Chapter 7

George stood in the doorway to his bedroom, leaning against the door because his legs had refused to cooperate and hold up the rest of his body. He was struck dumb, unable to move or really process information. Alicia had shown up at his flat once again but instead of carrying for him like she had on previous occasions, she'd yelled at him.

No one had yet to yell at him. His family had expressed their disappointment at how he was living. They'd tried to share their grief with him. His mother had even conveyed that his actions were adding to her grief, but no one had ever yelled at him. It was almost like they thought he was too fragile, that lashing out at him would only send him running for the bottle even more.

And, he thought as George walked out of his flat, they would have been right.

Alicia had always seen the best in him, had always believed in him. She'd once spent nearly ten hours trying to teach him some concept in charms. He'd never mastered it, not even really gotten a basic understanding of it, yet Alicia had tried, nonetheless. And here she was, finally giving up on him. He'd finally pushed away the one person he'd ever been able to before.

He truly was alone in the world. And that depressing thought sent him straight to one of the numerous pubs that lined Diagon Alley.

"And then the dragon snapped at me. Nearly took my little finger!" George exclaimed, loudly. It was early in the morning, and the pub he was in was basically empty. There was one lone figure in a booth in the corner, lost to the world. And there was the bartender, who was currently being occupied by the exceedingly inebriated George.

"And then the troll came," George continued. He was regaling the bartender with a story that he was pretty sure he'd made up. He couldn't remember ever facing off against a dragon, let alone a dragon and a troll. However, his head was far too cloudy for any coherent thought.

Suddenly, George's throat felt dry, as if his excessive talking, his wild tale weaving, was drawing out all the moisture from his body. He reached for his glass, desiring another swallow, but found it empty. He frowned, in a childish, overly exaggerated way, and then looked back up at the bartender.

"Another one of these please, kind sir," George spoke, motioning to his empty glass. He could no longer remember what it was he was drinking. It was strong, it was wet, and it was doing exactly what George wanted it to do. It was dulling his senses and fading the realities of the world.

"I think you've had enough, George," the bartender responded. He then walked further down the bar, away from George and began cleaning the surfaces at that end. George, his drunk mind unable to process social cues, stood and followed the bartender.

"I'm thirsty and would like another, please. I've got the money." To emphasize this fact, George reached into his pocket and pulled out a large amount of coins.

"It's not about money, George. It's just that, it's not even ten in the morning yet and you're already pissed. You don't need any more. Go home and sleep if off. The bar will still be here later tonight when you've sobered up a little." The bartender then walked out from behind the bar to go check on the other patron of the bar.

Still, George followed. He reached out a clumsy hand to gently place on the bartender's arm, an attempt to halt the other man's progress. However, as George stood from the bar, and walked across the sticky floor, he bashed into several tables and eventually tripped over a stray chair leg and collapsed spread-eagle onto the floor of the bar. As he fell, he knocked his head against something. Perhaps the chair he'd tripped over or the table to was at and didn't remember anything else passed that point.

Blissfully, the world went blank and George no longer had to worry about his dead brother or the fact that he'd so angered Alicia. At least not until he regained consciousness again.

"Wake up, George," the exasperated voice of his oldest brother spoke. Seconds later, George was washed with cold water. He quickly sat up, spurting and coughing up the water that he had inhaled as it washed over him. It was one of the rudest wakeups George had experienced in a while.

"What was that for Bill?" George asked once he'd gotten all the water out of his system. Aside from now feeling wet and cold, George was also experiencing a terrible, pounding headache. He was feeling like absolute crap and he didn't have the patience or inclination to deal with his brother.

Bill hadn't come out of the battles against Voldemort unscathed. He'd been attacked by a werewolf and, while he hadn't become one himself, it had left him scarred and craving raw meats. To George, it seemed like Bill's wounds had given him a sort of superiority complex in terms of tragedy. Bill Weasley had gotten over his trauma, why couldn't George? It wasn't like being slightly disfigured but still loved by a beautiful woman was any less harrowing than losing your twin, the only person you'd literally known your entire life and theirs.

"You got drunk and passed out in a bar again. I happen to know the bartender. We were at school together. He owled me to let me know so I could come and collect you," Bill explained. George sat up, realising he was currently on his couch (at least Bill hadn't agumenti-ed him on his bed. That would have taken several hours to dry out). Bill was sitting in a chair across from George, his face a clear display of the judgement and disappointment boiling within the eldest Weasley.

"Yeah. Sorry I inconvenienced you," George responded sarcastically. He rubbed his aching head, then stood slowly. There was a stalk pile of pepper up potions in his bathroom and George was in desperate need of one. His head was pounding and, if he was going to deal with his brother, he would need the pounding to stop.

"Enough George!" Bill exploded. He stood, blocking George's progress. "You're acting like a child, like you don't have responsibilities and your choices and decisions don't matter. But you have responsibilities and there are definitely consequences to the way you are acting.

"How is your business doing Are you even going in to work anymore or are you just spending all your time at the bar?"

George didn't answer his brother. Instead, he attempted to sidestep the older, and wider man, and retrieve his pepper up potion. He'd already yelled at Bill once, a few months ago when he'd last seen his family. He didn't want to lash out at his brother again, no matter how sanctimonious Bill was acting.

"And what about Mum? Have you thought about how she's dealing with all of this? Just getting used to the idea that Fred wouldn't be stopping in for dinner anymore or driving her crazy with his schemes and then she essentially loses you as well. Have I bet you hadn't thought of that, had you? No. because it's all about how George is feeling, other's feelings be damned!"

George clenched his fists, trying to maintain control over his limbs. He'd never hit Bill, at least not since he was a child, but the urge to do so now was so strong. George was worried that if he wasn't fully aware of his hands that they would act on their own accord.

However, it seemed that Bill had had enough. He pushed passed George and stalked out of the small sitting room. George assumed his brother was leaving and he was finally free to get his pepper up potion. He basically sprinted to the small bathroom and began looting through his cabinets to find his stash. When George re-emerged, the pounding in his head lessening with every second, he nearly launched himself at his brother.

Bill hadn't, in fact, left George's flat. Instead, he'd apparently gone around the flat, finding all of George's hiding places. He'd then vanished all of the contents of the various bottles and left the empty bottles for George to deal with.

"I've gotten rid of your alcohol and I'm going to lock you in your flat. If you won't change your actions for your own wellbeing, and that of your family, I guess I'll have to do it for you." Bill then turned on his heel and, this time, actually left the flat.

Bill didn't return until after work. At least, George assumed that was what his older brother had left to do. It was the responsible thing to do on a Tuesday, go to work. And Bill Weasley was nothing if not responsible. It was something that was of a slight annoyance to George before the war. The most exciting thing Bill had done was to go off to Egypt. But even that had been done responsibly. He'd waited until after he'd finished his N.E.W.T. exams, receiving top grades on all of them. He'd then gotten a well-paying job at Gringotts bank that employed him to go to Egypt and break curses at various old magical sites that were of monetary interest to the wizarding bank and it's clientele.

If it had been George, he would have left school early and gone off to Egypt on a whim, trying to make money in a maybe not entirely thought through way. He wouldn't have had a clear plan, just an idea and a lot of heart. He would have tried to make it on his own, not relying on someone else to pay for him.

George and Bill were, not exactly opposites. That title went to Percy, who would never have even thought of going to Egypt. But the brothers did not exactly see eye to eye on a lot of topics. Their current topic of disagreement, more so than any before, though, was causing George an extensive amount of pain.

Bill had removed all of George's coping mechanisms, and then locked him in his flat so he couldn't go searching for relief elsewhere. Instead, he was left in a dry apartment with only a few bottles of pepper up potion and some sparing ingredients littered throughout his kitchen. George was not a great cook but even he knew he didn't have enough of anything to make a proper meal. In addition, he wasn't sure when he'd bought the few things that cluttered the shelves but he was sure it hadn't been recently.

All of it combined to put George in a terrible mood without the resources, or really the will to do anything about it. The pepper up potion he'd downed that morning had worn off some hours before Bill returned and George had been in too much pain, both physical and mental, to heave his body off the couch and plod down the hallway to his bathroom to retrieve another potion. And, he didn't really see a point to it. His drinking was a coping mechanism, a way for him to not have to think about what he had lost and what it meant for his life now. but it was also a form of self-punishment. He hadn't been able to save Fred. He hadn't died with his brother either. In George's eyes, he didn't deserve to be a functioning, prosperous, happy person while his brother, his literal other half, was no longer even able to breath. It wasn't fair.

So, George was meeting out some sort of justice, by handicapping himself with constant drunkenness. He couldn't be functioning or prosperous while his brain was clouded by drink. And the happiness that he felt wasn't true happiness but only a façade provided by the altering effects of the alcohol.

Now that the alcohol was gone, George was using the pain of withdrawal to punish himself. His head was pounding. His eyes couldn't be opened more than a slit before the light from his windows seared his brain. His muscles hurt from his collapse earlier. He was essentially a large ball of pain, and he deserved nothing more. The only downside was that his brain was not dampened by alcohol so along with the physical pain, George was also forced to experience the mental pain of his loss.

Again, and again, as if it was trying to drive him insane, George's brain kept thinking of funny things he'd want to tell Fred, only to realise he never could. Alternatively, he was forced to think of the moment Fred had died and why George wasn't at his side to protect him. He should have known Percy wouldn't be enough. In his darker moments, George even wondered if Percy had done anything to help Fred or simply worried about saving himself.

They were all thoughts that George had successfully avoided for months by pouring countless litres of Firewhiskey, vodka, and gin on. But he didn't have any of that now. all he had was his thoughts, his physical pain, and his somewhat comfortable couch.

When Bill did return, which George thought was a little ballsy, he didn't even have the energy to get angry at his brother. He could tell that Bill was mad, though George wasn't sure why. Bill had wanted him to stop drinking and he had. Why was Bill still angry? George was pretty sure that the older Weasley was yelling at him for something? The fact that he hadn't simply bounced back after months of downing drink after drink and instead was slowly dying on his couch? Maybe? But that seemed low, even for Bill.

Whatever it was, George was too out of it from his withdrawal pains that he couldn't really process any of it.

And then, suddenly, though it may not have been as suddenly as it seemed to George, there was an angel standing over him.

"Hey Leesh. You came back," George managed to force out before he slipped into the blissfulness of unconsciousness.