1.
George Weasley hung up his magenta robes after locking up his shop, opened three months ago in Hogsmeade just in time for the new school year. Dennis was still in here somewhere, he realized, stretching his neck, checking supplies for the first Hogsmeade trip of the year next week or organizing the boxes in the store room.
"Dennis?" He said.
"Yes, Mr. Weasley?" He popped from behind the storeroom door, ink smudged on his nose and a ragged quill in one hand.
"Go home."
"I want to finish," he explained. "We have a big week next week."
"And I need you well rested."
"Sir, if you would, I just need to finish this. I think we need more skiving snack boxes. You know how much Hogwarts likes them."
"Go home, Dennis," he said and left him in the closet to climb the stairs to his apartment, stark and quiet. Grabbed a sandwich, settled onto his couch, flipped through the Daily Prophet. Puddlemere won again. Harpies were going to give them a run for their money. Dennis was still downstairs, the sound of him shuffling through boxes carrying through the vents in the old building. He was certainly worth taking on. After Verity left, George hadn't been sure if hiring another young person was the best idea, but Dennis had something about him, a dedication, a sense of business, a certain amount of care for the craft. Maybe he could start training him on replicating some of the sweets in the lab, put him on a production line. Speaking of production, he should probably check in with Ron, holding down the fort in Diagon Alley. He scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment and tied it to his owl – How's it going? Looking for an update. Supplies ok? And sent it off into the cool November night. He should be due for a re-up on the populars, at least. The comm coins. The variety candy packs. The whiz bangs. He pulled a parchment across the table towards him, a new plan for weather in the bottle, more portable, although less severe. Better for kitchens and living rooms and won't ruin any furniture. Easier to smuggle into Hogwarts, too.
George nearly jumped out of his pants when his fire blazed green and Harry Potter stumbled into his living room, covered in soot and an unidentifiable sticky substance.
"Harry!" He said, getting to his feet. "What're you doing here?"
"I can't do it anymore, George, I just can't. I gave it a go, and it isn't working," Harry said, pacing back and forth, staring straight at the ground. "I did everything I could...and it just isn't enough."
"Is Ginny giving you a hard time again?" George said, reaching for the fire whiskey
"Ginny?" Harry stopped and looked up at George, his green eyes haunted, horrified. "I wish it was just Ginny."
"Then what?"
"I can't work at the shop anymore," Harry said seriously. "I had a good go and I gave it my best -"
"What're you talking about? You aren't on my payroll."
"Look, George." Harry put his hands on George's shoulders, staring him in the eye. "I quit. I'm not helping Ron run the shop anymore. Good luck."
Harry stepped back into the fireplace, still looking like he'd seen a ghost, and flooed.
3
When George stepped into the flagship Weasley Wizarding Wheezes shop in Diagon Alley, the one he and Fred started up with the uptmost care and enthusiasm, he almost puked. The shelves were empty. The sign saying closed on a Saturday, the streets full of prospective patrons, wrappers scattered on the floor, no one in sight.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" He shouted, the only reply the wind chimes and a sole Pygmy Puff, a mottled gray, squeaking in its cage. "Bloody Hell!" He kicked an empty box across the floor. The only thing he wanted to do was track down Ron and give him the old one-two, a solid broken jaw wouldn't be too bad, flat on his back. The picture of him and Fred on the wall behind the counter shook their heads at him, a smirk pulling at their lips. He disapparated.
Ronald Billius Weasley, in fact, was sitting on the couch in his flat he shared with Seamus, watching quidditch in his underwear.
"Ronald!" George shouted.
"Hiya George," Ron said. "Just in time for second half."
George flicked his wand at the TV, shutting it off.
"What're you doing? They were just about to start!"
"What am I doing?" George stepped up to Ron, staring up at him. "I'm trying to run a business! A business you were supposed to help with!"
"I am helping!" Ron said. "Now turn the match back on."
"Not until you go back to Diagon Alley and clean the shop and put more product out on a Saturday!"
"We don't have any more stock," Ron said.
"What do you mean you don't have any more stock? You are in charge of stocking. You are in charge of making sure the shop runs smoothly. You are supposed to be taking care of business!"
"I am taking care of business!"
"No you aren't!"
"Hiya George," Seamus said, shuffling itno the room in his pyjamas with a bowl of crisps.
"Both of you! In pants! Now!"
"After the game," Ron said, picking up the clicker.
"Now!"
George waited for them, the slowest men on earth, to pull on their pants and tee-shirts without mustard stains and led them to Diagon Alley, practically dragging them while they whined about the game, and tossed them into the shop. He closed the blinds and set the two of them down on stools.
"I thought you could handle this, Ron," George snarled, poking his younger brother in the chest with his finger. "I thought you were responsible enough for this."
"I don't see what the problem."
"You don't see what the problem is."
"No."
"And why's that, Ron?"
Ron and Seamus exchanged a glance and Seamus nodded.
"Come on," Ron said and made for the door leading to the laboratory, where new creations were made.
"Where are you going?"
"To show you what we've been doing," Ron said and opened the door to disappear into the dark basement. George followed him, trying to refrain from hexing the skin off his brother's back.
The lab was, in fact, in worse shape than the storefront. Empty jars lining the shelves, scattered across the floor, weird stains on every available surface, piles of cauldrons probably ruined with the gunk caked on them, and a small selection of neat creations piled on an empty chair.
"What did you do?" George said, picking up an empty vial of what should have been banana powder.
"Created!" Ron said and picked up one of his creations. "Look at this. Non-melting ice cream."
"Just don't eat it," Seamus said. "We're still working out the kinks."
"Cemented my jaw shut last week," Ron explained and put the small bowl of icecream back on the chair. "And these. Testicle spectacles." He slipped them over his face. "You can see through anyone's clothes."
"For those of us wanting a better view, eh?" Seamus said, nudging George with his elbow.
"And here are fizzie fangs," Ron said. "You eat one and you look like a vampire for twenty four hours."
"And then the Rabid Fanged Frisbees," Seamus added, picking one up gingerly. "The fun is you never know if you'll get rabies or not."
"Rabies vaccination always included, just in case," Ron added.
"Are you kidding me?" George said, kicking over the chair. "You spent six months coming up with this garbage?"
"It's product!" Ron said. "It's brilliant!"
"It's stupid."
"The icecream is stupid? This will be a best seller!"
"Let me walk you through it, Ron. You put a freezing charm on the bowl...and no melting icecream! Floresco's been doing it for years!"
"Shit," Ron said. "I thought we were on to something. But the x-ray glasses..."
"We can't sell them to teenaged boys, you nitwit! Nevermind pervy adults! Forget it!"
"And...and the rabid fanged frisbess?" Ron said. "Those're great! An added layer of risk and adventure!"
"An added lawsuit you mean! We can't give kids rabies!"
"We have an antidote," Seamus muttered.
"And we can't turn people temporarily into vampires! It'd be a national crisis to have fake vampires running all over the place! Did you learn nothing from the darkness powder? Merlin, Ronald! And you, Seamus, I expected more from you."
"Okay, mum," Ronald said.
"Clean this place up! Ship shape by tomorrow or else!"
"Or else what?" Ron said.
"I know how much you like spiders, Ronnie kins," George said before turning on his heels and marching right up stairs, through the door onto the street, and into the Leaky Cauldron. He never should have trusted Ron. Hadn't Hermione tried to warm him?
"Firewhiskey," he said.
"It's ten in the morning, George," Tom, the bartender, said.
"Mix it with some tonic, then," George said and got his drink. Hermione had said he wasn't ready, that he was still immature. George had chalked that up to her not getting the proposal she wanted. Evidently there was more truth than jealousy in it. He downed the whiskey tonic. Tom put another one in front of him before he could ask.
"George Weasley?" a familiar voice said as a familiar body, lean and strong, slid next to him at the bar.
"Angelina Johnson," he said and tipped his glass towards her. "What're you doing back in London?"
"I could ask the same about you," she said, ordering a plate of eggs and coffee. "And why you're drinking so early."
She seemed familiar as always, George thought, sipping his tonic, just as strong as always. And that hair. He swallowed and shifted on the stool.
"I let Ron take over the Diagon Alley shop," he said and Angelina laughed, bright and brass.
"Ron?" she said. "Ron, the one who didn't realize he had to pay his rent monthly? The one who nearly drove his first car off a cliff because he thought it would fly? Ron the one who cried every time someone mentions a spider? You've got to be kidding me!"
"Don't remind me," George said and drained his cup. "But the question still remains what you're doing here."
"The whole quidditch thing just isn't working out," she said, cutting into her eggs.
"And why's that? Word was you were on your way up."
"I wasn't picked back up," she said. "When my contract ended. I opted out. Too much politics for me. I mean, it's just a game, right?"
"You were passed over?" George offered.
"I prefer freed from the tyrrany of professional quidditch," she said.
"So what are you going to do with your newfound freedom?"
"Eat whatever I want, do whatever I want, and find a job," Angelina said. "You don't know of anything, do you?"
"Do you still know the recipes for the skiving snackboxes?"
"A little rusty," she admitted.
"Well, we need to restock the entire Diagon Alley shop. You in?"
"Hell yeah, I'm in."
3
George was pleased when he saw Ron, Seamus, and Dennis haul supplies into the lab at Diagon Alley. Ron looked particularly downtrodden, as if George had severely embarrassed and humiliated him, but Ron had embarrassed and humiliated George by running the shop into the ground, so he deserved it. Ron and Seamus would start in on the sweets, a specialty of Ron's even if he denied it, while George and Dennis started workong on the Wonder Witch line. Angelina would be in later to start on the joke products, a familiar role for her. Dennis had the cauldron going before George could even get down the stairs and had wipped together the first batch of love potion. George sat at the table and started making the charms, little hearts holding a fantastic daydream.
"Hello?"
Hermione. George dropped his wand.
"What is she doing here?" George hissed at Ron.
"I don't know," he said and climbed up the stairs, leaving his potion simmering.
George couldn't make out what they said, and he didn't want to, to be honest. Some people grew on him over time, he knew, but Hermione was not one of them. If anything, he couldn't stand her at all anymore, shuddering every time he had to hold a conversation with her. He swallowed and started dropping completed charms into small bags printed with hints as to the treats their daydreams contain.
"She wants to talk to you," Ron said, coming back down the stairs.
"Me?" George nearly choked. "What does she want with me?"
"Dunno,"Ron said, resuming his position at his cauldron.
"Better go see her," Seamus said. "I've seen her go full on harpy when she doesn't get her way."
George rolled his shoulders and braved the stairs. Hermione was sitting on the counter, arms crossed, staring at the empty shop.
"You wanted to talk?" George said, shutting the door securely behind him.
"Ah, yes." Hermione slipped off the counter. "You've been rude to Ron."
"Rude? To Ron?"
"Yes."
"Excuse me? Have you seen this place? And he's cleaned it up!" George motioned to the empty shelves and displays, the pigmy puff food still spilling in one corner, the wires hanging from the wall intending to hold large vats of products.
"Well, you know, I told you it wouldn't end well, so that's no excuse," Hermione said, surveying the scene. "Although it is pretty ghastly, I must admit. But that isn't the point."
"Then what is the point? That he's been fooling around for the past six months when I thought everything was running smoothly?"
"Everything had been running smoothly," Hermione said. "Until Harry up and left, refused to help ."
"Harry was never on the payroll! I was paying Ron! And for what? For him to come up with ridiculously inappropriate joke products? He was supposed to maintain production quality and quantity, not go awol."
"It's not that bad, George," Hermione said.
"None of what he did was marketable," George insisted.
"Ice cream that cements your jaw shut? Please. That's classic," Hermione said, and when she said it like that, George almost agreed. "And those glasses are fine. You have an entire line devoted to appeasing young witches. Why not have one aimed at young wizards?" She did have a point.
"And the rabid fanged frisbees?" George said, expecting some retort that made him reconsider.
"Well, as we both know, that's just irresponsible," Hermione said.
"Glad we agree."
"As do I," Hermione said. "So we'll see about you going easier on Ron?"
"We'll see."
"I do hope you will at least apologize."
"I have work to do," George said. "Fixing your boyfriend's mistakes. So if you'll excuse me."
"Hmph. I suppose so," Hermione said. "I'll be in touch."
Angelina came in as Hermione was heading out, not much more than a courtesy nod and polite word between them.
"Still has a stick up her arse?" Angelina asked, taking her coat off to reveal a simple v-neck tee-shirt and pair of jeans, both form fitting showing her generous curves a mixture of genetics and hours spent on a broomstick.
"More like a tree these days," George said. "Wants me to sell the testicle spectacles, as a companion to the Wonder Witch line."
"Hmmm," Angelina said, hanging her coat in the closet behind the front desk. "Not a bad idea."
"Not a bad idea?" George raised an eyebrow at her.
"A line for pervy teenagers? You could make a fortune. Think about how many Gryffindors would buy glasses to let them see boobs. Just put a twist on it," Angelina said, following him down the stairs.
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Play a joke on them."
Over the course of the next four days, where they all pulled fourteen or so hours in the lab restocking the Diagon Alley shop, both of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes closed due to "unforseen circumstances," George nearly murdered Ron four times, Seamus three, and thanked Merlin for Dennis and Angelina. The boy made all the potions, each and every one, perfectly and bottled them with ease, a professionalism that Ron seriously lacked, even in the wee hours of the morning. And Angelina. Once she had made a suitable ammount of joke products to fill the displays, she had overseen Seamus putting together the fireworks, saving the shop from explosion on three distinct occasions, and set up all the displays upstairs, and picked up whatever slack Ron left behind, berating him as she went.
"Let me take you out to dinner," he said once she put the last of the pigmy puffs Dennis brought back from the Hogsmeade shop in the tank. "To thank you."
"You want to take me out to dinner?" She nearly laughed, settling the mesh grate on the top of the glass box and fastening it with a quick spell.
"Consider it a business engagement," he said, walking with her to the front door. "I have a proposition for you. What's your schedule look like?"
"Wide open."
"Tomorrow, then." George opened the door for her into the cool night air. "I'll pick you up at seven."
"You'll pick me up?" Angelina said, sliding past him. "That sounds awefully like a date, George Weasley."
"Have a good night, Angelina Johnson."