Life with George was calming, and steady. It reminded Ron of the way things were before the war, back in his third or fourth year of school. Back then, the best things in life were games of gobstones by the commonroom fire, and steaming mugs of butterbeer on a snowy day. These days, he found himself grateful just to be alive.
George had his flaws, though, as everyone does. Although he kept the shop perfectly tidy, the flat above it was growing more and more out of hand. Hermione was gone most days, working her new job at Flourish and Blotts, and none of the boys cared enough to tidy the place. In addition to that, the pile of bottles in the corner was growing at an unnerving rate. Ron couldn't understand- every day, his brother was smiling and laughing as he always did, but the stack was taller every morning. It was not something Ron was comfortable discussing with George- in all honesty, he had been drinking more in the last few weeks than he ever thought he would. Sometimes, when the group sat together in the Leaky Cauldron, he imagined all of the empty tables filled with the friends he had lost. Many of them had entered the Wizarding World through this very room. They had bought their wands half a kilometer from where he sat, in the same place that their killers had found theirs.
On the weekends, they went out and looked at flats. They had decided to stay in Diagon Alley although the rent was worse, as Harry and Hermione didn't want to have to continue the trouble of integrating with muggles. "Besides," Hermione reasoned, "Pigwidgeon isn't going to be happy if you run out of food, and where else are you going to find it? He isn't exactly patient."
She had a point. As they spoke, the tiny owl was zooming around the room with Harry's spare glasses in its beak. "Pig!" Ron bellowed, noticing the glasses, "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't turn you into an owl-shaped popsicle!"
"Ron!" Hermione frowned. "How many times do I have to remind you that you're not the-"
But he was laughing. "Relax, Hermione. He knows I'm kidding."
"Here's a listing that looks promising, look." She tossed Ron the Daily Prophet. "A Two bedroom flat above Florean Fortis…" She trailed off. A year ago Florean Fortiscue, Diagon Alley's beloved ice cream seller and a good friend of Harry's, had been kidnapped and murdered by the Death Eaters. Although she wasn't the sort to forget a detail like that, the last year of Hermione's life had been so riddled with tragedy that Fortiscue's death had blended in with those of many others. Clearly, though, it was still fresh for Harry.
-"But the rent is terrible, two hundred Galleons a month. Ooh, what about this one behind Madam Malkin's? It's on the first floor, and it even has a little front garden between it and the shop."
"Yeah, but how many bedrooms are there," Ron asked, his nose buried in the
Classified section of the Quibbler.
"One." Hermione frowned. "Damn, I thought it looked too good."
"I found one." Harry said, quietly. "Listen to this: 'Two bedroom flat above Eeyelop's Owl Emporium, complete with kitchenette and small owlrey."
"Oh, it has a kitchenette. How posh."
"Shut up, Ron." Hermione shoved him. "Go on, Harry."
"...the rent is 80 Galleons a week, and you get a ten percent discount when you buy from the shop. Well, that isn't too bad, isn't it?"
"A private owlrey? I mean, I don't know if Pigwidgeon really needs…" Hermione joked.
"You think he's going to be too big to fit in it? Aw, shut up Hermione." Ron scratched
the little owl on his shoulder. "I think we should go and take a look this afternoon."