McGonagall lifted the tea kettle towards George's cup and he nodded; he was distracted because Albus Dumbledore's portrait had been frowning at him for the entirety of his visit with the Headmistress. He wasn't sure why he had earned the disapproving look and had finally decided he was not going to ask. He turned his eyes away. "Thanks," he mumbled and doctored the tea with lumps of sugar and milk. He drank it down to the dregs in one gulp and peered into the bottom of the china cup, swirling the leaves.

"You shouldn't bolt your tea, George." The Headmistress sounded motherly and George smiled, cocking his head for an answer. "Indigestion," she said simply.

He laughed. "Something I tend to be plagued with regardless, but I might take your advice. In future." He set the cup down with the portending sediment. "So, without stepping inside confidentiality boundaries, Janey's parents want nothing to do with her or her addiction, help her with her alcoholism?"

McGonagall peered at him over the tops of her spectacles and George almost felt twelve years old again. "I fear that acorn has not fallen too far from the tree." She shook her head. "I would rather talk to you about these meetings she has mentioned. Are they the type of thing a girl her age attends?"

He single shoulder shrugged, considering. They both shook their heads in the negative and he agreed. "Probably not."

"We can administer," she paused, "a kind of tonic that will help her through this. She would be much improved in just two days time. And in a small bit of research, we've also discovered a potion that will make her significantly ill if she were to consume alcohol again."

"Gor, that sounds extreme."

She nodded. "I feel, after consideration, it is behaviour that calls for an extreme response. We would, of course, need her permission as she is of age. The fewer future conversations I must have with her parents the better." She hesitated, doctoring her own cup of tea, stirring rhythmically, the spoon tapping against the bone china once each rotation. "George, what is or was your relationship with the girl?"

He began to answer when her meaning caught him fully. "Pardon me? Are you suggesting..."

She stopped stirring and looked him fully in the face. "I apologize if it feels insulting, but I must know. She has proclaimed all manner of attachment to you."

"She's the same age as my own children."

She set the spoon down beside the cup. "And I want to talk you to about them as well. If I may?"

He lowered his head, watching her avoid his eyes from beneath his long red lashes. "You can talk to Angelina about them. Please. Or Fred." He paused, taking an audible deep breath. "My relationship with Janey was troubled in some ways because she knew I didn't approve of her drinking and yet she watched me struggle with my own," he hesitated, swallowing the truth and choking on it, "my own demons. She appeared in Diagon Alley last Spring and had become a bit of a regular at the pub I frequent. I had no idea she was a runaway or, please believe me on this score, a Hogwarts student. She seemed somewhat older than that."

McGonagall raised a doubting eyebrow and he capitulated. "Not much older. But older."

"I see. I think it would be best if you kept your communication with her limited to owlpost only, and George, please exercise good sense there. I will move forward with treatment here, I don't anticipate her setting herself against it, but if she does and I feel you can help in that regards, I will owl you straight away for assistance."

He leaned forward in his chair, towards the edge of the desk that separated them. "I know students are in the halls...but d'you think?" His voice softened.

"Oh, George." She nodded, her eyes sad and he refused to hold that glance.

He was up and out of the chair, down the stairs and on his way to the Hall. As he traversed moving staircases to the ground floor of the castle he found himself in and amongst the student body. He and Fred had always been tall, but he could not help but marvel at how small children were. First years were nearly babies and he wondered briefly if he might see any of his nieces or nephews. He chewed on his lower lip, his pockets were empty of wheezes. He shoved his hands deep in each front pocket and walked faster, his head down now. The dusty smell of Summer ending, unswept corners of the castle, and wool robes had him remembering moments gone forever. A kind of hopeless longing swept through him and he had to stop, steady himself with a hand on the cold wall, and turn his face away from a group of third year girls who hesitated with concern. He continued. Stairstep after stairstep, breathing hard and wondering how he had gotten so out of shape.

As he came to his last twisting corner he heard Fred's voice and he slowed. Fred's ghost was talking with someone or several someones from the sound. He stopped and leaned against the corner of the long hallway, glancing around into the intersecting hall with a cautious movement. The ghost was standing before one of the inset stone benches, gesticulating wildly with his hands, his voice continuing to bray and carry around the corner. Seated on the bench were two students, a boy and a girl. The boy was leaning back on his hands his long legs kicked out in front of him, and from beneath his robes, George could see the crazy mishmash of colours on a pair of muggle high-top sneakers on his feet, laces unbound. The girl had her long legs crossed, kicking at the hem of her robes in time to her own private rhythm as she listened to her uncle. Both had dark red and deep ebony coloured dreadlocks falling over their shoulders, hers tied up in a knot, his swinging free. Their faces were his and his brother's face, their colouring their mother's.

He turned away; shoulders pressed against the wall and felt his heart's accusation beating at him like a rogue bludger.

Another sound assailed him and he slid down to a crouch; the laughter of his children. He lowered his head to his knees and listened hard. He pushed himself back to a standing position and turned, walking fast, blind purpose propelling him away. He could apparate outside the gates and they would be open until twilight.

"Pure then! George?"

The low slung Scottish burr stopped him at once. He looked up and Oliver Wood was moving towards him, slowing and stopping.

"Awrite, how are ya?"

George was speechless.

Oliver stretched out his hand and George realized he was wearing robes. "It is ye, George?"

George grasped his hand and pulled the other man to him. He pressed a quick arm around Oliver's back and hugged him quickly. "Wood. Yes, it's me. Sorry. You nearly surprised the life out of me."

"You looked a bit like ye'd seen a ghost." He blushed. "Or mebbe it was jes me used to seein' a ghost that looks like ye."

The two men stepped away from one another and George realized his hands were shaking. He shoved them into his armpits and breathed out quickly.

"You teach here?"

Oliver nodded and shook his head, one hand motioning to the robes he was wearing. "Aye, nay. I mean, I do. I'm the Physical Education and Games teacher." He winked. "So that I can coach the Quidditch, ye know."

"Yeah?" He suddenly wanted nothing more than to be on a broom high above the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, Wood yelling at him to dodge right, no left! Glancing over and knowing without needing to look that Fred would already be left but wanting to see a 17 year old Fred in red and gold and that cocky smile. And he also wanted nothing more than to be sitting in his cold water walk-up smoking his memories until they were insubstantial wisps...

"What are ye doin' here? I hope nothing has happened with your two."

George shook his head. "No, no, not at all. I was looking for Fred, actually. And now I'm on my way home. Uh, yeah. I've got to run."

"Yeah? Hey, you want to catch up a bit? You could come to dinner in the Great Hall?"

"No!"

Oliver frowned. "Nae problem." He tilted his head and peered closer. "Ye okay?"

George nodded. And then shook his head. "Not really, Wood. You seem to be, though, and that's great. I've got to go."

Oliver reached out and held his upper arm. "Let me buy you a whisky down the pub. How bout that then? I've got to get rid of these robes..."

"Yeah. That's good. I'll meet you at the Three Broomsticks." He brushed past him and far down the hall chanced a look over his shoulder and Oliver was standing where he'd left him, watching him walk away.