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With every difficult breath he took, he felt bits of rock and dust hit the back of his throat. He thought he should try to breathe through his nose but when he did, he nearly choked on the blood that came with it.
That’s a no then, he thought to himself, trying to hold his breath so he didn’t cough and then start to choke again. The small breaths he took were enough to rattle his ribs and burn his lungs, so he could only imagine how terrible a coughing fit would be.
It was dark and there was a heavy weight pressing his body down. There was something sharp pressing into his side but when he reached his arm over to remove it, he cried out in pain. That brought more dust into his throat and he held his breath to stem off the tickle that would certainly turn into a cough if he let it.
“Bugger me,” he muttered, doing his best to shift his weight. When he did, his arm seared with pain again and he heard what sounded like pebbles rolling nearby. He froze, staring up, and saw a fragment if light.
Buried then, he thought with a groan. Buried and alone.
He couldn’t hear anything, but he knew his brothers were out there someone. He thought maybe Hermione was there too, but he wasn’t sure.
He closed his eyes, letting his body relax for a moment. His arm was pounding and he was taking very shallow breaths, but he thought he might be able to find a bit of peace in the moment. He thought if he was going to die and family wasn’t going to be with him - Thank Melin for that, he thought - then the quiet was probably proper. No screams, no jinxes or curses, just him and his thoughts.
Get the fuck up and keep fighting. The voice was similar to his but not his own. He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Shut up, George,” he murmured.
No, answered the voice of his twin. It echoed in his mind and made him wince. We don’t give up.
“I’m tired,” Fred said. “And it hurts."
Try losing an ear! All the hearing, none of the decoration.
“Not the same. I’m - I’m dying.”
Are you really? Or are you just quitting? Too hard for Ickle Freddikins? So you hurt your arm. Big deal. Get up.
“You’re awfully demanding for a voice in my head,” he bit out as he used his left arm to reach up and move some of the stone out of the way.
Someone has to be, you lazy git. As if I’m going to let my brother die from being bloody tired.
“And broken,” he grunted, shifting another rock and letting out a relieved breath when others followed and he was exposed to fresh air. He gulped it in, not bothering to be wary of taking in the dirt and dust as well.
Now the rest of the way, George’s voice urged him. All the way.
“I need a bloody rest,” Fred grumbled. “I’m in pain.”
Be grateful. That means you’re still alive. Keep moving.
“Give me a bloody second,” Fred moaned but pushed himself up anyway.
Standing hurt more than whatever position he’d been in - laying, reclining, sitting? - and he nearly doubled over with the pain. He reached his right arm out to brace himself and let out an involuntary scream when it made contact with the wall. Looking over, he assumed that the bit of bone protruding had something to do with it.
That doesn’t look good, the voice of his brother winced inside his mind. Might want to let Madam Pomfrey have a look at it.
“If I ever hear you complain about your bloody ear again …”
At least you could actually hear it because you have both ears!
“Shut up,” Fred muttered, steeling himself to stand up and try to make his way out of the rubble he’d been buried under. He shouted in pain and frustration as he jerked first his right then his left leg out from the stone that still rested on them. “Fuck!”
Language, Freddie, his inner George mocked. You kiss your mother with that mouth?
“You better hope you’ve got it worse than me,” he answered, holding his injured arm tight against his body and beginning the long trek to find someone. He reckoned they would probably be in the Great Hall. He didn’t hear any fighting and that was probably the safest place if people were going to congregate together.
He had to stop several times as he made his way down the corridor. Sometimes he needed a second to fill his lungs with fresh air and continue to cough out the stale air that he’d breathed for too long. Other times, he felt lightheaded and dizzy from the pain and blood loss. His inner George kept a conversation running the whole time, telling him he was strong enough to get there, that everyone probably thought he was dead and how funny will the look on my face be when I realize you pulled the ultimate prank?
“It’s not a joke,” Fred mumbled as he pushed himself from the wall again. “You’re probably all mourning me right now. I’m the best looking, the cleverest, and the most loved.”
Now I know you’ll be fine if you can make horrible jokes like that.
His inner George disappeared as he reached the doorway of the Great Hall. He took a moment and leaned against the wall, his eyes roaming the people along the sides and halting on the bodies on the floor. None of them had red hair, so he felt a little lighter as he started moving again.
He heard some whispers start up as he slowly made his way through the crowd looking for his family. The whispers got louder until he heard a loud, “Fred! It’s Fred! Just there!”
He recognized Hermione’s voice and felt relief in knowing she hadn’t been killed when he’d almost died. Fred felt tears catch in his throat as George’s face appeared from around someone he didn’t recognize.
They stared at each other for a long moment before the pain and exhaustion and reality of the situation caught up with him and his legs gave way. He really hoped he wouldn’t knock his head when he reached the floor.
Fred never got there, though, because he felt a pair of long arms wrap around him and catch him before he could reach it. “You saved my life,” he whispered to his twin.
“Saved your nose, at least,” George joked, his voice choked. “Thought you were dead.”
“Me too,” Fred agreed quietly. “You stubbornly wouldn’t let me die though.”
“Always said I was the smartest,” his twin responded. “Glad you finally listened to me.”
“Don’t tell Mum,” he whispered. “Don’t want her to be jealous.”
“Right now, Freddie,” George breathed, “I think she would be okay with it.”
“Too right I would,” his teary mother declared as she dropped to her knees beside him. “Oh, my baby boy. You’re okay.”
“Relatively speaking,” he agreed with a wince. “Could use a healer though.”
“Charlie’s gone to fetch Poppy. Oh, Freddie!” she cried, kissing him all over his dirty face. “I thought I’d lost you.”
“Nah,” Fred denied with a pained smile. “You’ll never get rid of me.”
“I certainly hope not,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Now, let’s get you on a cot so Poppy can properly tend to you. Up you go!”
With George lifting under one arm and a half-smiling Bill under the other, Fred was lifted from the ground and moved to a bed. “Nice to lay down without a rock trying to crawl up my bum,” he announced just as Madam Pomfrey, Hermione, Ginny and Charlie approached.
“Fred!” his mother shrieked, but he could only grin. He really was going to be alright.