Chapter 3. Searching for ghosts
It is early morning when George arrives at the shop. The sun is barely visible above the cold London rooftops. An autumnal fog clings to the horizon. The only people on Diagon Alley are the shopkeepers drifting toward the Leaky Cauldron for coffee or tea and biscuits. Across the way, the manager of Flourish and Blotts opens his door with a big key ring while a copy of the Daily Prophet and a steaming cup of tea hover beside him.
George turns back to his own shop door, which has been boarded up since the previous spring. He turns his key in the lock, simultaneously casting a security incantation, and the wooden door creaks open.
He half expects to see Fred there, working among the chaos and disorder as he always did best, but the shop is utterly empty and the silence inside is deafening, even to his good ear.
He turns on the overhead lights and moves around the room. The shelves and display cases are fully-stocked in neat rows. This fact surprises him. When they closed shop at the height of the war, there hadn't been time to do much by way of organization, save pack their trunks and rucksacks and take the money from the register. He puts his hand down on a counter, expecting dust, but it comes away clean.
There's something about having had a twin at his side all his life that leaves George uneasy in solitude.
Someone has been here since they closed. He looks around for a note. Maybe Fred set up some kind of cleaning service. But no, he wouldn't have done that without George knowing. He would have got some kind of bill for that.
Then he hears, or imagines he hears, the sound of Fred laughing.
George freezes. He listens to his own breath coming fast as he withdraws his wand, holding it in front of him.
"Homenum revelio," he says in a whisper.
But no one is there.
His death still feels too close. Days ago rather than months. But the change in the seasons has helped usher in some kind of reality: there will never be another autumn where Fred is alive. It takes longer than it should for George to fully understand it. He has spent far too long plotting the ways this could come off as some terrible prank. And knowing that he would forgive it instantly.
George rubs the thinly bandaged area where his ear used to be and goes to check the stockroom. That side of his head doesn't hurt, not anymore, though the bandage constantly sticks to his hair and it's a nuisance to cover it up when he showers, and sometimes his ear oozes a sticky liquid that isn't quite blood and it has to be cleaned out. Worse that all that is the silence: the blur of life passing by as he picks up only the ghost of conversations and fumbles his way through them. He has grown to hate and fear that silence.
After a few more minutes checking shelves and finding everything in order, George climbs the staircase to look in on the flat, maybe fetch some warmer clothes and the notes from the bank about buying Zonko's. He has planned this trip in his head all summer, and the feelings associated it are more complicated than dread. He's had dreams about it: the apartment acting like some sort of portal to the past, back when they first moved in, with Fred still alive and full of energy. But they are only dreams. George knows he will not find his brother there, but he can't stop the anticipatory feeling that he will find something.
The apartment is just the way they left it, only cleaner. The shades are pulled back and the first lights of the morning stream in. From the window, George can see the foggy sky of Muggle London. It's much easier to take in than Fred's shirts and socks and trainers stacked in a pile on the floor.
And he is torn, not for the first time, between preserving everything like a living museum for a dead man, or throwing it all away, and starting over.
The sitting room is furnished with two Gryffindor-red sofas whose tattered appearance suggests that they once, probably decades ago, called the Gryffindor tower home. The apartment itself is sparsely decorated. Unopened boxes sit in the corner by the front door. A stack of paper lies on the kitchen table. A picture of the two of them in their suits on the Grand Opening is pinned onto the wall above the kitchen table with a muggle thumbtack.
How strange it is to think that the last time George set foot in this room, Fred was not only alive, but probably standing beside him. They left through that door together less than a year ago. And now he's back, alone.
George allows the numbness to run over him and brushes away the tears that collect in his eyes. He wonders if he should have taken Bill and Charlie up on their offer to come with. Then there would be three brothers to combat the silence that has taken over and claimed the apartment its kingdom.
His vision blurs again, but he knows this is something he has to do on his own, the next step forward after a long summer of stagnation.
So he goes into his bedroom, which is spotless and quiet like the rest of the apartment. Silence is different now. More empty, and more unforgiving. It is a silence that tells him, with every passing second: You are alone. He isn't coming back. The floor creaks as George steps across it and the sound is loud an unexpected, but gives George a rush of something. He opens a dresser drawer and the bronze handle rattles in place. As he fills an old sack with the rest of his clothes, he concentrates on the rustling sounds they make as he stuffs them inside.
He does not enter Fred's room, but closes the door on his way past it.
George had spent most of his childhood wanting his own room. They both had. And now George has a feeling in his bones he can't shake – that maybe this aloneness is retribution for earlier selfishness. And he knows in that instant, he cannot stay here. He cannot return to this apartment with the idea of "home." The only sound in the air is George's own breathing, half heard through his good ear. He returns to the sitting room and again, wishes Bill and Charlie were here with him. Or anyone, really, to shield him with noise: save him from this hell of ghostly footsteps, unheard voices, and his own thoughts reverberating, in silence, through his skill.
In the kitchen he finds the bank documents and brings them back to the couch to have a better look at them.
Then, for something to do, George crosses the room and begins opening the mail that must have collected during his time in hiding, and probably the months after. One letter in particular catches his eye: The familiar handwriting. The blue wax seal of the Order of the Phoenix. The words, "Last Will and Testament," in Fred's effortless script, as if this were just some memo I'll be home at 12, date with Angie or All out of skiving snackboxes.
George clutches the letter in shaking hands. He remembers when they each had to write them upon their induction into the Order. How ceremonial it all was. He and Fred had laughed it off. Now, George backs into the sofa and collapses. His eyes are fixated on the envelope in his hands.
In the empty apartment, he is speaking Fred's name before he realizes it, over and over, as if calling his brother, his twin, his other half, back from the dead. He turns the letter over, willing his hands not to shake. Slowly and precisely, he breaks the seal and reads:
Dear Mum, Dad, Bill, Charlie, Georgie Porgie, Ickle Ronnikins and Ginny, (And o-k, you too, Perce,)
In the extremely unlikely event that I don't make it out of my next mission alive, I have a few requests: 1) Please donate my latest Weasley jumper to the fat gnome living behind the shed. Goes by the name of Marv. 2) Divide the money in my Gringotts account up evenly amongst yourselves. 3) Do not, under any circumstances, name any of your children after me. I will haunt them for as long as they live. And if you thought I was unrelenting while alive…
Here's to hoping I've gone out in a fit of heroic triumph,
Fred
Following a postscript mark comes a sentence both crossed out and erased. No matter how George holds the paper, under and away from light, tilted to the side, far away or close to his face, he can't make out what it says. And those final unwritten words sink into him like some kind of epitaph for all the goodbyes they never said.
In the quiet of his apartment, George, rereads the letter three more times, each time, stopping at the postscript, as if trying to reach through air and memory for any possible meaning to attach to it. But none comes.
Then his hands curl into fists, crinkling the letter. He doesn't know how long he sits on the sofa with his head in his hands just breathing in and out.
But after some time, a sound rouses him.
He looks up, unsure if he should trust his own hearing. He draws his wand, though, out of habit.
"Fred," he whispers into the empty room, "Can you hear me?"
Silence and a slight buzzing in his good ear are the only response.
He waits a few minutes and the sound comes again. This time, it's a gentle knocking at the front door.
"Hello?" he calls.
"Mr. Weasley? Is that you?" a female voice asks from the other side. "You left the door to the shop unlocked, so I figured you were here early getting things together. I came early to put the banner out, so everyone knows we're re-opening tomorrow."
The voice clicks somewhere in his head. Verity. The assistant he and Fred hired the year before. Verity is early. Curious, probably to see how he is holding up, just like the rest of them.
The letter still in his hand, he gets up from the sofa and opens the door to let her in.
"Good to see you," she says, out of breath, but smiling. "These bloody stairs," she offers by way of explanation. She's wearing the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes uniform and has her blond hair cut even shorter than last time he saw her, trimmed down to just a couple inches. The scar of a long gash runs across her neck and George finds himself wondering where she was during the last battle, trying to remember if he saw her.
"Dungeons," she says, tilting her head to the side to give him a better look. "You should have seen the other guy."
"I'm sorry. Didn't mean to stare."
"It's kind of unavoidable. At least over here, everyone assumes it's a battle wound. Back in Muggle London, most people just think I tried to off myself." She laughs and the rich sound of it echoes in George's head. And the sound of it breaking through the silence feels so good that he has to laugh too.
"Do you know why it's so clean everywhere?"
She tilts her head toward him in an amused manner. "First, you're welcome. Second, there's still a copy of your key under that loose brick in the storeroom. And I have my keys to the store. I just came up a few times to get rid of the trash. Do you know there was a half-eaten biscuit on your kitchen table? It had been there for at least a couple weeks by the time I came by. Didn't want you coming back to a mess, after everything else… How's your ear and everything, by the way?"
He wants to thank her for making this that much easier, but the weight of the letter in his hand keeps him from it.
"Still deaf. Doesn't hurt much though."
"And everything?"
He shrugs and doesn't meet her eyes. Then, for a reason he can't really explain, he hands her the envelope. George stares at the floor, but just makes out the rustle of her removing the letter from it.
After a minute or so, she says, "That's infuriating." Then she is silent for a few seconds. "Bloody hell, I'm sorry Mr. Weasley. Did you just find this?"
He nods.
He doesn't register moving from the doorway until they are seated side by side on the worn sofa, thighs a few inches apart. She smells of cinnamon and coffee. She holds the letter and envelope out to him. When he takes it from her and pockets it, their fingers nearly touch.
"You know, they say laughter drives out ghosts."
"But he's not—"
"Not like that."
George folds his hands in his lap and uses more effort than usually necessary to just breathe. Tentatively, Verity pats his shoulder. A few minutes pass this way, the warmth of her fingers passing through him, the smell of her penetrating the fog of these past few months.
"I don't know if I want to keep them away," he mumbles, but quietly. So quietly that he doesn't hear his own voice aloud. But Verity does.
"I have something serious to tell you, Mr. Weasley." She pauses to allow him to meet her eyes before continuing. They are alive with mirth. "In case you are unaware, you own a joke shop. Are you thinking about renouncing your line of work?"
He shrugs and smiles a little. She's trying too hard to cheer him, but instead of resenting it, he appreciates it. So, he tries make it easier on her. How does the expression go? Fake it until you make it? "George. Just call me George. I'm what? Two years older than you?"
"One."
How did they spend six years in Hogwarts together without him ever noticing her?
"What house were you in?"
"Ravenclaw."
"That explains it, then."
"Explains what?"
"Why I don't remember you from Hogwarts."
"What?"
"You were probably holed up in the library studying ancient runes and arithmancy," he teases, beginning to feel a little more like himself again.
She shrugs. "Fat lot of good it did me."
"What? Your job as a shop assistant doesn't intellectually stimulate you?"
"Let's just say it's just one step on my career path."
"What's the next one?"
"Muggle university."
"Muggle university? That's a new one. What are you going to study there? Time-wasting transportation?"
"I'm taking a few courses already. I'm studying medicine."
"What?"
"I want to study muggle medicine and sort of, combine it with what healers do. I mean, there's a lot of knowledge that hasn't transferred to the magical community. The muggles have been studying the body and the brain and the organ systems. Hogwarts doesn't even offer an intro to human biology course. So, there. Step one, earn enough to pay next term's tuition."
"Maybe one day I'll be able to do something about your ear," she grins, standing up. "Till then, you're just going to have to keep on." She glances down at an electric-looking muggle wristwatch. Then she says in a rush, "Hell, it's almost nine. We should get to work."
"Hey Verity," George says, prompting her to turn around. "Thanks for looking after things and cleaning up around here. You didn't have to do that."
"It was nothing," she says and her cheeks tinge pink. "I live just outside Diagon Alley. It was no trouble at all."
"All the same, thank you."