(no subject)
Title: Connected.
Rating: PG.
Characters: George / child.
Summary: "Why are there two of you, Daddy?" The day comes where George must tell his son about his uncle.
Disclaimer: I obviously have no ownership rights to anything.
"Why are there two of you, Daddy?" A small redheaded boy asked innocently, blinking up at his father, confused.
"That's..." George swallowed, and smiled softly, hesitating for a brief moment before stroking his son's hair and sitting him down on his lap. His son was looking at a picture of a 17 year old Fred and George, taken the day they had opened Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. The moment had forever been immortalized, both of them laughing, each of them holding up one of their snackboxes proudly, both of them alive...
"I'm the one on the left, see." He poked a finger at ten year's younger self (with much longer hair), smudging his photo face with a fingerprint as he did so. "And the other one was -- is -- my twin brother. See how we look just like each other?"
His son nodded, fidgeting in his lap for a moment. He was restless, always having to do something, unable to sit still ... a quality that he had inherited from his father, no doubt. "Okay." He seemed to accept that, until he realized something and his round face fell to a frown. "Where did he go?"
"He was--" George faltered again, just in time, and he looked at his son, five years old, with the blissful ignorance of the events that had spun and shaken up all of their lives, almost ten years ago. It had been a day of triumph for all, the day Lord Voldemort was defeated, but there had still been the aftermath of the losses they had faced, irrevocable and ever so sharp, yet dull and blunt at the same time. Fred had been murdered. Not directly, but direct enough, because his life had, inevitably, been taken. But to tell a little boy that! To look his son in the eyes and say, "Your uncle was murdered." To infiltrate such a young mind with such horrible realities... no. He would learn the whole truth one day. But George couldn't bear to tell it to him like that, not so harshly.
"He died," George said instead, softly. "But he went down like a hero."
Even at the tender age of five, his son understood this was clearly a painful subject. The look on George's face was clear enough for anyone to read, so his son took his small hand and held onto his father's much, much larger one.
George, appreciating the gesture more than he could ever possibly explain to his son, kissed his head.
"Was he nice?" his son asked carefully, squinting at the picture, which continued to loop through the twins laughing. "He looks nice."
"Well, sometimes he could be a real git," George answered honestly, with a bit of a laugh. "But we both were. Teased Uncle Ron all the time, he was so titchy--"
His son giggled. He knew, as well. The little boy had managed to startle Ron a few times when he came round by popping out from behind corners and going 'Boo!' George always watched with a look of utmost pride etched in his face.
"And you know my store? Weasley's Wizarding Wheeze's? Well, he was the other Weasley. We opened it up together, after seventh year. Well. Almost." He cracked a grin. "We didn't quite complete school--"
"George!" came a reprimanding voice from the kitchen. "Don't tell our son how you dropped out of school!"
"Sorry, love!" he called back, grinning sheepishly. "Pretend you didn't hear, eh?"
His son winked back at him, the notion so dear and familiar to him, having done the exact wink many times, and he reached down and tickled his son lightly.
"So he helped you 'vent all that stuff?" his son continued curiously, evoking a grin from George.
"Of course, little bit. It wouldn't be there without him." Which was extremely true. They were both talented, both troublemakers, but Fred had always been the one to give the final push, been slightly more domineering, and without him, George reckoned he probably would have been a hell of a lot duller.
The little ginger boy seemed to contemplate something for a very long time and then said defiantly, "I think I would have liked him."
"You definitely would have liked him," George assured him, reaching forward to squeeze the boy, bringing him back into his lap, as if he couldn’t bear to be holding him at the moment. "Tell you what, bit. Next time we go to visit your Grandmum, we can visit the site where he's buried at. I usually go alone, but I can bring you, if you'd like."
Fred had been buried in a burial site near the Burrow, and George was a frequent visitor. Practically every day, for a few years after he had died, usually alone because no one else went as often as him, but as the years went on, he went less and less. It wasn’t that he was forgetting Fred, or didn’t care as much anymore. It was that George had gotten busier, with a wife, with business, with child… and he didn’t feel as much as a need to validate his respect for his brother. Fred had been a part of him, spawned from the same egg, and even barring death, that connection still stood. Fred still went on in him, a bit of his spirit very much alive in George… and the little bit of Fred inside him said it was a bit depressing, to be visiting the grave all the time. So he began frequenting less often. He would never get over the death of his twin, and he would never move on from it completely, but as time passed, it weaved into a reality that he could deal with.
His son didn't answer for a moment, and George wondered if he had crossed a line, if it was simply too morbid to ask a five year old to visit a grave with him. But his son spoke up, dispelling these thoughts. "Yea! I wanna.”
“Great.” George smiled, the smile bright. It would be his way of introducing Fred to the nephew he would have so loved to know. He was taking after them so much, even in looks. George figured that once he was off to Hogwarts, McGonnagall was going to have a hell of a time with him. It was a thought that elated him.
"Dinner!" His wife called from the kitchen, breaking up his thoughts. "I made pie for dessert!"
"Pie?" George repeated to his son, his grin only widening. "Say no more! Let's get some dinner, kiddo."
His son grinned back - he had quite a penchant for sweets and desserts - , letting go of George's hand and standing himself up. He turned, hesitated and then turned once more to get another glimpse at the picture. "What was his name?"
Taking the little one's tiny hand again, he began leading him toward the dining area. "Fred," he answered, and his son looked up at him curiously.
"Like my name?"
"That's right, Freddie," he said kindly. "That's where you got your name from." The choice had seemed easy, when it had come to naming the newborn. He knew, instantly, he was a Fred and by giving him this name, his son would be tied to his uncle forever. Not only through blood, but in spirit and name - the most worthy connection.
Freddie grinned, showing off a mouth of white teeth, some missing. "I'm glad."
"Me too," George said, and he patted his son's head affectionately as they met the smell of warm apple pie.
Rating: PG.
Characters: George / child.
Summary: "Why are there two of you, Daddy?" The day comes where George must tell his son about his uncle.
Disclaimer: I obviously have no ownership rights to anything.
"Why are there two of you, Daddy?" A small redheaded boy asked innocently, blinking up at his father, confused.
"That's..." George swallowed, and smiled softly, hesitating for a brief moment before stroking his son's hair and sitting him down on his lap. His son was looking at a picture of a 17 year old Fred and George, taken the day they had opened Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. The moment had forever been immortalized, both of them laughing, each of them holding up one of their snackboxes proudly, both of them alive...
"I'm the one on the left, see." He poked a finger at ten year's younger self (with much longer hair), smudging his photo face with a fingerprint as he did so. "And the other one was -- is -- my twin brother. See how we look just like each other?"
His son nodded, fidgeting in his lap for a moment. He was restless, always having to do something, unable to sit still ... a quality that he had inherited from his father, no doubt. "Okay." He seemed to accept that, until he realized something and his round face fell to a frown. "Where did he go?"
"He was--" George faltered again, just in time, and he looked at his son, five years old, with the blissful ignorance of the events that had spun and shaken up all of their lives, almost ten years ago. It had been a day of triumph for all, the day Lord Voldemort was defeated, but there had still been the aftermath of the losses they had faced, irrevocable and ever so sharp, yet dull and blunt at the same time. Fred had been murdered. Not directly, but direct enough, because his life had, inevitably, been taken. But to tell a little boy that! To look his son in the eyes and say, "Your uncle was murdered." To infiltrate such a young mind with such horrible realities... no. He would learn the whole truth one day. But George couldn't bear to tell it to him like that, not so harshly.
"He died," George said instead, softly. "But he went down like a hero."
Even at the tender age of five, his son understood this was clearly a painful subject. The look on George's face was clear enough for anyone to read, so his son took his small hand and held onto his father's much, much larger one.
George, appreciating the gesture more than he could ever possibly explain to his son, kissed his head.
"Was he nice?" his son asked carefully, squinting at the picture, which continued to loop through the twins laughing. "He looks nice."
"Well, sometimes he could be a real git," George answered honestly, with a bit of a laugh. "But we both were. Teased Uncle Ron all the time, he was so titchy--"
His son giggled. He knew, as well. The little boy had managed to startle Ron a few times when he came round by popping out from behind corners and going 'Boo!' George always watched with a look of utmost pride etched in his face.
"And you know my store? Weasley's Wizarding Wheeze's? Well, he was the other Weasley. We opened it up together, after seventh year. Well. Almost." He cracked a grin. "We didn't quite complete school--"
"George!" came a reprimanding voice from the kitchen. "Don't tell our son how you dropped out of school!"
"Sorry, love!" he called back, grinning sheepishly. "Pretend you didn't hear, eh?"
His son winked back at him, the notion so dear and familiar to him, having done the exact wink many times, and he reached down and tickled his son lightly.
"So he helped you 'vent all that stuff?" his son continued curiously, evoking a grin from George.
"Of course, little bit. It wouldn't be there without him." Which was extremely true. They were both talented, both troublemakers, but Fred had always been the one to give the final push, been slightly more domineering, and without him, George reckoned he probably would have been a hell of a lot duller.
The little ginger boy seemed to contemplate something for a very long time and then said defiantly, "I think I would have liked him."
"You definitely would have liked him," George assured him, reaching forward to squeeze the boy, bringing him back into his lap, as if he couldn’t bear to be holding him at the moment. "Tell you what, bit. Next time we go to visit your Grandmum, we can visit the site where he's buried at. I usually go alone, but I can bring you, if you'd like."
Fred had been buried in a burial site near the Burrow, and George was a frequent visitor. Practically every day, for a few years after he had died, usually alone because no one else went as often as him, but as the years went on, he went less and less. It wasn’t that he was forgetting Fred, or didn’t care as much anymore. It was that George had gotten busier, with a wife, with business, with child… and he didn’t feel as much as a need to validate his respect for his brother. Fred had been a part of him, spawned from the same egg, and even barring death, that connection still stood. Fred still went on in him, a bit of his spirit very much alive in George… and the little bit of Fred inside him said it was a bit depressing, to be visiting the grave all the time. So he began frequenting less often. He would never get over the death of his twin, and he would never move on from it completely, but as time passed, it weaved into a reality that he could deal with.
His son didn't answer for a moment, and George wondered if he had crossed a line, if it was simply too morbid to ask a five year old to visit a grave with him. But his son spoke up, dispelling these thoughts. "Yea! I wanna.”
“Great.” George smiled, the smile bright. It would be his way of introducing Fred to the nephew he would have so loved to know. He was taking after them so much, even in looks. George figured that once he was off to Hogwarts, McGonnagall was going to have a hell of a time with him. It was a thought that elated him.
"Dinner!" His wife called from the kitchen, breaking up his thoughts. "I made pie for dessert!"
"Pie?" George repeated to his son, his grin only widening. "Say no more! Let's get some dinner, kiddo."
His son grinned back - he had quite a penchant for sweets and desserts - , letting go of George's hand and standing himself up. He turned, hesitated and then turned once more to get another glimpse at the picture. "What was his name?"
Taking the little one's tiny hand again, he began leading him toward the dining area. "Fred," he answered, and his son looked up at him curiously.
"Like my name?"
"That's right, Freddie," he said kindly. "That's where you got your name from." The choice had seemed easy, when it had come to naming the newborn. He knew, instantly, he was a Fred and by giving him this name, his son would be tied to his uncle forever. Not only through blood, but in spirit and name - the most worthy connection.
Freddie grinned, showing off a mouth of white teeth, some missing. "I'm glad."
"Me too," George said, and he patted his son's head affectionately as they met the smell of warm apple pie.