They haven’t left the casket open. He thinks he’s grateful for that, but isn’t entirely sure. He isn’t entirely sure there will ever be anything to be grateful for ever again.
Fred threw up again this morning. George knows from recent experience that it won’t be the last time today that he does so. Not that he blames his twin.
He still can’t quite believe it either, he doesn’t particularly want to.
It probably didn’t help that he and Fred were the first ones to find Percy last week. He still hasn’t made it past shock yet personally, or so the mediwizard told him yesterday.
George doesn’t particularly care about that, not when his brother will be buried in the family crypt later today.
He remembers walking in Percy’s one bedroom flat to drag him over to mum’s, possibly rub the appearance of Voldemort at the ministry in his face a bit more then they already had.
Fred had thought it was a smashing idea. Now he wishes he’d thought of it sooner, or if he couldn’t have that, not at all.
Percy had been lying on his bed, a letter clenched between his fingers. He’d first thought that his brother had fallen asleep while reading. He’d looked so oddly peaceful that George’s thoughts immediately turned mischievous. Maybe the family wasn’t as torn up as he’d feared, after all.
The twinkle in Fred’s eyes had told him of parallel ruminations. It was only when they reached to tumble Percy out of bed that they’d felt the cold skin. It was only then that they realised Percy wasn’t breathing. They had recoiled at the same time.
Fred had made the most inhumane shriek, a sound he’d never heard fall from his twin’s lips before. Chilling and cutting, a slap to the face. A sound he hoped he’d never hear ever again.
George only remembers that and the absolute panic trying to take control while calling for a healer through the Floo.
They haven’t left the casket open. George decides that he’s grateful for that, after all.
Grateful, because he never had to chance to say goodbye to Percy and he knows he never will. He doesn’t need to stare at the corpse imitating his brother’s sleep to realise that.
He already knows he won’t find absolution in the wake of choices and death, only grief, hindsight and regret.