Chapter 1

George raced through the hallways of Hogwarts castle. Somehow, in the heat of battle, he and Fred had gotten separated. The last time they hadn't been together when they were facing off against Lord Voldemort and his sect of crazed supporters the Death Eaters, George lost an ear. He didn't want something worse to happen because they didn't have each other's backs. As twins, they'd always had each other's backs. George had never been worried in battle because he knew Fred was by his side, protecting him from danger just as George was by Fred's side doing the exact same thing.

Finally, he found his twin and their older brother Percy in one of the various towers of the castle. The pair were squatting on either side of a window, taking turns to shoot curses out of the small opening at enemies below in the grounds. Both looked exhausted and were covered with a few scrapes and bruises. Fred had a small stream of blood running down between his eyes from a gash on his forehead. Percy, who normally prided himself on being put together, had rips in his shirt and pants. He'd long ago lost the waist coat he'd been wearing and his glasses were askew and broken. Behind the broken glasses, Percy was sporting a black eye. However, despite their dishevelled demeanour, neither Weasley looked defeated. In fact, both had a gleam in their eyes.

George smiled, relieved that he had been reunited with his twin, his other half. He took a step forward to join the pair. As soon as his foot contacted the ground, the world exploded. Debris, bits of stone from the wall, dust, and other detritus came flying at George. On instinct, he threw up his arms to protect his head from the onslaught. He also somehow managed to cast a protection spell on himself, though he didn't remember it.

After several seconds, when he no longer felt things falling onto his shield, George slowly lowered his arms to take in the sights before him. At his feet was Percy, safely within the confines of the shield charm. Aside from the injuries he'd possessed before, he looked no worse for wear. George's gaze then travelled forward and the sight that met him sent him to his knees.

In amongst the rubble was the broken body of his twin brother, his other half…

George awoke with a start. He was lying in a pool of sweat and he could feel his heart beating fast in his chest. The dream slowly faded away from him, until all he could remember was the sense of panic and absolute defeat.

He'd been having the same dream for several months now, ever since the war. And in every iteration, every time he experienced it, it always ended the same. George would get to his brother literally only seconds before his brother died and all he could do was watch it all happen. Then he would wake up, in a blind panic, and feel the loss all over again. It was almost worse than when it actually happened.

George lay in his bed, as still as possible, listening to the world around him. Everything was quiet, which made sense as it was the middle of the night, and George was hoping that he could lull himself back to sleep. He'd tried the same thing every night since he'd started having the dreams, but he had yet to actually fall back asleep. Instead, he would just lay in bed for a few hours, eventually give up and get up, then be tired and grouchy all day. It was a vicious cycle.

This time, George only tried to fall back asleep for about ten minutes. It had been two months of this same old song and dance and George was, frankly, frustrated. So, with a loud groan, he pulled himself up out of the bed and shuffled through his flat towards the kitchen. If he was going to be awake at this godforsaken hour, he would definitely need a strong tea, or an awakening draught. Instead, he found his half drunk bottle of whiskey sitting on the table.

Something inside of George called out to the whiskey. It was a numbing substance. When he consumed it, the large, overwhelming feelings that wracked his body and soul became a little bit easier to handle. He felt them a little less, felt like he could get through his day. The whiskey helped him, and, as he stood in his kitchen having just awoken from yet another nightmare that left him wracked with guilt, sorrow, and devastation, his soul needed the numbing effects that the whiskey provided.

Without a second thought, and his search for tea forgotten, George grabbed the bottle, and began searching out a glass. Saying that his kitchen was in a state of disarray was putting it nicely. Takeaway containers littered almost every surface: counters, table, and even the floors. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink and near the sink and on any surface that wasn't taken up by trash. George had let a lot of things go in the past few months but, when you lost a piece of yourself, what did a dirty kitchen really matter?

Giving up on finding a clean glass, George simply removed the lid and took a large swig of the burning liquid. He momentarily thought about cleaning up the kitchen, it would only take a few quick spells, but then he decided that even that wasn't worth the effort and instead continued downing gulps of whiskey. The drink slowly began to have its desired effect, but it also made George a little wobbly, so he meandered his way into his sitting room and collapsed on the couch.

The living room was only a shade neater than the kitchen in that at least there wasn't any detritus on the couch. The floor was covered in dirty cloths, bits of crumpled up paper, more empty takeaway containers, and other garbage that was no longer identifiable.

George decided that he would let this mess go as well and took another long, swig of the whiskey. He was rapidly approaching the bottom of the bottle but with each continued mouthful he cared less and less. About the mess. About his quickly diminishing quantity of alcohol. About the fact that his twin brother was dead. Nothing mattered expect for the warm, happy feeling coursing through his veins.

/3

"Mr. Weasley?" a slightly timid voice asked. It was accompanied by a rather rhythmic poking sensation that George found both soothing and annoying. He waved his arms around haphazardly; his coordination was a little impaired at the moment. George did finally connect his hand with something hard and the poking stopped.

"Ouch. Mr. Weasley. I'm sorry but you need to get up," the timid voice asked again. Slowly, George came to realise that he recognized the timid voice, though he couldn't place where he knew it from. With a greater deal of effort than George thought was necessary for such a small action, George pried open his eyes.

Standing several feet away and rubbing a slightly red spot on his cheek, was George's loyal, if slightly annoying, employee, Brian Smythe. George had hired Brian a few months before things with Voldemort got really bad and the lad had stuck it through with Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes in the trying months since then. George was appreciative for the boy's work ethic and stick-to-it-ness, but he was annoyingly timid and terrified of almost everything.

"What are you doing here Brian?" George asked. His speech was slightly slurred, though George wasn't sure that Brian would have noticed. He slung his feet over and sat up from his lying down position. George began to rub his head, which was a strange combination of cloudy and slightly painful. He wasn't hungover yet, but he was quickly on his way to that stage.

"Umm- well- it's- a- it's half past ten. The store should have opened up over an hour ago," Brian said. As he spoke, he refused to meet George's questioning gaze. George groaned, partly because of the terrible way he was feeling, and partly because of Brian's absolute lack of a spine. Sometimes, George just wished the boy would be forceful and demand that George shape up. This was the third time that week alone that Brian had been forced to climb up the stairs from the shop below to George's flat, wake the man up, and drag him back down to the store.

George had contemplated giving Brian the keys to the store. That way the store could open, George could drink the night and day away and not have to wake up to go to work, and things would be just peachy keen. However, George was always held back by the fact that, even when drunk, George was a better business and salesperson than Brian. The lad was just far too timid.

"Okay Brian, get me a pepper-up potion. There should be one in the kitchen. I'll get dressed and we'll be good to go in no time," George tried to smile rakishly at the boy but, in his drunken state it came out more like a grimace. The red haired man then stood from the couch, grabbing his nearly empty whiskey bottle as he went. He took a large swig of the warm liquid as he stumbled through his flat. If the pepper-up potion didn't work, he could easily cure his hangover by just drinking more. You couldn't be hungover if you were still drunk, after all.

/3

George was finally somewhat functional, and in clean clothes by 11:00 am. He was two hours late to open the store, but that wasn't really that strange. Ever since the war, the second Battle of Hogwarts, the hours of operation sign on the front of the store was more of a guideline than anything. George regularly opened an hour or two late. On one occasion, he didn't open up until after 3:00 in the afternoon. He'd also often close early, owing to his desire to make it to happy hour at the pubs in Diagon Alley.

If George was in a caring mood, he might have begun to realise that his behaviour was having some serious consequences on his bottom line. He only had one employee to pay (Brian was the only employee who'd stuck with WWW through the war), and he had only minimal overhead aside from his rent. However, he wasn't even open enough hours to cover those costs. Then, when he was open, people were avoiding the store because they didn't want to deal with a drunken, often times angry, George, so they stopped shopping.

However, much like the state of his apartment, George didn't care about the state of his business. If it weren't for Brian's daily wake-up call, George probably wouldn't even open the store at all. What was the point of caring? Fred was gone; there was no longer a point to anything.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," the woman George had been helping spoke. She said it so quietly it came out only slightly more audibly than a whisper, but George still heard it. He knew the woman was well-meaning, people didn't usually express sorrow out of malice, but George's current state was one that did not accept pity, sorrow, or any other emotion from others. He didn't want her being sorry for him. He didn't want to have something that others were sorry about. He wanted things to be back to the way they were before.

"Yes. Absolute tragedy," George muttered, though his tone was harsh and angry instead of sad. He then turned and yelled over his shoulder. "We're closing up Brian. I'll see you tomorrow!" He then turned on his heel and left the woman standing in the same spot, her hands full with various prankster related objects she'd been trying to decide from. George didn't care that she probably would not buy anything now. all he cared about was making the aching feeling her words had brought forth stop. And the only way he'd found that made that happen was to drown it in alcohol.

As soon as his feet hit the pavement of Diagon Alley, George felt himself carried down the cobblestone street towards one of the many pubs that dotted the wizarding shopping street. There hadn't been quite so many drinking establishments in Diagon Alley when Fred and George had set up their business, but, as occupants had disappeared throughout the war and people had become more and more depressed with the state of things, pubs had begun to spring up like daisies in the springtime. Now, George had his pick of about six different pubs to choose from, one for every night of the week except Sunday. And on Sunday, George would just return to one he'd already frequented earlier in the week.

That night's pub of choice was a small, dark structure. It only had one window that looked out onto the street and the lights within the bar were barely turned on. The interior matched George's soul so exquisitely that the pub, The Thestral's Trough, had quickly become one of his favourites. He frequented it when he wasn't up for the cheerier drunken atmosphere of the other pubs that lined the alley.

"Firewhiskey, neat. And keep them coming, Gerry," George called to the barkeep as he walked into the small pub. He took a seat at the bar, though there were booths and tables a plenty as the pub was nearly empty. It was only a quarter after four. Most people were still at work and wouldn't show up for a pint or two for a few more hours. Gerry, the almost mute barkeep, nodded. George had been in the pub often over the past few months and had yet to receive more than a nod or a grunt from the sullen man who tended bar. It had become a short of mission of shorts for George, to get Gerry to say at least one word.

Gerry placed a glass down in front of George and then proceeded to give him a generous poor. George contemplated telling the other man to just leave the bottle, but hesitated. If the bottle was there, George would drink way more than if he had to ask for a new drink when he finished his current one. He'd already had whiskey that morning after he'd woken up from his nightmare. Too much of a good thing usually ended up bad. Best to pace himself.

/3

Despite not having the bottle seated next to him, George still managed to get absolutely rat-faced. He was a fairly jovial drunk, as if the alcohol was trying to rebalance thing and bring back the personality George had possessed a few months ago. Then, he'd been a jokester, hadn't taken life too seriously, and found joy in the small things. Now, George found joy in nothing and couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed, let alone pulled a prank or indulged in some mischief-making.

After about five generous glasses of Firewhiskey, and with the arrival of other people, George got up from the bar and began joking and singing, very off-key, with the other men and women who had filled the bar. His last clear memory of the evening was him and a very attractive woman getting up on one of the tables and dancing around together. The dance had begun as a good-natured silly moving of their bodies but had quickly escalated into something much more seductive and sexual. George remembered the young woman rubbing her thin body up against his, but then everything went blank.

"Morning," a sultry voice spoke in George's ear. He felt the warmth of another human pressed against him and the warmth of sunlight filtering through his window. He smiled as he realised that he'd slept through the night without a dream about not being able to save Fred.

"Morning to you," George spoke, opening his eyes and rolling over to see the same young woman who had been dancing with him on the table before his memory went blank. Her was mussed but otherwise she looked just as attractive as she had the night before, as if she'd redone her makeup before she'd woken him up. For his part, George didn't really care. She'd served her purpose the night before and kept his nightmares at bay. She could have looked like a troll and George still would have felt the same sense of peace.

"Whelp. I've got a business to run," George spoke, slowly getting out of bed and heading off to his bathroom. He hoped the woman in his bed would get the hint and have vacated his bed before he was finished his shower. Sometimes, the women he brought home figured it out but more often than not, they were still lying in bed, looking a little hurt or offended when he re-emerged.

George was never sure why. He didn't lead these women on. Their interactions didn't go beyond one night. And yet, so many of them seemed to think that they should be getting more from him. But he didn't need or want more. All he needed was a warm body beside him so that he could sleep without his nightmares. He wasn't sure why it helped. He only knew that it did, and so he kept doing it. But having a warm body in his bed for more than one night often meant there were other, more emotional expectations, and George definitely wasn't up for that.

That was why he broke it off so quickly. There was no way they could think that there would be more when he basically kicked them out of his bed as soon as he woke up in the morning. He was all about catch and release when it came to romantic entanglements these days.

George stepped into the warm water of his shower and let the liquid bathe his body and soul. He wasn't able to find someone to go home with him every night, which was why he still had nightmares on most nights. However, when he was, for the day afterwards, he was almost back to the old George, and the water washing over him acted like a symbol of that cleansing.

"Well. Goodbye. See you again!" the woman called from the other side of the door, a little apprehensively.

"Goodbye forever," George responded. As he said it, a ghostly feeling came over him. For the briefest of moments, George wasn't saying those words to the woman exiting his flat, but to the other half of himself that he was sure he would never get back.