Chapter 3

Wow...Harry Potter Fics are so competitive! I updated...3 days ago? And I'm on like page 25! Crazy! Anyway, here is the latest installment of George's tale.

Thanks to Dark Child Productions, krn-kimbap, and xsamxHUFC for putting this on their alert list! And to skateboard c, Dark Child Productions, Hope-W, and danalexkayarimad for reviewing! Please keep reviewing :)

For the next few weeks, George was doing fine. He got up, got dressed, ate breakfast—Angelina made sure his cabinets were stocked—then set out for the day. As he wasn't ready to reopen Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and didn't like to stay long at his home, he would leave early in the morning and not return till late at night. Sometimes he would visit his family, and for brief moments, he could pretend things were back to normal. Or he would Floo Lee Jordan to chat for a while, or take a ride on brooms. Often he would find company with Angelina, who for some reason seemed to understand him better than anyone else.

However, for the past few days George hadn't been doing so well. He had refused all company, despite many offers, instead preferring the quiet solitude offered to him in the Leaky Cauldron and various other bars. Which is why, on this dreary Sunday, George, who sat on his bed, staring out his window at the view of the stone building next door, hadn't been sober in near three days. His family had asked him over today, but he had refused. They would be worried to see him like this, and he didn't want them fussing over him. And, for so long he had been trying so hard to move on, to put on a face and pretend everything was okay, that he was content in his own misery for a while. Though now that he was here, he was shocked by how sharply the pain returned. It had been almost two months, why did it hurt as if it had happened yesterday?

So, George took solace in the only thing he knew would make him forget, for the time being, anyway. At the Leaky Cauldron, George sat at the bar, three empty glasses in front of him. He arrived at four o'clock in the afternoon, but two firewhiskys and a glass of mead later, George had no idea what time it was.

"How 'bout another glass," he called to the bartender.

"Don't you think you've had enough?" replied the man, setting down the glass he'd been wiping with a damp towel.

George slammed his fist on the counter. "Just give me another bloody drink!" The man hastily poured a fourth glass. George didn't know what it was, and didn't care as long as it was alcohol. He slid another sickle onto the counter and with a nod to the bartender, said, "Bottoms up," and downed it.

Tom scurried up to George, and George vaguely wondered why there appeared to be two of him. "Sir," he whispered uncomfortably, "There have been some complaints…"

"So?" George asked with a drunken lisp.

Tom pulled at his shirt collar and mumbled, "I have to ask you to leave." Tom knew what George was going through, and hated doing this to him, especially in his current state, but he had to do it.

George stared around at the blurred faces around him. He didn't recognize a single one, and all seemed to be pretending to ignore him as he started talking. "Fine," he called to the room. "You want me gone? I'll just be going then." He hiccupped as he turned toward the door, upturning a table that was in his way to the exit, slamming the heavy door behind him. He stumbled down the street, trying to remember what way he should go to return home.

"George?" asked an incredulous voice.

"Who's there?" he called, his words slurred together. He tripped on the cobblestone path, having not seen that it jutted up in front of him. However, before he could hit the ground, someone had thrown his arm over their shoulder and hoisted him up.

"Why are you always drunk when I find you?" she said exasperatedly, and even in his drunken stupor, George realized it was Angelina. Though George was at least five inches taller than her and probably almost twice as heavy, she supported him all the way back to his door. She lead him up the stairs and made him sit at the kitchen table, setting a glass of water in front of him.

"No miracle concoction?" he asked disappointedly, for a blistering headache was erupting in his head already.

"You're not getting out of this one easy, Mr. Weasley. Maybe if you feel the full effects of a hangover you'll give up drinking once and for all." She watched him for a minute as he rested his head on the table, shutting out the light behind his arms. "Why do you do it, George?" she questioned.

He raised his head slightly and stared at her. His answer came out muffled and still slightly lisped. "So I can forget."

"But maybe forgetting isn't the answer," she responded intently, not taking her eyes off him, and George had the fleeting feeling he was in a therapy session. "What are you trying to forget? Just the pain? Or are you trying to forget Fred?"

"Everything!" he shouted. "I just don't want to feel anymore! I want to be oblivious to the world, drown in nothingness. And this is the only way I know how to do that, short of Obliviating myself, which I'm not too fond of the idea of. Besides," he added, "At least this pain I can control."

George laid his head back in his hands, and therefore didn't notice the tears welling in his friend's eyes. Didn't see her hand reaching out to him, puling back at the last moment before she touched him. He didn't see the pain written across her face, for she too keenly felt the loss of Fred Weasley.

"C'mon," she said finally. "You should get some sleep."

When George woke the next day—or so he hoped, for he didn't know how long he had slept—his migraine had dulled to a small pounding in his temples, and his stomach growled voraciously. He once again couldn't remember his last meal. Rubbing his eyes, he left his room and headed to the kitchen, where he hoped he could find something suitable for breakfast. What he found, however, shocked him.

Angelina lay asleep on the couch, her feet curled up under her so that she would fit. She had taken out her braids, and her hair spilled over her face gracefully, framing her eyes and slightly parted lips. She breathed in and out slowly, apparently deep in sleep. George walked over the cupboard, pulled out a blanket, and laid it gingerly over her. She stirred slightly, opening her eyes sleepily. As she realized who was standing before her, her eyes widened and a blush rose up in her cheeks.

"Oh," she said, flustered. "I just thought, um, maybe you'd need some help. Er, I mean, I didn't want to leave you alone like that--,"

"Angelina," George soothed, "It's okay. Thanks. I was going to make breakfast, are you hungry?"

She nodded, sitting up on the couch. "George," she began, "Do you want to, you know, talk about anything?"

"No," he stated firmly, cracking two eggs into a pan. He could have used magic, but wasn't sure he could trust his abilities at the moment, instead reverting to the Muggle way of cooking.

She came to stand behind him, her hair barely brushing his shoulder. "It's good to talk about it. Believe me, I know."
"No!" he shouted, slamming down the pan. She took a step back in surprise. "I don't want to talk about it. Okay? I thought you understood that."
She stared at him for a long while. "Fine," she replied slowly. "But I am not going to stand by as you throw your life away. I want to help you, George, but you have to let me." George took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"How so?"

Angelina bit her lip. "I want you to open up the joke shop again. It used to be both of your pride and joy. And, let's face it, we could all use a laugh right now. And, I want you to give up the alcohol."

George laughed without humor. "I'm not an alcoholic, Ange."

She raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Really? Then why have I found you, roaring drunk, two times already? Why haven't I heard from you in three days, though Tom has? Why did I find three empty bottles of firewhisky in your garbage?"

"It's nothing," he said nonchalantly with a shrug of his shoulders.

"No, it's not! It's something, a big something!" she protested.

"Look, Angelina. Why did you even come yesterday? Was all you wanted to do pester me?"

She threw him a dirty look. "Actually, I had some good news, and I just wanted to share it with you. But if you think all I do is pester, than I might as well be on my way," she huffed, turning on her heel and attempting to leave. George turned quickly, grabbing her by the elbow and turning her again to face him.

"I'm sorry," he said, and for once truly meaning it. "What did you want to tell me?"

"I got accepted onto a professional Quidditch team." Her voice was flat, not full of the excitement George suspected there would have been if he hadn't been so unceremoniously rude.

"That's brilliant! Which one?"

"The Chudley Cannons."
George groaned and slapped his head. "Angelina! They are at the bottom of the league! You can do better than that, why did you even accept?"

She stared him directly in the eyes, communicating more with her eyes than with her words. "Because I don't give up on lost causes."