George had attempted to revive the subject again at the beginning of the week, but everytime he would try, a hoard of shoppers would arrive, or they would have to respond to owl orders, or something would explode. So for the time being, he'd aquiesced defeat.
Friday morning saw George manning the till, flicking absentmindedly through a days old copy of 'Business Wizard' or the 'Biz Wiz' as it was more commonly known, with his head in such as a way as to line up the window panes with his eyes to block the low sun. Meanwhile, Fred was busy tinkering away in the back room as he had been doing for the past few days. George hadn't asked what his brother was up to before he'd disappeared clandestinely one morning through the lab doors holding a bottle of turpentine, a handful of gossamer, an argand, and a broken alembic, thinking it best just to leave him to it.
His reverie was prodded slightly when the sound of tinkling metal colliding with wood signalled the arrival of a customer; he and Fred liked to switch the doorbell every once and a while to keep things interesting. Today, it was keys hitting the ground, particularly amusing when the person fell for it on the way in and way out. A few days ago, visitors were bestowed with the honour of hearing the haunting melody of the mating call of the humpback whale. A couple of days before that it was it was a high-pitched clangourous knell. This morning's doorbell, however, brought with it an old dear - and a few grandchildren, George assumed. He closed his magazine and tried to make himself look amicable, but as he watched the children tear about the floor and the old woman shuffle rigidly after them, the same nagging query squatted in his mind. What could they do to get tweens in here?
It wasn't long before noon rolled over bringing with it the typical lunch time lull and Verity, Wheezes' worker girl, who had arrived early for her half-day shift. George decided to take the opportunity to nip out for some bits and pieces for the shop, and to get some much needed air.
"Oi Fred!" hollered George at the back-room door.
A muffled grunt was his only answer.
"I'm heading into the alley, do you want anything?"
A voice replied, "a Nimbus Elite, a pair of those new Weltings' burgundy dragonhide Derbys, and a date with that PlayWizard model Nimh Ó Reilly."
"Fine taste. I've taught you well, little bro," George said, wiping away imaginary tears, aware of the fact that no-one could see.
The voice behind the door gained more clarity at this point, as if Fred had turned to face the door directly. "Naff off. I think you'll find that F comes before G, Porgie."
"And I comes before U, what's your point."
"Touché."
George smirked and turned his back on the lab door. "So that's some potion ingredients for me, and an icecream with sprinkles for you."
"You know me far too well for my liking…Can I have a flake as well?"
"Ofcourse you can, Pumpkin."
Fred's only retort was a loud scoff.
George grinned and started making his way towards the door where Verity was stacking boxes trying to hold in her laughter.
He glanced back at the lab. "And don't you roll your eyes at me."
A cacophony of scandalized bustling sounds from within was confirmation enough for George.
The muffled voice spoke up again. "FAR too well."
Still smirking, he opened the shop door, looked down to locate his dropped keys, berated himself internally for his stupidity, then passed over the threshold onto the cobbled lane.
The sun was just beginning its descent when George emerged from the Seplasiary. He'd already picked up all they needed for the shop from Slug and Jigger's; the ointment he'd just purchased was something for him. He found that in cold weather the winter breezes were harsh on his exposed ear canal, making him feel that icy tendrils were slithering into his head. Fred had suggested he simply wore his hat with the ear flaps when he went out but George refused, preferring not to spend 6 months of the year as a sprocker spaniel. The ear drops kept everything at body temperature thankfully helping to keep out Jack Frost and his mates.
"FR-GEORGE!" bellowed a voice behind him.
George snapped around and immediately spotted a crazed Lee Jordan skidaddling towards him, whipping oblivious passers-by about the head and shoulders with his dreads during the transit. He landed in front of the redhead panting and gasping.
"Bloody hell, Lee, where's the fire?" said George, eyebrows raised.
"In my heart, George!" said Lee, beaming up at him. "And it's blazing like never before!" he added with a slightly glazed expression.
"What on Earth on you waffling on ab-"
"It's Angelina!" Lee interrupted. "She's going on a date with me tomorrow night!"
George gawked at him for a second, then remembered who he was talking to and his gaze became accusitory at once. "Out of curiosity, what did you blackmail her with? For future reference, you know."
"I didn't blackmail her!"
"So, you dared her."
"No!"
"…Paid her?"
"I didn't do anything of the sort! I asked and she agreed," said Lee with a resolute expression, before it became glazy again, and he repeated himself almost drunkedly, "she agreed."
George rolled his eyes before gathering his things and ushering the drooling youth towards Florean Fortescue's. Fred hated to be left out of interrogations, after all.
When they arrived back at Wheezes it was still quiet, minus the babbling drivel about Angelina that was falling from Lee's gob, which only stopped when he looked down to pick up his keys.
"Ice-crrream!" yelled George, shrilly, handing one to Verity. A clatter was heard from the back room, and a ruffled Fred emerged from its contents, bounding across the room like he hadn't eaten in days.
"Sweet frozen nectar of the god- Jordan?" said Fred amidst his devourment of the cone. "What brings you to our demesne of decadence?"
"It would appear that Ms Johnson has completely lost her mind and agreed to go on a date with young Lee, here," said George placing his shopping on the desk. "Ever since I found him he's been twitching and speaking in tongues."
"You're pulling my wand," gaped Fred. "The woman's avoided you like the plague since you've met, why would she give up now?" He suddenly blanched and looked at George, eyes wide. "You don't think she's had a tragedy in the family do you?"
George looked slightly worried. "Blimey, didn't think of that."
"Enough guys! I didn't pay her, she wasn't dared or blackmailed, and no she hasn't suffered a mental breakdown. I approached her after her quidditch game against the Wimbourne Wasps, which they lost unfortunately, and I asked her out. She said 'Yes, alright I'll bloody go on a date with you…'"
Fred gave him a knowing look and made a 'go on' gesture.
"…If it'll make you stop bothering me."
Fred smirked and raised an eyebrow.
"Which is still a yes, Weasley!"
"Alright, alright, don't get your wand in a knot," said George behind the counter, packaging a set of Whiz-Bangs for a middle aged man. "I just find it curious. It's like Medusa throwing in the towel and getting corrective eye-surgery."
Lee shot him a look.
"So, where are you taking Miss Termagent anyway?" asked Fred.
"We're going to dinner at a new muggle restaurant in Piccadilly," said Lee. "Quite a posh joint to be honest."
"Well, I hope you're not planning on going in those," said Fred in an over-the-top camp voice, eyeing the commentator's blue jeans and t-shirt.
Lee began to laugh, then his smile faded and he looked at Fred like a startled deer.
"I mean, a nice shirt would do, mate," said George. "You're bound to own something smart-casual, right?"
"…Can I borrow one of yours?" asked Lee, meekly.
"Fred and I own clothes of a very limited colour palette. Turns out normal colours like black and white look terrible next to this," said George, pointing to his hair. "I don't think a shirt two sizes too big in canary yellow or magenta would really suit you, mate."
Lee scrunched up his face, and dropped his forehead onto the desk. "Uh I hate shopping, and I don't have a clue about fashion or anything of the sort. You guys need to help me, this is my only chance to impress her!"
Fred rolled his eyes, and was moments away from a retort, when George quickly rushed to his side.
"If we leave him to his own devices he'll show up there looking he just rolled out of a modern art gallery, screw it all up, be back here straight after the dinner, drink his way through our stash and proceed to whinge about her all night," whispered George in one breath.
Fred let out a dramatic sigh. "Oh fine. I can't believe I'm saying this but tomorrow we'll all go to a muggle place and get you some decent clothes. Then we'll bring you back here and doll you up to the best of our ability. The woman will be so overcome by your beauty that she'll rue the years she spent rejecting you and you'll both live happily ever after. How's that."
"Yes! Thanks guys, you're the best," said Lee, springing off the desk.
"You two'll go to a muggle place," said George, leaning casually against the desk.
Fred turned to look at him. "I'm sorry?"
"We have to have someone here looking after the experimental potion remember? And as I'm the one who brewed it…"
"You jammy c-"
"-ock!" said Hermione in a panicked tone, as she came into the shop followed by Ron and Harry. "I got it from that antique shop down the lane. It's very similar to your mum's, Ronald, except a lot smaller, and I got them to add all of our names on the hands rather than just my immediate family. I tried to get them to be more specific than 'Mortal peril' too-"
"-Especially when it's been known to point that way when Ronnie strays near a kitchen appliance."
"Oh, very funny," said Ron to a leering Fred.
"What's the matter with you lot," said George, taking in their uneasy faces and jittery manner. "And what's all this talk about getting a clock like mum's? Trying to keep tabs on your future husband 'Mione?"
"You two didn't read today's Prophet?" said Harry, while Hermione took on an affronted look in the background.
Fred straightened up and narrowed his eyes. "What's going on."
The trio looked at one another before turning their hardened gazes upon Fred, George and Lee once more.
Ron threw a copy of the Daily Prophet on the counter, where the day's headline immediately caught the twin's eyes.
Harry straightened up, jaw tight. "She's getting released in two weeks."
Even after two years, the sickly sweet smile in the image turned the stomach of the elder three immediately. The twins looked down at the figure in the image, and the figure appeared to look straight back at them; a figure, which even in black and white, could be easily discerned as wearing a collection of garments in varying shades of pink.