Unreal

Chp 88 The Thread Between Us

"Some things unravel quietly.
Not with a crash, not all at once — but slowly, thread by thread, like an old jumper losing its shape in the wash.
And yet, even fraying things can be mended.
Even silence can be filled.
Even love — the kind stitched clumsily between laughter and fear — can keep you warm when the nights get too long."

April 7
The Burrow always had this way of feeling full.

Not just with people, but with noise. With warmth. With stories told over half-finished dinners and shoes left by the wrong door. Fred hadn't laughed this much in weeks — actual laughs, not the kind you force for the sake of keeping things light. It helped, a little.

He sat beside George during breakfast, dodged toast from Ron, teased Ginny about her hair, and grinned when Harry nearly choked on his pumpkin juice because of something George whispered.

It felt normal.

But nighttime still belonged to Aeris.

When the house quieted — when the fire dimmed and people went to bed — Fred would sneak up to Percy's old room like it was muscle memory. He didn't knock. He didn't need to.

"Evening, sleeping beauty," he said as he slipped in, settling into the armchair like always.

Aeris didn't respond, of course. Still as ever. Her hair fanned against the pillow, skin pale under the warm glow of the lamplight.

Fred stretched out his legs, resting one ankle over the other. "So. Funny thing happened at dinner. George tried to charm Ron's pudding again, but accidentally hexed his own nose. Bloke sneezed glitter for five minutes straight."

He paused.

"Still didn't stop him from eating the pudding, though."

He smiled, soft and lopsided.

"Thought you'd enjoy that one."

And he just stayed. Talking. Rambling. Telling her things like the sound of her breathing might be an answer.

"...You know," Fred muttered, adjusting his feet on the edge of the chair, "George says I talk too much when things get serious. Like it's some sort of defense mechanism."
He glanced over at her. "Rude, yeah?"

Aeris didn't answer. Obviously. But he kept going anyway.

"I told him it's not that deep. Sometimes people just need to hear voices. That's all."
He paused. "...And maybe I need to hear mine a little, too. Just so I know I'm still here."

The silence stayed steady — gentle, unchanging — but not cold.

Fred leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"I keep thinking if I talk long enough, maybe you'll say something back. Yell at me to shut up. Roll your eyes. Anything."

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"Or maybe... maybe your breathing's just your way of answering. Like you're still here. Still listening."

He sat back, looking at her with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"So I'll keep talking, alright? Until you do."

⸻

April 9

The living room buzzed with life again. Arthur was showing Harry a Muggle battery. Ginny and Hermione were playing Exploding Snap near the window. Ron and George were arguing about Quidditch fouls. It was the kind of noisy that made your chest ache in a good way.

Fred, however, had his eyes on Molly.

She was seated near the fire, her hands a blur as they worked a pair of deep violet needles. Yarn unraveled from the basket at her feet in soft waves, the steady rhythm of knitting a kind of quiet magic all its own.