I'm trying to get back into writing, and I wrote a "thing" on the spur of the moment. It's not very polished. Bear with me.
Not mine. Obviously. Just borrowing from JKR.
It is very dark.
There should be pain, but there isn't. Something is wrong.
Someone is shaking him and calling his name. He tries to respond, but his voice doesn't seem to work. He tries to lift his arm or to grin, to show whoever it is calling to him that it is fine, that he is okay, but nothing is working.
Now he is getting frightened.
What is happening to him?
They move him then, hands on him, moving him, dragging him somewhere. They are talking, but he can't make out the words. It is still very dark.
He is alone for a long time in the engulfing dark. Sound catches on the edge of his consciousness, muffled, angry. Movement is beyond him, speech is beyond him. Even thought is fading into nothingness.
Perhaps he sleeps for a while.
Movement, movement and voices all around him. He thinks he hears his father's voice, but when he turns to talk to him, he sees nothing, only blurred outlines moving, a long way away. Someone is touching him, there is something wet on his face. He lifts his hand to wipe it away, he feels his hand move, he feels the touch on his face, but the wetness is still there. More voices, someone shouting, a girl screams. Was that his sister? He turns his head to see, but it is like looking through water.
The floor under his back is hard. He sits up, struggles to his feet and begins to walk. There are a lot of people here – wherever here is – but he cannot make out their faces. They do not react to him at all, although once he sees a hand lifted out to him as he passes, and he sees clearly and very briefly grey eyes which look into his with a slightly puzzled expression.
He turns back to where he was. Are the blurred figures becoming clearer? They are certainly more distinct, and hair, as vividly red as his own, is easily made out now. Why could he not see it before? Two tall red-headed figures, linked together, half turn as he passes. He should know them.
He is tired, and he drops to the floor cross-legged.
And stops on a gasp of realisation and fear and – no. Please no. Not this. No.
His eyes are level with another pair, and he knows without being told that they are a mirror of his own. The face is as familiar as his own, because it is his own. His vision clears and he sees his twin kneeling with tears on his face, his hands cradling a figure lying on the floor before him.
He does not want to look but he cannot help himself.
Fred Weasley sees his own body lying on the floor of the Great Hall. He looks around and sees his family, his mum and dad, his brothers and sister. He sees George.
And he understands.
There is a voice now. It is vaguely familiar, like something remembered from when he was very small. It sounds a bit like Bill, but he knows it is not Bill.
"You can stay if you like. Or you can move on. It's up to you." The voice is gentle, but quite firm.
He knows he has a choice to make, and that the obvious easy choice is not the right one. He looks round at his family, and wonders why he did not see them clearly before. They are wonderful. He does not want to leave them
Then he turns away. Somewhere far away, and yet quite near, two tall red-headed men are waiting and watching him. One smiles encouragingly. The other holds out his hand.
"Come on, Freddie, it's time to go."
Ice creams in Diagon Alley; races in the orchard; hot chocolate in bed ("Don't tell your mum!"); a toy dragon wrapped in red paper. He knows who they are now.
He takes a last look at his family, drinking them in. Remembering. He walks over to his twin and puts a hand on his shoulder. George does not move.
Then he turns his back on him and goes to join his uncles.