The shop has been open for two weeks now, and it always takes a while for George to muster up the strength to wake up in the morning. He nearly feels guilty, and despite Ron's help it feels as if he's running the shop—his and Fred's shop—just by himself. He remembers how much work Fred put into it, remembers occasionally finding him slumped, sleeping across the table in the backroom, ingredients for some new product strewn everywhere, resulting in George having to haul Fred all the way upstairs. He remembers Fred so excited on the opening day, when Hogwarts students and grown wizards and witches alike were flooding the floor, most of the shelves empty by night. He remembers how happy Fred was, and it kills him.
George sighs and scrubs his face with his hands, sits up, and just stays still, eyeing the door through the hallway that he can't seem to walk into. After living at the Burrow for nearly a year, George decided he shouldn't be a burden on his parents anymore, and once he opened up the shop again he chose to move back to the flat as well. When he got here, it needed some serious cleaning. With the help of his mum and Ginny, things were put back in order, yet when his sister tried to go into Fred's room, he said a blunt and harsh no. It wasn't brought up again, and soon enough the dark oak door seemed like a curse, like an object that was forbidden, something that needed to be banished and yet the feat was impossible to accomplish. George has only been in the room once.
It was on the first night he was here, in the flat. Everything had made George so nostalgic, and he immediately regretted moving back in, but he didn't want to go back to the Burrow, either. He'd felt like he was going to throw up. Even the kitchen reminded him of Fred—he'd always made the meals, because George had no idea how to cook anything and not burn it—and he resorted in the one place in the flat he hadn't been in yet—Fred's room.
George didn't really know why he wanted to go in there. If the kitchen alone had reminded him of Fred, then why would he choose to go in the said twin's room? But he did, and when he opened the door, he nearly collapsed.
Everything was left as it was. The walls were still tan, the bed still messy, and a shirt thrown carelessly over a pillow. A Chudley Cannons poster hung proudly by a very small bookcase that wasn't even one shelf full. Fred's old Cleansweep was still propped up against the window, and when George pulled back the curtains, since Fred's room was on the side of the flat that faced the alleyway, all he could see was a cold, dark brick wall.
George had stumbled back, back of his legs hitting Fred's bed as he did so, and he fell on the cold sheets. And after all that time, when George curled up into a tight ball and clutched Fred's shirt in his hands, to his chest, the room—the kitchen, the whole flat, he realized—still smelled of Fred. And George sobbed.
Now, as George groggily stands up, half asleep and half depressed, he walks out of his room, across the hallway, and stands, right hand holding the smooth, cold, untouched doorknob softly. He opens the door, pushes through, and stands. It's dark, even if the sun is up and not a cloud is in the sky (something that George gathered from his own room's window), because the tall building on this side of the shop blocks out the sun. Because the shadows from the tall building cascade over this side of the shop, draping themselves over Fred's room, his bed, that bookshelf, the old broom. George's heart clenches as he takes a step closer inside, socked feet padding softly against the wood floor. He stands there, breaths for a few beats longer, and begins to clean.
Since acting on some strange impulse, he doesn't have his wand, or any Muggle-esque cleaning supplies Molly lent him that he has no idea how to use. Because of this, George can't do much, but he remakes Fred's bed, throws some clothes that'll never get washed in a hamper, straightens out the bookshelf and pulls back the thick cream curtains of the window, as if to give some light to the room.
Yet, when George walks towards Fred's end table and props up a facedown picture frame, he suddenly feels weak, spent up, and plops onto the bed. He's held out for long enough, he reasons.
The picture is of Fred and him together, somewhere along the summer after sixth year, with their hair a bit longer than usual. George smirks sadistically, remember how Fred told him that the Muggle boys in the village were growing out their hair, and if he and George did too they'd be sure to get a few dates to accompany them to Hogsmade. George takes the picture frame with shaking hands and looks down at it, looks at his younger self shove Fred playfully, broomsticks over their shoulders and sweat along their brows. They'd just finished playing Quidditch. George remembers that game; he'd knocked a Buldger at Ginny and she nearly fell, would've broken her leg too if she hadn't held onto the broom like Ron had the following year. George frowns, eyebrows furrowing as his fingertips trail along Fred's laughing, young form, and for the millionth time since one year ago, he feels like part of him has died, like with every reminder of Fred parts of him deteriorate, fall off in copious chunks, because Fred and him were two halves of a whole, because you can't have one without the other, one half is nothing without the other—not a whole, because if one dies, the other will surely follow—the sooner, the better.
There are pros and cons of living alone, George thinks, as he decides to not open the joke shop, something returning costumers should expect by now (out of the two weeks he's been here, the shop has only been open for three days) and Ron worries over, pursing his lips. After a while, he finally left.
A pro is that Molly isn't around him constantly, asking him if he's fine or okay (the word alright had been permanently tabooed after George lost it when Percy asked him if he was a few weeks after the battle) or shoving food that George loses later down his throat. That there's no one around to constantly annoy him, no one around to force him to go do something social, no one to act as if stepping on pins and needles around him, no one to simply try and start a conversation to which George would begrudgingly engage in.
The con is that there's no one here to simply distract him. Distract him from the fact that Fred was once here, distract him from the fact that Fred's gone, that he isn't coming back, that nothing will bring him back. The Burrow was annoying, of course (though George did try to lighten up as much as he could), but it was thankfully distracting. With a crazy mum and relatives still living there (Ginny and Ron) and some visiting every so often, noise was abundant. But here, at the flat, it's so, so quiet. George even bought a Muggle television just to fill up the place with noise.
Now, George begins getting dressed, snapping out of his thoughts and pulling a t-shirt over his head. He isn't exactly one to fret over himself, but he's beginning to get worried. It's been a year since Fred died, and while George knows he'll never really get over it, the rest of his family has moved on, let themselves be happy as George refuses to do so for reasons he can't articulate. He walks into the living room and frowns, pulling on a jacket and slipping into some trainers, lacing them quickly before heading out of the apartment, down the steps, and out the shop door. He decides that a good walk will refresh his mind.
George walks, hands in his pockets, down Diagon Alley, nodding at a few people who say hello but not responding any further. He turns a left and finds himself deeper in, near the hangouts and homes of previous dark wizards and a select group of Death Eaters. Though the area had been scouted and ridden of any suspiciousness after the war, it still holds its reputation, and shady people still occupy the downtrodden flats and bars. George finds that he doesn't really care, and saunters down the dark brick road, glancing at witches and wizards garbed in dark robes who eye his flaming red hair carefully—a trait popularly known for a Weasley.
George whistles and nonchalantly and walks into a bar, the tables greasy and atmosphere heavy, shivering, as if the autumn air is uncomfortable, when in reality George is pretty much just numb. The Weasley smirks, walks towards the counter and slides onto a stool. He turns, nodding at an elderly wizard with deep wrinkles and a large black pea coat.
"Beautiful season, isn't it?"
The man grunts, not answering, and George cocks his head, as if confused. He shrugs, and then turns to the bartender, who's wiping a filthy glass with an even filthier rag.
George innocently asks, "Water?" and the bartender, with his shaggy, long grey hair and a gruff voice glares.
"Stop shitting on me—Firewhiskey's four Galleons."
"Ah," George starts, fishing around his jean's pocket, "what a deal." He unfolds his hand, counts the money extra slowly, and tips his hand, letting the coins fall into the bartender's awaiting palm.
"It's seven—Keep the tip."
The man grunts, glares again, and then slams the glass on the murky counter. He turns around, and George takes this time to look about.
There aren't many people in the place. Two are sitting in a booth, one at a table underneath a high window, and another at the far end of the bar—four, excluding the man beside him, and all are looking at him.
The bartender turns back around, placing the glass on the counter stiffly, and George smiles, eyebrows rose in acknowledgement as he nods his thanks. He takes the cup in one hand, drowning half of the alcohol in a single go, and sighs in content, licking his lips. He nudges the man on his side with his elbow.
"Weather's been strange, huh? Sunny one second and rainy the next—not as bad as London, though, I suppose… from what the Muggles say. I've got a telly at my place, you see—"
The man at the other end of the bar growls, and George turns to him, smiling cheekily, the aftertaste of the whiskey setting his throat aflame.
"What the hell are you doing here," the man asks; voice low and rasped, "Weasley?"
With both hands cupped around the glass, George smiles wider, twiddling his thumbs, "Oh you know," he begins, "—was just walking through the neighborhood and fancied a drink."
"Leave," the man says, a hooded jacket shielding his face. George frowns.
"Why? This place is just so cozy, don't you a—"
The person beside him growls, and in seconds his arm is wrapped around George's neck, a knife pointed at the sliver of free skin. George, unfazed, raises his eyebrows, pushing the knife down with his finger as if he doesn't have a care in the world.
"Careful, there, buddy, someone could—"
"Why are you here, Weasley?" The man asks, and George notes that the bartender is fine with his current state.
"I told you," George starts, not really caring that the knife is now pressed so hard against his skin that blood is drawn, "I just decided to stop by, relax, you know—"
"You know what I think?"
George cranes his neck back, paying no heed to the knife and the soft sting as the blade rubs against his throat. He looks at the man, at his greasy silver hair and dark, black eyes, upside down. He stays quiet, allowing the fellow to continue.
"I think that you've gotten reckless ever since your little Freddie died."
George glares, dropping his sarcasm as he turns defensive, still calm as ever. He wonders why he's so…collected. Maybe the man is right. "How the bloody hell do you know his—"
"I think that you're a little sad," the man rolls on, ignoring George, "and I think that you're a little bored, Mr. Joke-Shop. I think that you're picking a fight; that you are trying to dig your own grave—"
The knife pushes against George's neck even harder, thin lines of blood of blood trickling down to his chest, and George gulps, "Who the fuck are you—"
"What would you do to bring your brother back?"
The question makes George freeze. The constant buzz of the slow, slow fans seem louder, as does his heartbeat and the man's rank breathing. His head pounds, his eyebrows furrow, and he swallows, licking his lips. He looks around the bar, and finds that everyone, who went back to their business before, is looking at him now.
"Anything," he whispers, suddenly out of breath, and he means it. The man above him smirks, lip curling and showing rotten, yellowed teeth.
"Perfect," he drawls, "I think we can strike a deal."
A/N: Welp. I feel that this was too short. Anywho, review, please?
EDIT: Line breaks got erased, but I put them back in. Ugh why must you hate me. Anyways, I hope it's easier to read.