach bathed in pale golden sunshine. He was alone. But the hollow places in his heart where there used to be only ice and ache felt warm and full. It no longer hurt to breathe, to think, to remember. He lay down again, exhausted but strangely calm, thinking that maybe even dreaming would be painless now.
He saw a solitary baby turtle dragging itself across the now empty beach. Perhaps it had hatched late, perhaps it had gotten lost in its first attempt to reach the sea.
He struggled to get up and stagger to the little turtle. He scooped it, held the small wriggly creature carefully in his hands, and began to weave his way unsteadily to the sea.
He dropped to his knees and dipped his cupped hands in the foamy sheet of water. The turtle kicked and flapped, frantic and impatient, looking so tiny and fragile in the vast, powerful sea. But once buoyed by the current, once immersed in the water, all that was ungainly and clumsy on land melted away. Flippers spread out, the turtle was suspended in the water, as if flying, at peace, at home.
"Oh," he whispered, surprised into a smile. "Bye!" he called out to it, waving. Laughing. He dropped his hand, staring raptly at the small dot that soon disappeared in the distance. "Goodbye."
~fin