A slight twisting behind his left eye woke him and he opened his right eye first. He took a quick physical assessment and found he was in the clear, minus the slight headachey twinge. The half bottle of wine after a handful of fire whiskys was going to prove harmless as far as morning regrets went. He locked his fingers behind his head and kicked an ankle up onto his knee, wishing he had actually undressed before sliding into sleep.

He began corralling his thoughts into one section of his mind and his feelings into another. Two decades of this active visualization had made the job a quick morning constitutional. He worked diligently when sober to keep his emotions from having free range, penning them, containing them; kept them from running rough-shod over his thoughts, taking over in a mutinous display of grief and rage and self-destruction. It was the only coping mechanism he had learned from the ill-advised time he had spent with the War Survivors group in the year after the Battle of Hogwarts. Of course, not having to wrangle an eye-rolling hangover of one influence or another helped tremendously.

He couldn't help but notice that his usual pack of wild and unkempt emotions was a bit subdued and his thoughts a bit more alert. It was mid-week and for the first time in as long a time as he could remember he actually was anticipating something, but he couldn't quite sort what that something was. He continued the mental work of tamping down his feelings and taking a good long look at his thoughts. And when the image of Oliver Wood surfaced in his mind, his promise for Friday night fell from his lips and with a strange unfamiliar clenching of his heart he recognized his anticipation.

He quieted his body, breathing deeply, letting the new feeling flow through him, settling himself into a place where he could see far enough ahead that one step after another was the clear response to so much looming horizon. He suddenly stood up, stretched his long body to its limits, hands over his head, up on his toes, feeling the pull of the muscles in his thighs, his back, his neck, his arms as he reached high. He couldn't say what he was reaching for but his fingertips tingled.

A knock on the door and then his name. He called out and Ron walked into the room. For a moment George allowed himself to enjoy the look of surprised shock and pleasure on his brother's face before he let the feelings of irritation push forward.

"Please," he said simply, dismissively, a sharp hand movement.

"No way, brother. I'm going to enjoy seeing this room look like this and seeing you like that. Did you get a haircut?"

"No, I spelled it to grow backwards."

Ron grinned widely and with a giant step forward pulled George into his arms. He held him tightly and George relented and answered with his own fierce embrace.

"You want to set up a business meeting?"

"Mmmm," George cast his glance at the open window. "I'll have to check with my secretary."

Ron's face returned to his trademark confused scowl. He nodded. "You will let me know when you're ready, right then?"

A heavy quiet, the two men, grown brothers standing feet apart, history flowing between them as hot as blood still spilling from a vein.

"Yeah. I will. I'm going to work on that "written all over your face" idea. Bring it to the table, you know."

"Fred help with that sort of thing?" Ron's voice was quiet.

"Not really. Not anymore." He sat on the only chair, elbow on his desk. "Fred's working on his own thing. Working it all out. It's hard to explain." He picked up a quill and twisted it between his fingers, tapping the tip lightly on the battered desktop.

Ron stood, hands in his trouser pockets, the air charging with something unsaid. He waited.

"I saw the kids yesterday." The quill tip was pressed hard into a deep scratch, the length of it flexing without mercy. "My kids."

Ron held his breath, but the silence stretched out to an unbearable distance and he breathed out heavily. "Long time."

The quill split and snapped and lay in shattered shards. George stood and moved to the window. "Keep hearing that. Time doesn't just stop because you happen to step off the round-a-bout." He turned back to Ron. "And I don't know how to explain to you lot that those of us standing beside the carousel are the ones who understand this the most. We can see it. See time moving."

Ron held up both hands but refused to back away from the anger and the accusation. "You saw Freddie and Roxie." His voice was smooth and soft, a redirecting current. "Did you," he hesitated, "talk with them?"

"I didn't."

Ron dug through possible next sentences like a hand in a loaded game of cards. "But you wanted to?"

No reply.

Another attempt. "You were at Hogwarts then?"

George closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the top window pane.

"What were you doing out there?"

"It's a complicated bit of story that really isn't mine to tell. Nothing to do with the kids or Fred. But I wanted to see him, you know, and they were with him." He looked over at Ron, his eyes wet and shining. "Big now."

"7th years," Ron agreed, trying a smile but feeling that it was a grimace and he wiped it.

"It's a dog's dinner."

Ron ran a quick hand over the nape of his neck, pulling his head forward. He felt as though he were standing on a crack opened by an earthquake, straddling it. "Yeah. Maybe you could clean it up."

George laughed the sound mirthless. He knocked his forehead against the glass, tip of his tongue caught between his teeth.

"Can't you fix it, George?" He walked over to his brother and put a hand on his shoulder. "Fix it, George."

His hand was shrugged off and George turned. "Guess who else I saw? You won't guess it."

"Then I won't try. Who?"

"Wood."

Ron nodded. "New PE&Games. Also coaching Quidditch, which is probably why he took the job."

George looked at him, surprised. "That's what he said."

"He just started. You talked to him, eh?"

He didn't answer.

"Look, George. If you want to talk about Freddie and Roxie, I'm here. Mum's here for you, too. She'd want that, you know. You can talk to any one of us. Well, maybe not Percy so much..."

George looked over at him and they both laughed out loud. He slung an arm around Ron and walked him to the door. "I know. Ron, I know."

Ron stepped out into the hallway. "Let me know about that meeting."

Nodding, lips twisted into something sardonic. "Mum and Dad still have our Hogwarts trunks up in the attic? D'ye know?"

"I thought we all cleared our stuff out of there. But yeah, your trunk is probably there if you never did."

"Mum's home now?"

An exasperated look crossed Ron's face. "How would I know that? I'm sure she is. I guess. I don't know. You going home?"

Another mirthless laugh. "I promise, I'll be in touch." Ron turned but George called him to a stop. "And Ron. Thanks."