November bit at him, sharp-toothed and damp, its relentless chill burrowing into his bones. George Weasley found himself before the familiar oak doors he had greeted eagerly each September for seven years of his life. But he was no longer a bright-eyed student, and this was the first time he faced them alone. He did so many things alone these days. He'd left half of his soul behind these doors, half a year ago.
Merlin, twenty was far too young to be this bloody maudlin. George grasped the wrought iron rings and pushed open the doors, striding purposefully into the castle. He was an adult now, and the few students he passed in the halls stared openly at the ugly puckered flesh that had once been his ear, but they dared not do more than whisper behind their hands. War veterans, the Ministry called him and the others, but most days George felt more like a victim than a victor.
He gave the password to the stone gargoyle and fidgeted on the revolving spiral staircase all the way up to the Headmistress's office. It had been years since he'd been up here, during the Before, as he called it in the confines of his own mind, when he and Fred and Ginny were roused from sleep by the grim-faced McGonagall and told their father had been attacked during the course of his duties for the Order of the Phoenix.
She hadn't changed much since then, the stern matriarch of Gryffindor house. Perhaps a strand of two more silver in her severe bun, a few more wrinkles, but her eyes were as sharp as ever.
"Mr. Weasley," she greeted him. "Your letter was quite unexpected."
"Headmistress." He ducked his head. Now that he was here, his reason for coming seemed childish and silly. "I imagine it's a bit of an unusual request."
"Indeed," she said. "Tea?"
"Yes please."
With a wave of her wand, a plain yet elegant silver tea service floated across the room and settled upon the desk between them. A tartan-patterned biscuit tin followed. McGonagall tapped the teapot with her wand and steam issued from its spout at once.
When their cups had been filled and George had been bullied into taking a ginger newt from the tin, McGonagall surveyed him carefully. "Regarding your business here, I'd like to know how you intend to use the information you glean from your visit. I'm sure you realize it won't change anything that's happened."
George swallowed his tea a bit too fast, scalding his tongue and throat. He coughed. McGonagall conjured a napkin for him. When his fit had subsided, he took a smaller sip of tea and considered her question. It was rather like asking a father for his daughter's hand in marriage.
"I need closure," he said finally. "I'm sure you can understand that."
McGonagall smiled. It was small and sad. "I can," she said. "But I'm not sure this is the way to go about it. Are you familiar with the term 'hatstall,' Mr. Weasley?"
"Isn't that when the Hat can't decide between two houses? They're rare, aren't they? I don't think I saw one at all during my Hogwarts days."
"Correct," McGonagall said. "True hatstalls only occur once or twice each century. The last one Hogwarts saw was in 1971. By contrast, it is relatively common for the Hat to consider the virtues of two houses, either of which might be a suitable home for the student, though it usually is able to make up its mind quickly. Were you aware I was also a hatstall, Mr. Weasley?"
Dumbly, he shook his head.
"The Sorting Hat took five-and-a-half minutes to decide whether I would be in Ravenclaw or Gryffindor. The rest, as they say, is history."
"How do you know it made the right choice?" he asked. "I mean, of course it did, in hindsight, but what if it hadn't?"
McGonagall fixed him with her hawk-like gaze. "The Sorting Hat is an ancient and powerful artifact. Surely, having observed the nature of your father's work, and the ordeal involving your sister seven years ago, you are well aware of the tendency of magical objects to become sentient after a length of time or when exposed to vast amounts of magic. The Sorting Hat has spent the entirety of its existence at Hogwarts, one of the most intensely magical buildings in the world, steeped in the combined magical signatures of hundreds of thousands of wizards over the course of centuries, increasing its ability to reason for itself tenfold." She sipped her tea. "It is my duty to ensure you understand: you may end up with more questions than answers."
"All the same, I need to know for certain."
"I thought as much." She seemed on the verge of saying more, but thought better of it. The headmistress cleared away the tea service with her wand and brought the tattered Sorting Hat down from its high shelf. It sagged a bit as she placed it upon the desk. "If you're ready, I will give you some privacy."
George nodded, throat tight. The moment was upon him, and he couldn't speak for nerves. It reminded him of his first Quidditch match; twelve years old and he'd vomited on Oliver Wood in the locker room. Fred had laughed so hard he'd cried.
"Find me in the staffroom when you've finished. And, Mr. Weasley," she added, "regardless of the outcome, I was proud to have you in my House."
"Thank you, Headmistress."
The door snapped shut behind her. The click of her shoes gradually faded away. George took a deep breath and faced the Sorting Hat. Before he could lose his nerve, he picked it up and crammed it on his head.
For a moment, George was uncertain whether the Hat would even deign to speak with him. Maybe its magic only worked when one was eleven years old. Or if they hadn't been Sorted yet.
Another Weasley? the Hat crooned. No . . . I remember you. One half of a whole.
George swallowed around the prickle in his throat. Not anymore, he thought.
"And you knew," he said bitterly.
I suspected there would come a time when destiny would separate you, yes, but I did not know what form that would take. When one has been a thing as long as I, one watches the threads of fate play out much the same as ever before.
"I don't need more of your riddles!"
No, no, you've come to be re-Sorted, haven't you? Well, you are hardly the first, and you certainly won't be the last. The Hat hummed in George's good ear. Your ambition has only grown since your Sorting, though it's dampened somewhat by grief. Oh my, yes, so much grief. But you mustn't hold on to what you were if you wish to become what you are. I told him as much . . .
"You offered him Slytherin," George said, stunned. "He never told me."
Yes, I certainly did. And you both would have excelled there. You and your siblings ached with a hunger for more than you had.
"I was Sorted after Fred. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you give me the choice?"
I knew as soon as I fell about your ears—both of them, mind you—that you would not consider being set apart from him willingly, and I am not in the habit of wasting one's time.
George took a deep breath. "So what now, then? Where would I be Sorted today?"
Young Weasley, it is so much simpler to Sort at eleven. Preconceptions exist then, yes, but at a minimum. Children's personalities are a much more malleable raw material . . .
George sensed a "but" radiating from the Hat, and remained silent.
But you are even more determined than before, to live up to his memory as much as your own. Perhaps I erred, years ago. Maintaining the status quo was as important to me then as it was to you and your brother. Not anymore, I think, if change is to be wrought in our world. George Weasley, if I were to Sort you again . . . better be "SLYTHERIN!"
The Hat shouted the last word, echoing around the office. Several of the portraits jumped, making small noises of complaint. George jumped to his feet, tore the Hat from his head and threw it upon the desk. It skidded across the polished surface and fell onto the floor, crumpled and quite silent once more.
George gulped air, his legs feeling as wobbly as though he'd been hit with a Jelly-Legs Jinx. He could feel the eyes of the portraits upon him, some muttering to each other. He forced himself to pick up the Hat and lay it back on the Headmistress' desk before stalking out.
He hardly remembered meeting McGonagall in the staffroom, stammering that he had finished and thanking her for humouring his request.
"Mr. Weasley, are you quite alright? You're pale."
"I'm fine," he said, scrubbing his hands over his face to bring back some colour.
"Dinner is about to begin in the Great Hall, if you'd like to stay."
"No, no, thank you; I really ought to be off."
McGonagall pursed her lips. "Of course," she said. "Stay in touch, Mr. Weasley."
George passed many more students on his way out of the castle, all of them heading towards the Great Hall for dinner. His gaze slid over them without seeing, without recognition. Once he had passed over the threshold of the enormous oak doors, his stride lengthened. His legs could not carry him away fast enough. Until he slammed into someone and came to an abrupt halt.
George stayed upright, but the person he had collided with gave a shriek and fell backwards onto the ground. He looked down. "Ginny! Merlin, I'm sorry, here—" George reached down and helped his little sister to her feet.
"What–what are you doing here?!" she said.
"Oh, nice to see you too," he said, more snappish than he meant to. George cleared his throat. "I had a meeting with McGonagall, but now that it's over, I'll just be going—"
"What was your meeting about?"
"I thought Ron was the nosy one, but yours seems to be getting in my business just now; might want to see to that," George said, trying for an airy tone.
Ginny narrowed her eyes. "You're the one who nearly ran me over. Must have been a hell of a meeting."
"Watch it, Gin," he said warningly.
Her face cleared as concern crowded out anger. "You're not okay," she said. "Come walk around the lake with me."
George tried to protest, but Ginny grabbed his arm and steered him away from the castle, falling into step beside him. Her cheeks and nose were pink, and tears gathered in her eyes from the chill.
"He was my brother too, you know," she said softly. "You don't get to keep him all to yourself. That's not how it works."
Maybe her shining eyes weren't from the wind.
"I don't want to talk about Fred," he said shortly. He couldn't, not on top of everything else.
"Alright," she said. "What was your meeting with McGonagall about? Thinking of becoming a teacher?"
He half-grinned at that. Him, a teacher! Fred would have died laughing—
The smile vanished. "No, I think you've got to have your NEWTs for that. Teaching's not for me."
"Okay," Ginny said cautiously. "Tell me how the shop's going, then."
"I can't," George said. He felt wrung out, and Ginny seemed to know she'd trampled all over the eggshells he'd laid down for her. "I can't, because I don't want to talk about Fred, and everything about me has been about him until—" he broke off, putting his hands over his face so his sister wouldn't have to see him cry.
George felt her small hand in the crook of his elbow, leading him forward. Ginny guided him down onto a bench, and he felt her sit down next to him. When he felt he had regained his composure, George brought his hands away from his face. Ginny conjured a cup and filled it with a quick Aguamenti.
"I know it's harder for you," she said, "but you don't have to do it alone."
He looked over at her. "You know, for as much as I don't want to talk about Fred, we're certainly talking a lot about Fred."
Ginny looked stricken, but then George laughed, and she smiled guiltily.
"What is it Auntie Muriel always says? 'Might as well be hanged for a dragon as an egg?'"
"One of those old witch proverbs. 'Curiosity killed the Kneazle,' she liked that one. 'Best thing since self-cleaning dress robes.'"
Ginny laughed. "Come on then, out with it. What did you talk to McGonagall about?"
"I sent her an owl last week, asking for a meeting with the Sorting Hat," George said.
Ginny's eyebrows furrowed. "What for?"
"Well," George said slowly, wondering how much to tell her, "I was Sorted after Fred, right? Alphabetical, see. And of course he went to Gryffindor. So when I put the Hat on, it didn't really say much, just gave me a cryptic warning about following Fred's lead. But I was eleven, and I didn't really understand it at the time; I just begged the Hat to put me in Gryffindor with Fred."
"What's wrong with that? Our family's been in Gryffindor for generations."
"I've had a chat with the Sorting Hat, just now, and it turns out Fred was offered—" George broke off. He couldn't say it aloud. To speak it would be to make it real, and he didn't think he was brave enough for that.
But Ginny seemed to know. "Slytherin," she whispered. It didn't seem as terrible in her voice, and the wind whipped it away.
George nodded. "The Hat told me if it were to Sort me today, it would have put me there." He expected her to scoot away from him, or laugh, or maybe try to comfort him. But the thoughtful look she gave him was entirely unexpected.
"I wonder," she said slowly, "what might have been if you had. I was too afraid to take the chance, separated from my whole family, when the Hat offered it to me. But if you and Fred had gone before—I might have."
Something tight unfurled in George's chest, leaving him warmer for it. "You mean—you—"
Ginny nodded. "The Hat talked about how I was the first Weasley daughter in centuries, the youngest of seven, and it sensed how much I wanted to live up to that. How Slytherin house could help me along to greatness. Set me apart from my brothers."
"Wow," George breathed, sitting back. "You, a snake—well, you did learn to fly by stealing our brooms all those years—and you're rather terrifying with that Bat-Bogey Hex—"
"Details," Ginny said, flapping her hand, and they laughed together. "Actually, I've always wondered about Percy."
"Who hasn't wondered about Percy," George muttered. "Prat."
"Remember how he was, though, before Hogwarts? Even at Hogwarts, and after, at the Ministry, he was always . . . different, somehow, from the rest of us."
Ginny's stomach growled, giving them both pause. "Come up to the castle for dinner," she said, getting to her feet.
"Oh, no Gin, I really should be getting back—"
"You can't use that on me; I know the shop's closed on Mondays." And Ginny gave him a look so reminiscent of their mother he gave in and trudged along back up the castle beside her.
It felt surreal to be sitting at the Gryffindor table with Ginny, just like his school days. At the same time, he was uncomfortably reminded of exactly where Fred's body had lain after the battle. He picked at his food, cutting it up as precisely as Potions ingredients and pushing it around his plate. His appetite hadn't really come back since Fred's death, but he supposed he'd better eat. The sausage felt rubbery in his mouth as he chewed, staring over at the sea of green ties at the Slytherin table. George wondered what it would have been like, to sit among them. He saw tiny Slytherin first years, chatting animatedly, unafraid. He vaguely remembered booing new Slytherins during so many Sortings after his own, and felt a bit guilty.
"It's not anything to be ashamed of, you know," Ginny went on. "Ever since Harry came out and said he was nearly sorted into Slytherin—"
George choked on a bit of sausage. "Excuse me?" he said hoarsely, between gulps of pumpkin juice.
"Yes, didn't you know? It was all over the Daily Prophet last summer. Harry spoke at Draco Malfoy's trial and he mentioned the Sorting Hat had strongly considered Sorting him into Slytherin, but he asked to be placed in Gryffindor instead. Bit of a nasty shock for everyone; Harry never told anyone but Dumbledore."
George reeled. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, in Slytherin? It was impossible.
"You could ask him about it," Ginny said with a shrug. "He's a lot more open about some things, now." She wiped her mouth on a napkin and fixed George with an intense look. "There's a Hogsmeade visit this weekend. We could meet up with you at the Three Broomsticks, if you like."
"Alright," George said slowly. "I could probably leave Verity in charge of the shop for a few hours."
George Flooed to the Burrow for dinner on Friday evening. It was a standing invitation for all the Weasley children, and George faithfully took full advantage of not having to cook or order takeaway. Occasionally Bill and Fleur would come by, and twice Percy had invited Oliver Wood to join them, and George had brought Lee Jordan round once as well after a grueling inventory of the shop. This Friday, though, it was just him and Percy.
The Burrow was quieter these days. George wondered how his parents kept from going mad, or if they were relieved to finally have the house to themselves. The silence made him supremely uncomfortable, and he had to restrain himself from setting off Dungbombs or Filibuster's No-Heat, Wet-Start Fireworks for old times' sake. Bill and Fleur were well-settled at Shell Cottage, Charlie was still in Romania, and George spent most nights at his own flat in Diagon Alley. Ron was staying with Harry in the dormitories provided for Auror recruits, and by all accounts was excelling at Auror training. Ginny, of course, was still at Hogwarts. Percy was the only of the Weasley seven actually staying at the Burrow currently, and he had never been one to make unnecessary noise.
George found Percy reading in the sitting room after dinner. George flopped down on the sofa.
"Perce, did the Sorting Hat offer you anywhere other than Gryffindor?"
Percy peered curiously over the top of his book. "Obviously," he said. "It said I was the most difficult Weasley to place up to that point. It considered both Ravenclaw and Slytherin for me before finally deciding upon Gryffindor."
"How—" George cleared his throat. "How seriously did it consider putting you in Slytherin?"
"Very seriously," Percy said, nodding. "It would have placed me there without hesitation if I hadn't requested Gryffindor."
"You too?" George said faintly. "You, me, Fred, and Ginny could have all ended up in the house of the snakes?"
"Frankly, I'm a bit shocked all of us ended up in Gryffindor," Percy said. "The odds on it must be astronomical." He looked thoughtful, as though he might like to break out his old Arithmancy textbooks and actually calculate the probability.
"Why? Mum and Dad were both Gryffindors."
"Well, yes, but our grandmother Cedrella was a Black before she married Septimus Weasley, and she was a Slytherin. And Great-Aunt Lucretia was in Slytherin as well. We aren't as far removed from Slytherin house as you might think."
George's mouth hung open. How could he not have known this? He'd just assumed the Weasleys and the Prewetts were all Gryffindors. Everyone said so.
"Would it really have been so bad? Slytherin?"
George recoiled. It wasn't simply a matter of wearing a green tie instead of a red one. Would Fred still be alive? Would this be just another way George would torture himself, alone in his flat?
But Percy went on, almost wistfully. "If I recall correctly, I wouldn't have had any real competition for prefecture in Slytherin during my Hogwarts career, and I certainly would have still been Head Boy. Alright, so our family have been blood traitors for ages, but the Prewetts and the Weasleys are still technically part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, which ought to count for something. I think if we were Slytherins we might have influenced the perception of what it means to have 'proper wizarding pride.'"
"That sounds like a load of bollocks to me," George said hotly. "What should it matter what colour our ties were in school? People should judge us by our actions."
"You're naïve to still believe in Dumbledore's idealistic rubbish," Percy scoffed. "People have always judged us by our poverty, our family name, our blood status. Perception is and always will be reality."
"Then why didn't you take the Sorting Hat up on its offer?"
"For that very reason," Percy said, clearly exasperated at what he saw as George's refusal to understand. "In the political climate of the wizarding world, choosing Gryffindor opened far more doors for my future than Slytherin ever could, unless I wanted to become a Death Eater, of course. The fact of the matter is the Ministry looks far more positively upon Gryffindor applicants than those who were in Slytherin. They wouldn't want to hire a Slytherin who turned out to be a spy for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It would reflect poorly upon the Ministry. Why take the chance? No, no, Gryffindor was a far more sensible choice."
"How very Slytherin of you," George said coolly.
"Look, in the end it doesn't matter. You were in Gryffindor, just like the rest of us. Choosing to be upset over it now is absurd." Percy stood up. "I'm going to bed."
George folded his arms and didn't wish Percy good night.
George woke up in his childhood bedroom, remnants of his school days still pinned to the wall in the form of Quidditch posters, Gryffindor pennants, and assorted photographs. He'd gotten used to waking up alone in the flat after six months, but waking up here, in the blurry state between sleep and wakefulness, he glanced over and was struck so viscerally by the loss of Fred it felt like a physical blow. He wanted nothing more but to roll over and lose himself in dreams again, even if now they featured people with blurred faces in green and silver, rather than crimson and gold.
George dragged himself out of bed and Flooed to the shop, and only just made it ten minutes later than usual. Lee Jordan was already there, doors open, tea in a paper cup waiting by the register. Lee had been a lifesaver since Fred's death, stepping up his hours at the shop and making sure to catch the important things that often slipped George's mind. But George knew Lee's true ambition was to work for the WWN. He kept waiting for Lee to turn in his notice and leave him adrift. He couldn't run the shop alone. George felt a fresh wave of longing for Fred and disappeared into the back room.
He puttered around restlessly, trying to get some development done on the new products he was working on, but he kept getting distracted and frustrated. Around noon he gave it up as a bad job and covered Lee's lunch break before Apparating to Hogsmeade.
The village already had a light dusting of snow on the ground and the thatched roofs of the shops. Smoke curled from chimneys, and packs of students wearing every tie colour roamed the streets, laughing as though the chill couldn't touch them. Zonko's was still boarded up, as it had been two years ago, but now a For Sale sign had been pasted in the window.
George entered the Three Broomsticks in a flurry of dried leaves and snowflakes. He was a bit early, but even before the door had swung closed behind him he saw his sister and her boyfriend waving cheerily at him from a booth in the corner. He crossed the floor of the pub to join them.
"Hey, Gin," he said, nodding at her. "Harry."
"Good to see you," Harry said with a grin.
The couple already had a pair of butterbeer bottles in front of them. Rosmerta swept over to take his order.
George briefly considered ordering a firewhiskey, but it was a workday. He really ought to keep his wits about him. Every time he ordered a drink nowadays he felt the siren song of alcohol seep into his blood, crooning how lovely it was to numb the grief. George ordered a butterbeer instead.
"So," George said. "Slytherin, then."
Harry nodded. "Ginny told me you met with the Sorting Hat."
"Yes," George said. "I didn't realize the Hat had wanted to place Fred in Slytherin. I was Sorted after him, and it Sorted me into Gryffindor at once."
"And you're upset you didn't have the choice?"
"No, it's not that," George said, frowning. "I just never thought of myself, at all. I was always a part of Fred, and he was a part of me. And I never thought he would be in Slytherin."
"You're right. He wouldn't have."
"But the Sorting Hat—"
"Fred chose Gryffindor, and that made all the difference, see?"
George shook his head. Rosmerta delivered his butterbeer and he sipped it gratefully.
"Dumbledore thought we Sort too soon," Harry said. "But I disagree. I was offered Slytherin at eleven, but I begged for Gryffindor instead. Being in Gryffindor made me into who I am. Being in Slytherin would have made me a different person, but that's not necessarily a bad thing."
"It's not?" George said doubtfully. "From what I saw, Slytherin corrupted everyone. Don't you remember that Slytherin bint who tried to turn you over to You-Know-Who?"
"We all have to make our choices and live with them," Harry explained. "Peter Pettigrew was a Gryffindor, and he was a coward who sold out my family to Voldemort." George flinched, but Harry went on, counting on his fingers. "Dumbledore himself wasn't perfect. He fell in with Grindelwald as a teenager and might have become a tyrant if he hadn't witnessed his sister's death. To his dying day, he never knew if his was the curse that killed her. My own father was a bully.
"But Andromeda Tonks was a Slytherin who turned her back on her family's pure blood mania to marry the love of her life, a Muggleborn. Regulus Black, also a Slytherin, became a Death Eater and tried to seek out and destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes, before the prophecy was made and before I was even born. Narcissa Malfoy lied to the greatest Legilimens who ever lived to save her son's life, and mine. And Severus sodding Snape turned spy for Dumbledore for sixteen years to honor my mother's memory." Harry shrugged. "Not all Gryffindors are lions, and not all Slytherins are snakes."
"Aren't you," George began, licking his lips, "I don't know, just always seeing the best in people?"
"People are flawed. Gryffindors and Slytherins both. Sirius once told me 'the world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters,' which I think might have been the wisest thing he ever said to me, though I didn't think so at the time."
And just like that, it finally clicked into place. "I think I could have done it," George said slowly. "If Fred was there. If you and Ginny and Percy were there."
"No one is immune to evil, George," Harry said. "We all have both dark and light inside of us, but we choose our fate. It doesn't choose us."
"Says the Chosen One."
"No, that's just it, see? We are free to choose, but we aren't free from the consequences of our actions," Harry said. "I chose Gryffindor over Slytherin, and by doing so I closed the door on one life I could have had. That's all."
"I bet you were ace at Divination," George said, and Harry punched his arm.
"I was rubbish and you know it."
"Seriously, you've got no business saying things that sound so wise. You're eighteen. You sound about a hundred."
Harry shrugged. "The war aged all of us."
"Except Fred," George said bitterly. "He got off easy."
An abrupt hush fell over the table.
"To Fred," Ginny said, holding up her butterbeer.
"Cheers," George said, and they clinked their bottles together.