Disclaimer: Of course I own nothing but the plot bunnies. Credit goes to the incredible J.K. Rowling.
A/N: Just something that popped into my head. I'd love to hear your opinion on it. Enjoy.
TRIGGER WARNING: Alcohol abuse is mentioned. If you have any issues with that, turn away from this story or be careful while reading.
George Weasley was no drinker. You could see it from afar. He wasn't used to the burning liquid running down his throat. You could see him grimacing every time he drowned the amber fluid in his glass. He wasn't used to the alcohol morphing into his blood. You could see the unsteadiness with which he moved. No, George Weasley was no drinker. Not yet. But he would be. You could see it from afar.
And that was from where he watched him ordering another drink a slur already in the ginger's voice. From afar. He did everything from afar these days. Trying to hide from the public. Why he was in a place like the Leaky Cauldron now he couldn't tell to save his life. But with his hood pulled down sitting in a dark corner of the pub he hadn't been noticed much. Hell, it even took the waitress 15 minutes to catch sight of him and ask for his order. In another life he would have been infuriated by her behaviour. Now he was only thankful he could shrink into the shadows so easily.
George Weasley had already moved on to his next drink. He gesticulated clumsily in the general direction of the barkeeper who seemed to think the ginger had had enough for one night. However, the man appeared to have remembered who was sitting in front of him and sighed as he poured the war hero another round of the amber liquid. After all, if anyone had a right to drink himself into oblivion it was probably the Weasley boy.
The ginger had had seven drinks as far as he could tell. Naturally the hooded figure didn't know what had happened before George Weasley had entered the pub but since then he was sure it had been seven times in which the boy had raised the glass to his mouth. And he was wasted. No, George Weasley was no drinker. He himself had had no less than five glasses of firewhiskey and the light feeling was only at the brim of his mind, only beginning to creep into his body. But then again he had had a lot of practice over the last two years.
The war hero stumbled as he made his way down the bar stool and out of the pub. Well, he had always been a bit clumsy, at least from his point of view. But it was clear that the alcohol had blurred his vision and his movements. Pulling his hood tight he followed the ginger out onto Diagon Alley. He had paid already. He always did nowadays. It was a habit he had gained after the war. Just in case he needed to make a quick exit.
George Weasley swayed visibly as he made his way down the street to his shop. Twice he ended up stumbling against something. Something as solid as a brick wall. Something no one would normally miss. As he reached the door he fumbled with his keys but was never able to put them into the lock. Three times he removed the metal objects from the ground before giving up and sitting down next to them. A nerve-racking attempt of laughter escaped his lips as he sat there his upper body slumped against the door. It was only one step away from lunacy.
He didn't know why or how but his feet carried him to the pitiful figure on the ground. In a swift movement he picked the keys up and opened the door. The ginger's mind must have been more clouded than he had thought as he fell right onto his back when the door gave way behind him. It appeared he hadn't even noticed him approaching. With thin lips he grabbed his arm hoisting him off the ground.
"Geroff me!" The slurred words hadn't much force in them so he ignored them entirely.
After some time he found the staircase to the flat. It almost took them five minutes to climb the twelve steps and he was already drenched in sweat as he pushed the ginger onto the sofa, the disgusting smell of alcohol in his nose. His hood slid down at the effort revealing white blonde hair that reflected the shimmering moonlight which fell through the window.
"You." George exclaimed. Draco clenched his jaw at the hostile tone of the drunkard but otherwise remained silent. He was used to it. And in addition to his bad public reputation there was their personal history which hadn't been at all positive. So it wasn't surprising really that the ginger reacted the way he did. Silently Draco agreed with his hatred. He loathed himself for the things he had done, the way he had acted.
"Wha' you're doin' here?" The disapproval was plain in his voice. The blonde boy didn't react to it. Instead he walked over to the sink and poured a glass of water.
"Drink." George must have been really drunk or Draco must have met Mrs. Weasley's tone because the ginger obeyed without question.
"He's gone." Draco hadn't expected the older boy to speak again. And he cringed at the desperation in his voice. The hurt. The longing. The guilt. Everything of it was distinct in his scrunched up face, in his pleading tone, in his pained eyes.
Suddenly Draco's heart began racing, his breath began to quicken and he wanted nothing more than to break their gaze and run. Run away from this place as fast and far as he could. To obliviate his mind from this scene, from the image of the boy in front of him. The boy he had only ever known to be laughing over jokes or to be fierce while playing Quidditch. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from the deep brown ones in front of him. Bottomless. Haunted. He could imagine falling without end by looking into his eyes. Agony. Despair. He recognized it in them. If it hadn't been for the brown colour it could have been a mirror. He knew he would detect the same things in his own eyes.
He gulped but George didn't see it. His lids had begun to drop slowly down and his last words before he gave in to sleep were barely audible. Hadn't Draco been so close he wouldn't have caught the mumbling which fell from the ginger's lips.
"Why is he dead when you are still alive? How is that fair?"
A lump formed in Draco's throat and a cold wrapped itself around his heart.
"It isn't." The whisper was only for him to hear as the ginger had already begun to snore loudly. He made sure to pull his hood tight as he left the shop. There was almost no sound when his cloak swept around the corner and his feet hurried over the cobbled street. The loud crack tore the silence apart as Draco Malfoy disappeared. Nothing indicated that he had ever been there.
George Weasley was no drinker. Not yet. You could see it from afar. But Draco Malfoy was. And today he was leaning on it as if his life depended on it.