George Weasley sat on the damp grass, knees drawn up against his chest. He knew his robes were getting soaked, and probably stained, too, but he didn’t care. He’d come out here almost every day for the last while; he’d spend hours just sitting, staring at the headstone. It was a simple thing, of squarish, rough granite, already beginning to look weathered. Like many Weasley things, it looked humble but held a lot more inside.

Fred Weasley

April 1, 1978 – May 2, 1998

Beloved son and brother

So few words, to say so much.

The scuff of feet on the grass told him someone was there. A waft of a familiar, heavily pungent odour told him who it was. George felt a shaft of anger blaze for a second—how dared someone disturb him, let alone someone not family?—but he felt too drained to muster up anything more than weary resentment.

“What are you doing here, Dung?” he asked flatly.

“Well, ’ve come to pay me respecks, haven’ I?” the little man replied.

George laughed, harshly. “Right. Why would you care about Fred? It’s not as though he was your twin.” The unspoken, edged corollary was, And he’ll never be my twin again…

“I do care about ’im!” Mundungus protested indignantly. “’E were a good bloke. You two was my best customers!”

George twisted around and looked at him. Closely surveyed, Dung’s hair did seem somewhat less like a haystack than usual, his face was fairly close-shaven, and the rumpled clothing he wore looked as though it just might, in a former life, have been a suit.

George snorted. “Heh. I suppose we were, at that. Doesn’t say much about the quality of your customers, though.”

“Oi! I’ll ’ave you know I trade in ’igh quality goods!”

“Well…sometimes you do, I’ll give you that. But it isn’t always…direct from the maker, shall we say.”

“It’s a completely legi—”

“Ah, whatever.” George turned away, and gazed at the headstone again. “If you’re hanging about, pick a patch of grass and have a sit. Or there’s a bench away there somewhere.” He gestured abstractedly with his left arm.

Mundungus went quiet, and then shuffled forward and sat awkwardly on the shallow slope. He made a move to get his pipe out of his pocket, but then he glanced at his companion’s set profile and let his hand fall. They simply sat that way for a time, until finally Mundungus broke the silence.

“Best decision I ever made,” he said quietly, “sellin’ to you.”

George snorted again.  “Decision you made?  Didn’t have a lot of choice, after you blundered into our alarm hexes.”

“Well, how should I ’ave known them quills were ’exed?”

“You shouldn’t, that was the point. But you just might have paid more attention to the ‘Testing Area, Private, Employees Only’ signs we stuck up on the door,” George said drily.

Mundungus shifted his eyes away. “Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Signs is signs. Can’t pay ’em all attention if you want t’get somewheres in business.”

George raised his eyebrows. “Guess that must depend on the business. If you miss the wrong sign, you could end up in an Auror holding cell.”

“Well, now, it all worked out, dinnit?” said Mundungus defensively. “Where’d you’ve got some o’ them ingredients if it weren’t for me, eh?”

“Oh, we’d have found somewhere, George said, waving a dismissive hand. “Though I’ll admit some of the ideas came right from finding some odd thing you had. Fred—was always great at that sort of thing.”

“Oh, ‘e was a live one, your brother,” Mundungus agreed, not sounding entirely approving. “Y’never knew what he might get up to.”

George smirked slightly. “You’re only sore because of that time he turned your hair green,” he claimed, pointing a finger at the other man.

Mundungus grimaced at him. “Now, I’ve got no trouble havin’ a bit of fun with a Colour Charm, but that—goop—stayed in me ’air for near on a week, and it bloody well glowed in th’dark!”

George’s smile widened.

“’Sbleedin’ lucky I had my disguise wi’me, or I’da been nabbed straight off th’first night. How’s a bloke in my line o’work s’posed to get around when ‘is head’s glowin’, I ask you?”

“Well, it still needed some refinements,” George conceded. “We did make a fair amount off it in the end, though.”

“True, that we did, that we did,” said Mundungus, nodding.

“Besides,” George added, “the look on your face...”

Mundungus scowled, but said nothing, as George chuckled. “Fred laughed about that one for weeks.”

“He would,” Mundungus agreed sourly. “Jus’ wish it’d been somethin’ else he found to laugh at. ’E always could.”

“Yeah,” Fred said pensively, nodding. He was silent again for a while, and when next he spoke it could have been to anyone, or no-one. “D’you know, the last thing he ever did was laugh? Percy told him a joke—Percy, of all people. He was so surprised...” George trailed off, and Dung let him, just sitting there quietly.

After a moment, when it was clear George wasn’t meaning to say anything more, Dung rose, weaving just slightly. “Well, s’pose I’ll be off. An’ if you ever need any more ingredients or such...” He too trailed off, and George waved him away. His footsteps had faded into the mild background noise of trees, grass and wind before George moved again.

He too stood, and moved closer to the headstone, looking down at the inscription. Percy had carved it himself. Perhaps he’d felt he needed penance, of a sort; he’d insisted he’d always had the best penmanship, and it was true, but George felt he could match it in this case. He knelt, and muttered a phrase; his wand began to emit a tightly focussed beam, which he played carefully over the granite. He stood again, brushed off the knees of his robes, and stepped back to look. Slowly, he smiled.

“All come into the world in pain and tears—how much better, then, to leave it in laughter.”

Fin.