Chapter 1: A Stir in the Air

"George? Georgie? Can you hear me? I've got so much I want to tell you. I wish I could tell you. Everything's so weird here. But that's probably because this place doesn't –really- exist, not in the way that other places do. I've been trying to get through to you for, a while now, but something's always been in the way. But, I think I got it right tonight. Just hold on, Georgie, I'll be back for you. I promise. Just wait a little bit longer. I miss you."

George sat up, gasping in a cold sweat, the blankets sticking uncomfortably to his skin where gooseflesh prickled. He got out of bed where Angelina lay, four months pregnant with their child. He didn't want to wake her with his dreams. Haunting echoes of the past that he had tried to leave behind at his brother's grave.

He'd spent three years grieving, and while things would never (could never) be the same, he'd tried to gather the pieces of who he'd been, to build again.

He made it to the kitchen before he broke down the way that no grown man should. He tried to swallow the emotion with a lukewarm cup of tea, but this wasn't something even a cuppa could solve.

"Fred-" he whispered brokenly in the darkness, fingers clenching his forearms so tightly that they would leave bruises. The tears might as well have been poison the way they tried to burn through his flesh, and perhaps they were.

He didn't remember falling into an uneasy sleep until he was jolted awake by the collision of his arse with the tiled floor. George attempted to right himself, and was paused in a precarious position that wouldn't be out of place in a game of Twisted (very much so like the Muggle game of a similar name, only decidedly more –fun) when his wife met him with a fondly exasperated chuckle.

"We have got to stop meeting like this. What will the neighbours think?" she teased, coming to stand next to him, her hand resting softly against his neck.

"Oh, I don't know, the view's pretty nice. Maybe we should think about buying the place," George said, looking up at her with a grin that had seen too much use lately, though the kiss he bestowed upon her stomach was no lie.

"George," Angelina said gently, dropping down to his level and touching his face as though he might shatter. "How many times now?"

"Counting last night? Sixteen," he replied, closing his eyes rather than meet her concerned gaze. He might break again, and there were only so many times that he could glue himself hastily together. But for the sake of his family (although the word was bitter and unpalatable when it didn't include Fred), he'd do it until the fragments of glass turned into nothing but glittery dust.

"Sixteen. George," she said softly, "you can't go on like this. He wouldn't have wanted this."

'I don't want this,' he thought but didn't say. "I know," he said instead, voice made rough through strain and stress, taking, accepting, the hand she slipped into his, but didn't squeeze back for fear that she might break, too.

"I think that you should write a letter," Angelina suggested cautiously, her other hand coming to rest on his forearm. "The worse he can say is no, and there are other apothecaries."

'But that person is the best.' George took a slow breath, and found the means to open his eyes, mostly confident that the pieces were in place, and wouldn't tumble out onto the kitchen floor like shattered marbles. "If it happens again, Ang, I will. I promise." He kissed the palm of her hand and stood. "I'm getting too old to sleep in strange positions," he laughed, though Angelina really wished that he wouldn't.

She hated the loss of his smile and laughter more than any other casualty of the War, almost more than the loss of their loved ones themselves. She'd sacrifice anything to see him smile for real again, but was selfish enough to want him with her anyway.

The next morning when he came awake with a silent scream lodged in his throat, and his pillow stained with tears, she turned to soothe him, her tone low and soft, but wouldn't let him blow it off any longer.

"I guess I have a letter to write," George said quietly, her head on his chest, his hands running erratically along the length of her spine as he fought desperately for composure.

"I guess you do," she agreed, wrapped around him like an anchor.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Since the War, Draco was very wary of many things, like unexpected visitors, sudden noises, and this now included a poorly veiled letter from a Weasley. Some might call it paranoia; Draco called it practicality. Too many years spent hiding in (and from) the shadows would do that to a person.

The only Weasley that Draco had regular contact with was Ron (as Hermione would undoubtedly always and forever remain 'Granger,' even if she'd been married to the man for several years, now), and any and all communication with the other Weasley twin, was strictly business, and came through his receptionist, cashier person, Dahlia, and never to Draco himself, so it was rather a surprise (and Draco wasn't really a fan of them), to receive a personal letter from George.

The letter, when it came, came as an entirely unplanned disruption to his daily routine.

Wary of explosions, or being bitten by objects unknown, Draco broke the seal, and tried to steel his nerves against whatever 'adventure' awaited him within the folds of parchment, and was quite taken aback when nothing caught on fire, started singing, or otherwise accosted him. Now even –more- apprehensive for the lack of mayhem he'd come to associate with Weasleys great and small, he sat down at his desk, and began to read.

'Hullo Malfoy,

I have a business proposition for you. It has come to my attention that there's been an increase in the number of cases of Dreamless Sleep addiction and allergy. So, I challenge you to create a version with less chance for abuse or overuse, and without the use of sopophorous beans, the number one ingredient that evokes an allergic response in susceptible individuals due to the alkaloids they release. I am even willing to volunteer myself as the test subject, provided, of course, that you can assure me it won't be poisonous.

Cheers!

George Weasley'

He finished, then re-read it twice more, just to make sure that he'd correctly processed what he'd just read. (Draco did many things in multiples of threes these days). Well, this was certainly strange.

Draco stared incredulously at the letter spread across the desk before him. Just who did Weasley think he was fooling with that false missive anyway? It was ridiculous to think that the owner of a joke shop would have any interest in potions for medicinal purposes. Clearly someone he knew was the –increasing number of- addicted or allergic, but, why was he trying to veil his real intentions? Draco massaged his temple in irritation.

Draco had been considering brewing a hypoallergenic variant of Dreamless Sleep, as he'd successfully finished that modified Wolfsbane (a less toxic version, and one that offered buffering agents against the less-than-desirable after effects), but it was very peculiar to hear from Weasley on a personal basis, and regarding a potion, no less.

Draco was flummoxed.

He'd never understand Weasleys, Draco decided, studying the innocuous piece of parchment as though it had offended his mother.

He would have no qualms with the idea itself; Weasley or no Weasley, the man had created quite the empire from the idea he and his late brother had begun, and it was pathetic (not to mention impractical), to allow bad blood to affect his business transactions. Draco had learned from Lucius' mistakes.

But he wasn't going to dive into a project with potentially political ramifications, or legal ones for that matter, when he couldn't see the outcome. The Weasley twins –had- stuffed that poor bastard into a broken Vanishing Cabinet, without any semblance of remorse that he could have died, after all. Merlin only knew what was really going on here. Draco had learned the hard way about the destructive force of blind faith in the wrong hands.

There had to be a real reason for 'George' to write –him,- and Draco would be damned if he let it alone. It was remarkably difficult to do much of anything without arousing Draco's suspicions, so he had –hah- to know that Draco would be hesitant.

He sighed, and turned the letter over in his hands (despite his 'practical' attitude, Draco had remarkably steady hands), staring at it closely as if it would tell him something, but it yielded no further answers.

He Summoned a fresh piece of parchment, crisp enough to slit a throat, and heavy enough to accomplish the task with aplomb, he slowly began to compose a reply.

'To Messr. Weasley the 932nd,

Do forgive me, if I find your story a bit difficult to swallow with my Darjeeling, Weasley, but you did have quite the reputation, and as I have no desire to be hexed into something unnatural, I'm sure you can understand my confusion at your sudden entreaty.

While I would be more than happy to acquiesce to your request, I could quite appreciate an –honest- answer, rather than the maze of bewilderment you appear to have left me with.

I enjoy a good challenge as much or more so than the next Potions Master, however, I don't deal in the shadows, Messr. Weasley. I hope you will consider my words in your next letter.

Sincerely,

D. Malfoy'

Draco didn't trust many since the aftermath of everything from the not-distant-enough past, although the Weasleys had given him little enough trouble all things considered. He supposed that he'd just have to wait and see.

Draco wasn't terribly fond of waiting; it did funny things to his nerves.

Granger would probably say that several things did funny things to his nerves, but, as she and her Weasel only stopped by to check on him due to some misguided sense of duty to Harry, maybe he was getting ahead of himself. Pity visitors were probably better than none at all, perhaps.

Although, Draco could admit that it was sort of nice to have someone to play chess with on the occasions that 'Ron' came by. (And it certainly beat those awkward attempts at a civil tea by several Quidditch pitches.) He'd been somewhat surprised to discover that even they had something in common. But then, maybe things had begun to change when he hadn't been paying attention. He sighed. He was thinking too much again.

George almost smiled at that. Doesn't dwell in shadows, eh? That was awfully rich of him, coming from the son of a Death Eater, and owner and head brewer of an apothecary with a back entrance.

Though, George admitted, twirling his favourite quill round and round as he thought of what to say, the first time he'd entered The Dragon's Claw, it hadn't been at all what he'd expected, and was about as far removed from the Apothecary, as it was possible to be.

Despite the pretentious nature of the shop's name, and the slightly disconcerting entryway (it took a lot of people by surprise when the sleeping dragon guarding the door opened its eyes to follow their movements, and more than one had jumped a good three metres when it roared), the interior was open and inviting, enchanted windows providing ample sunlight, and it smelled like someone's flowerbeds. Draco himself assured patrons that it was because he sold only finished potions, not raw ingredients, and that his freshening charm had been inspired by the gardens at Malfoy Manor.

George was inclined to even believe him, if for no other reason than the masked grimace that Malfoy wore when elder women patted his arm or dabbed their faces with a handkerchief. Disturbingly popular with the elder ladies, Malfoy was. George could laugh at that now, because he knew that it made the blonde as uncomfortable as it did any patron unfortunate enough to bear witness to the debacle.

Draco didn't like to talk about his mother, but disliked others' pity even more.

He'd worked very hard to build what he had; the first Malfoy to work in anything other than sabotage and subterfuge in centuries. George could respect that about him.

Decided, he set quill to parchment, and told Malfoy the truth, but not all of it. He'd rather have Malfoy's academic interest than scorn, thanks, though Angelina would have him explain everything in full, no doubt. Malfoy was a professional, absolutely, but he was no Healer, not that George had any use for them anyway.

'Hullo again Malfoy,

Well, you caught me. I'm allergic to Dreamless Sleep, and would like to see what you can do to remedy the problem. I'm a pretty decent potioneer myself, but don't generally tamper with existing formulas. Don't fix what isn't broken, right? And that's where you come in, the expert and all that, if, that is, you're game.

Cheers,

George Weasley the First.'

Draco read the second letter (three times again) before concluding that he could not derive any other information from it. Why would Weasley have spun that ludicrous tale in the first place? He shrugged. He didn't ask personal questions of clients; there was no need to start now. Though he might contact St. Mungo's to satisfy the rumble of his curiosity.

He sent a standard letter of acceptance to Weasley, with the addendum regarding all allergy-inducing ingredients included with his eagle owl, and got to work.

It was a tedious beginning, modifying an already stable compound, and he was so engrossed in his work, that he didn't hear the rap at the window at first. He frowned. Surely that wasn't Weasley's owl already?

Suspicious and hesitant, Draco opened the latch to allow the now irritated bird into his laboratory. It settled itself importantly on his bookshelf, and began to groom its feathers, ignoring his attempts to draw its attention. It turned to glare reproachfully at him, damn critical bird, and Draco's blood ran cold and sluggish in his veins as he recognized the embossed seal on the letter it carried.

No. It was most assuredly not a reply from Weasley, Draco verified through the sudden frenzied beat of his heart as he dropped into his chair with little grace, his eyes fixated in bone-deep fear at the sight of the Ministry's crest.

What in the name of Salazar Slytherin could the Minister for Magic want with him?

Author's Note: Please forgive the (extended) delay, as well as the likely confusing nature of this chapter, but please bear in mind that the previous was just the prologue. However, don't think I'm done with Fred yet, because I most certainly am not, I just wished to establish a sort of timeframe for the present, to set the stage for the next chapter. Oh dear, I'm rambling. Alright, well I hope you enjoyed the chapter!