[fanfic100] 030 - Death
Warning: Incoming post-dump. I was doing a bit of spring cleaning on my old laptop and discovered a bunch (like, a TON) of prompts I had yet to edit/upload/tell the world about. So here they are. Cheers.
Title: Her Smile
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: George Weasley, Molly Weasley
Prompt: 030 - Death
Word Count: 1504
Rating: K+ (PG)
Summary: War was something that George Weasley came to understand at a very precocious age. No one else - not even Fred - could have grasped the sadness behind their mother's smile.
Author's Notes: Darkfic. Implied character death.
Links: My Little Damn Table
--
War was something that George Weasley came to understand at a very precocious age. War was when Mum would call them inside from their games in the middle of the day and close all the windows; it was when their bed time came hours before their norm, and while they were supposed to be sleeping he and Fred would sit out on the landing and listen to their parents whispering in the room below. Perhaps neither of the twins grasped the entirety of their furtive words then, but George unconsciously understood something more palpable - fear, urgency - in their exchange. War was when Mum and Dad disappeared for hours on end, leaving the twins, Percy, Charlie, and Bill to huddle in the dark of an upstairs room, listening to every creak of the old house and quaking at every burst of sound from outside.
The first time, the boys had merely cowered on Bill's bed, their wild imaginations spinning every impossible scenario playing out beyond the Burrow's wards. Tears stained George's cheeks as he burrowed into Charlie's side, his older brother's hands warm against his ears to block out the sudden outbreak of noises outside their sanctuary: sometimes unknown wizards, their voices fearsome as they bellowed; sometimes abrupt blasts of sound - like explosions - that shook the stilted house to its roots; and that sound George hated the most - the screaming.
He couldn't remember if Fred had been as terrified as he was. Percy, then too old to cry needlessly, merely sat with Bill's blankets pulled around his shoulders like a long cloak; his features were oddly blank. Bill and Charlie exchanged glances, and there was a mutter of something like, "Should we tell them?"
The next time their mother hustled them all upstairs, distractedly hugging them all as she whispered, "Stay here and keep quiet ... you'll be safe with Bill and Charlie, I promise," the fear was still there. George saw it in her eyes before the door closed, and her mutterings placed several protective wards on the chamber; it was in his brothers' stiff postures as they gathered once more on the bed, Bill draping the blankets over their huddle.
It was Charlie's idea to make a game of it. "You know, outside," he whispered, his face shining in the dark, "there's dragons ... they're flying over our house on the way to Romania."
"Are they mi - grating?" asked Percy at once, who had heard that word last week when Dad explained why a flock of birds had suddenly soared over the Burrow in a great V-shape.
"Yeah, they are," Charlie confirmed. At nine, he was the family expert on dragons. He had even read a book about them. "See, they're goin' down to their caves for the winter."
"But where're they comin' from?" George asked in a small voice, pressed up against his brother's side. No matter what Charlie said, he still thought dragons were a little bit scary.
It was Bill who answered. "During the summer, they stay up in the mountains 'round these parts. Like near Hogwarts. I hear, if you're lucky, you can see them blowin' fire from Hogsmeade."
That had them all shifting excitedly beneath the warm sanctuary of the blankets, thinking about the great beasts soaring over their heads.
"But they won't acci - acciden-tally set our house on fire, will they?" Percy worried.
Charlie laughed at that and reached over, playfully ruffling his younger brother's hair. "Don't you worry, they're nice dragons," he promised.
George felt a little bit better that they were nice dragons, after all, and closed his eyes, nestled between Charlie and Fred. After a moment, his twin stirred.
"Fireworks," said Fred.
"What about fireworks?" asked Bill, seated cross-legged with Percy curled against his side.
George glanced up; Fred's eyes were bright as he repeated his revelation, "Fireworks. I hear them, too. Them and the dragons."
For a moment in the darkness, they listened: to the rush of air like buoyant wings, to the sear of flames through the sky, to the sudden bang rupturing the stillness. And if only for a while, George leaned against Fred, falling into the welcome abyss of sleep as fireworks and dragons danced through his head.
--
It was only on that day, however, that George came to see the other facet of war: the side Mum and Dad fervently concealed from them during the daylight hours, only confessed in those long hours on the dark landing. Those dark hours that seemed to last forever, with George distantly registering a chill in his bare feet and a stiffness from crouching on the top step for so long, staring at what little he could perceive of Fred's expression beside him.
That morning, though, the house was steeped in stillness: George remembered listening to the whispers below long after midnight and now rubbed at his eyes as he wandered down the stairs. Fred had still been sleeping when he tiptoed from their shared room, but George found he couldn't sleep; not with the memory haunting him of those whispers, too quiet for him or Fred to make out the words, occasionally punctured by something like sobbing.
George stopped on the first landing, catching that same sound again; their parents' door was slightly ajar. Cautiously he padded forward, pushing the door open.
"Mum?"
Their mother crouched on the floor, her back to him, her shoulders shaking; but at his call she turned around, hastily scrubbing her sleeve over her eyes. "Oh - oh, it's you, Georgie." She smiled with effort.
George didn't like that name much; she only used it when he was sick or had hurt himself running about in the garden, and Fred always made fun of him. He wondered if Mum was sick, this time, and shuffled closer to her side.
Mum had pulled out the old boxes of photo albums: their pictures black and white and shifting in their frames, people - few he recognized - waving up at him. A man and a woman were smiling at one another, he in dress robes and she in a flowing white gown. George recognized them at once and poked a finger at the photograph.
"You and Dad?"
"Yes. This was at our wedding." Mum sniffed a little bit and beckoned for him to come sit on her lap; he did, staring down at the photos curiously as she turned the pages, in a whisper weaving the stories of beaming relatives he didn't know.
"Where're we, Mum?" he asked as she turned the page again, and he was disappointed to only see adults smiling up at them from the browned parchment pages.
"You weren't born yet," she explained, warmth in her voice. "Not until later."
George's eyes widened a little at that. "Not even Bill?"
"Not even Bill."
It was hard for him to think of a world without Fred or Percy or Charlie or Bill - who by his stature as eldest seemed to measure the very pinnacle of everything, and that offered a simple security to him as the current youngest. George turned his attention back to the photo album: a young woman who resembled their mother was smiling broadly, almost fighting a laugh as the two figures on either side of her fought for prominence. As George watched with wide eyes the man on the left screwed up his face in a goofy expression that made him laugh, reminded of Fred's similar games. Not to be outdone, the man on Mum's right crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.
"Who're they?" George asked. A bit curiously, he noticed his mother had started trembling again; instead of replying right away she gently set down the book open on the floor in front of them and wrapped both arms around him.
"Those are my brothers," Mum whispered, her lips feathering his forehead. "Gideon and Fabian. Your uncles, Georgie."
George stared curiously at the picture still moving animatedly in front of them, mesmerized by the energy of the portraits. "Brothers, like Fred and me?" he specified.
"Yes. Brothers like Fred and you." She drew a shuddering breath and held him closer to her chest. "But they're gone ... War took them away ... Even so ... Even so, they were heroes."
George said nothing; perhaps he couldn't have understood, then, what death meant, but he heard the sadness in Mum's choked voice. He pressed his head against her chest, remembering the sounds and the dragons and the fireworks ... suddenly, he didn't like them anymore.
"We're not gonna leave," he promised, wanting to make her smile again, smiling like she was in the photograph with the two boys joking beside her. "We're gonna stay here, forever n' ever."
"Oh, Georgie..." Mum whispered, holding tightly to him again. In her arms, George closed his eyes, reminiscing the photograph, and made a fervent promise to himself.
Whatever happened, war or not ... he and Fred were gonna make sure people smiled.
End.
--
Title: Her Smile
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: George Weasley, Molly Weasley
Prompt: 030 - Death
Word Count: 1504
Rating: K+ (PG)
Summary: War was something that George Weasley came to understand at a very precocious age. No one else - not even Fred - could have grasped the sadness behind their mother's smile.
Author's Notes: Darkfic. Implied character death.
Links: My Little Damn Table
--
War was something that George Weasley came to understand at a very precocious age. War was when Mum would call them inside from their games in the middle of the day and close all the windows; it was when their bed time came hours before their norm, and while they were supposed to be sleeping he and Fred would sit out on the landing and listen to their parents whispering in the room below. Perhaps neither of the twins grasped the entirety of their furtive words then, but George unconsciously understood something more palpable - fear, urgency - in their exchange. War was when Mum and Dad disappeared for hours on end, leaving the twins, Percy, Charlie, and Bill to huddle in the dark of an upstairs room, listening to every creak of the old house and quaking at every burst of sound from outside.
The first time, the boys had merely cowered on Bill's bed, their wild imaginations spinning every impossible scenario playing out beyond the Burrow's wards. Tears stained George's cheeks as he burrowed into Charlie's side, his older brother's hands warm against his ears to block out the sudden outbreak of noises outside their sanctuary: sometimes unknown wizards, their voices fearsome as they bellowed; sometimes abrupt blasts of sound - like explosions - that shook the stilted house to its roots; and that sound George hated the most - the screaming.
He couldn't remember if Fred had been as terrified as he was. Percy, then too old to cry needlessly, merely sat with Bill's blankets pulled around his shoulders like a long cloak; his features were oddly blank. Bill and Charlie exchanged glances, and there was a mutter of something like, "Should we tell them?"
The next time their mother hustled them all upstairs, distractedly hugging them all as she whispered, "Stay here and keep quiet ... you'll be safe with Bill and Charlie, I promise," the fear was still there. George saw it in her eyes before the door closed, and her mutterings placed several protective wards on the chamber; it was in his brothers' stiff postures as they gathered once more on the bed, Bill draping the blankets over their huddle.
It was Charlie's idea to make a game of it. "You know, outside," he whispered, his face shining in the dark, "there's dragons ... they're flying over our house on the way to Romania."
"Are they mi - grating?" asked Percy at once, who had heard that word last week when Dad explained why a flock of birds had suddenly soared over the Burrow in a great V-shape.
"Yeah, they are," Charlie confirmed. At nine, he was the family expert on dragons. He had even read a book about them. "See, they're goin' down to their caves for the winter."
"But where're they comin' from?" George asked in a small voice, pressed up against his brother's side. No matter what Charlie said, he still thought dragons were a little bit scary.
It was Bill who answered. "During the summer, they stay up in the mountains 'round these parts. Like near Hogwarts. I hear, if you're lucky, you can see them blowin' fire from Hogsmeade."
That had them all shifting excitedly beneath the warm sanctuary of the blankets, thinking about the great beasts soaring over their heads.
"But they won't acci - acciden-tally set our house on fire, will they?" Percy worried.
Charlie laughed at that and reached over, playfully ruffling his younger brother's hair. "Don't you worry, they're nice dragons," he promised.
George felt a little bit better that they were nice dragons, after all, and closed his eyes, nestled between Charlie and Fred. After a moment, his twin stirred.
"Fireworks," said Fred.
"What about fireworks?" asked Bill, seated cross-legged with Percy curled against his side.
George glanced up; Fred's eyes were bright as he repeated his revelation, "Fireworks. I hear them, too. Them and the dragons."
For a moment in the darkness, they listened: to the rush of air like buoyant wings, to the sear of flames through the sky, to the sudden bang rupturing the stillness. And if only for a while, George leaned against Fred, falling into the welcome abyss of sleep as fireworks and dragons danced through his head.
--
It was only on that day, however, that George came to see the other facet of war: the side Mum and Dad fervently concealed from them during the daylight hours, only confessed in those long hours on the dark landing. Those dark hours that seemed to last forever, with George distantly registering a chill in his bare feet and a stiffness from crouching on the top step for so long, staring at what little he could perceive of Fred's expression beside him.
That morning, though, the house was steeped in stillness: George remembered listening to the whispers below long after midnight and now rubbed at his eyes as he wandered down the stairs. Fred had still been sleeping when he tiptoed from their shared room, but George found he couldn't sleep; not with the memory haunting him of those whispers, too quiet for him or Fred to make out the words, occasionally punctured by something like sobbing.
George stopped on the first landing, catching that same sound again; their parents' door was slightly ajar. Cautiously he padded forward, pushing the door open.
"Mum?"
Their mother crouched on the floor, her back to him, her shoulders shaking; but at his call she turned around, hastily scrubbing her sleeve over her eyes. "Oh - oh, it's you, Georgie." She smiled with effort.
George didn't like that name much; she only used it when he was sick or had hurt himself running about in the garden, and Fred always made fun of him. He wondered if Mum was sick, this time, and shuffled closer to her side.
Mum had pulled out the old boxes of photo albums: their pictures black and white and shifting in their frames, people - few he recognized - waving up at him. A man and a woman were smiling at one another, he in dress robes and she in a flowing white gown. George recognized them at once and poked a finger at the photograph.
"You and Dad?"
"Yes. This was at our wedding." Mum sniffed a little bit and beckoned for him to come sit on her lap; he did, staring down at the photos curiously as she turned the pages, in a whisper weaving the stories of beaming relatives he didn't know.
"Where're we, Mum?" he asked as she turned the page again, and he was disappointed to only see adults smiling up at them from the browned parchment pages.
"You weren't born yet," she explained, warmth in her voice. "Not until later."
George's eyes widened a little at that. "Not even Bill?"
"Not even Bill."
It was hard for him to think of a world without Fred or Percy or Charlie or Bill - who by his stature as eldest seemed to measure the very pinnacle of everything, and that offered a simple security to him as the current youngest. George turned his attention back to the photo album: a young woman who resembled their mother was smiling broadly, almost fighting a laugh as the two figures on either side of her fought for prominence. As George watched with wide eyes the man on the left screwed up his face in a goofy expression that made him laugh, reminded of Fred's similar games. Not to be outdone, the man on Mum's right crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.
"Who're they?" George asked. A bit curiously, he noticed his mother had started trembling again; instead of replying right away she gently set down the book open on the floor in front of them and wrapped both arms around him.
"Those are my brothers," Mum whispered, her lips feathering his forehead. "Gideon and Fabian. Your uncles, Georgie."
George stared curiously at the picture still moving animatedly in front of them, mesmerized by the energy of the portraits. "Brothers, like Fred and me?" he specified.
"Yes. Brothers like Fred and you." She drew a shuddering breath and held him closer to her chest. "But they're gone ... War took them away ... Even so ... Even so, they were heroes."
George said nothing; perhaps he couldn't have understood, then, what death meant, but he heard the sadness in Mum's choked voice. He pressed his head against her chest, remembering the sounds and the dragons and the fireworks ... suddenly, he didn't like them anymore.
"We're not gonna leave," he promised, wanting to make her smile again, smiling like she was in the photograph with the two boys joking beside her. "We're gonna stay here, forever n' ever."
"Oh, Georgie..." Mum whispered, holding tightly to him again. In her arms, George closed his eyes, reminiscing the photograph, and made a fervent promise to himself.
Whatever happened, war or not ... he and Fred were gonna make sure people smiled.
End.
--