Round Six, Hogwarts Year 4
Special Rule: Your story must include only two characters.
Theme: Write about pulling out all the stops to protect something or someone.
Mandatory Prompt: [Genre] Ghost Story
Additional Prompt: [Occupation] A shop owner
WC: 1524
Additional Info: I made up some ghost lore for this fic - if you die, you can come back to earth as a ghost and still return to the afterlife as long as you haven't revealed yourself to the living. But once you have, you're stuck forever.
TW: thoughts of suicide
The shop was disorganized, cluttered, and jam-packed with colorful gadgets and trinkets, some of which had tumbled from the shelves to the unswept floor. It looked exactly how the ghost remembered it, a fact that failed to provide him any comfort. He glided by the racks, disturbing the thin layer of dust that had collected on the surface in the few days since the war. In the wake of the draft, the dust puffed up into a transparent, substanceless cloud before quickly disappearing back into the air, a sight that only reminded the young ghost of himself. It caused him to shudder.
He hadn't expected to come back as a ghost, but as it turned out, he could temporarily come back after death. As long as no one saw him, he'd preserve the option of moving on into the afterlife. It had surprised him, as he always thought of the choice of whether or not to continue into the unknown as black and white. It would have been an easy choice for him, had he been given enough time, but he had been ripped from the world too soon, mid-laugh, by a swift jet of green light he didn't even see.
The front door slammed shut and wrenched the ghost from his swirling thoughts. He darted behind a stack of boxes and watched over the very top as the shopkeeper stumbled inside. His feet dragged along the floor, and he rebounded against the wall before landing in one of the chairs behind the checkout counter. He reeked of smoke and liquor, a stench so strong even the ghost could smell it. His clothes were stained and dirty, messy red stubble dotted his chin, and deep, dark circles engulfed his eyes, suggesting he hadn't slept in days.
It wasn't the way the shopkeeper tripped over his own feet or slurred to himself that gave the ghost pause. He'd seen his brother drunk and sloppy before. Back when they started the shop, they'd close down early just to break into the liquor cabinet hidden under their desk. There was something so satisfying about leaning into their newfound freedom with a bottle of Firewhiskey, no schedule or commitments to hold them back from the present moment.
What bothered the ghost was the way the shopkeeper ignored the mess. Although he stumbled across the room, he expertly dodged piles of toppled-over products, empty boxes, and even rubbish as though it had been there for a while. The shop was exactly how the ghost remembered it. Exactly how he'd left it. Disorganized shelves that would have sparked an argument before the battle didn't even catch the shopkeeper's eye now. The same man that had always been on his brother's case about cleaning up, dusting the shelves, and organizing and labeling products was now stumbling through a complete pigsty without a care in the world. If the ghost had a stomach, it would have sunk.
The shopkeeper reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle, uncorked it, and put it to his lips. What the ghost had presumed to be more alcohol acted strange once the shopkeeper took a sip. It looked different, too; Firewhiskey wasn't blue, and it didn't swirl around in a glass bottle the way this potion did. It was an elixir both men were all too familiar with, thanks to countless trips the pair had taken to the hospital wing to sleep off illness or injury during their Hogwarts years. They had heard enough warnings to know that Dreamless Sleep was toxic when mixed with alcohol.
The ghost watched his brother's hand tremble as he brought the glass back to his lips. Was he planning on drinking the whole thing? The shopkeeper slumped in his chair, lazy and limp when the bottle paused at his mouth. His eyes narrowed down at its contents, and a look of determination flickered across his face.
Although his brother was identical to him, at the moment, he was nearly unrecognizable to the ghost. The five o'clock shadow, dirty clothes, and defeated expression didn't suit him well at all. He was the clean-cut one, the professional dresser that kept everything neat, tidy, and proper. But now, his eyes appeared empty, as though half his soul had been ripped from him. And it had — it's a part of being a twin that no one can fully explain. It was the same connection that had lured the ghost back to the earthly world in the first place, back to this very shop that the two of them shared.
The shopkeeper took a deep breath and tipped back the bottle for the second time. He winced as the potion hit his taste buds, and a strained tear traveled down his face. The ghost was trembling now, and if he could have retched, he would have. Seeing that pained expression on his brother — it wasn't fair. His brother deserved to die laughing, mid-joke, just like the ghost had.
The thought crossed his mind — that maybe he should let his brother join him in death. They could decide together how to tackle the afterlife. It would be natural that way, as twins weren't supposed to separate.
But he hadn't been dead long enough to lose his earthly instincts.
"George. Please don't." The ghost stepped out from behind the boxes, revealing himself to his brother.
George's eyes widened and he spat out the remaining unswallowed potion. "Fred? Bloody hell—"
"Just put it down, okay?" asked Fred, holding up his transparent hands. "Death sucks, you don't want to do it."
George gaped at his brother, and his drooping eyes struggled to stay open. "What are you doing here? You came back?" His brother's eyes watered and his voice broke, yet his tone dripped with disappointment. As if coming 'back' was a moral failure.
And it was — at least according to the living. He was always taught that only certain folks chose to stay behind: those with unfinished business, cowards who were afraid of the afterlife, and apparently, twins who had left behind their better halves.
"You're not happy to see me?" asked Fred.
"Why-why did you come back?"
"To check on you!"
"You shouldn't have! I'm fine!" projected George as he shoved the now-corked bottle across the desk, out of reach.
"No, you're not fine! You were about to mix Dreamless Sleep with Firewhiskey. Have you gone mad?"
George narrowed his eyes. "You would have done the same."
"True. And you would have come back too."
Fred's words hung in the air, unacknowledged because they both knew it was true. He absolutely would have done the same, and he might have just done much worse by revealing himself and solidifying his place on earth… forever.
And had George been the one to die in battle, he wouldn't have been able to leave his brother behind. Fred just knew. It wouldn't matter what world they were in, afterlife or mortal, as long as they were together. It was a twin thing. "Couldn't live without me, could you?"
George raised an eyebrow, and Fred was pleased to see the color returning to his face. "Couldn't die without me?"
"Touché."
Fred approached his brother but paused before he reached the desk. He was tempted to embrace George, but he knew it wouldn't bode well. They'd have to think of a new way of greeting one another that didn't involve elaborate handshakes or hugs. They'd figure it out.
George eyed his brother with suspicion, which sent a wave of self-consciousness through Fred. Their lack of embrace was an obvious signal that something was off and would never be the same. Sure, Fred was back, but only a transparent, substanceless version of himself, a cloud of dust. Was it enough?
His brother answered his question by reaching across the table, grabbing the bottle of potion, and chucking it at Fred. It whooshed right through him, shattered against the back wall, and Fred breathed a sigh of relief that its contents were no longer accessible. He relaxed even further when a slow, mischievous grin spread across George's face.
Just because it wasn't the same, didn't mean it wasn't enough. "What was that for?"
"I didn't know how else to greet you," said George. With effort, his lips carved a smile, and Fred didn't want to think about how long it had been since his last genuine grin. "I'll never forgive you for this, you know," said George.
"For saving your life?"
"No. For coming back," he clarified. "Because now I will too."
It was true — by deciding to stay, Fred had in part made that decision for his brother, but it didn't sound half bad. Even an eternity could be bearable with the right company. Call it a twin thing. "Think the world can handle us wreaking havoc together forever?"
George nodded. His smile turned to a faint grin and he sank into his chair. The one sip of Dreamless Sleep seemed to be taking effect. His body drooped with exhaustion, but his eyes were bright and alive, as though something within them had been restored — probably his better half. "It'll have to."
