The First Day

They gathered on the staircase, just outside the kitchen. Ron on the fourth step from the floor, Hermione on the third, sitting between his knees, her back against his chest. Percy sat next to Ron, and George huddled two steps above them, Ginny next to him. It was entirely too quiet for Ginny. The Burrow had never been this quiet and hushed. It was always full of music from the wireless, Molly shouting at someone, explosions from Fred and George's room. Even the ghoul was quiet. A creak on the stairs above them, made Ginny jump. She looked up and saw Harry standing uncertainly on the landing, before he sat down on the top step. He saw Ginny looking at him, and looked away, his already pale face whitening even more. Ginny stiffened slightly and looked down at the riser under her feet. He hadn't talked to her since he woke up the first time. She knew it wasn't just her he was avoiding. He'd been avoiding everybody.

When they got home the day before, Molly had put him in Bill's old room, rather than the attic with Ron. Harry had at least come down for dinner, but like everyone else, just picked at it. Immediately after the table had been cleared, Harry slipped back into Bill's room and this was the first time he'd been out since.

Snatches of conversation drifted from the kitchen, where Molly, Arthur, and Andromeda were trying to organize the funerals. They could hear the shuffle of paper and parchment, scratching of quills, the soft clink of teacups being replaced in saucers. They had heard Charlie come in a few minutes earlier. 'I don't know,' Molly sighed. 'Arthur, what do you think?'

'I'm no good with flowers, Molly. You pick.'

The conversation descended into indistinct murmurs until they heard Arthur's voice come up the stairs. 'I can't do this. I can't pick a headstone for my child...'

'This one.' It was Charlie. 'This one, with his name and dates. That's it.'

George's head lifted and he stood up suddenly, and tore down the stairs, stumbling into the kitchen. 'And put "Mischief Managed" underneath,' he said hoarsely. There was a pause, and then they heard him add pleadingly, 'Please, Dad? It has to be that way. I promised him...' George's voice broke and the next thing they heard was the sound of the back door slamming shut.

'I'll go after him,' Percy said. 'Doesn't have his wand, he can't go far.'

'How do you know he hasn't got his wand?' Ron asked.

Percy allowed a smug look to come into his eyes. 'Because I switched his out with one of the fake ones while he was in the bathroom earlier.'

Ginny found herself breaking out in giggles, bordering on hysteria. 'That's something Fr -' She caught herself. 'He would have done.'

Percy reached down and stroked the top of her head. 'Yeah, I know...' He lightly went down the stairs and followed George out the back door.

Ginny looked up at the landing. It was empty.

*****

It was bright. Too bright. Too sunny. Too cheerful. Too everything. Ginny stood next to George, her arm around his waist. George hadn't spoken since Wednesday afternoon. Percy stood on the other side, one hand under George's elbow. A wizard was speaking in front of a simple coffin, covered in pansies, columbines, and daisies. Arthur disengaged himself from Molly's tight grasp of his hand, and went to say a few words about his son. Ginny didn't hear what he said. The words weren't important. It was the cadence of his voice. The way he stopped every so often, and drew in a shaky breath, or how it sounded strangled a few times. Ginny knew Arthur wouldn't weep here. He would do it later. After he'd seen to everyone else. She knew Molly would collapse in utter misery here, and once they got home, force feed them all, even though nobody had eaten much in days.

The wizard officiating waved his wand gently, and Fred's coffin slowly descended into the earth. George was shaking with the effort to stay upright. Molly was crying in earnest, not bothering to wipe the tears from her face. Ginny could see the damp patches on her mother's robes where the tears had dripped. Arthur stooped and picked up a handful of earth and scattered it over Fred's coffin. The soft sounds of the earth dropping to the wood stood in harsh contrast to the sounds of Molly's grief. Arthur bent to whisper in her ear, and helped her scatter her own handful over Fred.

One by one, the other family members stepped forward, took a handful of earth, and like Arthur, gently swept their open hand over the open grave. Ginny's vision swam with unshed tears as she stood on the edge of Fred's grave, watching the dark crumbs of earth land on the bright flowers. George came to stand next to her, tears falling unheeded down his cheeks. He stood with the earth tightly clenched in his fist, suspended over the gaping hole in the ground, unwilling to open his fingers. Ginny whispered, 'You don't have to.' George shook his head, his shaggy hair flying, offering a glimpse of the hole where his ear used to be. One finger at a time, George uncurled his fist and tilted his palm down.

Ginny looked across the expanse of the cemetery. Harry stood with his hands shoved in his pockets, staring straight ahead. He seemed to be trying his hardest to disappear into the trunk of the tree behind him. She took George's arm, and led him away, and as she did so, the wizard waved his wand, and the earth settled into the open grave, creating a neat mound. He waved his wand again and the simple polished granite headstone bearing the words, "Frederick Gideon Weasley, 1 April 1978 - 2 May 1998, Mischief Managed" appeared.

They filed out of the cemetery, and began to head back to the Burrow, the guests following behind. Harry watched them, seemingly impassive, but inside he was shaking as hard as George had been. He waited until the cemetery was deserted, and he was the only one left. Stepping forward, he crouched down next to the headstone and reached out with a trembling hand, tracing the letters of Fred's name. I should have done it alone. I shouldn't have had anyone else help. I should have... If I hadn't done it like this, Fred would still be alive... Harry's stomach clenched in a knot and he felt tears well up in his eyes. Inhaling strongly through his nose, he sat back on his heels, rearranging himself so his knees were pulled to his chest. He rocked back and forth, his face buried in his knees. I'm so sorry, Fred. I didn't want this. I never wanted any of this to happen. It's my fault all of you are dead. I took you away from your parents. God, they must hate me right now. Gin does. I see it every time she looks at me. I don't know what to say to any of them, because sorry doesn't seem to be good enough...

*****

George sat in a corner of the sitting room, a bottle of butterbeer he didn't want cradled between his hands. He glanced around the room, thinking he was going to see Fred from the corner of his eye. Still. Even after he knew Fred wasn't coming back. Everybody bore signs of grief. Everyone but Charlie. Charlie seemed to be unaffected by it. It made George's blood boil. How can he just sit there? 'What the hell is the matter with you?' he bellowed, throwing the bottle across the room. It hit the opposite wall and shattered, spewing amber liquid all over the wall and floor.

Bill laid a hand on George's shoulder. 'George...'

George irritably shrugged Bill's hand off. 'Geroff me, Bill.' He whirled around to Charlie. 'Your brother's dead! He's not even cold in his grave yet, and you can just sit there and bloody draw! Damn you, Charlie, can't you even manage to squeeze out one effing tear for your brother?' Swiftly George yanked the sketchbook from Charlie's lap and began tearing pages from it.

Charlie leapt from his seat. 'George, no, don't, please...' he said, stricken.

'Why?' shouted George, throwing the book to the floor. 'Is there something that important in there?' Charlie just bit his lip and looked at the welter of charcoal sketches littering the floor. George stomped to the back door. 'That's what I thought,' he spat.

Charlie stood in the middle of the sitting room, his eyes fixed on a flower woven into the rug. He couldn't hear Fleur's whispered Reparo over the rush of blood in his ears. She knelt to retrieve the fallen book and handed it to Charlie with a look of sympathy in her eyes. 'Thanks,' he mumbled.

She gave him a shrewd look. 'You need zome air,' she pronounced, pulling him out into the front garden. She settled gracefully on the grass under a tree and patted the ground next to her. 'Zeet.'

Charlie dropped to the ground next to her. 'I'm sorry...'

Fleur waved off his apologies. 'Non. No need to apolozhize to me.' She held out her hand. 'May I? Zee ze book?'

'Uh... Sure,' Charlie muttered, handing the sketchbook to her, feeling like he was about to dance around naked in front of her.

Fleur paged through the book. 'Eet ees good,' she told him.

'Thanks.'

Fleur closed the book, and gave it back to Charlie. 'Zometimes, people, zey do not cry at ze funeral, no?'

'I dunno,' Charlie replied shrugging.

'You did not.'

Fleur sat quietly for a moment. 'My grandmuzzer died during my feefth year of school. I... I could not cry at her funeral, eizer. I was too stunned.' She squeezed Charlie's hand and stood up. 'Zhust because you cannot cry, it does not mean it does not hurt. Zometimes, eet means eet hurts too much to cry.' With that, she walked back into the house.

*****

George ran back to the cemetery, barely able to see from the tears in his eyes. He barreled through the gate and threw himself on the raw earth of Fred's grave, fingers digging into the soil. 'We were supposed to go together,' he sobbed. 'You promised me we'd do everything together. You weren't supposed to die without me!' George sobbed harder, nearly screaming, deep, wrenching wails pouring from his throat.

He wept until his throat was sore and his eyes were so swollen, he could barely see. George slid his body off the grave, and lay with his head pillowed on where he imagined Fred's shoulder to be. He closed his eyes against the pounding in his head, and fell asleep.

The sun shining directly in George's eyes woke him up the next morning. He sat up stiffly, rubbing the crick from his neck, blinking in the bright sunshine. He heard a rustle behind him and slowly turned, the blood freezing in his veins. Not all the Death Eaters were at Hogwarts and not all of them had been captured. He went limp with relief to find it was Charlie. 'How long have you been there?' he asked gruffly.

'All night,' Charlie said simply. He held a piece of paper toward George. 'That's what I was drawing yesterday.'

George looked down at the image of him and Fred as five-year olds, sporting jagged haircuts. 'I remember this,' he breathed. 'We nicked Mum's sewing scissors and started hacking away. Fred got upset because his hair was shorter than mine and we didn't look alike anymore.'

'Yeah.' Charlie gulped. 'I miss him, too, George,' he said in a throaty croak, blinking rapidly and looking away into the sunrise, to hide the tears that sprang to his eyes.

*****

Harry stood behind a group of people, fingernails digging into his palms. This time, there were two. Two coffins containing people who would never see their son grow up. A spray of deep purple wolfsbane rested on one of them. Harry's eyes squeezed shut, as a long-ago echo came into his head, of his first day of Potions his first year, along with it, a remembrance of his promise to McGonagall to bury Snape.

Teddy wouldn't stop crying, no matter what Andromeda tried. Harry didn't blame him. He wanted to cry like that himself, but he didn't think anyone would comfort him. His fault. His fault Andromeda had lost her only child. His fault she had lost her husband. His fault her grandchild was orphaned. What were you thinking, Remus? What were both of you thinking, leaving your baby like that? You should have stayed home... He clenched his jaw painfully to suppress the choking sobs that hovered under the surface. Remus had been his last link to his father. When he closed his eyes at night, he could see Remus' still hand spread over the stone floor, his wedding ring glinting in the light of a flickering torch.

'Oh, God,' Harry mouthed, as he bent double, retching. When he straightened with a gasp, the officiating wizard had already waved his wand and the coffins were neatly covered by earth, graves crowned with a single large headstone. Like Fred's funeral the day before, Harry waited until the cemetery had cleared, before going up to the graves. His fingers traced each word carved into the blue-veined marble. 'Remus John Lupin, 10 March 1960 - 2 May 1998, Nymphadora Juliet Lupin, 23 March 1973 - 2 May 1998.' He dropped to the ground, unable to hold the sobs back any longer, shoulders shaking with the effort it took to silence them.

Rising to his feet, he stumbled from the cemetery, shoving through the throng of people standing around the Tonks' house. He came to a stop in front of Andromeda. 'Your sister saved my life,' he blurted. 'Narcissa. She lied to Riddle and told him I was dead. She stood up to Bellatrix,' he babbled. 'I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry about Mr. Tonks, and Tonks, and Remus. It was my fault. They shouldn't have been at the castle. They shouldn't have had to die because of me...' Harry caught his breath and darted from the house, running. He finally stopped when the stitch in his side became painful enough to keep him from being able to breathe properly. He didn't know where he was, and he didn't want to go back to Andromeda's house. He Disapparated to the edge of the Burrow and trudged from the end of the paddock to the house and slipped inside. He staggered up the stairs to the first floor, and fell into the bed of Bill's old room. Harry pulled the blanket up to his shoulder and curled on his side, facing the wall.

Voices wafted into the house as someone ran inside and slowly opened the bedroom door. Harry shut his eyes, feigning sleep, and the door closed. 'Mum!' Ron called softly, clattering down the stairs. 'Mum, he's here...'

Harry rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling.

*****

Harry hunched his shoulders against the chilly rain that fell and snaked down the collar of his shirt. Rain fits this one.

There was no eulogy. No warm words of remembrance. No one else, save for Harry and the wizened wizard who had done the memorial last week.

He glanced up and could see his parents' gleaming white headstones from where he stood. Snape's was in line with his mother's. It was the least I could do. Let him be with Mum. Sort of.

'Mr. Potter?' the wizard stood at Harry's elbow. 'It's done.'

Harry looked down at the grave at his feet - the burial was finished. A small slab of black marble bore Snape's name and the dates of his birth and death. And the phrase -Ne obliviscaris - never forget - engraved underneath.

It was there to remind Harry what he owed Snape. He owed him his very life.