For a while, after the Battle of Hogwarts, George Weasley could be found every night passed out in the sleaziest pubs in Knockturn Alley. The other Weasleys went with him sometimes, especially Ron, who tried hard but could never really replace Fred, definitely not in George's eyes. Charlie had gone back to his dragons eventually, and Bill soon had to go home to his now very pregnant wife. Percy never quite understood the need for a public spectacle, and when he drank he did it in private, and he woke up the next day unable to remember anything and he questioned whether he had a problem but he decided he didn't want anyone to know. Eventually he met Audrey, and he was willing to let someone know, and by that time there wasn't much to know anyway. It had got easier for him.
But it didn't for George. Every Weasley family get-together, he would be passed out somewhere. He could always hold his Firewhiskey well, after all hadn't the Weasley twins thrown the best parties in the Gryffindor common room? Even before they had found the Marauders' Map and figured out how it worked, the two of them had developed a reputation for being best able to sneak banned items past Filch. But these nightly excursions? This was too much, even for him. Everyone let it slide for a while though. It's not that they wanted to ignore George, not even Percy could be accused of that. No, they simply didn't know what exactly they should say. They'd all lost people but none of them had lost their other half and no one knew the words which could erase the pain. No one believed such words even existed at the moment. So they let George be. They went with him when they could and Molly never rested until his hand on the clock was home and safe, but they also let him be.
One night, almost two years after that day, everyone was gathered at the Burrow. Fleur was almost due, and there was much cooing around her, mostly from Molly, who was hoping her first grandchild would help stop the pain from the realisation that struck her all the time, that she would become a grandmother while still feeling as if she was a failure of a mother.
Fleur tottered around, she was still beautiful, you couldn't stop that quarter Veela light that shone through her, but she didn't feel it most days. She walked out onto the porch where George was seated, only a butterbeer in his hands for now. He looked at her and gave her a half smile; no one had seen a full smile from him in two years. (It was as if they were a whole in every way so everything he did now was halved.) She smiled back, giving him the full dose of her Veela ancestry, but it didn't do much to warm him these days. She placed her hand over his, and quietly said, "I'm glad it's only a butterbeer tonight George." He choked back a noise, and looked at her for a minute but quickly turned away. It was as if the happiness that she couldn't help but let shine through her was all too blinding for him.
"It won't be just a butterbeer Fleur. You might be eating for two, but right now, i'm drinking for two."