For three days George slipped and slid under the influence of the muggle drug. He smoked and slept, staggered out of the room, down the stairs and put a ploughman's on his tab, overpaid the bartender for a drink, asked for and received an uncorked bottle of brandywine, went back up to his room where the drunken young witch from the hallway was now asleep in his bed, shoved her over a bit, drank half the bottle of wine then tucked the bottled into the crook of the witch's arm, and smoked the last of his superstash before blessed unconsciousness reached up for him once more. He let his body fall like a hammer beside the witch whose name he could not remember and dreamslept until Thursday morning.
He woke to someone nuzzling a spot beneath his jaw. His movements were languorously stupoured but he was surprised to find that he didn't feel completely shredded. The sound of his days-old beard rasping against someone's lips helped crack his eyelids. He pulled far and fast enough away from the young witch to look down into her face and see her disappointment. "Oi, now, that's enough of that, missy."
"George." She pouted.
"You know it can't be like that," he paused hoping her name might magically inscribe itself upon his tongue but it did not, "girl."
She lifted the bottle he'd forgotten to her lips, pulling hard. "Thanks for the brandywine."
He nodded. "Us lot have got to watch out for each other, luv. Now I've got to get up, try for a bath, and find an owl." He peered at her. "Didn't you have an owl hanging about?"
She nodded, then began crying. "I had to trade him for a bottle last week."
He reached out and wiped beneath her eyes with the ball of his thumb. "S'okay, lassie, s'okay." He bent and pressed his lips to her forehead. "You're a good girl. You should stop drinking. Go to one of those meetings I was telling you about."
"Yeah?"
He climbed out of bed, clothes rumpled and smelling distinctly of smells that one should not be wearing out and about. Even a wand flick wasn't going to help.
"What do you need an owl for?"
"I've got to owl Headmistress McGonagall. Ask if she'll let me apparate to Hogwarts Saturday, see Fred."
"Doesn't she always? You went earlier this holiday, I mean summer, didn't you?"
He nodded, flicking his wand around his person without much result. "Term began this week."
She snuffled and started crying again. "I forgot. Of course it did. I wonder if my kid brother got his letter."
George turned sharply. "What? How old are you, sweetheart?"
She answered with another pull on the bottle, emptying it.
He sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "Why aren't you at home? Are you still school-aged? Please tell me you aren't school-aged."
She nodded and shook her head miserably.
He stood again, hands on his hips. "Alright. That's that. I'm a mess, you're a mess. We're going to sort ourselves. And you're going back to Hogwarts."
Early Friday morning, Minerva connected the massive fireplace in "The Triumphant Sword" to the considerably smaller and homier fireplace in her office and George and Miss Janey Calamitas, 7th Year HufflePuff, flooed through. The Headmistress brooked no humour as she greeted the Hufflepuff, directing the young witch to a slat-backed wooden chair in front of her desk, but she grasped George firmly by the shoulders and kissed him gently on each cheek. "George, George," she whispered. "He's waiting for you. Go. But come to dinner in the Great Hall, won't you? Don't leave without saying goodbye."
He nodded. "I will. I won't. Thank you." He turned to the girl. "Be good now, Janey. And owl me whenever you like. Study hard like I didn't."
His feet were winged, his heart racing ahead of him, through the brightly lit passageways and open air hallways of the castle, searching for its twin.