I Know The End {Fred Weasley, ACT I}

Chapter 45- One Last Night

Apologizing to Fred was always an ordeal. A production. It took time and energy before he'd accept an apology. An in-depth analysis of this behavior would reveal an insatiable need to be sure of the sincerity of the apology. If someone were truly sorry, they'd work for his forgiveness. They'd prove themselves, even if it took time, and those who weren't apologetic wouldn't put in the effort. It was an isolating view, and Eleanor didn't understand it's origins.

Of course, there's another word for such behavior – stubbornness. In simple terms, Fred was stubborn when it came to matters of the heart. He held grudges. He kept a mental tally of the rights and wrongs he'd received at the hands of others. It was why he hated Montague so. The list kept growing and he'd yet to forgive Montague for a single sin. It was why Eleanor knew better than to tell Fred of the way in which Percy had spoken to her the night of the Yule Ball. Forgiveness did not come easily to Fred Weasley and that was a language Eleanor understood well.

Why forgive when you can remember and hate, hate, hate.

Sometimes hate feels just good as love. It was a sickness, but one that they shared. One that bound them.

George Weasley was different. George Weasley forgave with ease. He loved more than he hated. It was for that reason that he was able to maintain his relationship with Montague. It was for that reason that Eleanor left her dormitory, her heart still heavy with guilt, and sat in the corner of the common room until George returned from what she assumed was a late-night escapade with his boyfriend. The boyfriend she'd just revealed to Iris hours prior.

She hadn't been able to sleep. She'd tried for two hours, tossing and turning as Iris wrote furiously in her diary, Angelina and Alicia breathing in time with the other as they slept. She'd feigned sleep when the two entered the dormitory, Iris ignoring any attempts made to engage her in conversation. Eleanor knew why. Iris would crack under the slightest of pressure, and she'd promised not to give away George's secret. Unlike Eleanor, Iris kept her promises.

So, the two called it an early night, seeing as neither Eleanor nor Iris were in the mood to talk and their decision gave Eleanor peace. Not enough peace to lull herself to sleep, but the peace of mind that she could thrash around without bothering anyone. Iris was too focused on the words she was furiously scribbling to notice Eleanor's unrest. Eleanor could hear the pen ripping into the paper as Iris pushed too hard into the page.

Eventually, Eleanor gave up, deciding it was best to make things better right away. George wasn't Fred. He didn't need time to process. Or maybe he did but gave up such luxuries to settle the anxious hearts of others. Either way, Eleanor knew one thing for certain; she was undeserving of the forgiveness she would surely receive.

She was huddled in the corner of the room, watching as friends bid each other goodnight, as Harry listened to Hermione explain the essay they were working on, as the fire spread across the wood, infecting it with flame. The noise of the room fell away as she debated the consequences of forgiveness. Forgiveness is an act of mercy given to the mistaken. To forgive is to be forgiven, but could such a courtesy be bestowed upon all? Do small mercies pile up, one by one, until the burden is too much to bear? Or does one not feel the weight of the forgiven crimes until it's too late and you're looking straight into a monster you can't forgive?

Is that what happened with Peter? How many times was he bestowed grace before he'd betrayed his only friends?

"What are you doing here all by yourself?"

Eleanor tore her gaze from the fireplace to find Alfie standing awkwardly in front of her.

"I didn't realize Chess Club went so late," she muttered.