Written for stormtongue on AO3.
During the summer after the Battle of Hogwarts, some understandably drastic changes took place for the Weasley family. Percy moved to a leaky flat in London. Ron left to spend the summer with Hermione in Australia with her newly memory-restored parents. And George's flat above Weasley Wizard Wheezes became an airless, lifeless void without Fred.
So lately he'd taken to sleeping in the living room of the Burrow, by the big fireplace where Harry Potter had gotten lost in the Floo Network all those years ago. Even though it was summer and the wood fire hadn't been lit in some time, dust and ash still floated out of it, as if coaxed down the chimney by the wind.
After about two weeks of waking up with ashes on his face and in his hair, it was clear this wasn't the best place for him to be sleeping. It was made clearer still when Bill stopped by early one Saturday morning to see Dad, and was so startled to see George sleeping on the sofa that he mistook him for a soot-covered burglar. The result was that a groggy, panicked George nearly lost his remaining ear to a near-miss hex, and Bill got an earful from Mum about firing curses in the house before seven in the morning.
George noted with slight amusement that his mother didn't bother to impose a restriction on Bill from firing jinxes at all, just in the time before anyone had had any coffee. At least she knew her sons well enough to not expect the impossible.
So after George recovered from nearly being maimed and after Bill recovered from the simultaneous spike in his adrenaline and guilt, they decided it would be best to settle for decaf coffee.
It was then suggested that Bill and George take a walk around the garden to ogle at the gnomes, as they used to do when they were children. It was hardly a remedy for the gaping hole in George's chest that had opened up after Fred died, but it was nice to spend time with Bill now that such opportunities were rare. Nevertheless, it was strange to partake in an old routine when they both were very different people now. It felt very much like retracing your footsteps while wearing someone else's shoes.
"What are your plans for the rest of the summer?" Bill asked him between sips from his mug. Somewhere in the distance, two gnomes were engaging in a clumsy fistfight. George found himself rooting for the potato-looking one, though they both sort of looked like potatoes, and he eventually lost track of which one he'd started with.
"Nothing; I've closed our shop until October. Why?"
"Because," Bill smiled, "I want to ask you if you'll come with me for a trip."
George frowned. "What kind of trip?"
"An adventure."
"Explain."
Bill pulled a crumpled letter out of his trouser pocket. "Read this, and tell me what you think."
"Is this from Charlie?"
"Mhm."
George perused the contents, folded it thoughtfully, and then handed the letter back to Bill with a laugh. "No."
"What do you mean, no? It's the trip of a lifetime."
"Did we read the same letter? Escaped dragon, Charlie wants to find it. So, he goes to find it. It's his job. Last time I checked, neither of us knows a knut about dragons. What are we supposed to do, be the bait?"
"Oh come on," urged Bill with a flick of his ponytail. "The George I know wouldn't hesitate for a chance like this. It has everything you like – adventure, risks, dragons, Romania, Charlie, me, probably some mischief…"
"I don't take risks like that anymore." The words came out colder than George intended, but Bill didn't look offended.
"I…know," he said slowly, "But I don't want you to spend all summer staying with Mum and Dad, avoiding your flat and burying yourself in grief. This could be a good way for us to spend time together. To heal."
"A dragon isn't going to heal anything," George pointed out. "And what if I want to grieve? Shouldn't that be allowed? What if this," he gestured to his ashy face, "is how I'm healing?"
Bill looked away, off to the distance, and the morning sun seeped into the lines on his face as if filling them in. The overall effect made him look a lot younger. He almost looked like Fred, if George squinted. He'd always thought Bill bore the closest resemblance to them. Charlie and Percy took more after Mum.
"Have you ever considered," he murmured after a while, "that the rest of us are trying to heal too? This is the best thing I could think of for us to try and help each other. So that we don't have to go on alone."
George was quiet for a long time. The gnomes he'd been watching earlier seemed to have reconciled, and now were focused on startling the roaming chickens in the field beyond. He stared at the rolling green of the grass, reveling in the gorgeous day, even though the ache in his chest reminded him of who should've been there, breathing in the golden sunshine next to him.
Fred was always going to follow him, a shadow, a reflection, a void inside his heart. But maybe if he went with Bill and Charlie, he wouldn't have to face the adjustment to this empty, haunting presence by himself. Between the three of them, they had enough memories of Fred to ensure nothing was forgotten. To ensure he'd be remembered properly.
With a surge of warmth, George realized he did want to say yes to Bill's offer. He'd been trying to quell it, but he still felt that desire to taste the sharp anticipation of danger, to feel the thrum in his veins that not even caffeine could replicate, to not have to sleep on a sofa by the fireplace. To be around people he loved and trusted. To bring back a semblance of family, of completeness, something they hadn't had since back when the Burrow was a full house of arguing teenage redheads and nobody had been wounded by magic or death or each other.
"Well, when you put it that way..." George finally conceded. Bill's eyes lit up, and he clapped his brother on the back. They both fought back a laugh as a cloud of soot and dust rose from George's shirt and into the air.
"So that's a yes?"
"It's a yes. When do we leave?"
Bill grinned. "As soon as I convince Percy to join us."
"Percy? Oh come on, you want Bighead Boy to come? He's going to get on everyone's nerves, reciting thickness measurements of cauldrons or something."
"He's gotten better," Bill said, though his tone suggested he didn't quite believe it.
George rolled his eyes. "If he comes, you have to take responsibility for talking to him the whole way there."
Bill seemed slightly daunted by this, but shrugged it off. "Eh, I'll take it. Maybe we can condition him out of it. Sand down some of his sharp edges. Make him a little more chill."
"Yeah, okay." He didn't attempt to conceal his skepticism. "How do you think you're going to convince him to come?"
"Well," Bill sighed, "we're probably going to have to trick him into it."
George could feel the mischievous twinkle in his eye spark back to life. He'd missed this.
"Now that's a plan I can help you with."