George whistled absent-mindedly as he set about straightening things in his shop, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Not that anything needed straightening out, but his mind was wandering, and he needed to do something with his hands.

He was thinking about, surprisingly, the Battle of Hogwarts. Or the Hogwarts Massacre. Take your pick.

That was the last time he had seen most of his family alive, so one would suspect that he avoided the topic. But George, after years of dealing with dead loved ones, knew that it didn't matter- it was just another day in the war. At least, another day in the Second War.

They had about a month of peace afterwards. Barely enough time to recover. But it was enough time to instill hope in them all that the dark days were over. Regrettably, George had spent most of that time throwing himself in his work. He barely saw the rest off his family and friends, as he was foolishly preoccupied with the death of one.

Soon after, though, the first incident happened.

A family of four, all purebloods, were murdered in their sleep.

There was no indication of what had happened, as George himself went to see, at the request of desperate family trying to pull him out of his "depression". That became a long trail of similar raids. It was only at the one that attacked the Burrow, killing all but one of the Weasley clan, did George snap himself enough out of it enough to care.

It only went on from there. Anyone who showed any sign of magic at any point in their life was killed, as punishment for those that stood up for their lives. Anyone who didn't know what magic is was killed, as punishment for being so ignorant. Soon, it was evident that Voldemort had a much larger gathering of followers than anyone else had expected. It was even worse than before, with at least one person in every wizarding family turning to the other side.

Friends.

Family.

Neighbors.

It was devastating, and it took its toll.

Now, a full year and a half after the first attack, there were scarcely any humans, both magical and muggle, left on the planet. It was utterly ironic, and utterly stupid, that the former followers of old Voldie were planning to purge the world of Muggles- the new one, of the magical and mundane alike. Now, the only thing left was the scattered remains of humanity, all banding together in a desperate attempt to survive. Because that's all it really is about, in the end, isn't it?

George himself was part of a group, who named themselves the DA out of nostalgia. It included him, Angelina Johnson, Lavender Brown, Luna Lovegood, Draco Malfoy (surprisingly), and obviously, Harry Freaking Potter. That kid could survive everything. It was somehow infuriating, yet George knew it wasn't his fault. That didn't stop him from cursing Harry every time something went wrong.

They all were the only ones left in their family line, a fact made much more devastating considering how old and big some of these families were.

They all also had some sort of role in the group. Harry was the one who stupidly and nobly charged headfirst into stuff, as well as being the figurehead.

Angelina was sort of like a helpful assistant, along with Lavender, and they both were formidable fighters and amazing healers.

Draco (George stopped calling him Malfoy or slimy snake after about two weeks, which, if you told him that he would a month ago, he would've spit in your face and called you a Slytherin) was the 'military chief'. Meaning he brewed potions for attack, drew up battle plans, and carried most of the supplies.

Luna was also very smart, and helped with strategizing. She had dropped her usually dreamy look when Neville was killed, and now wore a near permanent frown. George treated her like his own sister, though she would never replace Ginny.

George's job was kind of like Angelina and Lavender, though instead of healing the physical state, he healed the mind. He was the jokester, always saying horrible puns in the worst moments (which, in his opinion, were the best moments) in order to lighten the mood. He was also the one most people turned to in case they caught a wave of nostalgia, or felt like crying.

As a result, he barely had the time to feel sorry for himself. And George was fine with that. Every time he felt frustrated with his role, he'd remind himself that he was the eldest (well, mostly), and technically the most mature (again, mostly).

Also, the others have experienced more trauma then he has, he told himself. Even with the burning of the Burrow, George was sure that Harry had been hurt just as much, or maybe even more. After all, he doted Ginny, found a mother in Mrs. Weasley, and was best friends with Ron. And probably a much closer brother than George ever was. It made him feel both guilty and resigned.

Not only that, but he was sure Angelina and...his brother had something going on. So she must also be pretty hurt (Understatement of the year...or month. Not really sure.). And Lavender, well, he didn't really want to go there.

Now, the group was just roaming about, helping any stragglers, and doing their best to sting the main force, as pitiful as those attempts were. And as pitiful the main force already is.

George had asked to see his shop before they left the area. Harry, who is also the decision maker, seemed doubtful at first, but then the others chimed in with places they wanted to see, and he relented. George was grateful, and a bit disappointed. He had kind of hoped that Harry would say no.

So here he was, standing in the shop he and his deceased brother had made. Surprisingly, he didn't flinch at the reminder of his brother's death. He was coping, if a bit slowly. Never mind that he couldn't even bring himself to say his name.

The place was exactly the same as they had left it, though it was a little dusty. It gave George a kind of somber pleasure to see the faded orange and purple walls, the cobwebbed shelves that previously held all their products, the scorch marks from prank supplies gone wrong.

He walked aimlessly, fingers trailing the dusty walls. George went to the back room, where most of their extra supplies were kept. The stores were now empty, as they all had been used to help in the war. George would make some more, but it required time, time that he didn't have.

He looked through the empty boxes, checking all the shelves and doors, not really expecting anything, so he was surprised when he found a little box below the false bottom of a cabinet.

The box was orange, with a purple W, looking like the other Weasley issued boxes. The only thing different was the inked in red spot on the top of the W. It looked like someone had splattered paint over the box, but George could see that it had been meticulously drawn in. Odd.

He carefully opened the box, wary of a prank, but no such thing happened. Inside the box, there was a slip of paper, and a golden hourglass.

Looking at the paper, which was muggle paper, he noticed, George could see that it was written on in dark blue ink.

There, in curly yet messy script, was written:

Use it well

He frowned. Use it well? What did that mean? He turned the hourglass over in his hand, trying to find what was so special about it. He turned the paper over, and spotted more words.

Clue: Time

13

Suddenly, George was pulled into a flashback.

"Hey, George!" An 11-year-old Fred said suddenly. George turned to his brother, who was sitting on the edge of his bed in their dormitory in Gryffindor Tower.

"Yeah?" George plopped down next to him.

"What's your favorite number?" Fred asked.

George frowned. "Why so random?"

"Well, we're twins, right?" Fred started to explain. "And we wanted to act similar. That includes liking the same stuff." The two had come to Hogwarts to try and confuse the teachers and students with their similarities, and as first years, weren't very elaborate about it. Sure, they had managed to confuse their family before, but they wanted to take it to a whole new level.

"Oh." George nodded. "Well, I guess it would be...13?"

"Huh? Why?" Fred cocked his head, confused.

George shrugged. "Just felt like it."

"You know that Muggles consider it unlucky, right?"

"Stupid Muggles." That statement caused Fred to laugh.

"Ah, whatever." He grinned even more widely, and slung an arm around George's shoulder, a gesture that was returned. "I guess 13 is my favorite number as well, now."

"Yeah, I guess so." George grinned mischievously, before giving his brother a noogie.

George blinked as he came to. He was now sitting on the ground, hand still clutching the paper and hourglass.

Where the hell had that come from?

He looked at the hourglass, not bothering to get back up.

If his suspicions were right...

George knew what he was about to do was foolish, absolutely foolish, but an intoxicating feeling overcame him before he could stop himself. A feeling of joy, thrill, longing, and a little bit of mischief. A feeling so nostalgic of back when he was still doing pranks, that he almost crushed the hourglass with his fist. Almost. It probably would've been good idea to that on purpose, considering what happened afterwards.

Almost giddily, he took the time turner, and turned the hourglass. And turned, and turned, and turned. He lost count after 50.

When he finally stopped, nothing happened. George waited eagerly, but his hope died with every second that ticked by.

Finally, he made to get up, and accidently dropped the time turner. The second it hit the ground, there was a loud pop, like Apparating, and George Weasley was gone.

George reappeared with another pop in Dumbledore's office. Of course.

Because of that, he found himself up against the wall, Dumbledore's wand at his throat. Dumbledore was gripping it tightly, and his expression was calm, but guarded. The usually present twinkle in his eyes was gone.

"Who are you?" He asked, his voice threatening.

"I-I'm George Weasley." George stuttered slightly, not entirely used to this Dumbledore, and cursing himself for it. When Dumbledore did not lower his wand, he hastily added, "You can use Veritaserum."

George figured he can tell everything about what had happened to Dumbledore. He's Dumbledore, so of course he can. All Dumbledore ever did was look out for them...by being manipulative and lying to their faces. Yeah, maybe he ought to rethink this.

A few minutes filled with convincing, lying, a few oaths, and at one point, hexes, he was seated in a chair, with a cup of tea in front of him, injected with a few drops of Veritaserum.

"Wait.." George said slowly. It was very much possible that this Dumbledore was an imposter. He decided to ask a simple question that, based on Harry's stories, would definitely prove that it was Dumbledore.

"What present would you like for Christmas?" Dumbledore blinked at the sudden question, but nonetheless he answered.

"A thick pair of woolen socks, I suppose." There was approval in his eyes.

George nodded, relieved. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd do if it wasn't Dumbledore.

"What year is it?" George asked before drinking.

Dumbledore gave him a strange look. "1973. Why?"

George's eyes widened, and then he let out a stream of curses that are entirely not appropriate for anyone younger than 18. Of course. Dumbledore looked much younger, and he didn't count how many times he turned the time turner.

He was so stupid! Why had he decided to randomly turn a foreign object, which the stupid notion of going back in time? For all he knew, it could be Dark. For all he knew, it could be a trap. For all he knew, it could be designed to send him so far back that he would be next to useless, with no way of getting back! He was losing his touch.

"You mean to tell me, it's bloody 1973!?" He jumped up and started pacing furiously, muttering under his breath, and most likely completely convincing Dumbledore that he was completely mental. But more pressing matters were on his mind. For one, how is he supposed to get back? The DA needed him. Well, at least, that's what he liked to think.

He collapsed back in the chair, running his hand through his unruly red hair, which, if George was being truthful, he hasn't washed in months.

Dumbledore looked even more confused (a sight George never thought he would see), before his expression cleared.

"Ah. You are a time traveller." George momentarily stopped, confused, before nodding. It's Dumbledore. He knows everything.

"From year...?"

"1996." George frowned. "Or 1997. I'm not sure." Excuse: He didn't really keep track of the days. He had been on the run for so long, he forgot to keep track of time, nonetheless which year it was, nor birthdates.

"Considering your, reaction, you did not mean too end up this far back?"

"Definitely." George slumped. "I was planning on 7 or 8 years."

"Well, that is quite a problem isn't it?" Dumbledore threaded his fingers thoughtfully. "And how old were you when you came back?"

"18."

"Hm." Dumbledore looked faintly amused. "Well, you look much younger."

George observed himself in surprise. Then he remembered the paper.

"Yeah, I think I'm 13 again." He said slowly.

"Oh? How so?" Dumbledore asked curiously.

"Well, I found this time turner and a slip of paper. On the paper were the words 'You know what to do', 'Time', and '13'. I assume that was to say..."

"How old you would be when you went back." Dumbledore finished. "Well, Mr. Weasley, as you are here now, I feel it is only acceptable to have you go to Hogwarts as a student, at least until we find a way to send you back."

"What?!" George nearly shouted. "That's-" Then he stopped, and thought it over. "Okay, actually, that's sensible. Though it'll be hell to go through all those classes again."

"Quite." The twinkle was back in Dumbledore's eye, which George was glad of. It was quite unnerving otherwise. "Now, let me go over some necessities with you..."

The tea slowly grew cold as the hours ticked past, Veritaserum long forgotten.

George sat in the chair in the Headmaster's office, mulling over the information he had just absorbed.

He was back in the past. And not just any past, but the time where Lily and James Potter were at Hogwarts, in their third year, coincidentally the same year as him. Harry Potter's parents. Harry Freaking Potter Who Can Get Through Anything With Just Luck's dead parents. Great.

Though the thought of rooming with the Marauders kind of excited him, he still was disappointed. He was hoping to go back to when his brother was still alive, in order to prevent it. Now he couldn't, obviously, as he was way more than seven years back.

At least he could change the lives of Harry's parents. Dumbledore said that he could change somethings, but it it impossible to change people's deaths. One can tell someone else when and how they would die, and take steps to avoid it, but one way or another, they still will move on, whether in a more gruesome way or more peaceful.

It's like Fate decided to have an end to every string, and you could never go past the end, nor cut it shorter. (Following this line of thought, George started wondering what his string's color would be. Maybe orange?)

It was a rule of Time- the timing of a death shall stay the same forever. Which stank like a dungbomb prank gone wrong. George had started shouting and cursing the second he had heard that, and knocked over nearly half of Dumbledore's gadgets. He blamed it on Dumbledore for not being better prepared with durable tools instead of glass ones.

But he could still change their lives, just not their deaths. And George was looking forward to doing just that.

Oh, to get Sirius out of his horrid house much earlier, to have the Wolfsbane potion be invented much earlier, to have James and Lily date much earlier, to make Pettigrew stay loyal forever...the last one might be pushing it.

George was slightly suspicious on how Dumbledore knew all this. When questioned, the old headmaster just waved his hand and vaguely answered that he had done some research in the past. Sure, whatever you say.

Afterwards, he and Dumbledore spent a bit of time making up his cover story. It was lucky he was a Weasley- the family was so big, no one could keep track of it.

Apparently it was the morning of September 1st. Was it a coincidence? George thought not, considering that when he left, he was pretty sure it was mid-December. Maybe.

Professor McGonagall was supposed to bring him to a place to stay until the students arrive, but she hasn't arrived yet.

Originally, they were going to send him to Kings Cross in order to go on train "for tradition sake" as Dumbledore put it. But they decided against that, partly in order to allow George some well-needed time to settle down.

So now, here he was, just waiting for Dumbledore to come back. He had left a little while earlier in order to "warn the staff of your presence", as he put it. But George doubted that.

Just he started contemplating leaving by himself, the door to the study opened, and in walked Dumbledore, followed by McGonagall. With a start, George noticed McGonagall looked much younger, but still had that strict look on face that only ever disappeared when her students were in danger. That had been her downfall, and she had died in the second attack on Hogwarts.

George mentally shook himself. He has to stop comparing how the people of this time died, or he was going to be seen as a crybaby every time he met someone new.

"Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore smiled. "Don't worry, she knows. But none of the others do." George nodded in response. "Now, Professor, if you could please take to where he will be staying until the rest of the students come?" McGonagall nodded, and strode quickly out the door. George followed.

"Now, Mr. Weasley, " McGonagall said in a no-nonsense voice. "I trust that you will obey all the limitations the Headmaster has put for people of your kind." George knew she was talking about how he was a time traveler, and nodded.

"You were in Gryffindor, correct?" Again, George nodded, and thought he saw McGonagall's face relax a bit.

They stayed silent for the rest of the journey, until they stopped on the seventh floor, in front of a wall that George knew all too well.

"This is the Room of Requirement." McGonagall started. "To activate it-" "I know." George interrupted. "I found it when I was at Hogwarts." Well, technically, Harry found it, but George wasn't sure if he could tell her that, nor that it was destroyed.

"Oh." McGonagall seemed a bit flustered. "Well, then, that's where you'll be staying." She strode off without so much of a goodbye.

"What a warm welcome." He mumbled under his breath, a bit glad that his sarcasm hadn't faded away along with the rest of his old life.

It was an honorary weapon, sarcasm, that George was proud to say that he was an artful master of. It was very useful in infuriating those you don't like, as in Draco Malfoy. Just because they were on the same team, doesn't mean they're going to hold hands and skip in circles, singing muggle love songs. Though that would be a good prank...

George walked past the wall three times, feeling a bit stupid despite the fact that no one was there. He opened the door that appeared (Like magic!) and walked in.

Unsurprisingly, the resulting room was a lot like the Gryffindor Common Room, just a bit less red and gold. In fact, it was themed orange and purple, which gave George mixed feelings.

There were a few beds in one corner, all looking just as comfy as the ones found in the dorms. George hasn't slept in a proper bed since the last time they raided an old Muggle hotel, about a month ago. His back could use some memory foam.

Yawning, he stumbled his way over to one of the beds. Why did they have to be so far away?

A bed zoomed towards him, stopping a few feet from him. He blinked. Well, that was convenient.

Grabbing an also convenient biscuit from a conveniently placed table, he collapsed on top of the bed. Not five-star, but who was he to be picky? He assumed that the room took food straight from the kitchens, because he was sure that food couldn't just be conjured out of thin air, a feat he had always tried, until Harry said it was impossible due to some Law...George has no idea how Harry knows all that. He didn't really care either, as long as he got food.

Rolling over to face the ceiling, (which, he noted was the same starry sky ceiling as one may find in the Great Hall at night, though it definitely was not night) he couldn't help but laugh out loud.

For no reason, of course, other then that he needed some kind of outlet that rolls all his emotions in one noise, no matter how lighthearted that noise is supposed to. No one was there to watch and call him a psychopath for laughing randomly. He wouldn't outright deny it, but it would most likely be slightly awkward.

So he laughed some more. And more. Then fell asleep, because laughing randomly can make someone feel tired.

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A/N: So, first chapter done! This is going to be a story that I mainly am using in an attempt to make my writing better, and satisfy my thirst for writing a HP fanfic.

As you can see, George isn't acting much like his usual self as seen in the books and movies. Obviously, he has been through much more than the JKR George, and the JKR George was also always seen with Fred, so any judge on their character would be on their twin act, as rarely are they both ever without the other. But don't worry, later on I'll have George revert back to his old self. Well, as much as one can after losing his twin.

On that note, I do intend for there to be some angst. It just may not come in concentrated forms until much story will stick mostly to canon in the beginning, but George's appearance will change the general plotline. There will also be very little romance, except for the obvious James/Lily. I have no plan for George's lovelife as of right now.

Since this is my first HP or Marauder Era fanfic, I need reviewers to be nitpicks with me and tell me any Americanisms that will definitely be there, and I would appreciate it! Just no flames, constructive criticism is fine.

This is one of my much longer chapters (Over 3,000 words!), and I plan for the others to be the same. hopefully it will make up for the long wait in between the updates.

See ya!...maybe in a month or two.

UWttS

Disclaimer: I obviously do not own most of the characters, just plotline. This counts for all further chapters, 'cuz I won't be able to remember to post this disclaimer on every single one.