Ides of March Challenge: First Born
They name their first child Fred.
Angelina teases him that even if the baby had been a girl, he would have insisted on naming her Fred. And he knows Angelina might have just let him. But the baby is a boy, a healthy, squalling boy who looks just like his mum except his eyes, which are bright blue like his dad’s, like his uncle’s. George holds him while Angelina sleeps.
“Your uncle Fred would never let me hear the end of it if he saw me crying,” he informs his son as large tears run unchecked down his face.
He spent the first few months after the battle in denial, waiting for Fred to come back. Every time the bells above the door at the Wheezes jangled, he’d look up, expecting to see Fred striding toward him crying “Gotcha!”
As the summer wore down and the denial wore off, he drowned out the constant chant in his mind - he’s not coming back, he’s never coming back - with firewhisky. Ron moved in with him and dragged him out of bed each day, made sure he bathed, coaxed him to eat, reminded him to shave every week or so when he began to look a bit wild. He let his hair grow long, over his eyebrows and the collar of his robes and the hole that used to be his ear.
He let Ron run the shop; when supplies ran down he replenished them with little enthusiasm, and while he could re-create the old gags, the familiar charms, he didn’t invent anything new. Without Fred, there was no point to innovation. Never again would they catch each other’s eye across the shop - are you thinking what I’m thinking? - and spend the rest of the afternoon working out the precise combination of spells and charms for a new gag. They worked intuitively, instinctively, almost reading one another’s minds. Pygmy Puffs and spell-checking quills and trick wands and Skiving Snackboxes and shield hats - it was all the two of them, together, and he couldn’t bear to think of inventing without his twin. His other half.
And so he drank, trying to forget, trying to feel better, but he never could. And the months passed by - his first Christmas without Fred. First New Year’s without Fred. First birthday without Fred. His niece Victoire was born on the first anniversary of Fred’s death, and he couldn’t help thinking it was unfair that a new life could begin that day while the one that was lost could never be restored.
He saw Angelina in the pub that night; she bought him the first drink and he bought himself many, many more. She listened as he mumbled it wasn’t fair and he couldn’t handle this and what the fuck was he supposed to do now. When he got sick and couldn’t Apparate home, she took him by the arm and brought him there herself.
“He wouldn’t want you killing yourself over it,” she said quietly as she tucked him into bed, smoothing a cool cloth over his forehead. “You’re not honoring him by living like this.”
He fell for her slowly, almost without realizing it. She owled him weekly to check in - to make sure he was all right. Sometimes she would drop in and tell him to brush his hair for Merlin’s sake because they were going out for a meal and he needed to look presentable. Whenever he laughed at something she said, or cracked a joke and watched her grin back at him, he felt a little surprised; even guilty, at first, catching himself mid-laugh - why should I be smiling, when he can’t?
“He would never want you to be miserable,” she said, as if she knew what he was thinking.
No one, he thought, would ever understand him like Fred. It wasn’t possible. But Angelina grew to understand him in her own way, and when he saw her on the second anniversary of the battle, of his loss, he leaned his head on her shoulder and said, “I’m never going to be the same without him, am I?” And she had tears in her eyes as she wrapped her arms around him and whispered in his good ear, “No. But you can have a good life, anyway.”
We have a good life, he thinks, smiling at his wife’s sleeping form. Her dark hair spills over the stark white pillowcase. A simple gold wedding band glints on her left hand. She’s beautiful, and he loves her, and he’s grateful to her. We have a very good life.
The baby makes a little sighing noise, blinking up at George, curling his tiny dark fingers around his father’s large, pale thumb.
“I’ll tell you all about him someday, Fred,” George promises, and he could swear he sees the gleam of a mischievous smile in those bright blue eyes.
.oOo.
Angelina teases him that even if the baby had been a girl, he would have insisted on naming her Fred. And he knows Angelina might have just let him. But the baby is a boy, a healthy, squalling boy who looks just like his mum except his eyes, which are bright blue like his dad’s, like his uncle’s. George holds him while Angelina sleeps.
“Your uncle Fred would never let me hear the end of it if he saw me crying,” he informs his son as large tears run unchecked down his face.
He spent the first few months after the battle in denial, waiting for Fred to come back. Every time the bells above the door at the Wheezes jangled, he’d look up, expecting to see Fred striding toward him crying “Gotcha!”
As the summer wore down and the denial wore off, he drowned out the constant chant in his mind - he’s not coming back, he’s never coming back - with firewhisky. Ron moved in with him and dragged him out of bed each day, made sure he bathed, coaxed him to eat, reminded him to shave every week or so when he began to look a bit wild. He let his hair grow long, over his eyebrows and the collar of his robes and the hole that used to be his ear.
He let Ron run the shop; when supplies ran down he replenished them with little enthusiasm, and while he could re-create the old gags, the familiar charms, he didn’t invent anything new. Without Fred, there was no point to innovation. Never again would they catch each other’s eye across the shop - are you thinking what I’m thinking? - and spend the rest of the afternoon working out the precise combination of spells and charms for a new gag. They worked intuitively, instinctively, almost reading one another’s minds. Pygmy Puffs and spell-checking quills and trick wands and Skiving Snackboxes and shield hats - it was all the two of them, together, and he couldn’t bear to think of inventing without his twin. His other half.
And so he drank, trying to forget, trying to feel better, but he never could. And the months passed by - his first Christmas without Fred. First New Year’s without Fred. First birthday without Fred. His niece Victoire was born on the first anniversary of Fred’s death, and he couldn’t help thinking it was unfair that a new life could begin that day while the one that was lost could never be restored.
He saw Angelina in the pub that night; she bought him the first drink and he bought himself many, many more. She listened as he mumbled it wasn’t fair and he couldn’t handle this and what the fuck was he supposed to do now. When he got sick and couldn’t Apparate home, she took him by the arm and brought him there herself.
“He wouldn’t want you killing yourself over it,” she said quietly as she tucked him into bed, smoothing a cool cloth over his forehead. “You’re not honoring him by living like this.”
He fell for her slowly, almost without realizing it. She owled him weekly to check in - to make sure he was all right. Sometimes she would drop in and tell him to brush his hair for Merlin’s sake because they were going out for a meal and he needed to look presentable. Whenever he laughed at something she said, or cracked a joke and watched her grin back at him, he felt a little surprised; even guilty, at first, catching himself mid-laugh - why should I be smiling, when he can’t?
“He would never want you to be miserable,” she said, as if she knew what he was thinking.
No one, he thought, would ever understand him like Fred. It wasn’t possible. But Angelina grew to understand him in her own way, and when he saw her on the second anniversary of the battle, of his loss, he leaned his head on her shoulder and said, “I’m never going to be the same without him, am I?” And she had tears in her eyes as she wrapped her arms around him and whispered in his good ear, “No. But you can have a good life, anyway.”
We have a good life, he thinks, smiling at his wife’s sleeping form. Her dark hair spills over the stark white pillowcase. A simple gold wedding band glints on her left hand. She’s beautiful, and he loves her, and he’s grateful to her. We have a very good life.
The baby makes a little sighing noise, blinking up at George, curling his tiny dark fingers around his father’s large, pale thumb.
“I’ll tell you all about him someday, Fred,” George promises, and he could swear he sees the gleam of a mischievous smile in those bright blue eyes.
.oOo.