St Michael the Archangel
Title: St Michael the Archangel
Word count: ~450
Characters/pairings: George, Theodore Nott
Rating: G
Summary: “George wanted to hide from their eyes at Fred’s funeral.”
Warnings: angst, canon character death
Disclaimer: The boys belong to JKR, even though I’m often much nicer to them than she is.
Author’s Notes: This was written for this week’s sortinghatdrabs; the characters were George/Theo and the prompt was carol of the bells.
George wanted to hide from their eyes at Fred’s funeral.
The church - a Devon church, named for St Michael the Archangel, the leader of the good angels during the war in Heaven - had been the site for many of the funerals of the wizarding world’s war dead. The very stone seemed soaked in sorrow, faces eroded by grief doubled in the shining wood of the pews.
George sat at the front, surrounded by his siblings as they attempted to show support. It was a kind effort, but only served to remind him of how he was now one, alone, forever: he should have been with his twin, as he always was at family gatherings. Their alliance had given them an advantage throughout their rough-and-tumble childhood. Now he was alone. The ragged edges of him, where his other half had been torn away, ached.
The funeral was well-attended; everyone had known who Fred was, and they mourned another fallen hero sincerely. It made George feel sick; when he stood to give the eulogy, the congregation’s eyes drank him in, the living copy of the boy in the coffin.
He couldn’t deal with any more people looking at him and seeing Fred’s face. So afterwards, as his family filed from the graveside to host the wake, George muttered to Ginny that he’d be late. She nodded, face pale under her flaming hair, and they left.
George stood by Fred’s grave for long hours, while the night drew in and the sky turned a bruised purple with the onset of twilight. His eyes ached as he stared down, still and unblinking, at the bare brown earth that covered his brother’s laughing face.
Scuff.
George’s head went up instantly at the sound of a footstep, his instincts still attuned to war. He turned, eyes straining in the almost-gone light. By a nearby grave, was a tall, slim figure in mourning robes. George looked closer: it was Nott.
He stormed over, black fury replacing his thoughts. “What are you doing here?” he roared, his voice ringing incongruously over the silent graveyard. “This is where we mourn our dead soldiers! You’ve no right to be here, Death Eater!”
Nott stared at him, his deep-set eyes calm. He looked tired, George saw, with eyes searching for flaws. “I’m here to mourn a dead soldier, Weasley. My uncle.”
“A Death Eater!”
“So what? He was family, who died fighting for what he believed in. Maybe he was wrong but that doesn’t make it hurt any less for me that he’s dead.”
George stopped, feeling winded, and stayed still. Nott did the same.
They stood together in the graveyard, staring at the graves, until the morning brought the carol of the bells.
Word count: ~450
Characters/pairings: George, Theodore Nott
Rating: G
Summary: “George wanted to hide from their eyes at Fred’s funeral.”
Warnings: angst, canon character death
Disclaimer: The boys belong to JKR, even though I’m often much nicer to them than she is.
Author’s Notes: This was written for this week’s sortinghatdrabs; the characters were George/Theo and the prompt was carol of the bells.
George wanted to hide from their eyes at Fred’s funeral.
The church - a Devon church, named for St Michael the Archangel, the leader of the good angels during the war in Heaven - had been the site for many of the funerals of the wizarding world’s war dead. The very stone seemed soaked in sorrow, faces eroded by grief doubled in the shining wood of the pews.
George sat at the front, surrounded by his siblings as they attempted to show support. It was a kind effort, but only served to remind him of how he was now one, alone, forever: he should have been with his twin, as he always was at family gatherings. Their alliance had given them an advantage throughout their rough-and-tumble childhood. Now he was alone. The ragged edges of him, where his other half had been torn away, ached.
The funeral was well-attended; everyone had known who Fred was, and they mourned another fallen hero sincerely. It made George feel sick; when he stood to give the eulogy, the congregation’s eyes drank him in, the living copy of the boy in the coffin.
He couldn’t deal with any more people looking at him and seeing Fred’s face. So afterwards, as his family filed from the graveside to host the wake, George muttered to Ginny that he’d be late. She nodded, face pale under her flaming hair, and they left.
George stood by Fred’s grave for long hours, while the night drew in and the sky turned a bruised purple with the onset of twilight. His eyes ached as he stared down, still and unblinking, at the bare brown earth that covered his brother’s laughing face.
Scuff.
George’s head went up instantly at the sound of a footstep, his instincts still attuned to war. He turned, eyes straining in the almost-gone light. By a nearby grave, was a tall, slim figure in mourning robes. George looked closer: it was Nott.
He stormed over, black fury replacing his thoughts. “What are you doing here?” he roared, his voice ringing incongruously over the silent graveyard. “This is where we mourn our dead soldiers! You’ve no right to be here, Death Eater!”
Nott stared at him, his deep-set eyes calm. He looked tired, George saw, with eyes searching for flaws. “I’m here to mourn a dead soldier, Weasley. My uncle.”
“A Death Eater!”
“So what? He was family, who died fighting for what he believed in. Maybe he was wrong but that doesn’t make it hurt any less for me that he’s dead.”
George stopped, feeling winded, and stayed still. Nott did the same.
They stood together in the graveyard, staring at the graves, until the morning brought the carol of the bells.