-1Chapter Three: Accomplishments
George
didn't dream. He hadn't dreamed since the night Fred died.
Instead he had nightmares. Terrible, awful, intense nightmares filled
with all sorts of unimaginable horrors. He writhed beneath the
blankets, clutching his head, seeing over and over again Fred's
eyes staring up at him, seeing nothing but anger in Fred's face as
he demanded "Why did you let me die, George? You could have
saved me, but you let me die! YOU LET ME DIE!"
"George!
George!"
George snapped awake, gasping. Verity wasleaning over him in her nightdress, one small, warm hand touching his bare shoulder.
"George, it's okay." she said firmly, but gently. "You were having a bad dream, that's it."
Without thinking about it, George sat up and threw his arms around Verity, heaving sobs into her shoulder. She didn't hesitate or draw away, but instead put her arms around his trembling body.
Her warmth was comforting, as well as the soothing sound of her voice, telling him that it was all right.
"Was it about…Fred..?" Verity asked, very quietly, and George, still unable to speak, nodded against her. She resumed her comforting, stroking his hair. "It was just a bad dream." she murmured. "Just a bad dream. You hear me, George? Nothing but a dream."
It was a nice feeling, having someone to depend on. George hadn't had anyone to lean on since Fred had died, and sitting here, in the circle of Verity's arms, hearing her soft voice…it was strange and familiar at the same time.
After a few, long moments, he began to calm down. When he was able to stop crying, he pulled back away from her. She didn't protest, dropping her arms and sitting back on her legs.
"Are you all right now?" she asked gently. George nodded, pushing his sweat-soaked hair back from his face.
"I'm fine." he said. "You're right, it was just a bad dream."
Verity nodded and stood up. "I'm going back to sleep. Call me if you need anything."
She disappeared back into her bedroom and George let out a deep sigh, falling back onto his pillows. Within moments, he was back asleep, this time falling into a deep and dreamless sleep once more.
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In the morning Verity fixed breakfast without saying anything. She placed a plate of sausages, eggs, and ham in front of him, as well as a glass of orange juice, and that sat down across from him, shaking open the Daily Prophet. They both ate in silence, the only sounds of forks clicking against plates and papers rustling as Verity turned the pages.
"Why did you have to get up this early?" George asked, unable to bear the silence for any longer.
She didn't look at him, merely turned another page of the Prophet. "I have some things to do."
"Oh." He felt a little put out. "Well, er…"
Verity glanced at him from behind her paper. "You don't have to come. I've arranged for someone to come and stay with you."
George felt his face grow red. "I don't need a babysitter!" he said hotly, embarrassment evident on his face.
"I know. And he's not a babysitter." Finished with her breakfast, Verity stood and tossed the newspaper on the table, then sending her dishes flying into the sink with a small crash. "He'll be here in ten minutes. I have to go."
George stood as well, confused and somewhat annoyed. "You're…you're not going to tell me where you're going?"
A small smile crossed her face. "No, not at the moment, George. But I will sooner or later. When I get back, we can go back to your flat and get your things. And no drinking."
She turned where she was standing and Disapparated with a loud crack. George stood there stupidly for a moment, wondering what he was supposed to do until this mysterious guest arrived.
He decided on looking for a drink. It was early in the morning, but it was never to early for a nice glass of Ogden's Firewhisky. He didn't care what Verity had said. It had only confirmed what he had hoped-that she had drinks in the apartment.
George first opened all the top cupboards. When he found nothing but dishes, he searched in the fridge. Then, dropping to his knees, he began examining all the cupboards underneath the sink.
"Oy. What are you doing?"
George banged his head on the top of the shelf. The all-too familiar voice suddenly coming from nowhere startled him into trying to get up too fast. Rubbing the top of his now sore head, George turned around. "Merlin's beard, Wood, don't scare me like that. How did you get in without me hearing you?"
Oliver Wood smiled crookedly, tilting his head to the side, arms folded across his chest. "Well, wha' else was I supposed ta do? Wait until ya turned around, then scared you? I chose tha' more entertainin' way. And I did it by Apparatin' downstairs instead o' up here."
Just Oliver's presence and his voice, inlaid with that familiar Scottish lilt, brought back a rush of memories to George, back when he and Fred had first started off on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He dug the heel of his hand into his eyes, pretending he was rubbing sleep from them.
Oliver was too smart to be fooled. "How're you doin', George?" he asked softly. "I know it hasn't been tha' long since…well, you know."
George nodded, and turned back to his search for something to drink. "Merlin, I need a drink." he muttered to himself. He scrounged around, and finally, stuffed and hidden behind a bunch of boxes of pasta, he found a dusty bottle of firewhisky. Pulling it out triumphantly, he touched the tip of his wand to the cork, which flew off. Without bothering with a cup, George tipped the bottle up to his mouth and took a long swallow.
The firewhisky scalded down his throat, burning away the rising feelings and emotions. He set down the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, turning to face Oliver again. He gestured to the firewhisky. "Drink?"
Oliver didn't move. "No thanks."
George shrugged. "Suit yourself." He took another long gulp and then started searching for another bottle.
"What're you doin', George?" Wood said softly from the doorway.
George stopped moving. "What do you mean?" He asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.
"You know what I mean." Oliver's voice was low, cold. It was the same tone he had taken when he was giving speeches to the team after a particularly brutal match. "This isn't like you, George."
George turned his back on his former captain. "You don't know me, Wood." he said, his voice roughened by the firewhisky.
"I know ye damn well enough, George Weasley," Oliver snapped, eyes flashing.
"-and if Fred weren't dead, then you wouldn't be drinkin' like this."
"SHUT UP!" George roared, clutching the bottle so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. "Shut up about Fred."
His voice had turned almost pleading. He tossed back another swallow of the firewhisky.
"George," Oliver said again, his tone more gentle. "I have known ye for a good number of years now. I hate seein' ya like this. I miss the old George. The George who didn't know what was good for 'im, the lively, carefree, 'I-don't-give-a-damn-what-anybody-else-says' George. The George who got on an effing broom after it had been confiscated by an effing ministry official and effing flew out of Hogwarts, for Merlin's sake. Although I wish I could have seen that." he added wistfully.
George set down the bottle of firewhisky and gripped the countertop with both hands. "You…don't understand." he said in a hollow voice. "Fred is…was…everything. He was my brother. My twin. My best…" To his horror, George's voice cracked with emotion. He grabbed up the bottle again and took another drink, turning around to face Oliver. His friend was still standing, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. He didn't move, just watched George, his expression neutral.
George took a deep breath before continuing. "Oliver," he said in a small voice. "Oliver, I don't know if I can keep this up. I have never been without Fred. I haven't ever had to go through this before. We've never been separated for more than a few hours before. I-"
George stopped, emotion clogging his throat. "I…can't do this." he finished thickly.
Oliver uncrossed his arms and walked over to George, laying a hand on his shoulder. "George," he said. "Have ye talked ta Harry?"
George looked up. "Yeah, he and Ginny came over and helped me clean up my place."
"Nae, George. I mean, have ye talked to him about how you're feeling?"
A confused expression crossed George's face. "What…why would I talk to Harry?"
Oliver sighed exasperatedly. "Because, George, Harry has gone through the same thing, remember?"
George stared at Oliver. He had forgotten completely about Harry. Harry, who had lost both of his parents, his newly found godfather, and Remus Lupin, his last real connection to his parents and Sirius's lives.
"Harry…" he breathed, grabbing a hold of Oliver's shoulder to help him stand up straighter. "Harry!"
"Shall we call him now?" Oliver seemed very aware of George's desperate need to get control of the situation. George had always been in control of his life, down to the tiniest last detail. Then one single event had ripped that control away. He nodded fervently before letting go of Wood's shoulder and stumbling over to his still Transfigured bed, where he collapsed on it with a moan.
"Where is Harry staying?" George asked Oliver.
A strange look crossed over his friend's face. "At…the Burrow." he said slowly.
George's face reddened. He had been so out of contact with everyone, so wrapped up in his own feelings that he had not even taken the consideration to talk to his own family.
Oliver strolled over to the fireplace and pointed his wand at the bare logs. "Incendio." he muttered and instantly a roaring orange and green fire sprang up, crackling merrily in the dim flat, which didn't have many windows. From his cloak, Oliver pulled out a small leather pouch and extracted from it a pinch of glittering green powder. He tossed it into the fire, which instantly became emerald, and then leaned down. "I'd like ta speak with Harry Potter." he said clearly and firmly.
There was a rushing noise and George suddenly was looking into the kitchen of his own home. Seated at the worn kitchen table was an all-too familiar red-headed girl holding hands with a boy with untidy black hair and glasses. Across from them was another red-headed figure, this one a lanky young man. Next to him was a girl with bushy brown hair, her head down, her eyes focused on a sheet of paper on the table. She tapped a quill absentmindedly against her cheek as she thought.
"Harry." Wood said. At the sound of his name, Harry started and whipped around in his seat. A broad smile crossed his features.
"Oliver!" he exclaimed, letting go of Ginny's hand to drop to his knees beside the fireplace. "Wow…well, this certainly is a surprise!"
The other three clambered next to him. "Hullo, Wood!" Ron's freckled face was grinning. "What're you dropping in for? Need a little help with something? Advice maybe?"
"Ron, shut it." Hermione Granger gently pushed him aside. "Hello, Oliver." she said. "How are you?"
"I'm very well, thank ye Hermione. But it's Harry I'm needin' ta speak with." Oliver turned to face the young man. "George needs your help." he said simply.
There was silence in the kitchen, and back in the flat. George had fallen back against the couch, one arm flung across his eyes, the beginnings of another headache stirring in his mind.
Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Harry all stared back at Oliver. It was Ron that spoke first.
"What's wrong with my brother?" he asked worriedly. "Did something happen to him? Why does he need Harry?"
"He needs Harry," Oliver said, his gaze unwavering from the glittering green eyes.
"-because Harry knows what he's going through."
At this, Hermione let out a slow breath, tears welling in her eyes. "Oh, Oliver…" she said softly. "Is he…"
Oliver glanced over at George, who didn't look at him, then turned back to Hermione. "He needs Harry." he said again. "Harry, do ye think ye can Apparate here right now? We're not at the twins' apartment. We're at 16th street, Diagon Alley."
"Of course!" Harry said, standing up quickly. "I'm on my way."
"Thanks. See ya in a few." Oliver pulled back from the fireplace and the flames reverted back to their original scarlet and orange colours.
"You didn't have to make it sound like I'm half-dead or something." George said, then instantly regretted it when he saw Wood's expression.
"George…" he said quietly. "Without Fred, and the way yer goin', you seem like yer dyin' inside already."
Before George could respond to this, there was a loud crack from outside. Oliver swept out of the room and went to let Harry in. Moments later, they appeared, Harry looking slightly flustered.
"Where is this?" he asked as he strode in.
"My assistant's flat." George said dully. "Verity Callum."
"Oh yes," Harry said, squinting slightly. "Yes, I remember her from when I first came to your shop. The one with the blonde hair, right?"
"That's her."
"I think I'll leave the two of ya alone for a little while, shall I? I will be in the kitchen." Tactfully, Oliver slipped out of the room and then conjured a heavy cloth partition to block himself off from the living room.
There was silence for a few moments as Harry stood there, and George lay on his bed.
When Harry spoke, it was gently, without any condescension in it. "Do you want to talk?"
George didn't move his arm from his face, but answered, his voice slightly muffled. "I can't live without him, Harry." he said simply, and to his astonishment, it was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Just saying those few words had been like relieving a heavy burden. Hot, salty tears slid down his face. "Fred was like the other half of my soul. He is the other half of my soul. We are two parts of the same puzzle." And a puzzle it certainly was.
Silently, Harry Summoned a chair over and pulled it next to the bed. He sat down and rested his hands in his lap, his fingers twirling his old, familiar wand between them.
"I can't…I can't pretend that I know what you're going through, George." he said quietly. "I never had a twin. But I had Sirius. After finding out about Sirius, it was like…it was as if something had just clicked into place in my life. As if I had found the solution to becoming happy."
George, without opening his eyes, heard the emotions in Harry's voice. The elation, the despair, the overwhelming sadness all at once. He remembered the joyful expression on Harry's face when he had seen Sirius for the first time in a few months, when they had all met at number twelve, Grimmauld Place for the Order of the Phoenix. Remembered the happiness and contentment that had been there between them.
"When Sirius died…" Harry paused, finding it hard to speak. "I…I wanted to give up. I wanted to just curl up in a ball and hide in my bed for the rest of my life. It was…some of the worst times of my life. I don't ever remember feeling that horrible.
"It was the same feeling I had when Remus died. I…felt as if my whole world had suddenly collapsed around me, and I was just pinned beneath the wreckage. Remus Lupin was my last connection to my parents past; the last link to Sirius. Without him, I felt as if their memories would slowly fade into nothingness and I would be left alone."
George almost felt the raw pain in Harry's voice. He was describing exactly as George felt, which was almost shocking. He hadn't thought anyone, even Harry, could accurately describe what he was feeling.
George swiped at his eyes and sat up slowly. "How did you get out of it?" he asked. "I feel…I feel as if I'm drowning, and the water is too deep, and I'm already stuck beneath the surface. I feel as if nothing anyone can do can pull me out of this mess. Harry," George said hoarsely. "I feel as if part of me is missing. And that I can't get that part back."
Harry looked at him, and George was suddenly struck at how much older Harry seemed. How much more mature, how much wiser. The scrawny, messy-haired teenager he had first met at a train station in England nearly seven years ago had grown up into a heroic, widely-renowned, intensely intelligent young man.
When had he become so old, George wondered. He was twenty years old, and felt like three times that. Harry was only seventeen. Seventeen years old, and had already defeated the most hated and feared dark wizard of all time; not once, but seven separate times. He had saved not only the wizarding world, but all of the Muggle world as well. And he had willingly sacrificed himself to Lord Voldemort, just to protect his friends from destruction. After that, he had worked constantly with the Ministry of Magic to rebuild what had been lost.
And George had sat, cowardly, repulsive, in his flat, crying and depressed.
Harry was looking at him with a kindness that George did not deserve. "I didn't get past it, George. Every day I blame myself for Sirius' and Lupin's deaths. Every day, I wish that they were still alive, that they were still here, that they are going to jump out from a corner any moment and yell 'surprise!' Did Ron ever tell you how much I tried to convince myself that Sirius wasn't dead?"
When George shook his head, Harry gave him a rather wry smile. "At first, I still had the twin mirrors that Sirius had given me, to communicate. When I tried over and over again to contact him, and nothing worked, I stowed the mirror away, out of sight. Then, I all but corned Nearly Headless Nick and begged him to tell me how ghosts were made. I was sure that Sirius would have chosen that route."
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. When he spoke again, it was with fervency, his green-eyed gaze hard.
"George," he said firmly. "George, you must not let it overcome you. When you succumb to the pain and anguish it will only become worse, and in the end, it will be you that cannot be helped."
George was stunned at the intensity of Harry's voice. He stared at his younger brother's best friend, eyes wide.
"Sinking into fits of depression…" Harry's fists were clenched at his side. "George, I have been through that, and I regret every single moment of it. With depression and grief this horrible also comes anger, a terrible anger. You cannot let that happen, George Weasley. You are stronger than that. I know you well enough to know that."
And as George sat there, staring into the eyes of the person who had conquered Voldemort, he suddenly felt defeated. Leaning forward and putting his head into his hands, he felt, once again, the overwhelming sobs and frustration overtaking him.
There was a loud crack, but George didn't look up. He could tell who it was anyway, from the smell of light perfume that wafted around him and the gentle hands that touched his. He felt, rather than heard, Harry stand up and move and then someone else took his seat. George fell forward into Verity's lap, unable to suppress the shudders that racked his body.
Dimly, he was aware of Harry moving into the kitchen to speak with Oliver. He didn't know how long he cried, but it was different than all the other times he had cried. This time was as if he were letting go of everything he had held in, everything that he had hidden away, tucked deep into his heart.
After a long time, he heard Harry's voice as if from far away.
"Goodbye, George." he said quietly. "I wish you the best." and with that he Disapparated.
Oliver was next. He laid a hand on George's still shaking shoulder and said "Good luck, George." and then he too, Disapparated.
George sat with his head cradled in his hands, Verity's soothing arms around him, for a few moments longer before sitting up. She smiled slightly at him, and George was suddenly struck at how beautiful she was.
"Are you hungry?" she said softly. "It's almost lunchtime."
Without knowing exactly what he was doing, George leaned forward and gently pressed his lips against Verity's for a brief moment.
She didn't break away, and when he leaned back again she smiled again and stood up. "Hungry?" she asked again.
George didn't know what had possessed him to kiss her, but now he looked up at her, at her radiance and brilliance, at her grace and intelligence and kindness. And with a jolt, George realized just how very lucky he was.
"Ver…" he said hoarsely. "Verity…I…thank you."
She reached out a small hand and gently touched his cheek. "George Weasley," she said softly. "I think you will be all right."
She stepped away, letting her hand drop, and then disappeared into the kitchen. George stood, stretching out his sore, aching limbs and walked over to the fireplace. He looked briefly at the photographs, intending to just glance at them, but one photo, placed in a dominant position in front of all the rest, caught his eye.
He picked up the photograph. Laughing and waving up at him was Fred. Next to him stood George. They were standing in front of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes on its opening day. Their arms were slung around each other, both grinning broadly, fireworks and explosions and bright colored things whirling and spinning around in the background.
Sitting on the front steps, her chin in her hand, was Verity. She was looking up at the twins, not with an expression of disgust or exasperation, but with an expression of contentment. As if she were truly happy.
A thick teardrop landed on the glass pane covering the photograph. George looked down at his twin brother, his other half, his favorite person in the world, and smiled.
