There was a water spot darkening the ceiling on the right side of his room just over his small window. Here and there the wallpaper was cracked and in the small kitchen, the pipes had begun to leak beneath the sink. All these things would have been easily fixed with magic, but George couldn't be bothered.

Two years ago, when he and Fred first moved into the flat, they had been too excited about the freedom of their own place and the prospects of their shop to concern themselves with small cosmetic details. Looming war hadn't been enough to truly dim their arder, so brilliantly did they burn together.

Now, that all felt like so much ash.

And all George could see when he looked around their flat were the imperfections and painful memories. A few days before, he'd folded himself up to peer beneath the cabinet to try to fix the leaking pipes. They were difficult to get at and it was cramped so he grumbled to himself about expansion charms as he tried to look about. When he'd tapped the leaking copper with his wand and cast a diagnostic charm, a familiar magical signature had prickled along his skin and set goose pimples running up his arm.

Fred had evidently been the one keeping the pipes working properly. No wonder they'd started leaking again. With him dead the charms had begun to fade.

George hadn't attempted any other projects after that. Now he lay in bed, staring at the damp bit of ceiling and wondering how much longer he could get away with avoiding everyone. His family was too painful. Whenever his Mum looked at him, he knew she saw Fred and the sorrow in her eyes was too much to bear. Most of his friends were the same way and their pity was nearly worse than his Mum's tears.

Just about the only person he didn't avoid was Hermione. She missed Fred too, he knew, but she had lost so much herself that she didn't seem to have any pity left to spare for George. Or maybe it was just that she somehow knew he hadn't any use for it and so tried to act as normal as she could manage. Either way, Hermione was the only one he found remotely tolerable.

A tapping at his window pulled him from his thoughts and tore his eyes from the patch of discolored ceiling. Hermione's new owl, Jacksy, waited patiently with a note from his mistress.

With a heavy sigh, George drug himself from bed and let the bird in.

"Evening, Jacksy." The owl butted his head affectionately against George's hand before extending his leg for him. Hermione had bought Jacksy in Australia after finally giving up hope she could ever restore her parents' memories. Leaving her beast of a cat with them—for she could hardly take him from them—she'd wandered the local magical district and found the greater sooty owl and bought him at once. 'Jacksy' had been his name and she hadn't seen fit to change it.

Knowing there weren't any owl treats in his bedroom and that she would likely require a response, George opened the door and stepped aside for the bird to follow him through.

"Come on then. I'll get you something while I read this."

In the kitchen, he fished for his owl treats and read her letter… or note rather.

George,

Stopped by the burrow today. Your Mum sent me home with more food than one person needs, as usual. Think I'll grab some butterbeer and pop round to share. I don't feel up to eating alone tonight.

Hermione

"Hmm. Guess you don't need a response after all."

The owl, having finished his treat, hooted softly at George and hopped across the counter to the nearest window to be let out. George leaned against the chipped white laminate and watched the grey owl fly off down the alley for several moments, wondering if he should have sent her a note to stay home after all. But then Jacksy banked out of sight over the buildings and he knew it was too late for that. Besides, it had been a few days since her last visit. Maybe he shouldn't be alone tonight either.

He hardly had time to swap his stale, day-old t-shirt for a clean one when he heard the snap of apparition just outside his flat door. Running a hand through his hair and deciding it didn't warrant a cleansing charm and unwilling to shave, he leaned against the back of the sofa as she let herself in.

Her usually wild mane of hair—a bit duller in his opinion than it used to be—was tied loosely up in a knot on the top of her head but it was clear that she'd made more of an effort getting dressed that morning than he had. Though she had visited his mum so he supposed she felt the need to look like she was keeping it together.

"Hey, George." Throwing her robes over the sofa beside him, she sighed and tapped her wand against her thigh. With a whispered spell, the high-waisted baggy jeans turned into sweatpants, her absurdly chunky sandals becoming the colorful knitted socks his Mum had given her several Christmases ago. The only thing that stayed was the long sleeved burgundy top that showed off her still too thin midsection.

George shook his head. Muggle fashion wasn't something he thought he'd ever understand, not—he supposed—that he was any judge. Hermione had complained of it herself the other day when she'd nearly twisted her ankle over the shoes.

She had recently started spending time with Parvati Patil. Never having been particularly close to the other girl before, after the war and with Lavender dead, she had felt the need to try to befriend her old dorm mate. Unfortunately, that had lately meant day trips into muggle London for shopping. It seemed cathartic for Parvati, and Hermione at least enjoyed sharing the muggle world with the pureblood witch.

The ghost of a smile twisted George's lips at her change. "Comfy?"

She huffed a small laugh as she looked him over, probably checking he had been taking care of himself since she'd last been to visit. Her nose wrinkled when she noted his hair, and he didn't duck away when she reached up to touch it.

"Yes, thank you. Your hair's nearly as bad as Snape's, George. Honestly, when was the last time you showered?"

He clicked his tongue in indignation and headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on, Hermione following him with his Mum's food.

"I resent that, it's not half so bad."

Kettle heating, he turned around to see her smirking at him, wand in hand. Before he could stop her she had cast the cleansing charm he'd neglected, leaving his hair decidedly less greasy if not entirely healthy looking. He'd need a proper shower for that.

"There, now you're fit for company."

"Bah." He flicked his wand to stop the now whistling kettle and reached for the tea. "What company? The only one I see is you, Hermione."

Her smirk fading to something a little sad, she shrugged and reached around him for plates and took the food to the table. For a moment, part of him longed for some spark of the man he used to be. To be easily able to make her smile and laugh again rather than return to the sorrowful monotony that had been all their lives these last months. But then he remembered where all of his humor, all the easy jokes and smiles had come from and the whim abandoned him. Swallowing thickly, he grabbed the mugs of tea and followed her to the table.

As they ate, she filled him in on the recent happenings at the burrow such that they were and he listened, rarely interjecting. What could he add to the conversation after all? He'd done precious little in the last week... months, really, but she knew that.

"Percy's seeing someone. From the ministry. Apparently they've been round for dinner and Molly says she's a nice girl."

"Hmm. Good for him."

After another bite she added, "Must be nice, to find a bit of happiness again."

Falling silent, eyes focused on her food, George watched the way the light from the street lamps outside the window played off her hair. It sparked a memory and without really thinking about it, he found himself sharing it with her.

"He fancied you, ya know?" When she looked up at him in confusion, he clarified. "Fred did, not Perce. For ages."

Her face softened and a small smile lit her eyes. "I know. He told me once, kissed me too."

George was so stunned he nearly dropped his fork.

"Cor! You're lying! He did not, he would have told me!"

For the first time in weeks, she laughed full out.

"He did so! It was a few days before Bill's wedding. I'm not sure where you were, but we had a few moments alone and… it was nice. Said he didn't want to… to never have the chance to tell me." Most of her humor faded but she managed to keep her smile. "I never would have pictured myself with him before but, sometimes I wonder what might have come from it. I wish we'd had time to find out."

She went back to eating but George watched her, thinking about what she'd said. Time… Fred deserved more time. He would have kissed Hermione again. What new products could they have dreamed up together? Fred had always been the idea man. He probably would have thought up something brilliant to make people laugh again.

"Yeah… me too."

They didn't say anything for a while after that. Together, they put away the leftover bits and washed the dishes by hand. He started to make more tea but she shook her head and reached into her bag.

"I know it's not a good habit, but I just… need something a bit stronger than tea tonight, Georgie."

Her voice faltered around his name and when he looked up from the bottle of muggle liquor, her eyes swam with tears. She was right, they shouldn't start drinking again but her grief reflected his own and the sudden weight of it had him agreeing.

"Come on, let's go upstairs."

It was a nice night so the sad pair hung their legs over the edge of the roof and watched the evening bustle in the alley while they drank.

"So…" He took a sip from the bottle she'd brought, the sweet burn of the rum tingling his nose and watering his eyes. "Do you need to talk about it?"

Beside him, she sniffled and took the bottle. After taking a long pull, she passed it back to George and let out a watery laugh.

"It's a bit silly… I've been having migraines for a few days and some jaw pain. I went to Mungo's for a check… I… it's my wisdom teeth." She swiped at her tears and choked out something halfway between a sob and a laugh. "It's my teeth, George." Sniffling, she accepted his handkerchief. "I couldn't believe it. If my parents were here… they would have known what was wrong straight away. It took all my willpower not to take the first portkey to Australia so I could have my father do the surgery."

Readily taking the bottle from him again, she tried to laugh again through her tears but it just sounded heartbroken.

"I don't need surgery of course. Just the right spell. Still… it would have been a perfect excuse to see them…"

They might be alive, but Hermione's parents might as well have been dead, for all she could have them in her life. Personally, George couldn't see a reason why she shouldn't go. It wouldn't be hurting anyone and she obviously needed to see them.

"Take the portkey, Hermione. Let your father fix your teeth."

Without Hermione to drop in for companionable sulking, George struggled to keep himself from completely sinking into despair. Ginny brought lunch by the day before, but the way she watched him with such undisguised pity, her visit had been nearly unbearable. She couldn't stand to see her usually happy and devil-may-care brother so depressed.

When he'd woken up that morning, happier memories hung like an oppressive cloud over the flat. Rather than allow it to overwhelm him, George had dressed and gone out. With no particular destination in mind, he wandered the alley.

It was early, but the streets were still moderately crowded. Within a few months of the end of the war, people had been eager to get back to normal and the Alley had quickly experienced a Renaissance. Everywhere but his little corner of it anyhow. Weasley's Wizard Wheeze's was still shuttered and George couldn't see a future where it was open.

Setting aside that dismal thought, he turned down the street away from the massive effigy of his brother and let his feet lead the way. It was a nice spring morning, the sun just peeking out from behind the clouds, but George hardly noticed. He'd left his flat, but the sadness followed as it always did. As a result he found himself down a less traveled part of Knockturn Alley without noticing. Until, that was, a haggard looking old crone stepped out from a shop and directly in front of him.

Pulled up short, George jerked from his maudlin thoughts, only just managing to avoid a collision. The old woman glared up at him curiously before shuffling past on her own way, leaving George to take better stock of his surroundings. He wasn't sure where he was. The shops were unfamiliar and looked a few shades darker than Borgin and Burkes.

Looking through shop windows, a spark of curiosity bloomed in George's gut and tugged him off the streets and through a dingy looking door. Illuminated by floating candles dripping wax onto the floor, the shelves were sparsely stocked with artifacts of dubious legality. As he looked about, he wondered how the Ministry had overlooked the place.

"Can I help you, sir?"

George nearly leaped from his trousers at the gravelly voice and sudden appearance of Argus Filch. On second inspection, his heart still in his throat, George could see the man merely shared the groundskeeper's general mien. Letting out a relieved breath, he attempted a polite smile as he gripped the nearest shelf and turned to face the shopkeeper.

"Uh.. no thank you, I… I'm just looking. Not even sure where I am, actually."

The older man arched a scraggly brow and gave him an incredulous once over before gesturing for George to follow.

"Hmm… right. Well, you'll want to watch where you lay your fingers round here, Mr. Weasley. Some of the containment charms on my wares are a bit unsteady."

Snatching his hand back from what he now realized was a set of mixing bowls with a very dangerous aura, he muttered to himself as he followed the other man along the isle. "Mixing bowls?"

"Yes. Poison anything you might like to use them for. Cursed item's less traceable than a potion."

"Ahh…" Sidestepping a barrel of questionable content, George suddenly had another question. "How did you know who I was? I've never even seen your shop before."

A dry cackle floated over the shopkeeper's shoulder as he rounded a corner. "Oh everyone around here knows who you are, Mr. Weasley. You and your late brother ran that joke shop down the way." Now standing behind the till, he gave George an amused look. "Hard to miss that, what with that magnificent likeness out front. Compensating for something?"

George scoffed, affronted. "Hardly."

"All right, all right." The older man leaned against the counter and when he could see that George wasn't truly offended, the corner of his crooked mouth turned up and he let out another dry laugh before gesturing at himself and around the shop. "Names Darby. You've likely never seen my shop before because we've only been here a few days."

Confused, George glanced around again at the layer of dust, well worn surfaces and low burnt candles. There was no way it was a new shop. Noticing his evident disbelief, Darby nodded with understanding and rapped a knuckle on the dark stained wooden counter.

"We travel, my shop and me. Only been back in the country a few months, been abroad the last several years."

A traveling shop? Well that certainly explained why he'd never seen it before. Taking a more critical look, George tried to imagine what kind of magic that must take. Before he could think about it too long, Darby was talking to him again.

"Mine's not the kind of place people stumble into on accident. So, what can I do for you, Mr. Weasley?"

What could he do for him? What could anyone do for him? With Fred gone, George struggled to see any kind of meaningful future for himself. Maybe that kind of dependency was unhealthy, but they were twins. Together since the very beginning. No matter what else from life he might have wanted, without his brother by his side, hardly anything seemed to matter anymore.

Whether he'd spoken out loud without realizing, or the other man had read his thoughts, he slapped a hand against his thigh and gave George a measured look.

"I know what ya need. I've got just the thing."

Turning around and ducking through a curtained off door George hadn't noticed before, Darby disappeared for several minutes. When he returned he carried a small, unmarked wooden box that he set on the counter in front of George.

"I bought this off a wizard in Astana." He scoffed. "The British Ministry likes to think they've cornered the market on rare magics but they've no idea what's happening in some of the more remote magical communities."

Unable to help himself despite his sudden somber mood, George leaned in for a better look. Darby tapped his wand along the top of the box and the lid flew open. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen, but the magic emanating from the small device made his own swirl in his gut with anticipation.

"What is that?"

Darby smirked. "I picked this up in Kazakhstan in 93'. Former Soviet bloc. The magical governments in the smaller countries held off the muggles easily enough, but after Voldemort started to feel like a real threat they banded together too. Every bit as secretive as their muggle counterparts. Worked on all sorts of things just in case. They remembered Grindelwald, not taking any chances, ya see?"

George did not. Having little knowledge about the continent—muggle or magic—he nodded anyway so the other man would continue his tale.

"After the Wall fell the joint Ministry fell apart as well. Former employees stole anything they could get away with to sell to those unconcerned with legality. There's all sorts of things to be found outside Great Britain." He gestured fiercely at the object. "You've heard of a time-turner?"

Wary and still confused, George nodded as Darby pulled the long chain and device from the box.

"This works a bit like those though with fewer limitations, or so I'm told. I've not actually had cause to use it myself, of course."

Having never seen one properly before, George didn't notice anything odd about the device in front of him. "What do you mean? And… Why do you think I need this? You can't change the past. That's how time travel works. Even if… it wouldn't change anything."

The other man shook his head and took the device from the box to turn over in his hands. "Time travel is a much debated subject, there are many theories. Even muggles have their own and personally—don't tell anyone I said so—I find there's much more interesting." He held the device up so George could get a better look. "Izmenit' proshloye, to change the past. This little marvel operates in a different way to the English time-turner. For one, you can go back much further. According to the man I bought it off, years, decades even. And most importantly with this you can actually affect the past—make changes. It was the whole point behind the design. A sort of… fail safe against threats. We, those left behind, would never know the difference but…"

George had no idea what "Soviet bloc" meant, nor did he know where exactly Kazakhstan was, but he knew he had never heard of a device like this. Time travel wasn't a covered subject of study at Hogwarts, but after finding out Hermione had utilized a similar device in their fifth year, he and his brother had done some independent research. The possibilities when paired with their genius for mischief and invention had been staggering. Unfortunately all the necessary components were so highly regulated by the Ministry it would likely cost them a stint in Azkaban to acquire any.

Something that felt dangerously close to hope threatened in his gut. This was a mistake. Bad things happened to wizards that messed with time, as the adage went. But the temptation was stronger than anything he'd ever felt. If this was real, if this strange old wizard was telling the truth, he could save Fred.

It was a mistake.

He could ruin what good had come from the battle or cause even more death. He might even get himself killed.

It was irresponsible and selfish.

He missed Fred.

"How much do you want for it?"