Chapter Two

No reviews yet...Hopefully this chapter will get some. All reviews are appreciated, compliments, criticism, advice, whatever! Thanks and enjoy.

"George, how could you?" wailed Mrs. Weasley, clutching at her son's shirt.

"Mum, calm down," he pleaded tiredly. The fireworks had finally been cleared twenty minutes after they had been initiated, by a savvy Professor McGonagall, who remembered the spell to make them disappear from the last incident two years ago. Things had calmed down then, or so George had assumed, for he and Angelina hadn't returned to the gather, instead choosing to stroll the grounds of the Burrow, where the funeral was being held. Once the guests had paid their final respects and dispersed, Molly had hunted George down as if she were a bloodhound and he her prey.

"Your brother's funeral! Ruined!" she sobbed, as Mr. Weasley tried futilely to restrain her.

"Mum, it wasn't ruined. Believe me, wherever Fred is, he's laughing."

"Don't," she hissed menacingly. With one last glance that clearly stated How could you, Mrs. Weasley departed. George's father clapped him on the shoulder bracingly before following his wife back to the dilapidated house.

"Bloody hell," George murmured to himself, running a hand absentmindedly over the gap that had once been his ear. He turned in the opposite direction of his old home, walking over the dying grass toward a large hill a few hundred yards away. He and Fred had used to come to the top of the hill together. It was far away enough from the house that Mrs. Weasley couldn't hear their plans, but close enough that she could see them and wouldn't worry. This was where some of their best plans had been started, including Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. George sank to the ground, reclining into his arms, and remembered.

When George returned to the Burrow and hour or so later, he felt as if he was walking into a house of strangers. He could see everyone sitting around the fire, listening to Mrs. Weasley's favorite station, comfortable in the company of each other. Mrs. Weasley's eyes were fixed on the clock, where the hand with Fred's face on it had disappeared. George felt awful all the way to the pit of his stomach. Shouldn't he feel comfort from his family? The only people who had known Fred almost as well as he had?

The entire room turned to face him, and he stood their uncomfortably, his black shirt slightly un-tucked and hair tousled. "I, uh, have to go."

The whole room began to protest. Mrs. Weasley stood and pulled her son into a hug and he could feel the tears on his neck. "Oh, Georgie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please, stay."

"George, no," pleaded Ginny.

"You can't leave!" exclaimed Percy. On and on until George just wanted to yell at them to be quiet.

"No, really. It's important—business." He was lying profusely, and they could tell. "I'll drop by soon," he promised, swinging his cloak behind him as he departed the cramped household. The bright sky of earlier that day was always being shrouded by the cool, mysterious night. George walked for near a mile, enjoying the peace night went, before he finally decided to apparate. With a crack, he reappeared outside the shop that had been his and Fred's dream.

The windows were dark. No one had been in there for weeks. Verity had left months ago to go into hiding with her mother and muggle-born father. George didn't know what happened to them. After a while, the customers stopped coming, and Fred and George had decided to temporarily close and lay low for a while, just until Voldemort was defeated. For they both knew it would happen. They just didn't know one of them wouldn't live to see it.

He placed a hand on the green handle, not phased when it changed into a toy mouse, and proceeded inside. "Lumos," he muttered, not bothering to light the multi-colored candles that lined the walls. Following the dim light his wand cast around him, he trekked up the multiple staircases to the loft above.

The air was still and clearly stated that no one had been inside for a long time. The layout was almost as familiar to him as the Burrow. Without shining his wandlight inside, George knew if he turned right he would reach the small kitchen. Left, the living area. Down the hallway were the adjoining rooms he and George had claimed. The door between was left almost permanently open, for they were always exchanging ideas for new items for the joke shop. Across the hall were a cramped bathroom and an even more cramped spare room, which they had been using as storage.

George sank to his bed, removing a fake wand from between his sheets and closed his eyes, exhaling deeply. It had been a long day.

George woke up the next morning to light streaming through the curtains he had forgotten to close. He was still fully dressed in his funeral attire, which made him crash back into reality surprisingly fast. In dreams, he didn't feel the pain, and wished he could stay there longer. He counted the chimes of the cuckoo clock in the living room. Nine…Ten…Eleven.

"Merlin's beard," he grumbled, untangling himself from the sheets. Pulling off his creased black button-down, he pulled on the plain white shirt he normally wore under his magenta staff robes, though for the moment forwent the complete outfit. Shuffling into the kitchen, he opened the cabinets, knowing he should eat something, though feeling no hunger in his stomach. Feeling nothing.

Finally, he came across a bottle of firewhisky that he and Fred had bought as a celebration of the one year anniversary of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. He sloshed it around in the bottle. Mostly full. Good.

Chugging down a gulp, he descended the staircase back into the store. This time he did light the candles in order to properly see. As he walked around, still drinking the firewhisky like it was water, he realized that, somehow, the joke shop had been untouched by the Death Eaters. He downed the entire contents of the bottle in a second gulp and threw the empty bottle to the ground, where it shattered loudly.

"Why leave this alone?" George shouted to no one. "Why take my brother, not the store?" He pulled boxes from the walls angrily, throwing their contents every which way. "Is it just to torment me? So that every day I'll be reminded of him? Never forget this pain?" His voice was turning hoarse, though the screaming didn't drain his energy. Box after box flew threw the air, yet the violence didn't make him feel better. Still, he kept going, glad to have some outlet for the pain he was feeling. He kept going for a long time, as the pain registered and firewhisky absorbed into his veins.

"Ouch!" a voice shrieked, as George heard a thud, indicating that the latest thing he had thrown had made contact. Drawing out his wand, he edged around the corner, ready to fight.

"Stup-"

"Expelliarmus!" As George felt his wand fly out of his freckled hand, he recognized the face of Angelina Johnson, twisted in pain as she pointed her wand at him, rubbing her shoulder with her free arm. "What are you doing, you blithering idiot?" she demanded.

"No thing. Nothing. Not nothing," George replied, stumbling slightly as he walked toward his wand.

"George Weasley, are you drunk?"

"Don't know what you're talking 'bout, 'Lina." He lost balance as he leaned over to pick up his wand and crashed to the floor.

Angelina sighed and hoisted him up. She led him to the corner where a chair stood, prodded it with her wand to make sure it wasn't joke shop material, and sat him in it. She examined him for a minute, his eyes closed, fingers pressed to his temples. Finally, with a wave of her wand, a goblet of a thick, brownish liquid appeared in her hand. She held it out to him. "Drink," she commanded.

He turned his eyes, reddened from grief and alcohol, up to meet hers. She extended the goblet even more, and after a moment, he took it. Without looking at the contents of the goblet, he drained it. The world around him, which for the past while had been blurred and out of focus, rapidly righted itself, and George closed his eyes to avoid the sick feeling arising in his stomach. With a few deep breaths, he recovered, and was dismayed to see the wreckage around him. "What happened?" he whispered.

"You, dimwit," Angelina answered. "You drank an entire bottle of firewhisky, trashed your store, hit me with a box of Fanged Frisbees, then tried to Stupefy me."

"Sorry," he replied gruffly. "This stuff's a miracle, what is it?" he asked, gesturing to the goblet.

"My mum made it up. Dad used to get into the firewhisky as well. Well, not just firewhisky. So, anyway, he wasn't too fun to be around when he'd get sloshed, so Mum made this concoction. Her secret weapon. Mum was always real good at potions."

"Bloody genius, if you ask me." George stood up, surveying the mess. He pulled out his wand, picturing how the room once was, and said, "Reparo." A box directly in front of him flew back to its stand two feet away, but all around the rest of the store, the merchandise only lifted feebly a few feet in the air before giving up and sinking back to the ground. George kicked the box of Fanged Frisbees in anger, sending them sailing once again at Angelina's head. Luckily, she was ready this time and managed to cast a Shield Charm.

"Let me," she said. With a wave of her wand, the room returned to its normal state, and George once again sank to his chair. Could grief really rob him of his magic? Angelina sat on the arm of his chair, her voice soothing.

"It's okay, George. It's normal. When my granddad died, I couldn't do magic well for a while." He nodded appreciatively. Angelina studied him, observing his gaunt cheeks and the color missing from his face. "When was the last time you've eaten?" she asked. He shook his head, not remembering. "Come on, The Leaky Cauldron's open again. We're going to get you some food."

Twenty minutes later, they were seated inside the dim restaurant, listening to the subdued conversation of the people around them. Most of the Alley had closed down during Voldemort's reign, and very little of it had opened back up. The wounds were too fresh, too deep. Not a single witch or wizard could say they hadn't been affected by the War, could say they didn't know someone who died in it. Because of this, traffic in The Cauldron was rather slow. Two men sat at the bar, drinking their ale without glancing up. A few couples were sitting at the rickety tables, talking quietly or not at all. George was glad to see a familiar face in Tom, who thankfully had made it through the War. George didn't know if he could take another death.

"Your food," he said, setting two plates in front of him. George ate inattentively, not really paying attention to what he put in his mouth. Every once in a while, Angelina looked as though she was going to say something, then changed her mind. George found that he didn't mind their silence. With others, it felt awkward, as if something should be filling up the emptiness. Perhaps Fred. But with Angelina, it just felt nice. As if she knew he just needed some time.

When Tom brought their bill, George fished in his pocket for a few galleons, pulling out only lint. Of course. He hadn't changed, and had brought no money to the funeral, of course. Angelina just smiled and pulled out her small crimson coin purse, placing the correct amount on the table without a comment.

"Thanks," George said.

"For what?" she asked.

"Everything. Paying. Coming to see me. Stopping me from destroying the store. Everything."

She gripped his hand reassuringly for a brief second. "What are friends for?" she asked.

"This," he replied. "They are for this."