Story Title: Rock Bottom
School and Theme: Hogwarts; Write about a bad influence
Special Rule - Single Setting
Mandatory Prompt: [word] poison
Additional Prompt: [Dialogue] "If I were to search for logic, I would not look for it amongst the English upper class."
Year: Year 2
Word count: 2983
Additional Information: For the purpose of this story, the dialogue prompt comes from a quote in a fictional book. Trigger Warning for discussion of death, war, and heavy mentions of grief.
Angelina thought she was prepared for what she was walking into. Lee tried to warn her. He'd stopped by George's flat last week to see if he wanted to go for a fly, but the lone Weasley twin put a sticking charm on the door and said, "Go away. I'm busy."
Lee told Angelina something was off but never got a glimpse inside to confirm his suspicions. The twins' flat was always open to guests. It wasn't uncommon for them to host parties every week to help unwind from the stress of work and the looming war.
George's blatant rejection of Lee's visit made the hairs prickle on Angelina's arms. Her heartbeat quickened with the anticipation of what awaited in the flat. The only inkling was the stale smell of neglect seeping through the tiny cracks along the edge of the door. It didn't take a Curse Breaker to decipher the obvious. George had taken to the bottle to numb—or perhaps drown—his grief.
Angelina couldn't blame him. How did someone even begin to deal with the loss of a person so integral to their life? The battle took so many too soon, and she knew George was struggling with Fred's death in particular. So, she could justify George's need for a drink or two to get him through the day. She could even understand if he bailed on plans. Grief was tricky to deal with.
But shutting himself in his flat and closing off the rest of the world? Refusing to see or talk to his friends or his family?
No, Angelina wouldn't stand for that.
She blasted the door to George's flat open with more force than was probably necessary. She'd be damned if George tried to shut her out too.
"Oi!" George lay sprawled out on the cognac leather sofa, a half-open bottle of Firewhiskey dangling by the neck between his thumb and index finger.
Angelina expected to see a sulking George on the couch with a drink in his hand, listening to something on the wireless to distract himself. She imagined walking in to see a few neglected dishes in the sink or maybe a hamper of overflowing laundry by the floo, waiting for Molly to come and take when she checked on her grieving son. But this was worse than anything she'd ever seen since the twins moved in.
Angelina's jaw dropped. "What the hell, George?"
The twins were never the tidiest, but things were always clean. She could remember countless parties at their flat where spirits were on display in the kitchen, waiting to be poured, and Dragon Pong was set up on the dining table. Jackets were thrown over the armchair in the corner and guests mingled in various groups. The wireless thrummed with Quidditch matches or the latest Weird Sisters album, even though it often couldn't be heard over all the boisterous laughter.
The current scene was a far cry from the memories she'd been clinging to. Takeaway containers covered every flat surface, piling on top of each other instead of making it into the bin. Bright orange and purple Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes robes were strewn about on the floor, interspersed with empty bottles of all shapes and sizes. It looked like George had ventured to the Muggle liquor stores to feed his new habit—no, addiction. Labels touted Firewhiskey, vodka, rum, tequila, brandy, and a dozen other spirits.
He was definitely giving in to the grief.
She wondered which poison he'd picked today to stave off his grief when the stench hit her like the Whomping Willow. She staggered back and gagged. Stale beer and alcohol mixed with the rotten smell of the dried, forgotten meals in the takeaway boxes. Add a subtle layer of sweat, and the trifecta created a revolting cocktail of odors.
She covered her mouth with her hand and tried to remember where the bathroom was. Not that its current state was likely any better than the sitting room. "I think I'm going to be sick."
"Good. Do me a favor and leave," George slurred.
She did her best to focus on George and ignore the stench by breathing through her mouth, but it didn't help. Now she could taste days-old Chinese mixed with stale cinnamon. Would he hex her if she opened a window to let some fresh air in?
George's grief threatened to pull him into a full-blown depression if he didn't find a way out soon. Where were the other Weasleys? Was he shutting them out too?
She glared at the redhead, channeling her guilt from not checking on him sooner. Angelina needed to focus on how to pull him out of his drunken state. "Not a chance. Fred would never forgive me if I left you here to waste away."
George's lip twitched at the mention of Fred. His red-rimmed eyes narrowed as he peered at her without turning his head. "Don't say his name."
Annoyance bristled under her skin and she clenched her fists to control her temper.
"If I want to say his name, I will. Acknowledging his absence is much healthier than drinking until you pass out every night or shutting out your friends and family."
"Sounds like a git's way of dealing with things."
"No, it sounds like I'm not succumbing to the bad influence grief could have on me. How much have you had to drink today?"
"Not enough."
"Not enough?" she gaped. "Judging by the empty bottles and the rank booze cloud surrounding you, I'd reckon there's more alcohol than blood in your veins right now. Are you trying to poison yourself? Because I can think of a handful of potions that would help you go much faster than this."
Maybe it was the wrong thing to say, but Angelina didn't care. She remained rooted to the spot while George dropped the bottle he was holding. The glass clinked against another discarded bottle, cutting through the stilted, tense silence between them. He stood, most likely intending to leave her there while he disappeared into his bedroom.
"You know the way out."
Her blood boiled at his blatant avoidance. She had half a mind to take him up on his words and leave him there to rot along with his flat. How was she supposed to help him when he was this far gone? She could owl Ron or Ginny instead. They could take care of their brother.
But something stopped her. This wasn't the short stint of sadness she remembered the twins going through after Umbridge kicked them off the Quidditch team. Back then a shot of Firewhiskey in his Butterbeer could bring a smile back to George's lips. It was enough to cut through the loss.
Hot tears stung her eyes. He was broken; his face was pale and his clothes hung off his frame. His hunched shoulders told her he'd lost his way; he lacked a purpose. But he had to know he'd find happiness again, even if Fred wasn't here to share it anymore. He couldn't let the grief win.
The alcoholism was a cry for help, and she had to be the one to see him through.
"If you think I'm going to leave you here to drink away your pain, you're wrong. You can call me all the awful names you want, but I'm staying. I'm not trying to replace him, George. I just don't want to see you suffer alone. We can miss him together."
George paused and cocked his head to address her over his shoulder. "You don't get to say you miss him. You don't know what it's like," he snarled.
"I don't know what it's like?" Angelina's fist banged on the small patch of wood she could see on the dining table, making the tower of takeaway containers wobble. "Last I checked, I fought too, George! I was there. I watched people fall beside me! Do you think I don't grieve every day? Or that guilt threatens to throw me into a spiral of what-ifs every time I try and fall asle—"
George swiveled on his heel, his bloodshot brown eyes meeting hers as he bellowed, "It should have been me! Why wasn't it me?"
Angelina startled. She wasn't used to seeing him so reactive. He'd always been the quieter, more reserved twin. The one you could lock eyes with from across the room, and his grin was more telling than the words Fred would shout beside him.
George was the thinker, always plotting his next move while Fred planted the trap. But here, there were no strategic thoughts behind the actions. There were no thoughts at all, which showed how much of a strong-hold the grief had on him. George needed another, better outlet to help him process things; the alcohol wasn't helping.
And then it dawned on her. The twins had done everything together. They completed each other like wand wood and core, and now one was left without the other. George didn't know how to be without Fred. They were always Fred and George.
Whether or not George felt guilty over Fred's death, he must be lost without him. Did he think he was nothing without Fred? Just because the duo had been inseparable since birth didn't mean he was useless. George was just as smart, just as creative, just as funny as Fred. He had to know he wasn't worthless without his brother. Was the grief causing those thoughts to cement in his mind?
Angelina searched George's face, which was scrunched up in an attempt to hold back his tears. It was no wonder he'd chosen comfort in the booze. But it was only a temporary fix for the pain. He couldn't go on like this night after night; it would destroy him.
Angelina searched for the right words. He had to face the loss head-on and find a way to move past it. His survivor's guilt was justified, but he couldn't allow it to consume him. It would end up poisoning his thoughts as much as the alcohol was poisoning his body; perhaps it already had.
After a while, she spoke the only thought that kept replaying in her mind. "It could have been any of us."
George shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. He looked weak on his feet, and collapsed into the wall, sliding down the hard surface and curling into a fetal position.
"Yeah, sure." George gave a derisive laugh. "Except we had a bigger target on our backs because of our last name, because of our 'status.' Because of our red hair. So why Fred instead of me? I don't get it." His words sounded cold and disconnected, but he spoke them with such confidence. It was as if he'd thought them hundreds of times before.
"Maybe you're not supposed to. Get it, I mean," she offered.
Angelina padded towards George as she spoke, stepping in something sticky on her way. Trying not to wrinkle her nose in disgust, she tugged her foot out of the spill and waded through the mess of belongings thrown carelessly about on the floor. Old Quidditch jerseys, a beater's bat, and some knick-knacks that might be forgotten prototypes for the store littered the path to her friend.
She didn't let the clutter deter her from comforting George. He needed someone to lean on that wasn't a family member. And that someone was her.
She kicked an old Skiving Snackbox out of the way and took a seat next to George. A quote flitted through her mind as they sat in stilted silence. Though the words felt more stuffy than their situation welcomed, they could help shine a beacon of hope through George's misery if he was willing to listen.
"If I were to search for logic, I would not look for it amongst the English upper class."
Her words were soft and gentle, completely juxtaposed with George's unbecoming snort that followed.
"How am I the one that's drunk, yet you're spewing Gobbledygook."
"It's not Gobbledygook!"
"Then what's it supposed to mean?" George cocked an eyebrow, eliciting the most characteristic reaction since before the battle.
Angelina crinkled her nose at his unwillingness to decipher the statement on his own, but was thankful the quote got him listening. "Well, if you replace 'English upper class' with 'Death Eaters,' I think it makes perfect sense."
George stared at a small dent on the opposite wall, pondering her reasoning. Angelina wondered if the dent was from Fred and Lee's drunken Gobstone tossing event from six months ago. A laugh died in her throat when she caught George tapping his chin for an added dramatic effect while he thought. Her stomach lurched with a small amount of hope that maybe she was cutting through his drunken haze.
"Well, we already knew the Death Eaters were thick," he agreed with an eye roll. His hand dismissed her suggestion with a wave.
"Yes, and at the height of the battle, chances are they weren't thinking." Angelina sighed and shifted her body to face his, shoving a spilled box of Canary Creams out of her way. "I'd hazard a guess that few people on his side gave any thought to the spells they were casting. They were firing curses and hexes at anyone who was moving."
George shrugged off her reasoning but didn't try to change the subject, so she kept going.
"Fred had the same target on his back that we all did. The difference is none of us was out to kill, but the Death Eaters were. I bet you whichever Death Eater exploded the wall that crushed Fred couldn't even tell you he killed him." George opened his mouth to retort, but Angelina held up a hand to stop him. "I'm not saying it's right. Honestly, I think it makes it worse. But that's what war is. Kill the enemy.
"And that's all Fred was. That's all any of us were. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You heard Percy and Ron, it could have easily been them."
Angelina offered George a sad smile. She knew the words weren't what he wanted to hear, but sometimes the truth hurt. He'd never find his way through the stages of grief if he couldn't face the reality of the situation first.
They sat in silence for a while. George released his legs from the tight hug he'd held them in earlier. Now, his arms draped over his knees. His blank stare masked his thoughts, hindering any additional glimpses Angelina hoped to see.
He turned his head while she was studying his face for any more emotion. The movement was slow and deliberate. When his eyes met hers, sadness replaced the earlier anger of his defenses. His shoulders slumped and his hands shifted to hold his head, his fingers grasping and tugging at his hair to prevent them from shaking.
"How am I supposed to go on without him?" he finally asked, his voice trembling. "Everything I do reminds me of him. I can't even look in the mirror, Ange."
Angelina reached up to wrap her fingers around his hand and bring it closer to her. "It's okay to remember him. He'd probably find a way to come back and haunt you if you didn't."
"Yeah, he probably would." A hollow laugh escaped George's lips.
"Is that what the drinking's been about? To mask the grief? Hide the reminders?"
He nodded. "And so I don't have to feel."
"Sometimes we have to, though. No matter how painful it is. If you use the bottle to hide from the pain, you'll be joining him sooner than any of us would want. Fred included. You can't let the pain win."
George's jaw clenched before he took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. She could see the weight lifting off of his shoulders, and he sat up straighter, no longer relying on the wall to support him.
A glimmer of the old George shined in his eyes for only a second. He pursed his lips and shook his head.
"Ange, you know I've always hated admitting when you're right, yeah?"
The tiniest smile tugged at Angelina's lips. "And it gives me no greater pride than to hear you say it."
"Never. I may have let Fred's loss win up until now, but that won't make me cave any easier." A genuine laugh accompanied his stubbornness. "You know, I was determined that dimming the pain was the answer. It made it easier to forget."
"But you shouldn't forget," Angelina pressed, determined to relish in his breakthrough. "George, you can't drown in Firewhiskey. It's not going to change the fact that Fred's not here."
"I know, but it helps." George shrugged, unwilling to offer any more of a justification for his actions. Instead, he picked at something pink that had stained the carpet. "Maybe I can start focusing on something else to get me through."
Angelina sniggered. "Something that won't poison your liver?"
"If I have to," George responded with a dramatic huff and wave of his hand.
"Brilliant!" Angelina beamed. "So, how about we shift that focus now and get rid of the nasty smell in this flat. Maybe start with taking out the mounds of rubbish before I vomit?"
George groaned. "Can we go back and forget I said anything? Fred was always better with the cleaning charms."
"Well, good thing I'm here now." Angelina laughed and shook her head.
She clambered to her feet and held her hands out to help him up. This was a small step in the right direction for George. These were his first steps on the road to recovery and acceptance–a road that would help him manage his grief. The battle proved life was too short, and Angelina was determined to keep him from stumbling into the abyss that threatened to swallow him whole.
