He finished the last of his third fire whisky and finally began to feel the effects of the alcohol wash like warm water over the frozen parts of him. He pressed the tips of his long fingers against his eyelids and breathed out heavily. He wanted another glass of the amber amnesiac. He wanted to thaw until his memories rivuleted away from him, insubstantial.

He settled back in his chair. Oliver was looking at him under slightly lowered brows. It was a look he recognized, the light of it casting him in shame and he answered it sullenly. But Wood only leaned back in his own chair, rocking it up onto its hind legs and raised a hand to the barkeep, two fingers up.

As though it were magic, a fourth tumbler was set down in front of him. He corralled it with his palms and hoped to Merlin he didn't look as grateful as he felt. Sodding tosser. He could feel his demons settling in, waiting for the early morning hours to come, honing their pitchforks, hiding amongst the detritus of his memories, prodding at his longings. He sighed.

"George?"

"S'okay, Wood. Thanks for the drink. This'll have to be my last." He wanted to be gone, to be in his rooms. At least the company of his own was familiar; something about sitting in the Three Broomsticks outside of Hogwarts with Oliver Wood had begun unsettling him. George flexed his broad shoulders back. "Talking about myself like this is putting me to sleep. How about you? You never married?"

Wood barked out a laugh and then quieted. "Nay."

He felt as though he had missed a subtext in the conversation. "Yeah?"

"Not for me." Oliver shook his head and sipped at his own fresh drink. "Never really wanted to grow up, ye know? Playing for a team like United helped with that. Twenty years, aye?"

"It looks like it suited you." George had noticed, once Wood was in street clothes, that he had maintained a rigorously strong physique. He refused to dwell on the fact of his own thinness, his loss of stamina.

"I think so, aye." Wood was nodding, patting at the taut firmness of his stomach, the lines of it outlined beneath the thin fabric of a well-worn t-shirt. "Didn't know what exactly I was gonna do when they offered to retire me. Couple bad moments in there, thinkin' bout it, but then I got the owl from McGonagall and I can tell you I tied one on for a week. I was so happy and relieved like."

George could not restrain the laugh that burst out of him. "Wood!"

"Tis nuthin' more than the truth, friend. I got good and doused and stayed that way until none of the pubs in Puddlemere would serve me anymore. So I dried out and reported for duty at Hogwarts." He gave a half-hearted salute and tossed the rest of his drink back. "An' here I am." He looked around the empty pub. "It's as boring as tits."

George was still laughing. "Frankly, I can't really remember how boring tits can be."

Wood nodded. "Take me word on it. Tits and teaching. Dull."

"I think I'd like to try my hand at it."

Wood looked at him, an eyebrow raised. A smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.

"Teaching," George said. "I'm done with the rest of that. But I think I'd like to teach."

Oliver's face settled into a serious expression. "Right?"

George nodded slowly. "It's a bit crazy, I know." He held up his hand. "I didn't sit my 7th year OWLS. I haven't worked for a while." He shrugged. "I just think I'd be good, you know."

"Here? At Hogwarts?"

George tried desperately to school his face, narrowing his eyes.

"You were always good at Charms."

He felt the edges of his mouth twitch and he closed his eyes briefly, smiling too broadly, biting on the inside of his cheek. "I thought so. Yeah." Gratitude welled inside him, a small internal bleeding.

"Talk to McGonagall."

"Thinking about it." He felt the familiar weight of expectation on him. It was uncomfortable. "Especially if you can get by with a wicked beard like that, I want in."

Wood reached up and smoothed the hairs of his goatee over the edge of his lip, finger and thumb framing the squared jaw line. He laughed. "You like it?"

The barkeep interrupted them from the door.

"We closed it down, Weasley." Wood slammed his chair legs back onto the floor, standing, laughing easily and reaching down for George's arm, helping him to his feet.

They walked to the door, and outside George realized Wood's hand was still fast around his wrist. The male touch of it like an echo and he gently shook free.

"Thanks, O. For the drinks. The conversation."

"My pleasure. How 'bout we make it a regular? Friday nights good for ye?"

George hesitated. The lamplight illuminating Oliver's face, the direct look of his gaze brighter than the flame.

"Or not." Wood said, the words a question.

"No, that's good. That's fine. Thanks. Friday night is, yeah, here?" George was stammering.

Oliver nodded. "Beats drinking alone, s'all."

He held his hand out and George shook it. "I should sleep solid tonight," he said, releasing his hand and looking far up the street. He turned his gaze back, his eyes dark now. "Long time, George," suddenly somber, nodding. "It marches on, don't it?

"Until it stands still," George answered and felt a flaring of emotion inside his heart. Impulsively, he stepped in closer and pulled Wood into an embrace, then he stepped back, one long stride away, and disapparated.

In his rooms, he sat heavily on the edge of the unmade bed. He was out of smoke, but he knew that a half-drank bottle of brandywine was shoved into one of his boots in the far corner. He stood again, reluctant, moving towards the bottle, pulling the cork and tossing it angrily into another dark corner. He walked to the window and looked out over the darkened street, shadows flickering beneath dimly lit lamps, and upended the bottle to his lips. The bitter tang of the wine so different from the peaty bite of the whiskys he had drank with Wood. He grimaced and sucked the bottle dry. Lowering himself back into the broken coiled arms of the mattress. He lay spread-eagled and closed his eyes, waiting for the bed to spin faster inside his mind, the feeling of falling backwards towards an unknown ground overwhelming him.