Author’s Note: I’ve read many a good story on the death of Fred Weasley, of whom I have always been very fond. Yet I think I needed to write my own version for that extra bit of closure. I hope you all enjoy, and maybe even experience a touch of catharsis yourselves. And as always, please leave a review!

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“It should’ve been me.”

“No, it should’ve been me.”

With those final words, George strode past and trudged into the house, leaving Percy–gaping, incredulous–in his wake. It was in turning to watch him go that Percy caught sight of Harry standing awkwardly at the front gate.

“Hullo Harry,” Percy waved morosely, “how long have you been standing there?”

“I only just Apparated in,” Harry said quickly.

“So I guess you didn’t hear…” Percy trailed off, jerking his thumb in the direction George had taken.

“Just the tail end…” Harry admitted, hoping Percy wouldn’t want to discuss it. Harry had had more than his fair share of experience in thinking he ought to be dead in another’s place. Yet for all the familiarity with the feeling, Harry had no clue as to how to convince either of these brothers that it would be no less painful if they were laid to rest and Fred was alive. How strange, Harry thought, to find himself on the other side of this argument. The idea filled him with a renewed gratefulness and empathy for those who had helped him through these times in the past. If only he knew what to do himself, he might begin to repay them.

Thankfully, Percy simply nodded and said, “Well, best to come on inside then–we should be leaving for the cemetery shortly, I expect.”

Harry gulped in the morning air in a choked sigh and nodded his assent, looking up at the Burrow once more before following Percy inside. Even the house seemed to have lost all of its usual cheeriness. The many stories seemed to lean with the weight of a heavy burden, rather than exude its usual character of standing out of sheer determination. The latter was a quality that usually gave Harry great comfort, reminding him of the family within those walls. Today, however, there was nothing to buoy Harry’s spirits. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he had ever entered the Weasley’s home with such trepidation.

“Ah, Harry, yes,” Mr. Weasley said, looking up as Harry followed Percy into the kitchen, “I’m so glad you could make it.”

Harry was caught up in a swift, shaky hug from Arthur before he could respond. Looking over Mr. Weasley’s shoulder, he caught sight of the remaining Weasley men–excepting Ron–seated around the table. “Well, of course I made it,” Harry said as Mr. Weasley let him go, instantly wishing he had said something else. “I mean, er, I’m glad I could be here too… this is… erm, I’m very sorry for all that’s happened, Mr. Weasley,” he finished lamely, but Arthur seemed to appreciate it all the same.

“Yes, as am I, Harry, as am I,” he nodded, and grasped Harry’s shoulder in gratitude. “Incidentally,” he went on, regaining some composure, “I was hoping you would be willing to be a levitator for the casket today.”

Harry looked at him quizzically, not sure what exactly this meant. Seeing Harry’s confusion, Mr. Weasley hastened to explain, “It’s similar to, oh… what do the Muggles call it…? Polo… no, polly…? Polly bearers?”

“Pall bearers?” Harry offered, beginning to understand.

“Yes, exactly, just like a pall bearer, but with wands. The boys are the other five; we were hoping you’d be the sixth.”

“Me? I mean, shouldn’t it be family?” Harry balked, looking around at Bill, Charlie, Percy and George’s somber expressions. The last thing he wanted was to impose himself on their family’s grief.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry,” Charlie spoke up, “you are family.”

“He thought of you as a brother,” Bill said, adding quietly, “we all do.”

A chorus of nods went around the table at this–even Percy, which surprised Harry the most. Three days ago, Harry would have been very tempted to break Percy’s jaw with one of Dudley’s patented right hooks. But once Percy came back, now that it was over, and Fred was… well, Harry wasn’t about to suggest that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley be deprived of another son. If Fred had been ready to forgive Percy, then so was Harry.

Harry gave them all a weak smile. “Thanks,” he said, “I’d be honored.” And he would be; Harry knew that for certain.

“Good then, it’s settled,” Mr. Weasley said, clapping Harry gratefully on the shoulder once more. “Why don’t you go find Ron and Ginny and Hermione? We should all start for the cemetery in a few minutes.” Harry didn’t feel quite right about leaving Mr. Weasley and his eldest sons there in the kitchen, despite their brave faces. Nonetheless, he nodded and went into the den in search of his three favorite people.

He soon found them, sitting quietly on the large, overstuffed sofa. Hermione was sitting against the corner, with her legs turned beneath her. Harry was somewhat startled to see that silent tears were steadily flowing down her cheeks as she stared intently at her right hand, which was slowly combing Ron’s hair away from his temple. The latter was gazing at where Hermione’s other hand was entwined with his own, so intensely that their knuckles were almost white. It was with a mixture of anxiety and hopeful anticipation that Harry’s eyes came to rest on Ginny, who was tucked underneath her brother’s free arm. She had a vacant, far-off look in her eyes. It was a look that Harry was sorry to say he was familiar with, having seen it just a few days before…

Harry walked up the length of the Great Hall with Ron and Hermione, not sure what to do with himself. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, no one seemed to have any energy for emotion left, be it exuberance or melancholy–all that remained was fatigue. Harry could see this etched in Ginny’s features as he approached her, sitting against the wall, watching–yet not watching–the scenes of anguish over her brother’s body unfold before her.

“Ginny…?” Harry said, standing uneasily a few feet away from her pale, beaten form. Her head snapped sideways at the sound of his voice, but her eyes looked lethargically up at him, as if she was emerging from a deep, dark tunnel.

“Harry…” she breathed, and pulled herself up to a standing position. Harry stood expectantly, hopeful–wanting with every fiber of his being to be with her, to have a chance to set things right. He watched as she teetered there for a millisecond more before throwing her arms around his neck and simply holding on with all of her strength. Harry reached around her small frame and clung to her, not yet trusting himself to speak.

“Ginny… Ginny, I–” he finally managed to begin, still clutching her tightly.

She pulled back and placed two surprisingly firm fingers in front of his lips to cut him off. “No… Oh, Harry… I’m sorry…”she looked down at her feet, “…after this year, after everything that’s happened tonight–and when I saw you, just lying there… and I thought you were… we all thought you were…” she trailed off, casting a sidelong glance back at Fred’s prone form, “I honestly don’t know whether to be angry with you or to be just so very proud of you.”

“I, er… I don’t know what… okay,” Harry said, his mind working at an agonizingly slow pace, resisting his efforts to evaluate and respond to her words. He felt a bit taken aback, though some less obstinate fraction of himself recognized that he probably deserved whatever was coming to him. With Ron and Hermione it was so much easier somehow–he knew them through and through, and they knew him in the same way, and it was automatic–the fierce loyalty and understanding of best friends. But with this girl in front of him it was so frustratingly complicated because their connection was different somehow–no more or less important or valuable, but different all the same.

A pained expression marred Ginny’s features as she drew herself away from his arms, and Harry felt her absence. “I’m sorry, Harry, I’m so sorry–I didn’t mean–it’s just, please understand–there will be time for explanations and arguments and,” she added with a small yet encouraging smile, “figuring it all out… but right now, I can’t… I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

Harry nodded in what he hoped was an understanding fashion, for at least part of him really did understand. Another part was rather relieved as well, not to have to trudge through the truth of the past year with her yet–or that’s what he’d tell himself later, at any rate. He tried to give her his best apologetic smile, “I am… really very sorry for… for everything.” With that, he began to turn away, not sure where exactly he’d be going, but a small hand caught his shoulder and he turned back to see Ginny gazing at him intently–sad and tired, but with a hint of the power he knew she possessed.

“That doesn’t mean that I want you to leave,” she said in a small voice, just above a whisper, as she led him back to her spot against the wall. Harry slid down beside her, and cautiously placed an arm around her shoulders. She immediately found the familiar spot, just beneath his collar bone, where she could rest her head contentedly. Harry swallowed hard, and pulled her a bit closer, finding a surprising amount of comfort in their silence. He looked out at the scene unfolding around him and then back down at her fiery hair, watching her chest rise and fall, rise and fall, until her breathing became rhythmic and he was sure she was asleep.

Now, in that brief moment before she registered his presence, Harry longed to erase that desolate stare from her eyes forever–to hold her again as he had that day, if only to give them both a few moments of tranquility.

“Oh! Harry,” Hermione exclaimed, as she hurriedly wiped her eyes and came over to give him a hug, “you’re here.” She smiled wanly and Harry tried to return the gesture, but was afraid it only came out as a grimace. Hermione headed back to the couch, where Ginny and Ron had already moved over to make room for Harry. Ginny was silent, and Harry had to be appeased with what appeared to be a genuine smile in his direction, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“How’re things, Harry?” Ron asked, looking up at last as Hermione sat beside him and Harry took her former position at the end of the sofa.

“’Bout the same as yesterday, I suppose,” Harry said. “Erm… how’re you, how’s your Mum?”

Ron just grunted and looked back at his hands. It was Ginny who finally spoke. “About as well as can be expected,” she offered, leaning around her brother to face Harry, “hasn’t come out of her room much–Fleur’s up there with her now.”

Harry simply nodded, not knowing how to proceed in the conversation. He was struck again by how little he seemed to know about handling this situation, despite what often seemed like an overwhelming experience with death.

The foursome lapsed into a not quite comfortable silence until Charlie poked his head through the doorway to tell them it was time to go. The girls pulled themselves off the couch, grabbing their purses on the way to the kitchen. Harry stood, looking expectantly at his best friend who was watching them go without truly seeming to see them.

“Can’t go anywhere without a pocket book, girls,” Ron muttered belatedly, with a morose chuckle and a half-hearted grin at Harry.

Harry coughed out a laugh. Ron had been doing his best over the past few days to insert a joke here and there–usually failing miserably. Not that Harry could blame him–especially today–which was why Harry always tried to laugh, even if it wasn’t at all funny.

This time, however, Ron acknowledged the forced nature of both joke and response with a genuine, lopsided grin and a hearty pat on Harry’s shoulder. His hand lingered for a second longer as he met Harry’s eyes. “Thanks mate,” he said, obviously referring to more than his lame attempt at humor.

Before Harry could think of anything to say in response, Ron was walking off to catch up with his family. Harry remained for a few moments, wondering again at his own past behavior. His cheeks flushed with shame at memories of yelling at his friends, of destroying Dumbledore’s office. Why couldn’t he have held his temper even a bit better? How was it that Ron–not exactly the best with words nor, understandably, in the best of moods these past few days–knew exactly what to say to Harry? Simple enough words–why hadn’t Harry ever chosen them, instead of the angry, hurtful ones?

Shaking his head regretfully, Harry hastened to meet the Weasleys, who were now assembled on the front lawn. Upon seeing him, Mrs. Weasley hurried over and caught Harry in a giant hug, holding on even tighter than Harry was used to. Harry was almost grateful to be gasping for breath when she finally let go, as he had no idea what to say. And when Molly looked at him with such tenderness, fresh tears shining in her eyes, Harry was completely taken aback–he still couldn’t quite let go of the guilt he’d taken on, feeling he must have somehow been able to prevent so many deaths.

“No need to say anything dear,” she whispered so that only Harry could hear. Taking him up in one final hug, she added in an almost inaudible–but nevertheless emphatic–tone, “And please, Harry, don’t take one ounce of blame on yourself.”

Nodding into Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder, Harry gave her the best hug he knew how, wanting very much to show her the love and kindness she’d always bestowed on him without reservation. Watching her walk away to join Mr. Weasley at the gate, Harry marveled at her ability to read him like he was her own son–even when her heart was aching for the one she had lost.

Harry took up the rear as the family began walking down the dusty road towards–Harry could only assume–the cemetery. It was a long and quiet walk. Hermione glanced back a few times to make sure Harry was still there, but she–perhaps on the advice of Ron next to her–seemed to sense that Harry was in one of his more solitary moods.

Harry watched the group walk on before him, in twos and threes, soft words of comfort flowing between them. Despite what Mrs. Weasley had said, Harry didn’t feel he deserved any of them for himself. Besides, he still didn’t have any to offer in return. Instead, Harry mostly watched Ginny, who was swaying gracefully as she walked arm in arm with George. Harry was most afraid of having to talk with her. Between all of the meetings that he, Ron and Hermione had had to endure with the Ministry, the Order and the Prophet over the past three days, Harry had not had much time to spare. Beyond those obligations, Harry had taken it upon himself to visit the families of his fallen comrades to offer his condolences. He never said much or stayed long, but he felt it was the least he could do–a small penance he hoped would assuage some of his guilt. And now, as more time passed since that night in the Great Hall, it was growing harder and harder for Harry to imagine how to approach Ginny.

Finally reaching the old, country burial ground, Harry thought they must be very early. Only a few people were around–Muggles, apparently visiting one of the graves. Although, upon closer inspection, Harry found that these people were dressed rather strangely. Harry was therefore not entirely surprised when Mr. Weasley greeted one man in a fur-trimmed hat–obviously uncomfortable in the heat–with a hearty handshake. When Arthur stepped around the headstone and disappeared, however, Harry couldn’t help but let out a small gasp.

“Zey ’ave protected ze area, ’Arry, from ze prying eyes of ze Muggles,” Fleur explained, turning around at his sound of surprise.

“Like we did with the tent,” Hermione called back before she also vanished.

Harry shook his head, feeling that he would never be aware of all there was to know about the Wizarding World. Stepping through this invisibility shield of sorts, Harry bit back another gasp as he came face to face with the multitude of people gathered for Fred’s funeral. Many of the faces were familiar to Harry–from school or the Order, or from Bill and Fleur’s wedding last summer. The usual stares and whispers followed Harry as he worked his way through the somber crowd, though many friendly faces also swam into focus to say hello or shake his hand. Harry, for his part, felt rather overwhelmed.

Harry broke through this group to find that they were all standing because the modest group of seats had long since been filled. Identifying the largest concentration of red hair at the front, Harry hoped there would be a seat remaining for him. Or perhaps he didn’t, he wasn’t sure.

As Harry made his way up the aisle, his eyes locked onto the gaping hole that would be Fred’s final resting place. It was a few moments before he realized that he had stopped walking. Dumbledore’s funeral–the only other proper funeral Harry had ever been to–had been so much more… sterile, somehow. With the sweeping grounds of Hogwarts and the serene tomb and the impending doom gathering over Harry’s head, he had never really allowed any time to take it all in. Somehow, this was infinitely more real.

Closing the distance to the front-most chairs, Harry saw that there was one remaining seat on the aisle–next to Ginny. Screwing up his nerve, he cleared his throat to get her attention, “Er, do you mind if I sit there?” he asked, indicating the vacant chair.

Ginny smiled up at him, “I was hoping you would,” she said quietly.

Feeling happy about this–and then feeling guilty that he felt happy–Harry sat down, casting a fleeting smile in return and turning resolutely to stare at the seat in front of him. He’d hardly had a chance to sit down however, before Ron was rising on Ginny’s right and motioning to Harry to do the same.

“We ought to go wait with Fr–erm, with the casket,” Ron explained. And with a swift kiss on Hermione’s forehead, Ron was leading Harry back to the edge of the gathering, leaving Harry wishing he could have exchanged similar sentiments with Ginny. Over the past few days, Harry had been somewhat amazed at how relatively easily Ron and Hermione had transitioned into this new phase of their relationship. But then again, they’d acted like a couple for so long, maybe it came naturally… Or maybe Hermione had made Ron have a talk about it all–yes, Harry thought, that did sound like her. Secretly, Harry was glad Ginny wasn’t quite so forceful. Either way, even Harry could tell that now–more than ever–his two best friends were an immense source of comfort to each other. He was glad for that, but it was a painful reminder of what he didn’t have–of what he’d given up.

Ron was urgently muttering something to him as some sort of dirge began to play. “What?” Harry asked, realizing he hadn’t been paying the slightest bit of attention. Ron motioned with his wand, and Harry took the cue. On a three-count from Percy, the remaining Weasley brothers and Harry levitated the ebony-dark coffin from the ground. Everyone who was seated rose as the six young men processed down the short aisle. It was eerily quiet when they had reached the front and the melancholy music had ceased. Harry followed the others’ lead as they slowly lowered the coffin into the damp ground. He couldn’t help but notice that George’s hand was shaking slightly in front of him. Harry wanted to reach out with some sort of reassuring gesture, but was stalled by the feeling that it would be entirely inadequate.

As they regained their seats, an elderly gentleman in Ministry robes had reached the front podium. Harry gathered that he was speaking about duty and honor and remembrance, but his brain wouldn’t focus on the particulars of the speech. Every other sound, however, was assailing him with unrelenting force. His eyes unfocused as he listened to the quiet sobs of Mrs. Weasley in the row in front of him–a few seats down–and Mr. Weasley’s murmured words of solace through his own tears. For a moment, Harry thought he heard the sound of children laughing, but then realized it was only the rustling of the wind in the trees. And then there was the muted rhythm of the anxious tap-tap-tap of George’s shoe against the grass.

Harry drifted in and out of these noises until his attention was caught by a movement to his right. Harry hadn’t realized how constricted his chest already felt until he realized the movement had been Ron leaning forward with his head in his hands. Harry caught Hermione’s tear-filled eyes as she tentatively placed a hand on Ron’s back. In doing so, Harry took in the ashen but utterly dry features of his former girlfriend. On impulse, he hesitantly laid his hand–palm-up–on Ginny’s knee. She didn’t look at him, but grasped his hand tightly in both of her own, winding her fingers around his with a fervid intensity. Oddly enough, it was this unexpectedly passionate reaction that finally sent hot tears threatening to cascade down his cheeks. He squeezed Ginny’s delicate fingers in response and hurriedly wiped his eyes with his free hand as he struggled to absorb the aged man’s words.

Harry wasn’t sure he took much to heart, but it didn’t matter. Just watching the Weasley family grieve around him told him everything he needed to know about the pain of loss.

Although, on second thought, maybe Harry had made that judgment too soon… George was now rising from his seat and making for the podium with a piece of parchment in his still-shuddering hand. Preparing himself for what was to come, Harry chanced a glance at Ginny. He was a bit shocked to find her looking straight at him–with a look of unexpected dread etched across her face. Perhaps, Harry thought, she hadn’t known that George planned to speak either. Feeling even more miserably inadequate, Harry settled for running his thumb–in what he hoped was a soothing manner–against her wrist. Clutching his hand even more firmly, she turned her attention back to her brother and Harry followed suit.

“Erm… ahem,” George cleared his throat, “you’re all here today because…” he trailed off, gazing at the open grave beside him. “Ahem,” he tried again, “you’re here because my broth–because Fred–” He looked down at the withering grass and then back up at the expectant crowd. “Because three days ago–” His eyes were now slightly wide with his attempts at self-control. He seemed to be at a complete loss, caught in some unexpected maelstrom of emotion. “I’m sorry…” he muttered to no one in particular–although Harry thought George’s gaze was still lingering on Fred’s casket–and stalked back to his seat.

For a moment, everything was silent. Then there were the whispers. Everyone behind Harry seemed to be abuzz with comments–some sounded sympathetic, but others… Harry was sorely tempted to stand and curse the lot of them.

Still, no one made a move to go forward. Ginny tried to place a hand on George’s shoulder, but he shrugged her off. She winced and pulled back, sharing a look of concern with Ron, beside her.

Harry watched as George’s abandoned piece of parchment was blown unceremoniously off the podium and wafted down the aisle of chairs. It landed somewhere to his left, and his peripheral vision registered a small, pale hand reaching to pick it up. Turning for a better view, Harry saw that the hand belonged to Luna, who was now rising and walking unperturbedly towards the podium herself.

Harry was perplexed, but at least Luna’s action had made the speculative murmurings stop.

“That’s alright George,” she said serenely, “I think we all quite understand–it really was rather brave of you to try. After my Mum died, I didn’t want to talk about her for weeks…” she trailed off, her spacey gaze turning to the crowd at large. “I think, though, Fred ought to have a proper eulogy. So if you approve, I’ll just read what’s on this peace of parchment here. Dastardly hand writing, by the way, very reminiscent of Averack the Strange. Though I suppose he really was quite brilliant,” she finished, clearing her throat and adjusting her position to read, all the while smiling that tranquil smile that was somehow simultaneously cheerful and sad. Harry could tell that the mourners were a bit taken aback by Luna, but he was smiling in spite of himself. Harry turned to catch Ron’s eye, and found his friend looking a bit mystified, though a bemused smirk was definitely tugging at the corner of his mouth. And anyone or anything that could elicit a smile amongst the Weasleys today, Harry thought, couldn’t be such a bad thing.

“The funny thing about being a twin,” Luna began reading, adopting a somewhat more grounded tone than her usual airily distant treble, “is that there’s someone else out there that looks exactly like you. You always know which one is which of course, but everyone else–well, sometimes you can even fool your own mother. Losing my ear this year–well, it did prevent a lot of confusion, but it took away one of our oldest and most favorite jokes–which, of course, is what we loved to do most: joke. You all probably know at least one story of Fred and me variously playing pranks or wreaking havoc. For those of you with a wand up your arse who may not have appreciated our antics, you needn’t fear, because I’m not sure I know how to be funny without him.

“The other thing about looking alike is–well, when I look in the mirror, I see him. And this phantom in the mirror is the superior version of myself–Fred was braver, funnier, more confident, more outgoing… a better friend, better brother, better son. I suppose I should take comfort in the fact that he died in a courageous exemplification of all of those traits. But I wish he was here–and I know I can’t lay claim to missing him the most, but I will miss what he brought out in me–because I’m a better person for having known him. I swear I’ll try to live up to his memory by being that person even without him here. Maybe then you can see him in me without feeling glum, but instead be reminded of your pride in him and the person he was–the person he died being.”

As Luna finished, she placed the parchment thoughtfully on the podium. “You know,” she said slowly, regaining her usual character, “I think Fred will always be here to bring out the best in you–in all of us. Because when someone dies, I don’t think they don’t really leave entirely. There’s always something there to remind us of their presence in our lives. Today, for example, I was listening to these trees here–you all hear that giggling noise, I expect? Well, naturally I thought they were those pesky little enticlumps at first–they are quite common this time of year, Dad just had a long article done on how to prevent them… at any rate, after thinking about all of the laughter that Fred helped bring into the world–well, maybe they aren’t just enticlumps after all.”

And with that, Luna smiled that enigmatic smile once more and headed back to her seat. There was complete silence in her wake, but Harry sought out her gaze, wanting to thank her–even if no one else could cut through her oddities to realize that they should.

But someone else beat him to it–as Luna turned to walk down the small aisle to her chair, George’s arm reached out and grabbed her wrist. She turned, utterly calm, “I hope that was satisfactory.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “And Luna,” he added as she turned to go, “thank you.”

This brought out one of those rare, truly bright smiles in Luna–it was all the response that was necessary.

Harry felt his mind wandering as the rest of the funeral passed him by. Before he knew it, Ginny was tugging gently at his fingers to release her so that she might stand. He smiled, trying to play it off, and gave her hand a final, affectionate squeeze.

Harry and Hermione fell back as the Weasleys stood to receive the condolences of the other attendees. Harry spent a few minutes chatting with most of his old schoolmates who were present. Yet having just seen them a few days before, and given the solemnity of the occasion, he found they didn’t have much new to discuss–except for what funeral they had to go to next. In Harry’s case, it was for Lupin and Tonks, tomorrow morning. He could feel the dread he had felt that morning slowly building up momentum, threatening to crash down on him in a vortex of mad fury at any moment. It was not only his own sadness that created this feeling, but also the helplessness he felt at his inability to make any of this better for anyone else. Because it couldn’t get any better. They were all dead and there was absolutely nothing he could do.

Before too long, Harry, Hermione and the Weasleys were the only people remaining in the desolate cemetery. The Ministry officials had already dissolved their protective border and Vanished all of the chairs. Someone was supposed to be by later to cover the grave. With a last look at the lonely headstone, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley began leading the group back down the road to their home. Harry resumed his position at the back of their party, but quickly realized there was one less red head in front of him than there had been that morning.

“Where’s George?” Harry asked to no one in particular. Everyone stopped and looked around.

“’Ee iz still back ’zair,” Fleur said quietly, spotting George’s outline amongst the trees.

“Oh dear, I don’t think–” Mrs. Weasley said anxiously, turning her red, teary eyes upon her husband.

“I’ll stay here until he’s ready to go back,” Harry interjected. Finally, he thought, something he could actually do.

Mrs. Weasley still looked a bit doubtful.

Harry saw Ron, a few paces in front of him, whisper something to Hermione, who nodded. “I’ll wait here with Harry, Mum, you go ahead back.”

“Oh, well, alright then,” she gave in.

“Thank you, boys,” Mr. Weasley added, and they started trudging down the hill once more.

Harry and Ron made their way back to the gravesite, where they found George sitting on the edge of that gaping hole, his legs dangling over the side.

“Oh, it’s you two.”

“Well it’s nice to see you, as well,” Ron said, his ears turning a bit pink.

Harry cast a side-long glance at Ron that was very reminiscent of Hermione. “George, er, we’re just going to hang around back over here until you’re ready to go.”

“No need,” George said indifferently.

“Well, we’re going to,” Ron said with finality, and the two friends walked over to a couple of trees in silence.

Nothing was said. After about half an hour, Ron and Harry had both assumed sitting positions amongst the roots. After another hour or two, Ron was obviously fighting to stay alert, leaning his head against the cool bark of the tree trunk. Harry, however, was wide awake. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt a tension in the air, as if he was waiting for something dramatic to happen.

He was rewarded for his vigilance when George suddenly flung himself down into the open grave. He was shouting something, but Harry couldn’t quite make it out because it was drowned out by the sound of George beating against his brother’s coffin.

Ron had jerked up at the noise and was now standing in confusion, looking wide-eyed at Harry.

Harry, on the other hand, practically ran over to the grave in alarm. He was fixated on finding the safest way down there to where George was now kneeling, hammering his fists against the casket.

Just as Harry was about to give up and jump in himself, he felt a long arm reach around his torso and pull him back. He rounded on Ron, “What are you doing? We have to stop him from–from this–!” he finished, exasperated, gesturing his hand back behind him.

“No,” Ron said faintly. It was only then that Harry saw that Ron had tears brimming in his eyes. “No,” he said again, louder, more controlled, “we don’t. He’s just angry, Harry. Let him be angry.”

Harry was flabbergasted, although his concern was now split between both Weasleys. What about all those times he was admonished and berated for losing his temper? Yes, Harry thought, that was a perfectly valid point–“Why can he get angry and I can’t?” he asked, before he could think better of it.

Ron’s face was marred by an even more aggrieved expression, if that was possible. Harry immediately felt a rush of guilt wash over him. “I’m sorry, I know I was a complete prat all those times, I just… how can this be a good thing, then?” he questioned, trying to get the better of his indignation and trying not to yell over the continued bellows and strangled sobs behind him.

“Well…” Ron stared at his feet as he struggled to find the right words. “It’s just that you always took your anger out on everyone else,” Ron glanced up apologetically, “I’m sorry, but, you did, mate–and well, George is just mad at Fred–just listen to him…!” Ron finished pleadingly.

So Harry did listen, and finally realized what George was saying–what he was saying over and over and over again.

“How could you leave me?!”

Harry felt every last ounce of pride and self-righteous anger evaporate in the face of that grief and anguish. Not that he didn’t know what that felt like, but he’d never really expressed it in quite the same way–never really got in touch with who he was really mad at–no matter how irrational it might have seemed.

“See?” Ron was saying. “He’s just mad at Fred. I know,” he said, returning to that quieter voice, scuffing his shoe against the well-trodden grass, “I was a little mad at him too… Hermione says its one of the stages of grieving… or something.”

“She is a clever witch,” Harry said quietly, trying to get his friend to smile as he realized the truth in what Ron was trying to tell him. “She’d be pretty proud of you right now, I expect–but don’t expect me to relay one of those ridiculous snogs she’d lay on you.” This definitely brought a small grin to Ron’s face as his ears turned a brighter shade of magenta than they already were.

The two sat down again–though only a few feet from the grave this time–and enjoyed that perfectly comfortable silence that Harry appreciated so much. George eventually stopped pounding, and his wracking sobs eventually grew quieter and less frequent. Finally, a somber hush that seemed to be the very absence of sound filled the air.

“Er… could I get a little help here?” came George’s voice from the grave.

Harry and Ron both jumped to their feet and–bracing themselves carefully–made quick work of pulling George onto even ground once more. The three young wizards stood awkwardly for a moment, all looking determinedly at their feet.

“I’m sorry you blokes had to… erm… had to see… that,” George mumbled.

“See what?” Harry offered with a false brightness.

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about–and everyone’d believe that,” Ron added with a hesitant smile at his older brother.

This elicited a half-smirk from George, who threw an arm each around Harry and Ron’s shoulders. “What do you say we go get some of Mum’s cooking in our bellies?”

“Thank Merlin, I’m starving,” Ron admitted.

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at this. Clearing his throat, he suggested, “shall we just Apparate back then?”

“Erm… would you mind if we just walked back?” George asked quietly, his bravado somewhat faded.

“Oh, er, sure,” Harry said, feeling once again as though he’d missed out on reading some sort of how-to manual on these things.

“Thanks,” George said, looking at Harry and Ron in turn. With a final, brotherly clap on the back, he started walking down the hill. “Thank you both,” he finished softly, voice carrying away on the still-laughing breeze.

By the time the two youngest Weasley men and Harry reached the Burrow it was already growing dark. Harry could hear voices in the kitchen, but the den was empty. George didn’t stop walking and trudged straight up the stairs, leaving Harry and Ron staring after him.

“You alright there, mate?” Harry asked tentatively when Ron didn’t stop staring.

“Yea,” Ron said with a hearty sniff, “yea, I, erm… I just can’t…” He seemed to be coming out of a thick fog. “Where’s Hermione?”

Harry had to mentally shake himself at the abruptness of the question. But before he could answer–

“I’m right here,” came Hermione’s voice from the doorway to the back garden.

Ron’s head snapped in her direction and he strode determinedly over to her and caught her up in a passionate kiss. Harry turned away out of politeness and not a small amount of embarrassment.

“What was that for?” Harry heard Hermione say once she’d caught her breath.

“Never leave me,” was Ron’s muffled whisper, and Harry chanced a glance to see that Ron was speaking into Hermione’s hair as he held her. Harry noticed with a heart-wrenching pang that they were both crying.

“Never,” she whispered back. Perhaps noticing that Harry was still in the room, she took Ron’s hand and led him out into the yard.

Though he still felt a bit uncomfortable, Harry had to smile. He remembered a time not so long ago when he was worried about where his two best friends’ relationship was headed–and (somewhat selfishly, he now thought) what it would mean for him. Yet even though he knew it had only really been a few days, and that these were strange circumstances, he also knew that this was a long time coming–longer maybe than Harry himself had realized. But maybe it was a good thing after all… maybe he didn’t have to worry. Now his own love life, on the other hand–

“Oh!”

–speaking of which… Harry barely caught sight of Ginny’s startled face as she landed on the bottom stair, only to whip around and run back up again. Harry nearly called after her, but then thought better of it. She obviously didn’t want to see him just now…right? His feet, meanwhile, had led him unbidden to the foot of the stairs. He stopped there, however, as though a Shield Charm held him back. It was then that he noticed something at his feet that Ginny must have dropped in her hurry to leave.

Stooping down, Harry saw that it was a well-worn picture frame–the glass now cracked down the middle. “Reparo,” Harry whispered, his throat dry as he looked at the image behind the glass. Fred waved up at him silently, a broad, goofy grin stretched across his face.

Swallowing hard, Harry determinedly marched up the stairs. Maybe she didn’t want him there, but Harry didn’t care–he needed to be there, for his own sake as much as hers.

Knocking softly on Ginny’s door, Harry steeled himself for her response to his presence.

“Come in,” came the hesitant reply.

Harry turned the knob slowly and stood in the door frame for a moment before closing it behind him.

“Oh, Harry,” Ginny said–almost meekly–from the bed. “I’m sorry–before, I just…” she trailed off apologetically.

“I think you dropped something,” Harry said in response, still hovering by the door, and held the picture out in front of him.

Ginny’s eyes grew slightly wide, and even more sorrowful. It was then that Harry noticed that they were red-rimmed and a little puffy. Harry then realized he really hadn’t seen her cry at all in the past three days, and he immediately began to regret his decision to venture up here.

His feet, however, did not seem to be getting the message, as they were now carrying him to her side. He sat gingerly on the bed and offered the photograph back to her.

“I guess I just thought…” she began quietly, “I thought that if maybe… if I could see him again…talk to him–that it might make me feel a bit better…” she trailed off, biting her lower lip.

“Ginny…” Harry said softly, and dared to touch her wrist gingerly, soothingly.

This just seemed to send her over the edge, however, and she devolved into silent, shaking sobs. Harry watched, horrified, for a moment before slipping his arms around her shoulders and hugging her tightly. She melted into him, crying heartily onto his shirt. Harry found that he was crying now too, and watched as his tears melted into her vibrant hair, as though a fire was devouring some feeble attempt to quench it.

After a few minutes, she slowly pulled back gently, wiping her eyes. “I missed you,” she said, playfully leaning her shoulder into his arm.

“I missed you, too,” Harry said, repeating her motion.

They sat in silence for another moment before they both laughed uneasily.

“This didn’t used to be so hard,” Harry said, almost to himself.

“It doesn’t have to be…”

“No?”

“No.”

And now her face seemed dangerously close–so close that Harry could feel her breath flow across his neck. He desperately wanted to kiss her at that moment, but their conversation just a few days before held him back.

As if in slow motion, Harry watched her lips close the distance to his until they were caught in a soft, blissful release. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was enough to send Harry’s heart fluttering into his throat.

Ginny was still inches from him, now smiling tentatively. Harry returned the gesture, and slipped his fingers into hers. The simple touch made him feel grounded once more, as though he were once again standing on something solid and unshakable–so unlike the instability of the infinite unknown he had endured for the past year.

The pair collapsed onto their backs, staring at the ceiling in silence. It was a few minutes before Ginny spoke.

“Do you think it’s true, what Luna said?”

“What about?” Harry asked, though he registered dimly that at his very core, he believed in the absolute infallibility of everything Luna had said that day.

“About Fred still being here, in a way…”

Harry considered this for a moment, trying to think about the best way to respond. He immediately thought of his time in the forest just a few nights before when he’d been surrounded by his parents and Sirius and Remus. They’d known just what to say to him, as though they knew him. He might have excused the latter two, but his parents–how could they know him so well? It was as though they’d been by his side all along. Yet Harry wasn’t sure he could explain all of this to Ginny just yet–it was hard enough to do so with Ron and Hermione, and they knew all of the supporting details. Instead, he settled on a more distant, though no less distinct memory.

“Did I ever tell you why that veil in the Ministry 5th year–why it… why it was so…” he searched for the right word as if it was written on the ceiling above.

“Captivating?” Ginny supplied.

Of course, Harry thought, she’d seen how he’d acted. “Well, I could have sworn that I could hear people talking… Luna told me later that she thought it was people that had… er… had died. I didn’t know at the time if I thought she was right or if she was just, well, loony, but… there was someone there, I just know it. And there have been a couple of times,” Harry continued honestly but evasively, “that I felt like my parents were… were supporting me, somehow–as though there was still some connection… as though, perhaps… perhaps, in some way, they’re always with me.” Harry breathed deeply, not wanting to look at Ginny, thinking he hadn’t made any sense–or worse, that he sounded just as absurd as Luna so often did.

“Thank you for telling me that, Harry,” Ginny said tenderly.

Her voice compelled Harry to turn his head and look at her–he saw fresh tears brimming in her eyes, but there was also a distinct smile lighting up her features.

“Erm, you’re welcome,” Harry said, a bit surprised by her reaction. After a slight hesitation, he kissed her forehead and sat back up on the bed. Reaching for Fred’s picture–abandoned on the pillows–he cautiously suggested, “what do you say we go put this back, together?”

“I’d like that,” Ginny said, wiping her cheeks once more and taking his hand.

As they descended the stairs, Harry could hear hushed voices from the den below. They emerged on the bottom stair to find Hermione and Ron conversing quietly on the sofa, his head in her lap, their hands delicately intertwined. Upon the entrance of Harry and Ginny, Ron shot suddenly into a sitting position, with a slightly guilty expression on his face. Hermione was obviously a bit startled, but before she had a chance to shoot Ron one of her patented looks, he’d slid a hand around her shoulders and she settled, seemingly satisfied, into the crook of his arm. No, Harry thought while trying not to laugh, he definitely didn’t need to worry anymore–at least not too much.

Ginny replaced Fred’s photograph on the mantle, while Harry went to claim a space on the couch. Hermione raised her eyebrows at him as he approached, with a surreptitious glance in Ginny’s direction. Although Harry still felt the weight of the day on him, he couldn’t help but smile broadly in response. Hermione returned his smile, and even Ron allowed a small grin.

“Budge up, you two,” Ginny said teasingly to Hermione and Ron as she sought a place next to Harry on the couch. “No need to take up all the seating.”

The four friends laughed slightly–though with considerably more heart than they had in recent days.

“So what were you two whispering about?” Ginny said, attempting to inject some of the usual playful acerbity into her tone.

Hermione’s cheeks flushed and Ron’s ears turned red. “Well, you know… things,” Ron stammered defensively. “Say,” he continued, trying to change the subject, “have we told you yet how we broke into the Ministry this past year?”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed, “don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, dearest brother. Luckily for you, your decoy story is much too interesting to pass up–honestly, you three snuck into the Ministry–during the day?” She looked at Harry for confirmation, who nodded, grinning.

“You lot managed to break into the Ministry–the Ministry of Magic?” came Charlie’s skeptical voice from the kitchen doorway.

Percy was right on his heels. “Kingsley mentioned a few holes in our security after your meeting the other day, but I can scarcely believe...”

“Oh, believe it, Perce,” Ron said, not able to completely rid his voice of pride.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley now joined the family in the den, closely followed by Bill and Fleur, who were carrying trays of tea and biscuits. “What’s this about breaking into the Ministry?” Mr. Weasley asked.

“Actually, we both talked with you there, Mr. Weasley,” Harry said with a grin.

“What? You did?” Mr. Weasley asked, completely befuddled.

“Not that you three aren’t spectacular,” Bill was saying before Harry could respond, “but how in Merlin’s name did you pull that off without anyone noticing?”

“Well it wasn’t completely without notice,” Hermione now piped up sheepishly.

This elicited rounds of questions from everyone in the room until Fleur shot a few sparks off the end of her wand. “Sorry,” she said airily at the nine pairs of eyes now directed at her, “but honestly, zair are too many of you,” she added apologetically. “Why don’t you just start at zee beginning, hmm?”

“Alright then, the beginning” Ron said, rubbing his hands together and launching into the whole adventure of that day–with a few contributions from Harry and admonishments from Hermione not to embellish the facts, which were quite harrowing enough on their own.

Ron had nearly reached the end of his tale when he was interrupted by a crash and a yelp from upstairs.

Mrs. Weasley, who had been mostly silent up to this point, was on her feet immediately. “George, dear?” she was calling up the stairwell, “George are you alright?”

It was completely silent for a moment, in which Harry at least felt a slimy guilt begin to wrap itself around his gut for allowing himself to be distracted from the day’s sorrow. But George’s voice soon echoed down the stairs, “Fine, Mum! I’m fine!” The voice was soon replaced by the real thing as George came sheepishly down the stairs, looking none the worse for wear, except for slightly-singed eyebrows.

“What on earth…?” Mrs. Weasley started to say.

“It’s alright, Mum,” George soothed, holding up a lime green bowler that Harry found distinctly familiar, if not for the burnt-out hole in the top. “It was an early product that Fr–” his voice caught in his throat, and he took a deep breath, “that Fred was trying to develop back in our 5th year. Supposed to catch fire–harmless fire,” he added at the stunned looks, “when you put it on. Designed after the one that git Fudge was always wearing, you know,” he added, spinning the hat around on his finger. “I found it up in the closet just now–completely forgotten about it…” he trailed off, staring at the old hat.

“You ought to have made a matching hair ribbon for girls–after the one that old bat Umbridge wore,” Hermione muttered before anyone had gotten up the nerve to respond. She looked up, horror-struck, when she realized she’d spoken aloud.

“That can’t have been Hermione?” George said, a tiny hint of his old mocking tone evident in his voice. “Not the same Hermione who was constantly after us for selling our new products?”

Hermione’s cheeks reddened, “Well…!” was all she could manage in her defense.

George chuckled, which had the odd effect of revealing an until-then unnoticed tension enveloping the room–and summarily releasing it.

“I couldn’t let you test those Puking Pastilles out on innocent First Years,” Hermione said, regaining some of her composure.

“You were testing on First Years?” Mrs. Weasley said with shock as she regained her seat. It was a reaction, Harry thought, that almost seemed like normal.

“Well, you see, Mum…” George began, taking a seat amongst his family. Before long, everyone was reminiscing about the twins’ past exploits. Harry just sat back and watched the animation that he loved so much in this family–and hadn’t quite realized that he’d missed. Everyone–even Molly–was laughing at the memories shared of Fred and George pulling pranks on their brothers, developing new tricks, flying out of Hogwarts on their broomsticks… It didn’t escape Harry’s notice that the smiles were hiding tear-filled eyes, but it seemed to him that this was also the most at peace he’d seen the Weasleys in the past few days. Harry recognized that they still had an awfully long way to go–if, indeed, they could ever entirely get over the loss of a son and brother. It made Harry feel very tired. Yet this at least seemed to be step in the right direction.

Eventually, yawns began to outnumber the laughs. Slowly but surely, everyone began to quit the den in favor of their beds. Finally, it was only Harry, Hermione, Ron and Ginny who remained. They sat, talking intermittently between silent musings until Harry noticed that both Ron and Ginny were asleep.

“Hermione?” Harry whispered, staring ahead of him.

“Yes?” she yawned dozily.

“How do you do it? How do you make him feel better…how do you make any of them feel better?”

Hermione was silent for moment. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, Harry,” she said finally, reading between the lines of his questions.

“I don’t know that I’m doing anything, that’s the problem,” Harry muttered.

“Of course you are,” she yawned again, “you’ve been there for George, for Ginny–for the whole family, actually.”

Harry was silent, still not quite believing her. “You can’t fix this, Harry,” she continued quietly, “you can’t make their grief go away–it’s your grief, too, after all. You just have to… have to share in it with them, help alleviate even the slightest bit of burden wherever you can. And you’re doing all of that, whether you realize it or not.”

“I am?” Harry said, finally looking hopefully at Hermione.

“Mm-hmm,” Hermione smiled, her eyes drooping closed as she snuggled into a comfortable position on Ron’s chest.

Harry sat pondering Hermione’s words for some time after that. He wasn’t sure if he really had done all that she said, but he knew he’d keep trying to live up to the image she’d created.

Harry’s eyes scanned the room once more, thinking of sleep. It was then that he caught sight of the still waving picture of Fred on the mantle. Without stopping to listen to the more rational side of his brain, Harry carefully dislodged Ginny from his shoulder and rested her head on the arm of the couch.

Quickly crossing the distance to the fireplace, Harry leaned forward and addressed the photograph in a whisper, “Well, this is… odd,” he said honestly, thinking he always seemed to be looking at photos of people who were no longer living. “I’m not sure what I’m doing, to be honest with you–I’m sure if you were here you’d tell me I’m a complete nutter. But Ginny thought it might help her… come to think of it, I’m not entirely sure it did…” Harry was on the verge of turning back around, but something in that picture compelled him to stay.

“So it’s Lupin and Tonks’ funeral tomorrow…” Harry said morosely, remembering again that today was just the first in a long line of services. “Though I reckon if we can get through today, well… Now I don’t want you to get a fat head at that idea,” Harry went on with a half-smile, “it’s not as though you’re more important, mind–but, well, they all miss you and… and I miss you,” Harry added, staring at the soot-covered hearth. “But I want you to know that I’m going to be looking after them–all of them. I think… I think I’m beginning to understand how to do that. You know, everyone keeps telling me I’m not responsible for everything that happened… well, maybe not, but either way, I’m going to stick around because I want to, not out of some feeling of obligation–because, well, I do care about them… After all, your family is my family, right?” Harry finished uncertainly, fixing his gaze back on the photograph.

As Harry watched Fred wave on out of the picture, he could have sworn that he caught Fred’s eye, that this pictorial version was somehow smiling directly at him. Abandoning all pretenses, Harry embraced the feeling of reassurance rising in his chest–and smiled in return.