Standing on the platform surrounded by his
wife and children, best friend standing sentry at his side,
he sees him.
The train lets out a loud, shrill whistle; grey eyes lift to meet his. And with a lurch of his heart he’s thrown back twenty years.
He was alone by the graveside now. The others had left one by one. He felt bone weary and sick. Even knowing that this was the last, finally the last of the unrelenting list, wasn’t enough to relieve his grief.
He thought bitterly of the sick mockery of a calendar hung on the kitchen wall at home. The calendar on which his mother had carefully written with shaking hands the date and time of each event. He’d hated her at that moment. Hated her with a deep furious anger; had wanted…needed to pull the quill from her hand and stab it into the cruel paper, tearing away the words that were slowly killing him.
And then he’d noticed her hands. The hands that had always seemed so strong, so capable. There to wipe away the blood and tears when he’d fallen down as a child. There to hold him when he’d woken from nightmares of teddy bears and spiders. Always strong, always capable. Suddenly now fragile, skin worn thin, fingers struggling to keep hold as she slowly and methodically wrote out the next time when she’d have to stand watch as they lowered yet another body into the ground; her neat, small handwriting filling the box with the time and place when she’d have to watch them lower her son.
He’d left then. Not able to trust himself, he’d fled. Ran to the one place, the one person that could help him now.
And he had known, had been there waiting, knowing that he needed him.
There’d been no words. It had been a long time since they needed words. Longer than anyone would ever guess or believe.
Afterwards they’d lain in each other’s arms and he’d cried. At last...
He looked up at the darkening sky now and wondered what Fred would make of it all while all the time knowing that he’d never know. They’d left no ghosts. No one would tell his secrets.
Arms circled him and for the first time in too many days he felt warm.
“If it had been you I …”
Turning, he stopped the words unable to hear them, unable to admit his own shame…better Fred than…
“Ron…Ron.”
He ignored the voice of his friend. Ignored them all. There was something he had to do, something he should have done a long time ago.
Twenty years ago he’d taken a wrong turn and lost himself.
Now breathless in front of Draco Malfoy he’d finally found the way back. And pulling him close, he smiled into laughing grey eyes and came home.
The train lets out a loud, shrill whistle; grey eyes lift to meet his. And with a lurch of his heart he’s thrown back twenty years.
*
He was alone by the graveside now. The others had left one by one. He felt bone weary and sick. Even knowing that this was the last, finally the last of the unrelenting list, wasn’t enough to relieve his grief.
He thought bitterly of the sick mockery of a calendar hung on the kitchen wall at home. The calendar on which his mother had carefully written with shaking hands the date and time of each event. He’d hated her at that moment. Hated her with a deep furious anger; had wanted…needed to pull the quill from her hand and stab it into the cruel paper, tearing away the words that were slowly killing him.
And then he’d noticed her hands. The hands that had always seemed so strong, so capable. There to wipe away the blood and tears when he’d fallen down as a child. There to hold him when he’d woken from nightmares of teddy bears and spiders. Always strong, always capable. Suddenly now fragile, skin worn thin, fingers struggling to keep hold as she slowly and methodically wrote out the next time when she’d have to stand watch as they lowered yet another body into the ground; her neat, small handwriting filling the box with the time and place when she’d have to watch them lower her son.
He’d left then. Not able to trust himself, he’d fled. Ran to the one place, the one person that could help him now.
And he had known, had been there waiting, knowing that he needed him.
There’d been no words. It had been a long time since they needed words. Longer than anyone would ever guess or believe.
Afterwards they’d lain in each other’s arms and he’d cried. At last...
He looked up at the darkening sky now and wondered what Fred would make of it all while all the time knowing that he’d never know. They’d left no ghosts. No one would tell his secrets.
Arms circled him and for the first time in too many days he felt warm.
“If it had been you I …”
Turning, he stopped the words unable to hear them, unable to admit his own shame…better Fred than…
*
“Ron…Ron.”
He ignored the voice of his friend. Ignored them all. There was something he had to do, something he should have done a long time ago.
Twenty years ago he’d taken a wrong turn and lost himself.
Now breathless in front of Draco Malfoy he’d finally found the way back. And pulling him close, he smiled into laughing grey eyes and came home.
End