A wandlight vigil.
[At about 10pm on the fourth night, for no discernible reason, the monsters retreat from the castle and back into the woods. The village is entirely silent by 1030 and they show no signs of coming back down. The twins know they need to address the village and say something, even if they aren't sure what. Maybe there aren't even any right words. They do a walk of the village to confirm that it is, in fact, empty of monsters for the moment, and then go to the community center, where most villagers seem to be gathered.
This is meant to be IC/OOC! And uh... pretend there's a hole in the ceiling of the community center where you can see the night sky.]
But when George looked out at the scene in front of him, with people lying around sick, injured, exhausted, terrified, or some combination of the above, words failed him. There was nothing he could say. He bit his lip a few times as he tried to find words, but each time he thought he had something, a little voice in the back of his head told him that the words weren't good enough. He was no scholar. He was no writer. He didn't feel like a leader.
Fred wasn't doing any better than his brother. He was steel-faced, his arms folded across his chest. It was such an unnatural look for him, stiff and hesitant, but it was all that he felt right now. And like George, he knew that nothing he said was going to be enough to -- be whatever it needed to be. He didn't know what to think, or what to do. So much had happened so quickly. They didn't have any answers. They didn't have anything.
But there was one thing that they both felt needed to be done. Raising their wands, they held them up like candles towards the sky, much like they had all done years ago upon the death of Headmaster Dumbledore.