[He'll nod in return, crossing over to the portrait - he'd been half-expecting having to search it out, but no, here it is, a perfect likeness of Ron. He gives it a good, hard look, almost as though expecting it to speak back. So this is what they're left with, the things Ron had and a picture in a building full of strangers who've come and gone. A picture, and for a minute he sympathizes with Fred's desire for destruction, as though a good hex at the portrait could make things better, somehow. His hand tightens around the wand in his pocket for a moment, before he lets it go and raises a hand to the frame, stopping short of touching the cold metal.
It's the same as a broken shard of glass from a mirror in a shabby pub, an album full of those long gone, a badge for one of the first casualties of the war, a ripped photograph, a forgotten letter, odds and ends that don't make up a memory but are almost close enough to pretend.
action;
It's the same as a broken shard of glass from a mirror in a shabby pub, an album full of those long gone, a badge for one of the first casualties of the war, a ripped photograph, a forgotten letter, odds and ends that don't make up a memory but are almost close enough to pretend.
He doesn't much feel like pretending, now.]