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Mending Broken Souls: Beginning of Three Nights
The bloody stain wouldn't disappear. He had used all the cleaning supplies he could find in his flat, not that there were very many, three at the most, and still the stain was taunting him. It wasn't a very large stain, just a small splatter of sauce on the wall. George knew that with a wave of his wand he could easily vanish it, but what magic could easily solve would only hinder the recovery of his mood he was attempting to burn out through vigorous rubbing, and George was well on his way to sulking. The act of scrubbing as harshly as possible kept his mind at bay from the news he was desperate to ignore, focusing on the dull red embedded into the paint.
"Bloody, shitting, tomato sauce. What the fuck did I ever do to you, bastard stain," he muttered venomously, his words spitting as his knuckles whitened at the ferocity of his scouring.
"It's only a weekend, George, I'm sure you'll be fine."
An abundance of profanities poured out of his mouth at the Bolognese sauce. He couldn't even recall the last time he had cooked spaghetti.
"Come on, George, you don't want to be wasting the time that I am here. Just use your wand, honestly."
He dropped his arm with a huff, glaring at the offending muddy red mark before obliging and waving his wand, watching it instantly fade away. Leaving the sponge and bottles of sprays he crossed over to Amy, leaning against the side of the kitchen, arms crossed with a smile curving her lips. Arms winding around her, he pulled her in close and inhaled her hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
The previous night's activities had enabled him to sleep like a baby and snore like a hippogriff, escaping to the world of dreams the moment his head dropped on his cushion. The sofa wasn't the most comfortable place to sleep, but George had been incredibly tired. He had woken up refreshed with the sun glowing a marvellous gold through his curtains, clear eyed with absolutely no alcohol induced pain or haziness. After taking the initial morning trip to the loo, he danced to the kitchen and pulled out everything he needed for a full English. A quick glance to his bedroom door showed that it was still closed, the girl must have still been asleep. It was difficult to discern when the poor girl had last had a good night's sleep, so he assumed she must have been taking advantage of the comfort.
Finishing his frying of eggs, bacon, beans, tomatoes, and some toast (never mushrooms, and he had noted to himself to buy some more sausages), he put it on a large tray with a cup of tea and made his way to the door, opening it with only slight fidgeting. But he stood frozen, eyes wide at the empty and rumpled bed. She had gone. And he had no idea what to do.
All morning he kicked himself at work, fixing a smile on his face whenever he could. He found himself staring out the windows to see if he could get a glimpse of her wild hair; she was a regular mendicant of Diagon Alley, it was the hot spot for many of the impoverished, where they received the most knuts and sickles and pitying looks. Who knew what kind of condition she was in? She had almost been raped, surely she was in some level of shock? With no home to go to, most likely no family to help her, what would she do?
Saving her had left George feeling a degree of responsibility, but with her gone he was consumed with guilt over her wellbeing. How could he make sure she was safe and clear minded when he had no idea where the bloody hell she had disappeared to? Or even why she had legged it in the first place?
He couldn't begin to understand the thoughts of a victim of attempted rape. He didn't want to.
Amy had turned up shortly after him finding the empty bedroom in her Auror uniform, ready to escort her to the Ministry. She was rightfully irate upon finding only George, having already filed the beginnings of a report that was to be left unfinished seeing as the victim had run off. Her unknown identity meant that Amy couldn't even attempt to find her in the records to track her down, something she verbally huffed over but didn't seem to actually mind – less of her time wasted on someone like her. There was no trace of a wand having been used, no magical residue left over, which ruled out the notion of her having apparated out. She had walked right past George out the door and he had been none the wiser.
It had taken a while getting her to calm down and when he had he offered her his left over breakfast, she declined and returned to work, promising George a visit later.
And she had turned up. But with news that found George ripping into his cupboards to finally clean that bleeding stain.
"Do you have to go for an entire weekend?" he murmured, rubbing his nose into her hair.
"You know I do. It's only a weekend away training, I'm sure you'll be having more fun here," she replied, leading them to the sofa where they sat, George never removing his arms from her.
"You'll be in the Caribbean, how the hell is England meant to compete with that?" he whined.
She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, George, it's two days. And it's not as if I'll be having any kind of fun that doesn't include stunning and defensive spells on this apparently new and dangerous hex."
"Three nights seeing as you're leaving on Friday."
"A night where after seeing me off you'll be out clubbing with your friends."
"Without the most gorgeous witch in all of Diagon Alley? I'll have to actually pay for entry then."
He didn't want to admit it but it would be the first time since they met that he would be without her. More or less everyday they kept some form of contact, whether it was sending owls after a particularly harrowing day, lunch dates, dinner dates or even just seeing her walking past the shop. George knew that without a shadow of a doubt it was Amy who had started the process of returning the old George and burying the new shell he had morphed into after the war. Before her arrival into his life George was unpredictable, no routine but the mindless ambling from flat to shop to the Burrow to the Leaky.
Perhaps the biggest achievement of all was that he was five days sober. Five days of not succumbing to the shadows of his mind, cherishing the thought of death finally ending its mockery and taking his soul from him. There wasn't anything else to indicate his terminating alcohol but her; never in the last five years had he contemplated parting from his only source of fractional relief. Even when he had promised his family he would restrict it he hadn't really meant it, but knowing that those were words they wanted to hear, even if to only clear their guilt at watching him openly destroy himself.
Never before had George felt the need to rely on someone other than Fred, but he was not with him any longer, and there was no war that he needed support in but the one raging inside of him.
He wasn't about to scare her off by admitting just how far she had wormed her way into his life, whether she was aware of it or not.
"Good, you don't seem to be spending your hard earned money on anything particularly tasteful," Amy said, eyes gesturing to the old pyjamas he wore that he had found at the bottom of his wardrobe. It was satiny red with the Wheezes logo splattered all around in an assortment of colours, whizzing, expanding, fizzing, smoking, spinning. It was a complete eye sore.
"I hope you're not insulting my lamp," George warned with a gasp.
"Sticking a jumper over it doesn't turn it into a lamp."
"It does if it turns the light blue."
Once again she rolled her eyes, knowing when she was fighting a lost battle.
"You could always spend the weekend with your friends, Lee, was it? And Oliver. You haven't mentioned them much."
"I haven't, have I?" George murmured, thinking how true she was. When was the last time he had seen any of his friends?
They were a quiet for a moment, pondering over Amy's words. George sat leaning against the arm of the sofa, one leg sprawled out against the back and pulled Amy's back into his chest.
"But then neither have you. Tell me about them, the lucky buggers you get to gossip with over champagne."
She scoffed. "I'd have thought you would know me better than to suggest I gossip."
"Stop dodging the topic."
"This calls for some wine," she said, leaning across the coffee table to grab the bottle of Elvish wine she had brought over and two glasses. "Want some?"
"No, I'm alright."
She eyed him. "George, going completely off alcohol isn't good for your body. You need to slowly let it out of your system, get yourself adjusted to not wanting it anymore. An abrupt withdrawal will only make you crave it afterwards. I've seen cases of alcoholics almost drinking themselves to death like that."
George hesitated.
"Would you rather some firewhiskey?"
"No, wine's fine," he finally assented. Only on certain occasions had found George sipping on wine. Christmas, birthdays, anniversary parties, dinner parties, dates. The drink was too sweet to his liking, and had never gotten him near drunk, which he assumed was why his family offered it to him. He concluded it safe to have some sips. After all, he didn't want to end up drinking himself to death anymore, not like an alcoholic. Not anymore.
He took the proffered glass and held it to the side.
"So, friends," she took a sip of her wine. "I didn't have many, only one who I can say has been with me since first year. She's an alright girl, loyal and kind. She went by Roo."
"An 'alright girl'? You must have a spiffing friendship," George couldn't help but interject with a chuckle.
"Well, we weren't attached by the hip. We were focused on our studies most of the time."
"But surely not every second of every day? You must have had time to hang out."
Amy shrugged. "Of course, silly. We know everything about each other, enough not to suffocate each other with our presence constantly. We didn't need to be together all the time, although she was rather insecure and would do almost anything to get on with people. But a nice girl."
An image popped into George's mind, and then another falling over it like a feather, creating a slideshow of images of his life from childhood, of him and Fred being together, doing everything together. He understood Amy's isolation, only his was unintentional, and he could not for the life of him understand why Amy and Roo would want to be separate if they had a strong bond.
"Do you believe in fate?" she asked after a pregnant pause of sipping wine.
He scoffed. "What's fate ever done for me?"
"A lot. Things you probably would never have even thought of, like water, shelter and clothes, things aside from the obvious of your business."
"That wasn't fate's doing," George said vehemently. "That was dad, working his arse off to provide for us all. It wasn't fair, not with the state of things, not with the war, the ridiculing, the pover – the less than stellar conditions we were brought up in. We deserved so much more, not to watch our parents struggle on their knees. They deserved more."
"But it's all better now. You were born in your family for a reason, your family struggled for a reason. You have everything now, everything that you never had before –"
"And all it cost was for me to lose my brother," snapped George, the words tumbling out before he could even think them. George downed the remainder of his wine.
Amy frowned sympathetically.
"If everything happens for a reason, why did my brother have to die," his voice cracked and he found he had to shut his eyes and take a large breath before continuing, "why did he have to die when everything was bordering on perfect?"
"I don't know," said Amy quietly.
"So what's fate done for you?"
"Huh?"
His lips twitched slightly; very rarely did Amy appear confounded. "Fate – you obviously believe in that mumbo jumbo. Why?"
"Because it helped me find the way when I was lost and confused," she said, eyes staring deeply into his own. He couldn't for the life of him understand why.
"You, lost and confused? Never."
"Believe it," she smiled. "It was actually back in Hogwarts. I was getting picked on by this Slytherin who I'm sure is now spending her days cleaning owl droppings, and someone actually noticed, stopped whatever they were in the middle of, and stood up for me. I couldn't believe it, and she never picked on me again."
"That wasn't fate," said George.
"Then what was it?"
"A very decent person. It's a choice, what type of person someone chooses to be. To say people and situations have been scripted in a time before life takes the magic out of them."
"Or it makes their magic brighter by knowing that a higher force ensured every moment to happen in a specific way, to match two souls together forever," Amy disputed, licking her lip as their faces neared.
"Nothing lasts forever," whispered George, "everything and everyone dies." His lips pressed against hers. "But, my dear, you put up one hell of an argument."
"Ravenclaw," she reminded.
"How will I ever live without my Ravenclaw for two days?" George groaned into her neck.
"Three nights." She chuckled, mimicking him from earlier as George's weight pushed her back onto the sofa, leaning over her and growling into her skin. He wouldn't think about those three nights, not for now.
Twenty-six letters in the alphabet, an infinite quantity or words in the English language, and George's mind was blank after the second word.
And even the first word he was dubious over. Honestly, what man wrote 'Dear' to another bloke? He shook his head and crossed it out before remembering his wand, then vanished it with a wave, returning the parchment to its premature bareness. He inked his quill again and began writing.
Alright, Ollie? How's life been so far? Hope all's good, not that I know because it's been months since I've heard let alone seen you. Great work, you deserve the best friend award, courtesy of Weasley Wizards Wheezes.
A groan tore through his throat before he once again wiped out the words, and dropped his head to the counter.
"Still struggling to cope with the English language? You're not three anymore, George," came Bill's voice, forcing George's head up.
"You've been away for a while," George noted, allowing the oncoming smile to slip through as Bill disappeared to the back room, walking back out moments later donned in the WWW robes.
"I do have another job, you know. One that actually pays me," Bill said. "How've you been? Ron said you're working on a letter."
"Ron's gob is as big as his stomach," he murmured, to which Bill punched his shoulder. "I'm trying to write to Oliver, Katie, Lee and Alicia, see if they want to go out on the weekend."
"And that's difficult, is it? You're not getting graded, it doesn't have to be 'O' standard," Bill said, serving his first customer. The shop was next to empty. Then, as an afterthought, Bill added, "not that you'd care anyway."
"I just want it to be right, I don't want…"
"You don't want them to be any different towards you than they were before?" Bill said.
"Yeah," George nodded. "Exactly."
"Mate, they'll be fine, they're your friends. If they don't distinguish you and your own identity, then…"
He left his sentence unfinished, and George was thankful, already knowing the harsh truth. If they, his own friends, didn't see him for himself, how could they truly be his friends? He knew of only one who had tried and failed miserably. He didn't think of them often.
"I've got lots on my mind," George said. "I think that's distracting me from the letters. Louis hasn't been in all week." At Bill's expression he continued. "It wouldn't normally bother me, but it was his birthday the other day and his nan normally lets him come and buy whatever he wants."
"She probably decided on something else for a change," Bill suggested, but George shook his head in disagreement, "No, even so she would have come and said something."
"So what do you think?"
"It's just worrying me, what with all the missing kids reports."
It was a rushed thought he used as an excuse, when the real issue was his last few days with Amy, how he had spent the days gone and how he would spend the nights to come. He needed to make sure no temptation would drift into his mind and choke him in its claws. He needed to be strong on his own for once in his life.
However, the more he thought about it, he realised it wasn't rushed at all, for whenever he was in the shop he had expected Louis to run in and jump on the counter. As his birthday came and went George tried not to dwell on it, he had, after all, seen Louis not long before. Perhaps they had brought his present early and, as Bill mentioned, deviated from their usual routine and decided on something different. Yet, the more he thought of it, the less it sat well with him. But if Louis was missing surely his grandmother would have come to the shop and ask George if he had seen him?
"Anyway, I thought I owed you a visit. Or rather, I was forced. I guess over a week was too long."
Before George could question his brother the door burst open, the usually loud welcoming jingle almost a far off whisper at the squealing figure sprinting towards him.
"Unca George!" little Victoire laughed as George swung her around in the air.
"Hey, Vicky," he said, holding her close and taking her all in, her petite body, her angelic smell, the feel of her hair. "Hi."
"I missed you," she said, gently moving his hair away from his ear to whisper into it.
"I missed you too. Why didn't you make daddy come earlier so you could see me?" he asked, sending a glare to Bill.
"It wasn't me! It wasn't me!" she shook her head rapidly, eyes wide. "It was mama! Mama did it."
"Aw, was mama being mean?" George asked, noticing Fleur follow her daughter into the shop through his peripheral vision; he didn't dare look up yet.
"Mama made crepes for breakfast," Victoire informed him. Food was always a winner, and no one who made crepes as good as Fleur could be considered anything but wonderful.
"Did she now? Where are mine?"
She grinned, showing off her missing front tooth and patted her stomach, sticking her tongue out and then leaning away from George as he tried to grab it between his fingers. Through much fidgeting, Victoire managed to wiggle onto her feet. Little hands fisted and settled on her narrow hips and her smile was replaced by a deep glare far too similar to her mother's, much to George's horror. He had experienced the wrath of Fleur Delacour once before on her wedding, and he swore it had permanently damaged the mending hole on the side of his head where his ear once sat.
He gulped. "Vicky?"
"You're in big trouble, Unca George!"
"What did I do?" he asked, seeming to shrink before his tiny niece.
"Sunday dinner," she said, and George was momentarily worried she was bringing up the incident the last time he had been at the Burrow. To his relief, she mentioned nothing of it. "You didn't come! Nana Molly smacked my bottom for picking pea bogeys."
And despite an obviously frustrated Fleur, George Weasley laughed. He knew exactly what to put in his letters.
"That was not a very ladylike thing to do, now, was it?" George said smiling.
"But Moles was –"
"And you shouldn't call your cousin Moles," George added, hearing Fleur muttering in French.
"But she's Moles Weasel!" Victoire exclaimed.
"Ready for you lunch break, Bill?" George said, noticing the emptiness of the shop and wanting to get away from Victoire who was on the verge of exploding.
As they ambled down Diagon Alley to the usual café George noticed from the corner of his eye a peculiar looking shadowed figure examining daydream catchers from a stall. Their face was fixed on the object in their hands, but George could make out the shiftiness of their eyes, flying this way and that before settling on a family with three children sitting outside Florean Fortescue's.
George leaned in closer to Bill. "Watch out for your girls."
A final inhale, a squeeze, a long lingering kiss.
"Three nights."
Then the portkey took away the scaffold holding him steady; he wavered. The flat seemed quieter than he could remember, even more so in the stillness of their farewell, her presence being the barrier from the eerie silence. He wasn't complete, but she trusted him, felt him strong enough to stand on his own.
Looking from side to side, he saw nothing of interest and opted to go down to the shop to exercise his mind on useful merchandise. The Lava Lollies were nearly finished. The initial testing had presented the issue of constant smoke billowing out of orifices for a good six hours alongside teary red eyes and a swollen tongue. Two alterations later and it was almost ready, only the smoke gathered in the mouth when it was closed and shrilled like the Hogwarts Express.
Ink depicting the blueprint blurred on the parchment; he couldn't make out a word of the list of ingredients and their measurements, everything looking a foreign mess. George rubbed his eyes, and then waved his wand, turning on the Wireless. A slow jazzy tune filled the room, and he found himself able to read once again.
Pulling out a cauldron with the now cooled mixture for Lava Lollies he spooned some into a tray of mould, inserting a stick into the puddles before they cooled. The solution finished before he had filled in all of his moulds. A quick glance at his watch showed him that it was nearing eleven, and so he decided to tire himself out by working on another. Opening the potions cupboard he pulled out everything he needed, regarding the list only once before mentally storing the ingredients. Pushing aside a dusty hangover potion, he saw an enticing bottle of firewhiskey.
But no, he wasn't going to drink it, wasn't even going to look at the bottle, he swore to himself, and slid the hangover potion back to conceal it.
As much as he tried to concentrate on the recipe and the earthy grooves escaping the radio his mind kept falling back to the hidden bottle of alcohol he had no doubt stashed during one of his drunken escapades. It suited the music, the slow burn, deep tones. He could easily fall into a trance, the fusion of two lulling him to sleep. It would be easy. He wouldn't be stupid, not when he was going to have dinner with his friends the next evening. He would be on top form – had to be on top form.
He chanced a glance at Fred's desk where the prosthetic ear and its instructions sat.
Shaking his head to rid the seductive thoughts, he turned the volume up as the mellow harmonies eased into speedier rhythms.
He managed to finish the concoction some time later and left it to cool. Ignoring the left over ingredients on his work bench he jumped up the steps to the flat, ready to go to bed but found himself too awake and energised. George flicked on the lamps and lights, all of them, lighting his flat to look as if it was daytime. He gulped, checking to make sure no dark corner remained. Satisfied, he made his way to the kitchen and drank some milk straight from the bottle, feeling a slight chill from some trailing down his chin and neck.
The sofa would do for the night, he thought to himself, lying on his side and hugging a cushion to his stomach. No matter how much he yearned for sleep, his eyes wouldn't shut, staring blankly at the wall ahead of him.
A nudge in his head, like a stick poking into his skull, pushing harder and harder in its attempt to break through and plunge in. The dull prodding was soon replaced by a vicious burn, several, as more sticks attempted to penetrate his mind. George knew though, that the physical pain was not caused by a physical attack, and he had no way of stopping it. His eyes watered, still locked on the bare patch of wall. He couldn't even make himself blink.
When was the last time, the actual last time, George had thought of Fred during his daily activities? Of what Fred would be doing, how he would go about it, what his reaction to certain customers and their complaints would be? The last time he had instinctively thought of a snappy remark Fred would make about a girl? What Fred would say when Percy would come over with boxes of food and oil dripping from his fork halfway through a greasy takeaway?
He couldn't remember. The name of the stabbing in his head flashed to consciousness: guilt.
Guilt for not having remembered Fred when he should have been. For not honouring him in death when he so took him for granted in life. Fred deserved to live in memories, particularly George's.
Only, it seemed that Amy had pushed him out, swarming in on George. She was his everything when none other than Fred had been before. And he hated it.
"No," he groaned out, finally squeezing his eyes shut as he burrowed his head into the nook of the sofa. "Shut up."
Except his thoughts were not his own now. He was infested. His vulnerability had opened him to an attack from his subconscious that he had not even known was harbouring such resentment to himself. His safety turned out not to be so safe at all; the icy cavern had not melted away to the grassy meadow after all, had not even been slightly warmed by the golden sun. It was all a mirage, a phantasm of the life he so desired but was not capable of holding.
"Yes I can," he moaned. "It is my life, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!"
His fists punched the sofa, attempting to rid the mockery singing aloud in his ears and consuming his thoughts. It was loud – so loud and scathing – and so much like his own, chanting evil words that had George screaming to ignore.
"Shut up! Shut. The fuck. UP!" he yelled, jumping up from the sofa to pace. His hands were pulling wildly at his hair.
You forgot Fred…You're living Fred's life…You don't deserve this…You don't deserve Amy…Your family cannot stand the sight of you…Your mother hates you…Wishes you were the one who died…Fred would be a good son…He wouldn't fight his mother…Wouldn't need to drink like a pussy…
"I don't! I don't need to! I don't, I don't, I don't."
Yes you do, it hissed, echoing through the room. You do because you're weak. You've been alone for a few hours and you're going insane. You're mad, crazy, and insane. You're pathetic. Fred would be ashamed – Fred is ashamed, turning in his grave right now. What a mess you've become.
"FUCK OFF!" he screamed, his arms flying out. He noticed a wetness on his face and realised he had been crying.
"George?"
"NO! Leave me, shut the fuck up!"
"George? George!"
He struggled against the pressure forcing him to still, and when his vision cleared saw arms around his middle. The voice identical to his own quietened down as soft whispers sounded in his ear, the only indication of it not being his head was the warm breath.
Slowly, he stopped fighting against the arms and felt his body droop as the adrenaline seeped out of him.
"You're alright, George, you're fine. Absolutely great, you fought it, you won. You should be so proud, Fred's proud of you, I know he is, everyone is. Fred thinks you're doing great."
George had never been so glad to have Percy back in his life.