This is a new series of oneshots, or 'snapshots', I've started which will basically be short Harry Potter snippets. I'll carry on if people enjoy it :)
Chapter 1 is about George's return to the flat above WWW after Fred's death and also how I imagine their going into hiding. Enjoy! Read and Review 3
George stepped through the door to the flat above the shop – it was exactly as they had left it months previously. The flat was cold and had the appearance of being left in a great hurry; one of the dining chairs had been overturned and it was clear that things had been abandoned in the rush – a loose shoe, a book lying open on its spine.
George's eyes fell on two champagne flutes which still stood on the kitchen table as though the celebrants had just popped out for a walk. Both were empty. They had been toasting one of their best intakes since the opening of the shop. He remembered the dizzying feeling of success, the electric buzz that money brought. The champagne bottle was lying on the floor, unbroken, the cork under the dining table on the other side of the room. George couldn't remember which of them had dropped the bottle. He bent automatically to pick it up. The glass was cold in his hands, untouched for months, and most of the liquid had gone; evaporated or trickled through the cracks in the floorboards, but there was still some sloshing around in the bottom.
Placing the bottle on the table, George looked over to the window. It was open, and the lace curtains were fluttering innocently in the breeze which had been drifting in steadily for almost a year. That, at least, explained the unseasonable chill. He remembered, as he moved over to the sill, the moment he'd spotted the group of cloaked figures gliding towards the shop – it was only a small group of three (apparently the Death Eaters had thought they wouldn't put up much of a fight), but George had still felt his insides freeze and his breath catch in his throat. For a moment he'd thought they were Dementors, such was the chill that passed over him. He'd said simply, "they're here", and one of them had dropped the bottle. He remembered Fred's triumphant laugh stopping short and the room had suddenly seemed much darker.
Fred. The name made his stomach twist painfully and the dizzying nausea threatened to engulf him again. But he pushed it aside. He was getting good at that. It had been two months since Fred's death and it was George's first time returning to their flat in Diagon Alley. Everyone referred to that night as 'The Battle' or a similarly grand, impersonal title, but to George it meant only one thing: the death of his brother. Even the end of Voldemort and the Hell of the last year paled beside the loss of his twin. The door to Fred's room was standing slightly ajar, but George found himself averting his eyes as though the sight of something so deeply immersed in the memory of Fred would physically hurt him. He wasn't so sure it wouldn't.
He thought vaguely that the flat needed a dust around – a thought that, a few months ago, would never even have occurred to him. George had immersed himself in work around the house since Fred died; especially gardening. He revelled in the exertion, the labouring of his breath, the dull ache of his arms as he dug the spade in and out of the soil. He loved seeing the dirt under his fingernails and ingrained into his robes; the proof of his labours. It also gave him an excuse to avoid the shrewd, concerned glances of his family; he didn't have to pretend he hadn't noticed their quickly stifled conversations when he walked into a room, or the way they would force smiles onto their faces when they spoke to him in falsely cheery voices. For the first time in his life, he craved his own company.
George turned away from the window and his eyes fell on a set of deep purple robes slung over the back of the sofa. An elaborate 'W' was emblazoned on the chest pocket. He picked the robes up and brought them up to his face, pressing his forehead against the velvet, breathing in the familiar smell that made his stomach jolt, not unpleasantly, but with recognition. A memory stirring in the depths of his consciousness. Folding the robes neatly, with care, George tucked them inside his own robes and made a move towards his bedroom. For a moment he felt the grief ebb away, leaving a calmness stirred up by that smell. By the memory of his brother.
Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it! Please review and tell me what you think/if I should continue with some more snapshots :)