Chapter 2
George emerged from his shower and was glad to find that the woman, he realised he didn't even know her name, that he had taken to bed the night before had left. He wasn't sure he was up to the battle that would have ensued had she remained. George had to get to work and he definitely wasn't about to leave someone alone in his flat. That was just asking for trouble, or someone to clean.
Once dressed, George shuffled into his kitchen and set about making him a steaming cup of tea and a pepper up potion. The night before he had drunk himself into oblivion and, despite the full night's sleep and the refreshing shower he'd had, a pounding headache was still raging through his head. The pepper-up potion would ease his headache and allow him to be somewhat productive that day.
George was always a better businessman when he wasn't rudely awoken in the middle of the night by a nightmare he couldn't shake. The nightmare always left him in, for lack of a better word, a funk that permeated every part of his life. He didn't care about anything when he was in his funk, except getting his next drink so he could forget what he had dreamed about, forget how it made him feel, and forget the current state of his terrible life.
However, when he didn't have any of those things to think about. When he had slept all night and not been reminded of his loss, he cared a little bit more about his business. After all, it was the only thing keeping him in drink and keeping a roof over his head. If he didn't have a job, he'd have to become a sober bum and that would be good for no one.
Today also happened to be the day that George would find out how much money he'd made in the back-to-school shopping season. Aside from Christmas, back-to-school was always Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes most profitable time as young, eager students stocked up on havoc-wreaking devices for their upcoming voyage to Hogwarts.
George balanced some toast on top of the cups of tea and pepper up potion and slowly moved into his living room. He sat down on the couch and tucked into his small breakfast. In the past, George would also take this time, the rare occasion when he was awake early enough in the morning to have extra time before he needed to get to work, to peruse the newspaper. However, he hadn't paid his subscription for the Daily Prophet in several months and the rather grouchy owl that delivered the paper before had long since stopped coming. Though maybe that was a good thing; George was pretty sure the owl was plotting out ways to torture him. While the owl had still been coming, it had started dropping the newspaper in awkward, inopportune places and nipping at George until he received both a tip and a treat. And they were not gentle nips, but bites that almost took out chunks of George's skin.
When he finished his slightly sad, lonely, owl and paperless breakfast, instead of cleaning up the mess, George left the used dishes on his small coffee table and headed out the door. He had just enough time to get downstairs and might even beat Brian to work. That would be the first time in months that George had done that, but he was in a rare, surprisingly good mood.
"Morning Mr. Weasley," Brian said, surprised to see George standing behind the counter of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. There had been one morning, after George had consumed a notably large amount of alcohol, where he hadn't been able to make it to his flat and slept in the shop instead. It had been a bit of a rude awaking when Brian had come in to work the next day.
"Morning Brian. Lovely day isn't it!" George exclaimed. Brian was standing in the doorway, almost as if someone had petrified him, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes blinking in quick succession. George was momentarily worried that he'd somehow given the boy a heart attack. "Brian? Is everything okay?"
"Umm, yes, sorry," Brian said, coming back into himself, "I just didn't expect to see you here this early." However, Brian still didn't move.
"Well, today's the day we get the back to school report. It's an important day, so I made sure to get a good sleep last night and a hearty, healthy breakfast this morning." George responded, he was shuffling around papers behind the counter. Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes contracted out their financial matters to a small mousy witch. George sent her the books at the end of every month and after she'd acquired a few months' worth of sales and expense reports, she complied a report to show George how the business was going, what products were selling well, which weren't, and how the shop could maximize profits.
"Where is it?" George muttered under his breath. The last time he'd received one of these reports, just before the Battle of Hogwarts, it had been delivered by an owl who'd left it on the countertop for George and his brother to find when they arrived on the morning. He'd been expecting the same thing this time around, but he'd gone through the stack of papers at least twice and saw nothing that even remotely resembled an expense report.
A slight wave of panic began to build in George. Though both twins were so very similar, Fred had always been a little better with the facts and numbers part of their enterprises. George was more of the idea guy, head a little more in the clouds. They had decided, when they went into business together that, while they would both play equal parts in all aspects, Fred would handle the more practical aspects while George handled the more abstract and creative. Fred had been the one responsible for the expense reports; this was the first one George was responsible for and he'd already gone and lost it.
"Can I help you?" Brian asked, suddenly appearing at George's shoulder. George could feel his muscles constricting and tensing. The dark feelings that had become so present in his life for the past few months, and that George had managed to stave off for the morning, began pressing in upon him once more. His anger began to rage and, with no one else in the vicinity, George took it out on the timid boy.
"Bloody hell Brian! Can't you do anything without someone holding your hand? Bugger off and get some work done. I've just temporarily misplaced something! I don't need your bloody help!" George, who was almost a head taller than Brian, towered over the man, his teeth gritted, his hands clenched, and his face rapidly turning red. He could feel the veins in his forehead begin to protrude as the muscles in his face constricted with the rage that was coursing through his veins.
Brian cowered at George. He hid his face in his hands as he hurried off into the shop. George didn't watch him go. He was once again alone, a state he much preferred. He returned to shuffling the papers, desperately looking for the report that should have been there. With each passing second, George's desire to down drink after drink only mounted.
'As soon as I find that bloody report I'm going to the bar," George thought to himself.
"Urrgh!" he cried in frustration throwing the stack of papers he'd had in his hands up in the air. As they fluttered to the ground, George made a beeline for the door. This day had started off so perfectly. It had seemed that George was back to his old self, and then it had gone all downhill from there. Why did George even try? Even good days quickly became bad days. There was no point in trying to have a good day anymore.
As George closed his hand around the doorknob, a light hoot sounded behind George. Slowly, the tall ginger-haired man turned and saw an elegant owl sitting on the register, a scroll tied neatly to his leg. George paled. It was the owl with his report. He hadn't lost it; the owl just hadn't delivered it.
"Isn't this just bloody fantastic," George muttered to himself as he went to retrieve the report. It was too late to change his mood though. George had already gone dark and only a lot of whiskey would make it a little better. He clutched the report to his chest and headed out into Diagon Alley. He didn't acknowledge Brian or let him know his plans. He just left.
George trudged through Diagon Alley, though the shopping district was empty this early on a Wednesday morning. The trudging was more emotional than physical. He was trudging through his sour mood more so than an actual crowd.
Normally, fresh air would be a boon to a mood. When George was a child and feeling upset, he would go run around the grounds of the Burrow for a few hours and then he would feel better. Recently though, even fresh air couldn't lift his spirits. All his brief walk to the pub did was make him a little tired and increased his desire for a stiff drink.
"Morning, George. You're here awfully early this morning," the barkeep commented. He was still standing behind the bar, the same spot that he had been at the night before. He was, as he seemed to perpetually be, scrubbing away at various different glasses.
"Rough start," George muttered as he sidled up to the bar. "Whatever's cheap," he said in response to the slightly questioning look that the barkeep was giving him. George had been in the pub countless times over the past few months but he had yet to learn, or perhaps it was remember, what the man who served him was called. He momentarily thought about asking for it but was deterred by the thought about how potentially awkward that would be.
The barkeep smiled a sad, slightly tight smile at George. It was a pitying look, but the ginger haired man didn't care. People could pity him all they wanted. The barkeep then slid a glass filled with amber liquid towards him and George quickly downed it.
"Another," he said gruffly. Once his second drink was poured, George turned his attention to the parchment he had in his hands. He took a few contemplative sips of the alcohol and slowly opened the paper. He wasn't sure what he was expecting to see, the war had done some damage to the sales of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, as they'd had to close for a while and people had been too terrified to leave their homes, but Fred and George had already received that report. Surely, George thought, this one would bear much better news. It had been a warm summer and people had been exited to get out, visit with old friends, and share in the joy of having survived a terrible time. George didn't have a very clear memory of the store, but he felt like it had been busy, like he'd been kept active helping customers. Maybe they wouldn't have stellar profits, as they were still recuperating, but surely there should be some profit.
"What!" George exclaimed, spitting out the mouthful of spirit he'd been drinking. His eyes scanned the document once more, hardly believing what he was seeing.
'Negative? I lost money. How'd I do that? I only have to pay Brian and I didn't make any new things. All I did was sell stock we already had. How can I have lost money?' George thought to himself. He'd been in a bad mood when he'd thought he'd lost the report. Now he was downright despondent.
"You all right there George?" the barkeep asked. Even though George was the only patron at that moment, the other man had been busy cleaning and preparing for lunch when George had rather rudely expelled liquid all over the nice clean bar.
"Fine, just got something in my throat. I'll have another," George swirled his now empty glass. "And you can leave the bottle."
'Nothing good in my life lasts,' George thought as he downed gulp after gulp of the burning liquid. His brother was dead. His business was going belly up. George wasn't sure what else he had to loose but he was no doubt going to lose that too. It was only a matter of time at this rate.
George quickly lost count of how many drinks he took after his fifteenth, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Not anymore.