Wizarding One Shots

F R E D • W E A S L E Y

T h e   F a l l

T H E T H U N D E R R O A R E D
across the Scottish highland sky. Bringing the storm with it.

From my perch atop the Astronomy Tower, I gazed at the changing colors of the lightning bolts; captivated.

Within its entirety, the symphony brought on by the violent, blackened sky entranced me so.

I could hear the olde ghosts, those with tragic deaths related to the storm, relive their last moments within these castle walls. I speak not of those ghosts like Sir Nicholas or the Baron. I speak of those too old to see. Those that even the others have forgotten about.

I cannot.

I live with them in these moments.

Their highland music ringing in my ears. From a time where there were muggles here.

Here is where I close my eyes. Here is where I remember.

Tonight I wear my dressing gown. I hope not to wear it again.

The silk material bellows out into the night, carrying me forward. The highland march becomes the tune to which I walk this abandoned isle.

The scores bellow me have banded together at last. Voldemort is no more. He is worse off than an olde ghost. One which I am glad not to see.

I feel it again, the power in my blood. It is strengthened by the land and tempered by the storm.

I am the Scottish Thistle.

My hair frames my face, and I know that I am home.

But I am far from welcome here any longer.

This storm has been sent by the Old Ones to cleanse these hallowed halls of the freshly strewn blood that curses them.

I cannot find a reason to stay behind. I know that if I go now, the wind will take me far from here. But if I don't and I commit this act, I shall stay here and relive these hallowed horrors.

My toes feel out the air of the night. The stars kiss my skin.

For all this beauty that surrounds me, I am broken up within.

He used to tell me that I was like a Scottish Song. Beautiful and warm.

What am I now?

A Scottish Song, dead and bare.

His laughter ring out for the faeries of the Black Forrest to hear, but they will hear of it no longer.

With his laughter died my ties to this land.

His red hair used to tangle about my fingers. Eyes filled with mischief like the wee ones. Lest I forget his smile, like the tender mercies of the Olde Fae whom mother many young babes left to the woods.

Woe befalls my heart as I remember the sun haired lad!

Merciless becomes my grief.

And so I fall.

Past the screaming hordes and into his everlasting embrace.

Broken and broken, they lay us side by side.

Frederick Weasley and his bride.