A/N: I'm not really into Tempest right now...
Prologue

The red haired boy walked into the crowded pub from the drenched, raining avenue outside. He had a knitted gray cap over his ears and a black trench coat that shadowed most of his face. The collar was flipped up, successfully covering everything up to his nose. The only distinguishable characteristic of him was the bright red hair sticking out from under his cap.

The few by the door glanced at him and fell silent. The quietness spread like a disease to the others in the pub, and soon everyone was quiet, gazing at him.

He nodded to a young man wearing a Puddlemere United Quidditch robe. Neither spoke, and the red haired boy sat at a table by himself. Gradually the pub grew back to its normal volume. No one dared talk to the shadowed boy, but many glanced over at him worriedly.

A waitress bustled over after a quarter of an hour with a piece of parchment. "What will it be, uh, Mr. Weasley?"

The boy straightened his collar and folded it down, revealing a scared face. A long gash came down from under his cap to his cheekbone, scabbed over. His nose was slightly crooked, and his eyes were dark and kept flicking over the room. If it were not for the scars, he would have been handsome. He sat with a slight slouch and made a great effort to sit up and look up at the waitress. He tried for a smile, but it only made the blemishes seem more ghastly. "Firewhiskey, Madam Rosmerta."

"I'm not supposed to sell that to wizards under twenty," she informs him. "Very strong, that stuff is."

"What if I told you I was nineteen, and I would pay a Galleon more for it?" Mr. Weasley bargained. He pulled off his cap, revealing a neat hole in the side of his head where his ear should be.

"A whole Galleon? Well, all right, I suppose so..." She cast him one last look before slipping back behind the bar, half-intrigued and half-fearful. She emerged with a maroon bottle and sat it down in front of him.

"Thank you, Madam Rosmerta."

"Quite fine, Mr. Weasley."

"Take a seat, Rosmerta. I'd be glad to have some company."

"I really must get to work," she spluttered.

"The other waitress-Rosemary, your daughter?-seems to have it taken care of," Weasley says smoothly. And it was true. A young, pretty witch dressed in dark blue cloaks was taking orders.

"Very well," Rosmerta agrees reluctantly. "What is it you wish to speak about?"

The boy did not reply at first. He opened the bottle and poured a shot before swallowing it, wincing at the taste. "Burns down your throat," he comments. He wipes his chin with his sleeve.

"Why do you come?" Rosmerta burst out. "Why do you come to Hogsmeade, acting like nothing happened at Hogwarts? Why do you wear Muggle clothes? Why do you buy Zonko's, live in the apartment above, but never open a store? Why do you expect me to sell you drinks illegal to one your age?" She covered her mouth with a jeweled hand, looking horrified that she'd said all that.

Weasley removed his trench coat, revealing a black cloak-much more wizarding clothes-and draped it across his chair. Scars crisscrossed the skin visible above the neckline. He took a long drink straight from the bottle and smiled, baring white teeth at her.

"You don't know what happened at Hogwarts. You were bewitched anyway. I saw what happened at Hogwarts." His voice was hard and his eyes blazed. "As far as I'm concerned nothing happened at Hogwarts!"

"Yes, Mr. Weasley-"

"Do not act like you know what it's like to be under the Cruciatus Curse, because I can assure you, Madam Rosmerta, it is not fun."

"Is that a threat?"

"Is it?" the boy retorted disdainfully. "You tell me."

"I will tell the Ministry officials," Rosmerta warned.

"I'm not threatening you," he snapped. "How do you think I came across these?" He pointed at the various scars on his face. "Think I just tripped, do you?"

"I remember you," Rosmerta says after a long pause. "I remember you and your brother, shooting fireworks willy-nilly and dropping Dungbombs everywhere! I remember when you two would come down from Hogwarts and cause all sorts of trouble."

Pain flashed in the boy's eyes. "Don't talk about him."

"I remember Fred," she continued. "I couldn't tell you two apart. It's only been what, three months?"

"Shut your mouth, you old hag!" Weasley shouted, hitting the table with his fist. Everyone went quiet and stared. The one in the Puddlemere United robes gazed up, an anguished look on his face.

"I don't have a twin," the boy said softly. "I never did."

Puddlemere United stood up and walked over. "C'mon, George," he says softly, tapping his shoulder. "Come on. You need to get back to Zonko's."

"Get off me, Oliver!" George snarled, shaking him away.

"George, you need to get back to Diagon Alley, and you know it. Fred would want you to go back and keep up your store-"

George jerked away from Oliver and stood, pulling his trench coat on and stomping out of the silent pub, slamming the door as he went. Oliver flinched and pulled his robe on tighter. He trifled through his pockets and handed Rosmerta several coins. "For the firewhiskey," he said distractedly before heading out the pub. He raced down the street, catching sight of George. "You can't just do that," Oliver snapped.

"Do what?" he hissed back.

"Act like every witch and wizard from here to Salem owes you!" Oliver said angrily.

"Maybe they do! Maybe they owe Fred and I for fighting against Voldemort!" George shot back. "I wish I never knew a thing about Voldemort! I wish I never even went to Hogwarts!"

At this, Oliver let out a string of curse words. "Say You-Know-Who, won't you?! You aren't the same! I thought one of you at least would still be happy or funny or still a damn good Beater, but I guess I was in for a real letdown! I guess Fred would have been less disappointing!" He shouted the last few words.

George turned pale. The other rushed on. "I thought you would at least try to go on! I thought maybe you could get over it instead of putting everyone who gets on your bad side under the Impediment Curse, but I guess I was wrong!"

"I wish I wasn't a wizard," George said at last. "Then Fred and I would have been innocent Muggles...still alive..."

"Don't take it out on everyone, you son of a Bludger!"

"Easy for you to say!" George snarled. "Oliver Wood, playing Puddlemere United Keeper! Playing for England next year! You take everything out on the Quidditch field!"

"You're not even the same person! I saw Fred die, and he wouldn't have wanted this!" Wood shouted back. "Part of you died when Fred did, and you don't even give a damn!" He lowered his voice."Verity's worried about you, you know."

"I did your sister a big favor hiring her, after she dropped out of Hogwarts!" George fired.

"Yeah, well, she cares that her boss is turning into a Muggle!"

"I ought to fire her just for sticking her head in my business!"

"Maybe she misses Fred just as much as you do," Oliver replied coldly. When George gave no reply, he went on. "Maybe she loved him, and he loved her, you know, and you don't care that she's dying of a broken heart. Maybe she loves you now, but you're too caught up in yourself to notice!"

George flinched and stared at him. "You mean Verity loved Fred?"

"You mean you never knew?" Wood retorted scornfully. "God."

The gears were turning in George's mind. "You mean when Verity went out on maternity leave-"

"Yes, that's your nephew."

"My God," George whispered, pushing his rain-soaked hair out of his eyes. "Why didn't Fred tell me?"

"You would have fired her," Wood snapped. "You wouldn't like Fred falling in love and you not. You and Fred were exactly the same. Him having something you don't wouldn't go over well."

"And she told you?"

"I'm her brother," Oliver said, lowering his eyes.

"My God," George repeated. He wiped the water off his glistening face. "God."

"You see why you need to go back to Diagon Alley?"

"I-I can't," stammered George.

"And why the bloody hell can't you?" Oliver demanded angrily. His eyes were dark with shock and rage.

"The boy... He'll look like Fred... Verity will blame me..."

"You're running away?" Oliver exclaimed, disgusted. "You're running away from your own nephew because he'll look like you? And where are you going to go?"

George straightened. A determined look now shone in his eyes. "Oliver, take over the store for me. I'm going somewhere no one will recognize me. None of them will mope around feeling sorry for me or scared of me."

"George, every wizard in Britain will know who you are-" He broke off, realization dawning on his face. "George, no. No. You can't do that."

"You'll run the store for me, won't you?"

"Don't be a prat. You can't really be going out there."

"Try me," George said. "I'm going to go live with Muggles."