Left Behind (A Fred & George fanfic)

24. When Guilt Tears You Apart

 At least everyone was going to be OK, Fred thought. Harry and Hermione would manage easily, Bill had Fleur, Charlie had... Well... Whatever made him happy. His parents had one another, even his mum would laugh again, she'd promised that, and she wasn't one to break a promise like that.

He looked at the pile of sweaters his dad had left on something that looked like an old – ancient – cupboard which was lying on its side in a corner of the attic. All the different colours, all with a huge 'F' in the middle, one for every year he hadn't been there to unwrap them at Christmas eve. He wished he could take them with him, every single one of the sweaters. Of course he knew he couldn't, but even a half-dead boy could dream, right?

The next person to say their goodbyes took such a long time that Fred started to think they might not come at all, that they'd forgotten about him or something like that.

Since he had to wait anyway, and since he couldn't do much else for he was bound to the stone and couldn't really touch anything, he started singing.

Why? He had no clue. He felt so inexplicably happy about his current situation; everyone was going to be okay, he got to talk to all of them one last time and, even though he wasn't sure whether he'd see his friends and family ever again, he felt kind of glad about leaving. Leaving that awful, depressing feeling behind, that is.

He even managed to convince himself that this was for the better for everyone, including George. Being stuck with a vague image of his lost brother wouldn't help him any further in life. And yes, Fred called himself things like 'a vague image' by now, he'd be gone by sunset anyway – at least, that's what he thought – , better use his last hours to make a complete idiot of himself, right?

He sang 'A Cauldron Of Hot, Strong Love' from the top of his lungs, nobody could hear him anyway. The song, even though it was terrible, reminded him of home, of the Burrow. He missed his home, he wished he could've just gone there one more time. If only it was to de-gnome the garden or something silly like that, he just wanted to feel home again.

He suddenly remembered the old clock that had always been standing in the kitchen, the one that didn't tell you the time, but the place where every member of the Weasley family was at that particular moment. I wonder what place it says I am right now, Fred thought.

He stopped singing when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Glad that no one could've possibly heard him sing a Celestina Warbeck song, he watched the door to see who would come visit him next.

He was surprised when he saw that Percy shuffled into the room, his head bent down and his eyes on the floor.

Percy had changed a lot.

His hair wasn't as neatly combed and taken care of as it used to be. He didn't wear horn-rimmed glasses anymore, but a different, slightly smaller, spectacle frame. The real difference wasn't to see in his appearance, though. It was in the way he acted, the way he stood and walked. There was no sign whatsoever of his usual 'dignified matter', or, as he and George used to call it, his 'megalomania'.

No, Percy didn't look pompous in any way at that moment. He looked rather shy and sad, not watching where he was going as he was only staring at his own shoes.

Well, this was going to be an awkward talk.

Suddenly, Percy lifted his head and took a shaky breath. Still slightly crouched, he reached for the stone, looked at it for a second and then turned it around in his hand, not bothering to close his eyes.

He blinked a few times, his expression suddenly flabbergasted, so Fred reckoned he could see him now.

“Ey Perce, long time no see.” He said flatly, not knowing exactly how to act around this new version of his brother.