Author's Note 1: I have a lot to cover here, so let's get started. Thank you as always to my beta, Leafia. Also, I want to recognize (and thank) Belfast Docks, whose story Threshold, about Ron getting a tattoo, inspired this story. Also, Northumbrian. I borrowed the idea of the twins giving Angelina a birthday card from his story, April Fool, but his card was much more clever than mine. Go check out both of these writers, you won't be sorry!

Disclaimer: The characters and setting belong to JK Rowling.

Tattoo

George had been holding it together pretty well, if he did say so himself. Sure, his twin—his other half—was dead. Absolutely, his soul had been torn in two like one of those effing Horcruxes Harry told him about. Yeah, his chest was hollow and his laughter tinny and sometimes he didn't know if he was hacked off or super hacked off at the world. But he'd been holding it together.

Ten months. That was how long it had taken before he completely lost his mind.

It started out the night of ickle Ronnikin's birthday. The kid wasn't much of a kid anymore, being 19 and half-giant and getting laid on a regular basis. They had done the family thing early in the evening, where they all went 'round to the Burrow to let Mum feed them and coo over the birthday boy. After, Harry, Ron and George ditched the old folks and headed to Diagon Alley for a good, old-fashioned, merry-making drunk. Sometime in the night, George had looked through hazy eyes at his baby brother and realized that, shit, his own birthday was a month away.

His birthday. His twenty-first. His first without Fred.

Just like that, all of that heroic holding-it-together George had done had come undone. Drinking became a daily habit. A week in, drinking to excess became a daily habit. He avoided his friends, especially Angelina. Then, when the alcohol hadn't been enough, he started fucking random witches. That wasn't a nice way to put it, but it was accurate. He couldn't call what he was doing with these women anything else because he didn't care about them in any way. He just wanted the release. And, Merlin, all of it just made him more miserable in the morning.

One night, before George could escape the flat of the girl he'd just got off with, she spoke to him. It was exactly as awful as George had imagined it would be.

"I remember you and your brother. We were in the same year at Hogwarts. I was in Ravenclaw."

George grunted, going very still in hopes of becoming nonexistent.

"Had a bit of a crush on the two of you," she said. "I was sorry to hear he died. Dead shame."

She snuggled into him and George made a mental note to create a one-night stand potion that rendered the drinker invisible after orgasm.

"I always wondered," she said.

George braced himself. Whatever came next would be dreadful, he knew it would be.

"Is it hard to look in the mirror? I mean, do you see him?"

George got out of bed so fast that her head bounced on the mattress. He looked around for his pants, decided to leave them as a souvenir, and yanked his trousers on. Were the bars still open? What was left at home? Georg was fairly certain he had polished off the last of the Firewhisky two days prior. Why hadn't he bought more? He'd turned into a damn lush, for Merlin's sake, part of the job description included having bottles hidden around the house. Shit, he wasn't even a proper drunk!

With one arm in his shirt, he Disapparated. Seconds later, a cold drizzle was running down his half-exposed chest. There was no telling what time it was, but the sky was black as pitch and Diagon Alley was quiet. The door he stood outside was painted red and if he went inside he'd find a mahogany staircase that led up to small but posh flats. The hall would be dimly lit by fancy wall sconces and behind the heavy, carved door of 2-B would be Angelina Johnson.

At that time of night, she'd be sleeping. It was Quidditch season, which meant early morning practices and game days. He wondered when her next game was. What a shit friend he'd become if he didn't know when Angie's next match was. He'd gone to as many Harpies' games as he could in the last several months. He'd told Angie it was because he liked how she looked in those white breeches (not a lie), but really it was because she was his dearest mate.

Blech! What an appallingly maudlin sentiment. Still, it was true. Fred… well, he'd been everything. The two of them were more than brothers or friends, they'd been two halves of the same whole. Literally. George wasn't stupid; he knew how twins were made. One zygote split in two. That was him and Fred.

And the truth was, George wished he could look in the mirror and see Fred staring back at him, but that's not how it worked. George had spent twenty years of his life staring at Fred's ugly mug, and he'd spent nearly twenty-one staring at his own. He knew the difference even if no one else did.

Back to Angelina. If Fred was everything, then Lee Jordan was probably George's best mate. He was good to tie one on with and talk about witches in a manner that would earn George a good mouth-washing if his mum overhead. And Lee was pretty good at pranks. Amateur, obviously, but good. Ronnie was probably George's favorite brother, but the competition was slim. Seriously, who else would it be? Bill? The prat who married the Veela despite looking like mincemeat? Percy? His middle name was "Stick Up His Arse". Or, well, maybe it was Ignatius, but that was pretty lousy too. Charlie? Maybe Charlie was cool, but the git lived in Romania so he could sod off.

Right, this was about Angelina. What could George say about her? She took zero crap from him. She was funny. She knew the difference between him and Fred. She was hot.

And if George went up to her flat, Angelina would open her door, and tell him off for coming around at such a mental hour. Then she would invite him into her place—which would be all clean and classy—and sit him on her sofa and look straight through him. Did George want Angelina to see him?

He walked through the drizzle to his shop, half his shirt trailing behind him.

oOo

At the end of the Leaky Cauldron's bar sat a singular ginger, his chin in one hand, the other wrapped around a tumbler of Firewhisky, the bottle at his elbow. It was Wednesday.

The night after his one-night-stand-gone-wrong, George had run into Lee Jordan at the pub. The two had ordered shots, toasted to Alicia's amazing tits, and had a good laugh. When George asked the barkeep for the bottle, Lee had given his friend a sad look. George had found an excuse to leave. The next night, he'd stayed in his flat and drank. The morning after, he'd decided that drinking alone was pathetic (and troubling), and had vowed never to do it again. That was how he found himself in the Leaky Cauldron on Wednesday.

Quidditch was on the wireless. Some crusty old warlocks sat in the corner with pipes. Tom was behind the bar, doing his best to ignore the fact that the Weasley boy was drinking himself into a stupor in his pub. As for George, he didn't give a shit about any of it. He was sullenly in his own world, which was almost comfortably numb.

He was busy tracing the rim of his glass with his finger when somebody nudged his arm. George pulled his wand and shoved it in the face of Angelina Johnson. He stared slack-jawed into her brown eyes, her finely-arched eyebrows raised. Shakily, he withdrew his wand and shoved it back in his pocket.

"You planning on hexing me there, Georgie?" she asked mildly.

"I wouldn't dream of it. Wouldn't want to scar that beautiful face."

Angelina slid onto the stool next to his. Without asking, she took his glass and sipped his Firewhisky only to grimace.

"Blech, you couldn't spring for the good stuff? That's little more than rotgut."

"Serves the purpose."

"To get you drunk enough that you don't care what witch you shag?"

George closed his eyes. Dammit, but he hated that Angelina knew about the witches.

Sliding off the stool, Angelina leaned into him. "Let me take you home."

Everything that was Angelina enveloped George's senses. The tangy, familiar scent of her perfume, the weight of her firm breasts pressing against his arm. Her soft, smoky voice in his ear. Her breath warm against his skin. George shuddered. Angelina was a woman like no other. He'd have to be dead not to be turned on by her, but it wasn't like the nameless, faceless witches he'd been screwing. When Angelina offered to take him home, he knew she wasn't offering to take him to bed. She was offering to help him, and when she did that there was this small, gasping voice that said: Let her. The weight will be easier to bear if you let her help you shoulder it.

"I need to settle my tab," George said.

"Already done," Angelina replied. She pushed the glass and bottle away. "Let's hurry before it rains."

It was a blustery and cold spring night. More than just rain was coming—a storm was eminent. The two of them hurried down Diagon Alley's quiet, cobblestoned streets arm-in-arm, the wind pushing them back. They climbed the rickety stairs at the back of his building to his third floor flat. Watching Angelina's hand grasp the rough, splintered banister, it occurred to George for the first time that maybe he should do something about this staircase. At the top, George pushed open the door, but Angelina came to an abrupt halt on the threshold of the flat.

"What's that smell?"

She flicked her wand and the candles blazed to life around the lounge. Piles of dirty clothes, old dishes with half-eaten food, and empty bottles of booze littered every surface. Angelina's eyes snapped from the mess to George. He flushed under her scrutiny. Marching into the flat, she did a turn around the room, then stopped and propped one hand on her hip.

Lightening flashed across the sky as George shut the door. He regarded Angelina warily as the low rumble of thunder rolled in the distance.

"Well, two things are certain," she said. "One is that Mrs. Weasley has never been in this hellhole or she would have dragged you home until she was sure you could properly look after yourself."

"I can—" His protest was cut off by one incredulously arched eyebrow.

"And the other is that you haven't been bringing those women back to this dump. Honestly, George, this is disgusting. It wasn't like this when Fred was alive. I remember your little Christmas party during the war and this place was spotless."

George waved his hand at her. "We just cleaned up for the party. This flat was much worse when Fred was here. I mean, he was a slob."

Angelina's eyebrow did all her talking for her again. It was a damn magical eyebrow, that.

"And you are in the same state as this pigsty," Angelina said.

"What? It's not as if I smell!" George lifted up one arm and took a whiff of his pit. "Do I?"

"You're a wreck, Georgie," she said in a quiet, sad voice. "Go take a shower. I'll see if there is a clean mug and some tea leaves."

"Just bags, I don't have the good stuff."

"Well, that'll do then."

George stood in the shower for a long time, letting the warm water wash over him. He kept hearing Angelina saying he was a wreck in that sad voice over and over again. It bothered him, the way she'd said it. It scared him, because if Angelina could sound that frightened for him, then maybe he was further gone than he'd thought. Shit, these last weeks of drinking and screwing had been the worst. He didn't like who he was when he woke up in the morning, but the realization of what loomed ahead of him was so damned painful that he just wanted to crawl under a rock. Maybe that's what he should do. Forget the booze and the witches, surely there was a spell or a potion that would render him the size of a cricket, then he could burrow into a hole in the ground and not come out again until… he didn't know. When it hurt less to think, to breathe.

Stepping out of the shower, George felt scrubbed clean. He dripped on the floor for a moment then remembered that his mum always put a towel on the bathroom floor for them to stand on. Maybe that wasn't a bad idea. If he was going to be a drunk, he should eliminate slipping hazards like wet tile. George dried off and dropped his towel on the floor. His mum would be disappointed by that. Maybe he shouldn't let her down in these little ways. He picked up the towel and hung it on the rack. That's what it was for, after all.

George paused before opening the door. He normally walked naked from the bathroom to his bedroom to get dressed, but Angelina was out there. A grin spread across his face. It felt a bit rusty, but nice.

"Oi, Angie!" he yelled out the door.

"Yeah?"

"I'm starkers, so don't look, yeah."

"Thanks for the warning. I'm sure anything as white as your arse would be like looking at the sun."

George chuckled to himself, then stuck his head out the door. He couldn't see her from the bathroom.

"No looking."

"Absolutely not, blind Chasers are worthless."

"Likely story. I know you want to."

George heard Angelina laugh, and something fluttered in his chest. Angelina had a laugh that fit her perfectly: bold and sultry. It had always been so much fun to make her laugh. He and Fred used to compete to see who could make her laugh the loudest. George always won. Fred would disagree, but he was dead so his opinion no longer counted.

Tiptoeing into the hall, George paused. He hoped he would catch Angelina sneaking a peek, but nope.

"Eyes closed?"

"Firmly."

Depending on where she was at, she'd get a good look at him once he got to his bedroom.

"I'm almost to the bedroom. No peeking."

Angelina laughed. "Not a chance."

"Oh, I'm hurt! It's as if you don't want to see me starkers."

More laughter.

"I don't hear you agreeing. That means you must be at least a little curious. Ever see ginger pubes before, Johnson?"

"George!"

"Just asking. You know it's red all over."

Angelina appeared in the hallway, one hand firmly over her eyes. "Just get dressed, you giant prat."

At the sight of her, George's eyes went round, and he covered himself with his hand. Scurring into his bedroom, he closed the door firmly behind him. He could hear the rain pounding against the window behind the drawn curtains. With a heaving chest, he leaned against the door.

Angelina had been covering her eyes, and he was pretty sure she wasn't peeking. Because if she had… He looked at his erection. That was bloody inconvenient. Yet, seeing Angelina Johnson in the same room while he was naked was an adolescent dream come true. It was strange that he never imagined her being naked as well, but honestly he never thought he'd be lucky enough to see her starkers.

It took George no less than twenty minutes to find a clean pair of pants and pajamas. Embarrassing, that. Angelina probably thought he was in his room wanking, for Merlin's sake. Also, he sincerely wished he would've considered that a girl might see his nighttime attire before he bought violently purple pajamas with golden Snitches all over them. He looked like a twelve-year-old.

When finally George left his bedroom, he walked into a clean living room.

"Where did everything go?"

"Well, I didn't do your laundry, if that's what you're hoping," Angelina said. She came out of the galley kitchen levitating two steaming mugs before her. "I couldn't find any milk or sugar, so you'll have to take it plain."

"Perhaps I should start living like an adult one of these days." George sighed and took his cup, cradling it in his hands.

"Maybe you could just stop the drinking and the shagging, and we can work on laundry later."

George stared at his cup. "You were never one to beat around the bush."

"No point in it, is there?" She sat on the sofa, then looked at him over her shoulder. "Come join me, won't you?"

Hesitating for a moment, George just stared at Angelina. Her words sounded like a request, but he knew they were really a command. His mum phrased commands like that sometimes, and he knew from experience that compliance wasn't really an option. If he didn't do what he was being "asked" then the "request" would turn into a "demand" usually said loudly with angry, snapping eyes. So, George sat by Angelina, and was rewarded when she tucked her legs under her and faced him.

"What's going on?" she asked.

George shrugged. "Sales are going well. I'm increasing stock with the anticipation of Easter. It's not as busy as Christmas or summer hols, but it'll be a nice little boost in income. Catalog sales are still where it's at during the school year."

"George…"

There was a loud clap of thunder that shook the flat. George and Angelina jumped. The candles flickered as rolls of percussion rumbled outside.

Heart still racing, he sighed. "Can't you just leave it alone?"

"I have been leaving it alone, but tonight Tom Floo-called me to come get you because he was concerned. Now that I'm here, I can see why. You haven't been around in nearly a month and I've been hearing alarming reports about you, but I figured if anybody deserved a mental breakdown, it was you. Now, however, I think it's time to start putting the pieces back together."

George glared at her. "Why do you get to decide that? It's my mental breakdown, not yours."

"It hurts me to watch you suffer, Georgie," Angelina whispered.

"Then don't look," he snapped. "Because I'm never not going to be suffering. Fred's dead."

"Were you suffering when you were teasing me earlier?"

There was another clap of thunder, softer, but still sharp. It kept George from answering her question, which was good because Angelina was right. Dammit. He'd had a lot of fun taking the mickey out of her, and it had been even better when she returned his banter. Not like with Fred. With Fred, it was more like finishing one another's thoughts. With Angelina, it was give and take, and that was enjoyable in a whole new way.

"Is it—is it your birthday?" Angelina asked softly.

Sagging into the cushions, George closed his eyes. "Yes."

"So, what's the plan? You're going to stay drunk until after 2 May? Because little more than a month after your birthday, you have to face the anniversary of his death."

"I know." George blew out a breath. "There was no plan, Angie, I-I just got… tired."

Angelina tucked her hand in his where it laid in his lap. George squeezed her fingers lightly. Merlin, that felt good, that human contact. It wasn't lost on George that Angelina genuinely cared about him. More than anybody else, Angelina had been by his side through this last, horrible, shitty year. He never felt like he had to pretend with her, until now. A part of him wanted to pretend that the last three weeks' behavior never happened because he was ashamed of himself. Fred would be ashamed of him too, though maybe a little giddy that his death had caused so much trouble. But George didn't want Angelina to be ashamed of him. Now that he thought on it, George realized that he didn't want his mum to be disappointed either.

"Last year, Fred and I celebrated our birthday at the Burrow," George said. "It was just us and Mum and Dad. Bill came around for a moment to take the mickey, but shit, it was depressing. It was right before we all went into hiding. Right before Ron, Harry and Hermione showed up at Shell Cottage.

"Fred and I vowed that our next birthday would be the biggest, best, blowout party of all. We would make our departure from Hogwarts look like a prank, the party would be so over the top… and now, it's just me." The last part came out in a whisper. George cleared his throat and pressed on. "I just don't want to have any more birthdays."

Angelina gasped. "George…"

He looked at her. Angelina's brow was puckered and she looked close to tears. In fact, she looked terrified. George reached out and smoothed Angelina's brow with his thumb.

"I just meant that I wish I could sleep through our birthday," he said. "Not that I wanted to be…"

Angelina scooted close to him, curling into his body and resting her head on his shoulder. The weight of her was just so right, so comforting. George took a long, deep breath and let it out. It felt like the first breath he had taken in a year.

"I got through my siblings' birthdays and Halloween and Christmas and New Year's," George recited, closing his eyes. "I just don't have the strength to face my own birthday and… and I haven't even thought about 2 May yet. Do you suppose you could tell my mum that I don't want a party this year?"

Angelina raised her head. "You want me to tell your mum? Are you a Gryffindor or not, you big coward."

George snorted. "You know how she is… I don't want to see the hurt in her eyes, but I can't face a cake made for one, Angie, I just can't."

"Maybe she can't face making a cake for one. Ever think of that?"

Mind reeling, George stared at Angelina. Why hadn't he thought of that?

"So, I understand the drinking, George. I'd been half expecting that for the past year."

"Cheers," he said sarcastically.

"Sorry, but it's not as if anyone would blame you if you became a raging alcoholic after Fred's death. Not after everything you meant to each other… but… I don't understand about the women, George. What is that all about?"

"How do you know about that?"

Angelina's eyebrows shot up. "Really? It's a small community, you daft bugger, when that Weasley boy who is the sole owner of that really successful shop starts screwing anybody willing to drop her knickers, word spreads."

"Shit. Do you—do you suppose my mum knows?"

"I don't know."

Letting his head fall back onto the cushion, George covered his eyes with his hand. "The alcohol wasn't enough," he muttered.

"What was that?"

"The booze wasn't enough to make me forget," he said, dropping his hand. "But when I…" He trailed off, turning red. "Um, you know, when I was… with those women, for a blissful moment, everything just went black. It was just… pleasure and no thinking."

"Oh." Angelina's eyes went wide. "Ooooohhhhh."

"I'm a lousy shag, Angie. I didn't care about those witches, and I didn't care if they felt good."

"I heard that, too."

"Shit! Do you think my brothers heard that?"

Angelina laughed. "I hope so. It would serve you right, you miserable sod."

"You are an evil woman, Angelina Johnson."

"Seriously, George," she said. Her hand curled around his wrist. "If I help you talk to your mum, do you suppose you can stop all this shit? No more drinking, no more women, and if you need somebody, come to me. I will be there for you."

George looked at Angelina for a long time. All kidding aside, Angelina was beautiful. Sure, she was fit, she had a great arse, and curves in all the right places. She was hot, and she knew it, too. Angelina was also beautiful. All that chocolate skin, the almond shaped eyes, the perfect eyebrows, and full lips. Then there was that fierce, fiery, caring heart. Sometimes she only let it be seen in her temper, but in those rare, quiet moments, she let him see it in her eyes.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" he asked.

"I'm not interested in a lousy shag, if that's what you're asking." The corners of her mouth pinched like she was trying to keep from smiling.

George laughed. "Yeah, take the piss, you harpy. I just—I don't want to be alone. Please."

"Alright." Angelina shifted stiffly back and forth. "Do I stay out here… while you…"

"No, lay with me. That's it, just lay with me."

She nodded. "Is your bed… as disgusting as the rest of this place?"

George looked at his bedroom door, brow knotted. Angelina sighed and stood.

"C'mon, you prat, I'll help you clean it because I will not sleep in filth."

An hour later, the rubbish had been binned, the laundry piled in baskets, and the sheets changed. George had given Angelina the only clean things he could find to wear: a pair of plaid boxers and an old Gryffindor t-shirt. She had gone down the hall to change in the bathroom, while he was laying ramrod straight on one side of his bed. When Angelina returned, George noticed that she was wearing argyle socks and he smiled.

With a wave of her wand, the lights went out. Angelina climbed into the bed, laying stiffly on her own side.

"Um, I have tomorrow off," she said into the darkness. "I could help you clean your flat properly."

"Cheers," George responded.

Angelina rolled onto her side. "Would—would you like me to hold you?"

"No," he rasped. "Maybe I could hold you? I'll keep my hands in the proper places."

"Alright."

Watching as she turned so that her back was to him, George hesitated. He had been afraid that he would cry if Angelina held him, and the last thing he wanted was to cry with Angelina Johnson in his bed. Deliberately, he rolled onto his side and scooted close to her. Reaching around, he placed his arm around her waist carefully, and pressed his chest against her back. Then, he sighed. Yes, this was Angelina in his arms and she was hot, but she was also his caring friend. He didn't feel aroused and he didn't feel sad. He just was. For a little bit, he was like everybody else in the world, and he breathed as if he weren't a sucking chest wound on legs. He was just George, singular.

The storm had blown itself out, but rain could still be heard pattering against the roof. Closing his eyes, George drifted off to sleep.

oOo

He didn't know how long he slept, but when George woke up, it was to see Angelina staring at him. He smiled. She was beautiful in the morning, wearing one of his t-shirts with no make-up and her hair wrapped in a scarf. He wanted to cast a freezing charm on this moment and make it last forever. There, in bed with Angelina (even if it was only platonic) with sunlight trying to sneak by the shroud of the curtains.

"Morning," she said.

"You just had to go and speak, didn't you? Ruined the perfect dream."

Angelina smiled. "And what did you dream last night?"

"Of snogging you," he lied. George rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. There was a crack in it that was the precise shape of an eggplant. The truth was, he hadn't dreamt at all; and that was the best possible night he could think of.

"Sure you did," Angelina grumbled and poked him in the arm. "So, George, in the light of day, what do you want to do about your birthday?"

George sighed and rested one hand over his heart. "Back to not beating around the bush, are we? Sometimes it's more fun to at least take a nice, leisurely stroll around the bloody bush, Johnson. You should try it sometime."

"I'm not interested in bushes, George."

There was a pregnant pause as her words hung in the air, then they both laughed so hard that they were rolling around the bed and clutching their sides. George wiped tears from his eyes. Merlin, when was the last time he laughed like that?

"But seriously, George," Angelina said between gasping breaths.

"I want a tattoo," he blurted out.

She looked at him. "Alright… but not of Fred's face, right?"

"No, but it is spooky how well you know me."

"I've been paying attention some over the years."

"Fair enough." George shrugged. "Just his name. 'Fred'."

"That's good. Simple and eloquent. A nice way to remember him."

"On my arse."

"George!"

"No, no, listen." George rolled so that he was propped up on his elbow. "I thought, you know, about putting it over my heart, but that's pathetic. So maudlin and sappy and Fred would have hated it. But he would love having his name emblazoned on my arse for the rest of time. I mean, seriously, he would have thought it was hilarious. Plus it has the added benefit of being hidden from my mum."

"George—"

"What? My mum does not approve of tattoos. I mean Charlie, the big, tough dragon keeper, he has three tattoos and you wouldn't know it if he didn't tell you."

"Charlie has tattoos?" Angelina asked, cocking her head to one side.

"Yeah, they're all dragons. Surprise, that."

"Where?"

"He has one on his chest, and a big one across his back, and—Hey! Are you laying in my bed and fantasizing about my brother?"

Angelina's skin turned the most fascinating shade of dusky pink George had ever seen.

"I believe," she said, and cleared her throat, "that we were talking about your tattoo."

George flopped onto his back and resumed staring at the eggplant on the ceiling. "I want a Muggle tattoo."

"What?" Angelina sat up. "Why would you do something so mental?"

"Well, because it hurts, doesn't it? I want to feel it. I want to feel his name becoming a part of my skin." George looked at Angelina. "Will you come with me?"

"Me?" She touched one hand to her chest. "Of course, but you don't want Ron or Percy or somebody?"

George shook his head. "No, I want you. We'll do it on my birthday, yeah?"

Angelina took a deep breath, then nodded. Was he asking too much? Nah, if he was, she'd tell him. George could trust Angelina to not allow herself to be walked all over. He was glad, though, that she would be coming with him. George wasn't sure if he would have got up the nerve to do it by himself. He'd been thinking about getting the tattoo done almost as soon as the funeral was over, but always chickened out in the end. Fred would be pissed about that. One thing he couldn't stand was wishy-washy resolve. It was all or nothing for Fred. Maybe, if it hadn't been for George, Fred would have gotten himself killed sooner.

"Here, Georgie," Angelina said softly and touched his upper arm above the bicep. "You should get his name here."

George looked at her and nodded. She was right, of course.

oOo

"How did you find this place?"

George took Angelina's hand and led her out of the dank alley he had Apparated them into. They were in a seedy section of London where he'd found a row of tattoo shops and booked an appointment the day before. Realizing he didn't know the first thing about Muggle London, much less where to get a tattoo, George had asked Harry. When that proved disappointing, he'd asked every Muggleborn of his acquaintance. Surprisingly, it was Percy's girlfriend, Audrey, who had supplied the information. Surprising because she was a pureblood witch, and well, because she was Percy's girlfriend.

"Is this place safe, George?" Angelina asked. She looked around, then pulled her leather jacket more securely around her.

"Am I a wizard or not?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "You're going to break the Statute of Secrecy if we're mugged?"

"I'll think of something, alright. C'mon!"

The shop was whitewashed brick with a big front window that was painted black. Over the door hung a sign in a bright, buzzing light that simply said Tattoo. Inside, there was a scarred counter and a couple of chairs that were covered in a weird, slick, blue material. The woman behind the desk had piercings all over her face and jet black hair.

"Yer the one o'clock, then?"

"Yes, that's me," George replied.

"This way. Maisie's ready fer ya."

Maisie, as it turned out, was a six foot tall woman who weighed at least 250 pounds. Both of her arms were covered in tattoos, as was her neck and left boob. She could have been twenty-five or 125, it was hard to tell. But when she smiled, George felt oddly at ease.

"What'll it be there, sonny? Yer girl's name on yer arm?"

George looked at Angelina and blushed. "Oh, no, Angie's not my girl."

"Alright then, you got something else in mind?"

"Just… I want 'Fred' right here," George said, and pulled up the left sleeve of his black t-shirt.

Maisie nodded, pulling a face. "Didn't expect that, but alright. Takes all kinds."

George sat in the black and metal chair that the tattoo artist indicated, and Angelina pulled a stool up on the other side. Once she'd suggested it, George had given a lot of thought to where the tattoo should go. His left arm, he decided, on the same side that was missing an ear.

"So how do ya want it ter look?" Maisie asked, as she sat on a stool on George's other side.

"Um, F-R—"

"I know how to spell Fred, wisearse," she snapped. "What kind of script?"

"Can you make it look like this?" Angelina asked and handed over a bright, orange card.

"Isn't that—" George started.

"The birthday card you two gave me for my seventeenth, yes."

"Didn't it—"

"Have other charming properties?" Angelina finished, and gave him a pointed look. "Yes, but thankfully those have worn off."

The card belched, it did. Two, good, long, wet rips in unison. The two of them had been thinking of having a whole line of joke cards, but not until the shop was established. Then, after they opened it, the card idea just got shuffled to the side. George made a mental note to revisit that idea.

"Like his signature?" Maisie asked, examining the large, bold letters of Fred's name.

George looked from the tattoo artist to Angelina. Merlin, she was one brilliant witch. Fred's name, his own signature, would be etched into George's skin. Something pulled at his heart. Damn, he wanted to get through this day without crying, but he wasn't sure that was possible.

"Yeah," he said. "That's exactly what I want. Can you do it?"

"No problem."

After cleaning his arm, Maisie started up a strange metal device. It emitted a low buzzing sound, like a cross of bumblebees and those odd instruments in Dumbledore's office. She set the needle to George's skin and it was like a cat scratch on a sunburn. George bit his lip and thought of Fred, who would be laughing his arse off if he were watching this from wherever he was. Angelina reached over and took his free hand.

"So, tell me about this Fred." Maisie said as she worked. "He must have been real special to you."

George found that he couldn't answer. In his mind's eye he saw his other half. He saw autumns spent lobbing apples at Percy when they were supposed to be harvesting. Christmases spent waging snowball wars on their brothers. Pranks played on unsuspecting students and teachers alike. He saw Fred looking over his shoulder and smirking as the flow of the battle forced them apart.

"Fred was a maniac," Angelina said when George remained silent. "He was funny and mean. He was a good… athlete, a good brother when it suited him, and a good friend sometimes. He was dead clever, brave beyond sense, and a lousy dancer. Fred was George's twin." Her voice broke. "He died almost a year ago, and today is their birthday."

Tears rolled down George's cheeks. Angelina's squeezed his hand tighter then she leaned in and kissed his cheek. The tattoo only took twenty minutes, but the rest of the session was performed in silence. George's arm went numb after about ten minutes or so, and the pain grew dull. When it was all over, Maisie handed him a mirror and said it was an honor to do his tat.

George looked in the mirror, and there on his freckled arm was Fred's signature in black ink. And each letter was so right, just as it had been in life. Fred never printed his name, like George did. No, the bigheaded wanker always used the joined-up writing their mum had taken pains to teach them. Fred claimed that someday he would be famous and people would want his autograph so he might as well make it grand. And now, there it was as if he'd written it on George's skin himself: the bold flourish of the 'F' with the slashing line through the center, the 'R' that was nearly an afterthought, the loop of the 'E' that flowed into the 'D' that had a dashing tale on the end. And it was all underscored with a line stroked under it for emphasis. George managed a small smile, tears sliding down his cheeks.

"Happy Birthday, Forge," he whispered.