That Which Has Died, and That Which Never Will
Warnings: Character death
Word Count: 777
Disclaimer: Please see my profile for details.
A/N: The second and final challenge response, from the livejournal community hp(insert underscore)ficchallenge. This one made me sad.
Fred was not a serious person. By nature, he was a troublemaker, a prankster, a joker. He was fun and mocking and annoying, in that infuriating way that got under your skin and just bothered bothered bothered until you snapped and either laughed or attacked.
He and George were like the twins from Hell. It got to the point where not even Molly Weasley could tell them apart. They had spent so much time as each other, the line had blurred so much, that even THEY didn't know who was Fred and who was George, and as soon as they figured it out they had switched six different times and it didn't matter anyway.
They weren't as stupid as everyone thought. But Percy was the insufferable know-it-all, and Bill was the oldest, and Charlie got into the most fights, and Ginny was the only girl, and Ron was treated like the baby even though he was a year Ginny's senior, and that just left the twins to be the disruptive and irritating ones.
So they didn't want to be praised as another Percy or Bill, because in a family as large as the Weasley's, you had to stake your claim and keep it.
But that didn't mean they weren't inventive and creative and bloody brilliant. They just made a profit of it.
But for all their jokes and their inventions they weren't invincible. They weren't untouchable. They weren't ...
They weren't un-killable.
Fred swallowed the lump in his throat. He had survived. You-Know ... Voldemort had damn near gotten them all, but Harry had showed up at the last second, full of anger and sadness and bitterness. He had offed You-Voldemort damnit, and the entire Wizarding community was practically falling over themselves to express their gratitude.
But Harry didn't care. He was crippled with guilt because he hadn't saved them all. His friends and surrogate family had died.
All that was left was Harry, Neville, Fred, and Hermione.
The rest were dead.
Neville had pulled together the resistance and rallied against Y-Voldemort when he tried to take over Hogwarts. He was damn near slaughtered with the rest of them, but a fancy healing spell from Hermione had saved him at the last minute. But a Death Eater in the throes of his own death had sent one last killing curse before he died.
Ron had jumped in front of Hermione and saved her life ... by ending his own.
The Burrow had been invaded by Death Eaters, and Mum, Dad and Bill were overwhelmed by numbers. Charlie went on a rampage with Norbert soon after, and cut Voldemort's army in half. Percy had been murdered in his sleep during a raid at the Ministry.
And George ...
Fred wiped his cheeks roughly. The death of his family was an open wound, making living day-to-day a chore, making him cry whenever he thought of one of them.
But he and George had been in the middle of Diagon Alley when the Death Eaters went on a rampage and burned the place to the ground. How he survived the fire and the battle and his brother didn't was a mystery, and painful one. He just didn't know. He had found the ... the charcholed corpse under half a ton of rubble, only the dirty, bloody head sticking out. But that image was firmly shoved in the box in his mind that held the images of war he would rather not remember. Ever.
But he would always remember his family and friends, who gave their lives to save other lives, including his own. The pain would never fade, the wound would never heal, and he would never stop crying for the lost lives of his nearest and dearest.
He would also remember every smile, every word, every touch. He would remember family dinners and secret passageways and failed attempts at homework and Quidditch matches in the sun, in the rain, in the snow, in the wind. He would remember all the pranks and the jokes and the inventions. He would remember the smiles and the laughs and the tears and the yells.
He would keep them alive in his heart with memory. He would live on instead of giving up and dying and taking the easy way out (no life, no pain). He would live not for his own self, but for them. They would never be forgotten.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, Fred heard his mother's scolding, saw his brother's grin, felt his father's touch.
And he would weep, because the line between happiness and sadness is as thin as the one between life and death.
Note to self: do not fall so deeply into your character's minds that you cry while writing about their family's deaths. 'Tis not a good thing.
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