[Fred hadn't meant to say it. As much as everything else about the two, it's just second nature to speak of George as though he's right there with them. He's meant to be, should be, and his absence is more symbolic and meaningful than Fred is at all comfortable with. But he can't let that show, won't, and his grip around her only minorly tightens as they begin to Disapparate. Whether George is here or not, he's got family. He's got Ginny, and that's loads more than he's realistically supposed to have. He can pine over his missing half until this world's Sun explodes - he'll be clinging to his sister and the time they have together all the while. Because that's what family does. It doesn't make sense how or why, may never make sense, but Fred'll stick to it without question.
The cabin, on the otherhand, is a wonder beyond words. He releases his grip on Ginny the moment he sees it, as though he needs his entire being in order to comprehend. His first thought is that it's beautiful, not entirely unlike Hogwarts and its surrounding forests and wildlife. His second is that it's strange, peculiar to have a house out here that's set up and ready - which leads to his third thought just as Ginny says the word herself. Fred hears her, and he knows the word, recognizes the word, but it doesn't quite connect until he notices some distinct parallels. Away from the city, out of view from Muggles, quite unlike a house but cozy in all the ways one should be.
Home. It's just like the Burrow.
Ginny's next words hardly register with him, and he has to blink himself back to reality.]
Hm? Oh, right, yes. Brilliant.
[Clothes. Why are there clothes here for him? No matter, it's hardly as important as observing the cabin at the moment, so he takes the first seat he can find in the place and continues to look around. It's clean - but too clean; the sort Mum'd trade her wand for in their unmanageable chaos of a home. And there's that word again, in relation to this place. This unfamiliar place with all the traces of its former inhabitants, traces of people he knows - traces of the things he will never see again outside these walls.
That thought pangs particularly strongly deep within him, and Fred unwittingly finds himself filled with the notion that he can't leave this place. He doesn't want to leave, and not just the cabin but the City as a whole. There are no regrets, there is no bitterness, nothing of the sort in light of his death. He accepts that, he was ready for that. Fred was willing to give everything for the War - but that doesn't mean he didn't want those things. It's not like he didn't want to celebrate what he knows to be an assured victory with his family, or to help restart the world the way it is meant to be. Or to watch Ginny grow up into a beautiful woman, to see his git of a little brother finally get together with Hermione, or to grow old with George forever at his side--.
Fred lifts a hand to his mouth, determined to keep it together despite a warmness spreading across his face, clouding his view with a thick gloss. This is it for him. This cabin. This place, here, now, with Ginny. He lost that future, and is trapped in present while surrounded by his past. He's come home.]
Think these biscuits have run a bit foul, Gin.
[He calls through the tightening of his throat as he moves to rub at his eyes, the tin left untouched and undiscovered in the kitchen.]
he's there for you when he shouldn't be but he stays all the same;
The cabin, on the otherhand, is a wonder beyond words. He releases his grip on Ginny the moment he sees it, as though he needs his entire being in order to comprehend. His first thought is that it's beautiful, not entirely unlike Hogwarts and its surrounding forests and wildlife. His second is that it's strange, peculiar to have a house out here that's set up and ready - which leads to his third thought just as Ginny says the word herself. Fred hears her, and he knows the word, recognizes the word, but it doesn't quite connect until he notices some distinct parallels. Away from the city, out of view from Muggles, quite unlike a house but cozy in all the ways one should be.
Home. It's just like the Burrow.
Ginny's next words hardly register with him, and he has to blink himself back to reality.]
Hm? Oh, right, yes. Brilliant.
[Clothes. Why are there clothes here for him? No matter, it's hardly as important as observing the cabin at the moment, so he takes the first seat he can find in the place and continues to look around. It's clean - but too clean; the sort Mum'd trade her wand for in their unmanageable chaos of a home. And there's that word again, in relation to this place. This unfamiliar place with all the traces of its former inhabitants, traces of people he knows - traces of the things he will never see again outside these walls.
That thought pangs particularly strongly deep within him, and Fred unwittingly finds himself filled with the notion that he can't leave this place. He doesn't want to leave, and not just the cabin but the City as a whole. There are no regrets, there is no bitterness, nothing of the sort in light of his death. He accepts that, he was ready for that. Fred was willing to give everything for the War - but that doesn't mean he didn't want those things. It's not like he didn't want to celebrate what he knows to be an assured victory with his family, or to help restart the world the way it is meant to be. Or to watch Ginny grow up into a beautiful woman, to see his git of a little brother finally get together with Hermione, or to grow old with George forever at his side--.
Fred lifts a hand to his mouth, determined to keep it together despite a warmness spreading across his face, clouding his view with a thick gloss. This is it for him. This cabin. This place, here, now, with Ginny. He lost that future, and is trapped in present while surrounded by his past. He's come home.]
Think these biscuits have run a bit foul, Gin.
[He calls through the tightening of his throat as he moves to rub at his eyes, the tin left untouched and undiscovered in the kitchen.]