Author's Note: Every time I read/watch the last Harry Potter, I fall into a deep funk for like a week afterwards. And so, this was born. Thanks for reading!
May
"George, would you like to join us?"
"Alright," he tears his gaze from the portrait of the Fat Lady, recently repaired. He has a hard time looking at these familiar objects in the castle, because he knows this place won't ever feel right again.
Three days after the end of the battle, they've slept for a solid twenty eight hours and eaten themselves sick. Harry has bruises from how many times hands have reached out and clapped him on the back gratefully. The Golden Trio is beginning to lose their deathly pallor, their exposed ribs, their wounds beginning to heal. They can manage shy smiles at prying reporters, short catch-ups with friends left from their sixth year. They have yet to leave each other's presence, though, the three of them attached at the hip.
George really isn't thinking about any of this. In fact, he's spending most of time desperately trying not to think about anything.
They've divided up into groups, mostly families, and picked areas of the castle to repair. Simple spells lift great sandstone blocks back into place, murmured incantations clear away rubble and debris. A few deatheater bodies are found among the fallen stones, as well as shattered wands and the remnants of unusual curses.
George trails behind his family, looks at the ceiling, at the floor. At some point, he breaks from the rest of them, and wanders outside, into the spring sunlight. He looks numbly at the monument being erected by magical craftsmen. It's organized alphabetically, Weasley will be one of the last names added. They're barely out of the B's, and he's so thankful that he doesn't have to look at that name up there yet that he falls to his knees.
In the night time, the Weasley family has taken over the Gryffindor boy's dorm, filling up the red upholstered room. He can distract himself in the minutes leading up to getting in bed—brushing his teeth, getting changed, avoiding mirrors—but the second after he crawls under the covers and the lights are turned out, it all comes crashing down.
Silent sobs rack his shoulders, because he'll never hear the familiar, rhythmic sound of his brother's breathing again. He can barely remember the last time they slept in different rooms. Now, it's impossible not to think about.
His mother always gets out of bed first, disentangling herself from Arthur. She takes the few short paces over to him, wraps her arms around his shoulders and he can feel her wet tears on his neck. Soon the whole family and a couple honorary members have piled on top of him, all crying softly and trying to remember and forget all at once.
June
At home, the truth begins to sink in, fully manifesting itself physically.
The full summer sunlight casts fresh gazes on all flat surfaces, and with this comes a wave of compulsive cleaning from Molly, and anyone she happens to come in contact with. Soon she has a small army wiping down surfaces and flicking their wands to tighten things up. Harry and Hermione are there, along with Percy, and Bill and Fleur. They spend the days opening up the house, cleaning linens and fixing whatever's broken over the winter.
George helps each day, and in between, sleeps a restless four hours a night, spending the remaining hours staring at the ceiling of his bedroom with as little emotion as possible.
He hasn't slept here in two years, having been living in the apartment above the shop, mostly. Still, a few of their things litter the walls and the floor, and he can't quite differentiate what's his and what was Fred's. It doesn't make much difference, but every now and then he'll pick up a shirt or a quill and just know that it had been in Fred's hand at some point, that it came into direct contact with him and that he's left his mark for George to find.
The first time this happens, he has to sit down for an hour, hold the sweater to his chest and bite both lips just to hold onto himself.
He used to be able to sleep until noon without a second thought, now he won't sleep a wink past four in the morning. One day he gets tired of his dark, cold room and decides to head downstairs. To do what, he has no idea. He just puts one foot in front of the other until he's on the second floor landing, and murmuring "lumos."
What he illuminates is a very surprised Hermione, making her way soundlessly down the stairs without a light.
"Errr, good evening," she stumbles.
"Morning, actually," he replies.
"Oh."
He thinks about the rooms on the above floors—bathroom, cupboards, his parents' bedroom, and Ron's...oh, indeed.
At the same time he asks "Were you-?", she says quickly, "The bathroom. I had to use the loo."
He pauses. "Figured."
She nods to him awkwardly, and heads back down to Ginny's room.
At least some people are enjoying themselves, he thinks grimly.
July
The shop has stood closed and empty since early May, and he knows he's lost a helluva lot of profit being out of commission all summer, in WWW's prime season. Students, out of school for the hot months, still wander by in recuperating Diagon Ally each morning, waiting for the store to miraculously begin moving again.
He manages to pull everything back together in the last two weeks of summer break, rehiring the assisting staff and getting all merchandise back in mostly working order. From dawn till dusk for fourteen days the store is packed full of kids loading up for the looming school year.
He watches the shop come alive again, a slow smile creeping on his face. He's never made it to complete grin, because he always looks over his shoulder first, expecting to see an identical expression. When all he sees is an empty wall, the hollowed out feeling in his chest returns, and the dementors may as well have sucked his soul out for all the remnants of happiness that are left inside him.
He counts the total on the first day of school—the first time the store has quieted by any measurable unit—and the amount is staggering. Plenty of it goes to rent and salaries and materials, but even after all of that is paid for he has a substantial chunk left. He gives part of this to his family, as being now one of the most famous wizarding families apparently does next to nothing for financial troubles.
Then he puts bits of it in his vault at Gringott's, and is left staring at a pile of gold on his desk, contemplating something that he knows is a down hill slide, should he get started.
Nonetheless, half an hour later he's in a bar down the way, buying everyone drinks, including himself.
August
Having stumbled home in the early hours the night before, he awakes late on Sunday, crawls out of bed and into an armchair in the living room. He curls into a ball around a cup of tea and shields his eyes from the morning sunlight, burning his hungover brain. He sits like that for a long time, before recovering enough to begin usual housekeeping items set for his day off.
By the afternoon, he's worked his way downstairs, tidying up the inventory in the silent darkness of the closed store. When he first hears the knock, he's sure he's imagined it, the utter stillness of the store filling his ears. But then it comes again, and he shoots his head up from under the counter, like a gopher peering out of it's hole. Both eyebrows shoot up when he sees Angelina Johnson standing there, tapping hesitantly on the glass of the door.
He comes over and unlocks it for her, but doesn't invite her in.
"Evening," she says.
He doesn't mean to be cold, but that's how it comes out. "Can I help you?"
"I...uh..." he waits for her to come to a point, her pretty face struggling for words.
"I just heard that the store had opened up again and hadn't seen you in a while. I forgot it was Sunday...I'll come back some other time, sorry," she's already trying to hurry off, squirming uncomfortably. He seems to do that to a lot of people these days.
"No, it's okay," he says quickly, for reasons he doesn't quite understand. "You wanna go get a drink, or something?"
She stops, and a slow smile spreads across her face. "Alright."
September
It's not a conscious thought, just a vague gut feeling that has him casting a patronus on that warm evening. The sun's just melted behind the clouds, and he's alone in his bedroom, a bad combination. This is exactly the kind of moment that would make him never get out of bed again. He summons the feathery blue animal simply to remind himself that he can still move his limbs.
He murmurs the familiar spell, and can still feel the memories of that seventh year at Hogwart's, can practically sense the familiar presence at his side from when they first cast their patronuses in the Room of Requirement. He remembers how he'd watched his penguin waddle around for a few moments, wondering how he'd ended up with such a dinky little animal. He'd grown to like it though, after a while.
But what erupts from his wand is not the comfort of his loyal penguin, but a sharp beaked blue heron, staring at him keenly.
"I'll be damned," he says aloud.
"About what?" Angelina has appeared in the doorway, all dressed for their evening out, having arrived through the unlocked store. "Your patronus is a heron?"
"Nope," he replies. He's heard the stories, about Tonks' and Snape's changing. But seeing as they were both dead now, he hasn't been sure. The Heron fades into nothing as his thoughts turn to death. He smiles grimly and thinks in good humor, jackass dies on me and takes my patronus. Some brother.
He looks to Angelina. "Shall we?"
"We shall."
He holds and arm out to her, but not without a final look over his shoulder at the spot where the heron had been. He isn't sure if it's existence makes him feel better, or if just makes him miss Fred worse.
"I miss my penguin," he mumbles.
December
It's hard to look down the long table, see the expressions melt on and melt off. Lips curl into a smiles and laughter but any lull in the conversation has everyone looking down at their plates, no longer having the buffer of distraction. And, of course, one glance at him and any happy emotion falls from their eyes and crawls desperately for the door.
He shouldn't have to be his ghost. It's not fair. He sees the ghost in the mirror each morning, why should they have to also?
Angelina keeps a gentle rhythm as she rubs his back in encouragement. So many seats have been added to Christmas dinner this year, with all remaining members of the Weasley clan, plus their significant others, in attendance. Harry and Ron are back from Auror training for the holidays, Hermione home from finishing her seventh year at school. It's a running joke that Hermione is almost incapable of surprises—no one found it all unexpected that she'd be the only one of the trio to finish her schooling.
He knows there is some luck in all of this, because it is a miracle that so much of his family made it out entirely alive. But he makes a silent promise, looking at the enormity of his family. He doesn't know if he'll even have kids, or who he'll have them with, but he's not going to have too many. He doesn't think he can stand increasing the possibility of losing more loved ones. He can practically see himself already as one of those ridiculous, overprotective fathers, and then thinks, well, if that's what it takes to never have this happen to my family and I again.
Angelina sees his thoughtful expression, raising an eyebrow but not asking questions yet. Bill says something to his left, and the whole group bursts into raucous laughter. George hasn't heard the joke, but he smiles anyway.