A/N: The story was originally intended as a one-shot. However, somehow my mind kept wandering back to it and slowly a vague outline of a story formed in my mind. So I give it a shot.

I'd love to get a glimpse of your thoughts. How do you like the story thus far? Should it have stayed a one-shot? Feel free to point out mistakes as I'm not a native english speaker.


George groaned as he sat up. His head hurt badly, his mouth was dry and his neck was stiff as hell. Slowly, he peeled his lid back and instantly cringed when the sunlight forced its way in. It seemed as if he had slept on the sofa though how he got there was a complete mystery to him.

Images flashed up in his mind, appearing in no reasonable order. It would be so much easier to make sense of them if his head would just stop hurting. It did not however and so George decided to get some water. With another groan he opened his eyes all the way, demanding them to focus. The first thing which he registered was a glass in front of him. The ginger grabbed it and made his way to the sink.

Drink. The word echoed around his head as he drowned the liquid. George squeezed his eyes shut again, remembering the weird dream he had had. Alcohol sure did strange things to a person. But he had needed it yesterday. It had been one of those days.

The images came back with sudden force and he knew immediately that he didn't want to make sense of them anymore. However, his mind chose otherwise.

The day had started well enough. He had been fine. As fine as he could get nowadays, anyway. He had gotten up, made himself breakfast and had almost eaten a whole bowl of cereal before going down to continue fixing the shop.

An image of the opening of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes interrupted the line of yesterday's events. The memory shone brightly in George's mind, just as if it wanted to underline how joyful the time had been in comparison to the present. Currently their shop was a mere ruin, rubble and dust still blocked the back room while the main room had nearly been emptied. It was a grey, grim sight which matched his mood perfectly. Their crumbled place reminded him of his shattered inside, broken and in disarray. No, it wasn't their place anymore, was it? It was his place. His shop. His flat. His detached life.

Some kind of choked tune escaped his throat and the despair formed his face into a grimace. The ginger rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands to erase the thoughts threatening to take over at the brim of his mind.

He had continued fixing the shop. The muggle way. It was much more satisfying when his sweat dripped down his temple and his muscles got sore. The energy which left his body felt more real this way, more profound than losing it by magic. After a while his stomach had begun to growl. George had been reluctant to leave the sanctuary of his solitude but had to acknowledge his need for food eventually. With the intention to grab something, anything, to eat and return with his goods to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, he had stepped out into Diagon Alley.

It had been a bright day, sunny and warm. Like all days since the day his world had tumbled down upon him. Mocking him with the sound of chirping birds and the comfortable rays of sunlight caressing his skin. A perfect pre-summer month that was nothing like perfect at all.

George had kept his gaze down and had hurried along the street, desperate to return to the shop as quickly as possible. In his haste he had crashed into another person, causing them both to stumble. He had been on the verge of apologising and continuing on his way when the other person had spoken.

"Hello, George. It's good to see you. How are you holding up?"

He had made the mistake to meet her gaze instead of just answering with his usual "fine" and brushing past her. It had been Penelope Clearwater. He had never had much to do with her. The only things he knew about her were that she had been a Ravenclaw prefect and had been snogging his brother Percy for a few months. And that really was it. George was sure that she didn't know much more about him either.

He had cleared his throat to answer, knowing the longer he remained silent the harder it would be to get away.

"Erw, fine. I'm fine. Listen I've got to hurry, I…"

"Are you opening the shop again?"

"Erw, well, I…"

"You look as if you've been working on reconstructing it."

It was true of course. His clothes had been covered in dust and his face had probably been smeared with dirt. But in truth he had no intention on opening the shop again. It was just some kind of therapy for him, just something to keep him busy, to occupy his mind and exhaust his body. To help him fall asleep.

"I'm sure Fred would have liked that. He would have been proud of you."

"Right. I've got to go. Nice seeing you again."

He had sidestepped her and had walked, as fast as his feet could go without running, back in the direction of the shop. His hunger had been gone as anger had occupied the spot in his stomach. How dared she? Penelope Clearwater. She hadn't even known Fred. She didn't know what he would have liked.

George remembered her greeting. He hated it to be called by his name. Back then only very few people were able to tell them apart and therefore he was seldom addressed by his given name. But now… now everyone knew of course who he was because there was no one left who looked like him.

Everyone knew of the casualties. And his family had played a key role in the war, mainly because of his little brother Ron. But they had been in the thick of things right from the beginning. Friends of Harry Potter. Members of Dumbledore's Army. Members of the Order of the Phoenix. Members of Potterwatch. It was only normal that everyone would know about the impact the Battle of Hogwarts had had on their family.

And another image forced itself into his head. A body. Limbs contorted. Blood trickling from its smiling face. Dead eyes. Ginger hair. It was him dead, only it wasn't. It was worse. It wasn't him, it was him. Bile was rising in his throat. George barely made it to the sink in time.

He choked a few times more and remained standing hunched over the sink until he was sure nothing was left that could leave his body. Dizziness crept into his head. It was not surprising as alcohol had been George's main nourishment yesterday.

He remembered returning to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and ramming his fist into the nearest boulder. Shaking with rage and despair he had punched the stone again and again until his knuckles had bled and his breathing had come rapid and forceful. Afterwards he had taken a shower. With set jaw he had watched the water wash the blood on his knuckles away. He had stood still, rigid, under the pattering droplets, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists, trying to calm down, to get a grip on himself. It hadn't worked. Penelope's words had echoed around his head, louder and louder as if they had rebounded from the tiles in the bathroom.

I'm sure Fred would have liked that. Would he have? Surly not. It had been their dream. A shared vision of their future.

How are you holding up? He didn't. Not in the slightest. He was falling apart.

The ginger had stepped out of the shower in a desperate need for a drink, something strong and acrid. Something to burn his rotten inside, to cloud his troubled mind and bless him with oblivion. However, there had been no alcohol in his flat as George had thrown every drop away after his last breakdown. So he had gone to the Leaky Cauldron.

And that was it. More, he couldn't remember.

With another groan George hoisted himself away from the sink and got ready for one more day that would be spent fixing something unfixable. Because Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes would never be the same and neither would he. As he stepped into the main room his gaze landed on the faint traces of blood covering the boulder. Transfixed he stared at it for several more heartbeats before he acknowledged that he wouldn't be able to work today without the dreadful images invading his mind. The ginger made sure he had enough Galleons in his pocket before he stepped out into Diagon Alley and turned to the Leaky Cauldron.

When he drowned the first glass Penelope's voice made another appearance in his head.

He would have been proud of you.

His consciousness drew a picture of his current self in his mind. A broken figure hunched over a glass of alcohol. Grim and gloomy, without any shred of happiness.

He would have been proud of you.

Quickly George ordered a second glass and as the evening morphed into night Penelope's voice became quieter and eventually disappeared.