George Weasley was sitting at the kitchen table, a warm cup of coffee in one hand and a muggle newspaper spread across the kitchen table, when he heard the repetitive knocks on his kitchen window. He had taken to purchasing the New York Times every morning from a supermarket around the corner, and reading it in the small kitchen of his rented house ever since he had arrived in France. Usually, he did so with a large mug of coffee, sometimes two, often to combat the hangover he'd woken up with.

When he turned in his chair, he found the source of the noise to be a light grey owl, which he could see pecking at his kitchen window through a crack in the curtain, with a thick white scroll tied to its leg. The owl was familiar, and even so he could have guessed who had written him. He hadn't told many people where he was going when he left, and now that he was receiving daily letters or packages he almost regretted even telling his family.

Squinting against the bright light, George opened the curtains and unlocked the window to let the pesterous bird hop onto the kitchen counter. Before untying the scroll from the bird's leg, he filled a bowl with water and a separate one with bird food, which he had purchased just a week ago, anticipating the many more visits the owl would pay him in the future. While the owl was occupied with its food, he unknotted the string around its leg. The scroll consisted of several pages, tightly rolled.

As he unravelled the pages, he flicked through them. The first two pages were covered in his mother's hasty handwriting, followed by one in his father's barely legible script. Another two he could tell were from Charlie. He wasn't surprised to find there were none from his other siblings; Ron, he knew, was busy dealing with the sudden drastic rise in fame he had been object to following several (sometimes more fictional than real) retellings of the Battle of Hogwarts and the events leading up to it, published in all wizarding newspapers, tabloids, blogs, on fan pages and other more or less reputable sources. On top of that, George knew from his mother's letters that Ron had been having an exceptionally difficult time adjusting to the idea of living in peace; no more war, no more fighting, no more cross-country chases, no more Voldemort. Ginny, despite all recommendations from family and therapists, had insisted on returning to school as soon as possible, in the wings of the castle which had been fully rebuilt, while parts still lay in ruin. William had returned to work at Gringotts, determined to fill the void which had been left by too many who could not return. And Percy? Well Percy had never written in the first place.

For the most parts, as he sat back down in the sole kitchen chair and read the letters while sipping his coffee, he found them to contain nothing new. His mother wrote mostly of reparations ongoing in the Burrow, and the many donations which had been arriving at their door daily. There were so many in fact, Molly had written, that they had filled a full spare room with them, and yet dozens still arrived every day. She hadn't opened any of them yet, due to a lack of time as she claimed, though George suspected opening them would force her to confront the reason the Weasley family was the recipient of so many generous donations, and if her page long description of household chores was anything to go by, that was something she was not yet willing (or able) to do.

By the time he finished his mother's part of the letter (ending only with the words 'all my love, I hope you are enjoying the sunshine, Dumbledore knows we could use some') his coffee mug was empty, and the headache which had been plaguing him only slightly improved. He had left the window open, and the grey owl had flown out without him even realizing. Outside, he could see the wheat plants leaning with the breeze, being pressed to the earth and straightening up with every light gust of wind, like a living, breathing thing. A walk, he decided, some fresh air would do him good and perhaps further abate his hangover.

He hadn't spent much time exploring the surrounding areas, and knew only the path that would lead him to Laguerre, a small village which attracted mostly only tourists heading through from the East to more popular destinations, such as Nice or Cannes. It was only a twenty minute walk, and the town contained the most important amenities, including a medium-sized muggle supermarket, an Italian pizza restaurant and a decently stocked bar. George was fully stocked on food however, and it was too early both for pizza and to start drinking, and anyways, he doubted the bar would be open at 11 a.m. Instead, he set off along the unpaved country road in the other direction, deciding to go straight for as long as the road would allow him.

For over twenty minutes he walked, encountering nothing but fields, pulling wheat stalks out of the earth and picking them apart to keep himself occupied, when he hit a slightly larger, paved road. This, he imagined, was the main road leading to Laguerre, so he set off in the opposite directing, following the road along its twists and turns away from one of the only familiar places in the country.

He still had a wheat stalk in his hand, and was meticulously pulling it into thin ribbons, when he was startled by a car (the first he had encountered on his walk), first slowing as it came toward him and then stopping so close to him that he jumped back slightly out of fear of being hit. The small, beat up black VW was pulsing with music, a catchy pop song even he was familiar with, which cut off suddenly as someone rolled down the window.

George was curious, and, as he patted the special pocket on his hip which contained his wand, had no reason to be anxious, so he leaned down and peered into the car. Inside, three girls, perhaps in their early twenties or late teens, peered out at him, while a blonde in the passenger seat had her head in her hands, clearly embarrassed.

'Hey there, can we offer you a ride anywhere?' the girl at the front window asked in a clear London accent.

Only then did George notice this girl was also the driver. Clearly, these were British tourists, and judging by their steering wheel which was on the right (or wrong) side, they had driven this instable looking car all the way from England.

George took a closer look at them. They were pretty, all of them, and looked carefree and up for adventure, in their light summer outfits and varying stages of tanned. Really, it had been getting harder and harder to keep his thoughts from straying to unwelcome topics, and these girls looked like they could lead his thoughts in a different direction entirely. On top of this, he reasoned, it was probably time for some more varied company, given the longest human interactions he had had the last three weeks had been sharing drunk jokes with the few locals who spoke decent English at the town bar.

The back seat looked very crowded, with a girl sitting at either window and a pile of clothes on the middle seat, but he still answered 'Sure, where are you going?'

The girl in the driver's seat leaned further out the window and smiled up at him. 'Laguerre, but we'd be happy to take a detour.'

'No, that's perfect.'

With some manoeuvring, the back seat was cleared of clothes and the pretty girl with brown hair scooted over, allowing him to take the left window seat. As soon as he was seated, the girl in the driver seat shifted the car into first gear and the car slowly took off.

'So, what's your name?' she asked, glancing at him the rear-view mirror.

'George. And all of you?'

The girl at the other rear window now answered, pointing first to the driver 'That's Linda, the super embarrassed one is Anna, that', she pointed now to the girl in the middle seat 'is Zoey and I'm Lara.'

The 'super embarrassed one' had by now lifted her face from her hands, but still looked highly uncomfortable with the situation. George didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable, so he smiled at each of them in turn.

'What brings you here, George? Sightseeing, the wine, escaping the British police?' Linda now asked.

'Sightseeing, mostly' he answered without hesitation, and was confident no one could see the lie on his face.

'Well George, then maybe you could show us the best places to see around here. We're planning on staying for, oh, maybe a day or two, and would love to get the quick tour.'

'Most importantly', added Zoey, and as she turned to look at him her smiling face was so close to his he could have counted the freckles on her face, 'we want the Laguerre and surroundings nightlife highlight tour.'

George had to grin at that. 'That will be a very quick and disappointing tour, since there's exactly one bar and zero clubs.'

None of them really looked too disappointed.

'Oh well', Zoey said, 'Sometimes one bar is all you need.'

By the time he stepped out of the car in front of Laguerre's best (and only) hostel, George had agreed to a girls'-plus-one-strange-boy night out, and was looking forward to it more than he had to anything in a while, if only because he had noticed Linda glancing at him in the rear-view mirror as often as the empty roads would allow, and Zoey leaning slightly closer to him throughout the ride. If nothing else, he thought, the night would hopefully prove to be a good distraction.