This is my first time ever writing from George's POV. I'm usually much more of a Fred girl. But the idea hit me one day and I couldn't walk away--George wouldn't hear of it.
Post Deathly Hallows. George has to learn to go on with his life, which is easier said than done. Just a short little ficlet that I may consider expanding on someday.
He paused outside the shop, breathing deeply. No one in the crowd swarming around him rushed him. No one pushed him, and no one spoke to him, with the exception of a few whispered 'excuse me's. Everyone in Diagon Alley knew that day, that very moment was important. And everyone knew why.
Slowly, before he could change his mind again, George gave the door's handle a gentle tug. It opened with little resistance, welcoming its owner, its sole owner, into its entryway.
It didn't feel welcoming. It didn't feel much of anything, except cold. And dingy. It had been all but abandoned for nearly a month. George had been determined that the first of June would be the day they'd reopen, but it had seemed so much easier to make that decision when hidden under the covers of his childhood bed. Now, with reality looking him in the face, George wished he'd changed his mind.
He knew it was time. The only thing that terrified him more than going on alone was letting his and Fred's dream collapse. Fred would never forgive him for it, wherever he was. And the property couldn't just sit empty. Years of inventions and creations and charms and spells couldn't be abandoned. Other than Verity, going by every other day to check on the pygmy puffs, the shop had sat patiently, waiting.
George gave a nervous laugh to himself as he began looking around the darkness. It was odd, how he'd begun to think of the shop as a person. And, perhaps, in its own way, it was. A third twin, the two of them embodied into gold and stone and bricks. The spirit was there.
Taking his time, letting the moment sink into him, George walked around, gently running his fingers over each wall, every product, every individual feather in a toy boa or jewel in a trick crown. He breathed in, reveling in the familiar smells of dust and powders and flowers.
A smile twitched at the corners of his lips as his eyes rested on the mound of pygmy puffs. Though fine solo, they slept together when in a unit, and there had to be at least twelve puffs in a large, drowsy pile in the middle of the cage. It occured to him, looking at the pile of soft coloured fluff, that he hadn't truly smiled in a very long time.
"Hi there," George murmured, pulling the one closest to the cage door, a little green one, towards him. Gently, he lifted the puff into his arms and held him close. The warmth of the fluffy fur did little to warm the cold that had seeped into his stomach and throughout his bones over the last several weeks, but it was a small comfort at least. The puff reminded him of the one Fred had kept until its recent passing. Grief, George had declared it, even when Verity had said it was impossible for a pygmy puff to die in such a way.
George wasn't so sure of that. There'd been many times recently that he'd felt the same.
With the small creature perched on his shoulder, George continued his passage of the room, eyes sweeping every small detail. With the light still off, the room seemed almost haunted. And maybe, in its own way, it was. It was almost impossible to think that he'd never again hear Fred's laughter filling the room, in those pre-opening hours. He'd never again hear silence filled with a dirty joke about a banshee and a goblin. They'd never shout along to the WWN together, and they'd never throw chocolate frogs across the room at each other.
He wasn't going to cry. George Weasley was through crying. Not for any 'men don't cry' reasons, but simply because he was tired of it. His body ached from it, his eyes felt permanently bloodshot, and it simply made him feel even more empty than when he started. Instead, George leaned against the back wall of the shop, surveying the room with a stranger's eyes. It felt wrong, opening without Fred. It felt like the ultimate betrayal to his twin.
But it would have been even more wrong to let their hopes and dreams die, too. Carefully setting the pygmy puff on the desk in the back room, George pulled out a quill and an inkwell. He sat down, one hand in the puff's fur and the other putting quill to parchment. The notice was small, nothing compared to Weasleys Wizard Wheezes' usual signs and advertisements. But its message was clear. In Memory of Fred Weasley.
There. That made it a bit easier, at least. "What do you think, hmm?" George asked the ball of fur at his side. "Think it's fitting?" The animal's big black eyes looked up at him and it murmured a soft coo-ing sound. "Me too. Come on, Junior. Let's get the shop ready to re-open."