[Fred doesn't like the tension anymore than you, Ginny. He's not used to these serious moments of calmed voices and grim eyes. Even in meetings for the Order, there was excitement and he could drop a joke or two to have even Kingsley chuckling. Even in those late nights when Fred and George would talk deep into the ticking of the clock, they could poke fun at each others' worries and fall asleep feeling dandy. But this is entirely different from either of those scenarios in that this isn't home, where things make sense and there's always a solution if you look hard enough. All Fred's got here are wild speculations and assumptions as he struggles to keep up with everything going on around him. He'd assumed there'd been some time between the Ginny he saw earlier tonight and the Ginny before him now; it being her birthday all of a sudden told him that much.
But three years? Nineteen? That isn't something he could've guessed in all his wildest dreams. How the bloody Hell is that even possible? That's not even the troubling part, the bit that has Fred gripping the counter too hard, knuckles whitening as he looks for words.]
...Blimey.
[He really had missed her growing up, but not properly. Not the way she was meant to, but in some sort of dimensional time pocket that has her somehow months behind him but years ahead, and absolutely nothing about this ruddy place makes sense. The only thing he can think of, the one thought that is painfully clear despite everything else clouding around it - Fred really did miss Ginny growing up. He missed her coming of age, he missed the years that shaped her into the woman she is now. And at the same time, she's still that teen from he's gone and left behind back home. 'Muriel's, which means she hasn't lived the battle yet, hasn't seen the war in its prime and the destruction that's come of it. Destruction of the castle, its grounds, but more than that, its people. Families, friends, that bloody wall coming apart--.
Turning his back to her to rest his arms flat on the counter, hands balling in and out of fists, Fred hangs his head and just breaths. He tries to calm himself, because there are not enough explanations and too many questions and all of it's happening at once, leaving the Gryffindor inside him frustrated and annoyed, the Weasley inside of him hurt and confused - and his own, personal anger just boiling over as time goes on. Not at Ginny, gods, not at her, but at this place and the circumstances and the fact he's got no control over it whatsoever, and isn't that the most difficult part? It's out of his hands. It is what it is, and he can't change that. Can't take back his absence or his death, or the years Ginny's gone without them. It's seeming more and more like he can't do a damn thing.
He slams his right fist down on the counter in the only outburst he'll allow himself before resting his forehead in his hands and exhaling slowly. This is ridiculous, impossible, and he doesn't know what to do. What is he supposes to do?]
he's there for you when he shouldn't be but he stays all the same;
But three years? Nineteen? That isn't something he could've guessed in all his wildest dreams. How the bloody Hell is that even possible? That's not even the troubling part, the bit that has Fred gripping the counter too hard, knuckles whitening as he looks for words.]
...Blimey.
[He really had missed her growing up, but not properly. Not the way she was meant to, but in some sort of dimensional time pocket that has her somehow months behind him but years ahead, and absolutely nothing about this ruddy place makes sense. The only thing he can think of, the one thought that is painfully clear despite everything else clouding around it - Fred really did miss Ginny growing up. He missed her coming of age, he missed the years that shaped her into the woman she is now. And at the same time, she's still that teen from he's gone and left behind back home. 'Muriel's, which means she hasn't lived the battle yet, hasn't seen the war in its prime and the destruction that's come of it. Destruction of the castle, its grounds, but more than that, its people. Families, friends, that bloody wall coming apart--.
Turning his back to her to rest his arms flat on the counter, hands balling in and out of fists, Fred hangs his head and just breaths. He tries to calm himself, because there are not enough explanations and too many questions and all of it's happening at once, leaving the Gryffindor inside him frustrated and annoyed, the Weasley inside of him hurt and confused - and his own, personal anger just boiling over as time goes on. Not at Ginny, gods, not at her, but at this place and the circumstances and the fact he's got no control over it whatsoever, and isn't that the most difficult part? It's out of his hands. It is what it is, and he can't change that. Can't take back his absence or his death, or the years Ginny's gone without them. It's seeming more and more like he can't do a damn thing.
He slams his right fist down on the counter in the only outburst he'll allow himself before resting his forehead in his hands and exhaling slowly. This is ridiculous, impossible, and he doesn't know what to do. What is he supposes to do?]