George Weasley stumbled onto the streets of muggle London in an all too familiar routine of getting utterly piss drunk and cut off in a place where no one knew who he was, let alone the devastation he carried inside of him. Muggles never stopped to ask him about Fred. Muggles never told him he couldn't drink the pain away. Muggles didn't give a damn about him and that suited him just fine.
Rain cascaded down in sheets. An attempt by the heavens above to rinse away the filth and trash housed in the alley, most likely, George considered. I'm right where I belong, then. After all I've done, all I've lost, let the heavens open to wash me away from this Earth, this hell.
No such thing happened, however, leaving George to stagger his way to a more familiar alley near the Leaky Cauldron. After a few failed attempts of counting and tapping on the bricks, the wall finally gave way to the winding cobblestone road of Diagon Alley. With more effort than he thought himself capable of, George placed one foot in front of another until he found himself outside of number 93 - Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes.
He stared vacantly through the storefront, waiting to see a flash of red hair indicating his brother was hard at work making their pride and joy sparkle again. There was no Fred, however, just George's own haggard reflection in the grimy glass and a store full of devices, candies, and potions that had consistently failed to bring even a smile to his face.
George sighed heavily and walked around to the side of the building where the employee entrance was located. He slipped inside and without bothering to check his wards or to give the store even a side glance, George trudged up the wooden staircase to the flat he could neither bear to spend his waking hours in, nor abandon completely. He crumbled unceremoniously onto his bed and, thanks to copious amounts of muggle whiskey, fell asleep almost instantly, still fully clothed.
* * *
The sound of a fist pounding on the door to the stairs of his flat shattered George's dream and pulled him into the waking world. He fumbled along his bedside table for a hangover potion and upon finding half of one, sat up and tossed the liquid back before shouting "Give me a bloody minute," to the persistent knocker.
The sound ceased, and with a heavy sigh, George stood and groggily headed for the stairs. It wasn't until he was about to pull the door open that he noticed the state of himself. Dried mud caked the hem of his jeans and at some point, he must have caught his shirt on something as there was a tear on his right sleeve.
The ginger haired boy muttered a well-aimed 'Scourgify' at his pants, a spell he and Fred had mastered at a young age to avoid the wrath of Molly Weasley when they inevitably wound up covered in muck. Next, a simple 'Reparo' and his sleeve had been mended. Finally, George pointed his wand at his own head and whispered 'Colovaria' to change the brilliant red hue of his hair to a dark brown shade; a charm that, when used on living things, tended to wear off after a few days.
Pleased enough with his work, George pulled open the door, ready to tell off whatever visitor had decided to intrude on his space, only to find himself facing his younger brother, Ron, holding a green paper bag of some sort. He was accompanied by a concerned looking Hermione Granger, who held a drink tray containing 3 steaming paper cups and a folder tucked under one arm.
A long pause, in which Ron looked like he'd rather be anywhere but at George's door, followed before Hermione could bear the silence no longer. "We brought scones and coffee. Wondered if we could come up for a bit," the bushy haired girl explained awkwardly.
George rubbed his face and considered the ramifications of sending them off without inviting them in.
"Did mum send you?" he finally asked Ron, unable to stop annoyance from seeping into his tone.
"No," Ron answered quickly and with sincerity. "Hermione and I have an assignment coming up and have a sort of proposition for you. It isn't anything we can talk about out here, though."
George paused for a moment, considering his brother's possible motives, before stepping aside and allowing them entry to the stairwell. "You'll have to forgive the mess, sorry."
"It's really not that bad," Hermione offered after climbing the stairs and casting an appraising glance around the room. "It's mostly just dusty."
George nodded and took a seat in a puffy armchair, offering the pair the couch. "I don't spend much time here," was the only excuse he could offer for the layer of dust that coated the tables and lamps in the living room.
Ron took his seat and promptly stuffed a scone into his mouth to avoid speaking to his brother. Hermione set the coffee tray down on the table and passed them out before sitting and fingering the edges of the folder she had brought inside nervously.
"Let me get right to it," Hermione started out in a business-like tone. "Ron and I have been assigned to a case overseas and we need an assistant, someone to take accurate notes of our findings and to keep things organized. Normally, we would choose an intern, someone at the Ministry with secretarial experience, however, due to the sensitive nature of our case, Shacklebolt suggested we choose someone we trust that has had Auror training."
George took a sip of his coffee and waited for her to get to the point.
"We want you," Ron offered as the silence grew.
George coughed on the bit of scone he had started chewing and barked out a laugh. "You two want me to follow you around while you investigate some barmy old wizard that decided it would be funny to sell some dancing teacups to Muggles? As thrilling as that sounds, I have better things to do."
Hermione narrowed her eyes at the man. "I'll have you know this is a very serious case that Shacklebolt appointed to us, personally. The nature of the crime is-" she faltered and grimaced. "Well, I can't divulge unless you agree, but suffice it to say, your near completion of Auror training might come in handy."
"You're joking," George asked hotly. "You really expect me to drop everything and accompany you two, to Godric knows where, to risk my life taking notes? Get yourself a real Auror if it's so dangerous," he concluded.
"Drop everything? You're the one that's joking, mate," Ron answered angrily, a flush creeping up his neck. "You need to get out of London. You need fresh air and something to do other than working your way to the bottom of every bottle that crosses your path. We're offering you a chance to get out of England and maybe make a difference in this case."
"So you're doing me a favor, then," George retorted, his own anger flaring. "I'm not some charity case, Ronnikins."
Yes," Hermione interjected before the fight could escalate. "Yes, I suppose it is a favor, but you'd be doing us one as well. Kinglsey doesn't want just anyone going with us. We considered Harry but he is too conspicuous. Keeping this case from the press is of the utmost importance. With you on board we don't have to open up to someone potentially untrustworthy and thus, can limit the spread of information."
George leaned back in his chair, silent while he mulled over her words. Finally, he asked, "Is it that bad that Shacklebolt doesn't trust his own Aurors? The case, I mean."
"It's very, very bad," Ron muttered before closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead slowly.
George studied his younger brother. The morning found Ron looking thin in the face, a little too pale, topped off with deep, dark crescents under his eyes. Ronald Weasley, never one to willingly miss out on a meal or good nap had been neither eating, nor sleeping.
At this realization, George took in Hermione's disheveled appearance; a too loose, wrinkled jumper, hectic hair, and a nearly identical under eye to Ron's. "When was the last time either of you had any sleep?"
Hermione shrugged and closed her heavy eyes, lips moving silently as she worked her way back through the week. "Today is Thursday? I woke up last week Tuesday to find the file on my desk. We've been pouring over the incidents and planning the mission since."
"We slept here and there," Ron explained at his brother's horrified expression. "As of right now, though, we haven't slept since we woke up on Monday. Thank Merlin for Wideye and pepper-up potions."
George grimaced as his brain took him through a list of side effects. Wideye, as well as other stimulant potions, tended to cause loss of appetite and eventually, difficulty focusing for the drinker. "Any chance you'll be sleeping before this mission of ours, or will babysitting your executive functions be part of the job?"
Hermione swayed in her seat as though even talking about sleep had reminded her of the exhaustion that radiated through her bones. A huge grin spread across her face. "You're coming, then?"
George thought for a moment before answering. "I think so, yes. I might like to get out of London, despite the circumstances." Truthfully, though, George was more concerned about Ron and Hermione's ability to keep each other safe when they were so clearly functioning at a deficit. "You'll both need to sleep first, however. I won't be taking orders from two zombies."
Hermione protested with a weak flap of her hand as a yawn ripped itself free from her mouth. "Don't be rude, George. It's unbecoming."
Ron's head jerked up quickly, an indication he had been in the process of falling asleep. "We will, promise," he mumbled.
George sighed heavily, wondering what he'd gotten himself into and transfigured the couch into a bed and pillows before heading to the linen closet for a blanket. Ron was breathing heavily while Hermione rolled over to get comfortable.
"George-" Hermione started but was cut off by another yawn. "Read the file, or at least read what you can. You deserve to know what we're facing. If you don't think you're up for it, we would understand. Ron just-" she trailed off. Hermione closed her eyes as she rested her head on the pillow and sighed deeply before continuing. "Ron is really worried about you and is afraid we'll come back and you'll be gone, too. He can't lose you, George, not like this."
Not sure if he felt angry or sad, George was relieved to see she had fallen asleep. Walking quietly around the bed, George loosened the file from her grip and turned to pick up his coffee before heading to the dusty dining room table. A quick 'Tergeo' produced a mostly clear area to work on and with that, George started reading.