Little Talks | Fred Weasley x Cedric Diggory

Eight.

Uneasy. That's how Fred felt.

But that's not good enough. Anxious? Tense?

No.

Restless.

For months, he had followed a schedule. Start the week, attend a few days of classes, go to Dumbledore's office, partake in the rest of the classes for the week, and repeat. It had been like that for the entirety of the school year. There was consistency, and he had acquiesced to becoming a thrall to that consistency. So when that fine line between guidance and dependency was disrupted, it meant everything to Fred.

He felt an overwhelming blend of emotions when the day intended for the viewing of a memory passed. And the majority of these emotions made him feel so incredibly wrong.

Anger, that one was a given. Fred didn't try very hard to hide that; he was never the best at controlling his temper. Most of the others didn't notice. They were all too busy with their chores around Grimmauld Place, and when they weren't doing chores, they were either eating or had all attention on Mr. Weasley. This was all fine with Fred. He didn't want his family badgering about it anyways. None of them would even understand. They had no idea of his weekly trips to the Pensieve, let alone how important they were to him.

George noticed. He and Fred were always paired together for chores and always sat with each other during meals. Moreover, he knew what day the memories took place. The little details told him everything he needed. It was in the way he aggressively threw the pillows across the room while he was meant to be cleaning the drawing-room. It was in the way his leg bounced up and down and he bit his nails at dinner, not looking anybody in the eye. It was in the way that he carefully rolled his eyes when Mundungus told a joke, one he normally would have laughed at. It was in the way he was quick to make snarky jokes at Ron's expense, even more than usual.

Of course, there was pain as well. A glance at the clock that would show him he was meant to be in Dumbledore's office half an hour before, that he was late. Another glace once an hour had passed, now causing him to imagine Cedric waiting for him, wondering where he had been and why he hadn't bothered to show up. Fred sat, spaced out on his bed, pondering questions that came to mind. Do ghosts feel things the same way we do? He wondered whether Cedric felt abandonment as strongly as he himself felt remorseful. It was almost humorous. Fred and George had both maintained a strong knack for dramatics throughout all their years at Hogwarts, though the former was acutely self-aware of how grief was elevating that to new heights.

Back in the days of sitting out on the balcony at the Burrow, he would have just wallowed in that fact. Now, he just wanted to laugh at himself, how miserable he seemed.

Call it a coping mechanism.

Yet, above all, it was guilt that was eating at him. Guilt that he was feeling so bitter and upset while he should be grateful that he still had a father. The horrible notion that crept into his mind, telling him that if Arthur Weasley had just been more careful, he could've been sat on the floor beside the Pensieve, talking to Cedric.

Fred hated that feeling. It disgusted him.

When he said goodnight to his parents that day, he couldn't look his father in the eyes.

He just wanted to get back to Hogwarts.

Arriving back was a bigger homecoming than he had expected.

Fred felt safer within the high walls of the castle as if they were enveloping him in a seal of protection, welcoming him back. The portraits hung alongside the staircase were a refreshing sight after long days of the portrait of Walburga Black cursing his very existence.