DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, who isn't me. The only profit I get from this is personal satisfaction.
A Horrible Sense of Humor
George was still himself, of course, but he wasn't on a broom floating in the air. It, along with whatever else the Trickster placed on him, was left behind in the other timeline (honestly, he was lucky to still have his robes and wand). George, as he fell towards the ground at a speed higher than one experienced regularly, instinctively Apparated away, back to the outskirts of the Burrow. He knew the Trickster didn't want George interacting with Fred in his adult form, but even Fred would be asleep at that hour of the night, so he risked it.
George tiptoed through the living room past the Weasley family clock and, at a second thought, went back and made sure his hand on his mother's invention wasn't going haywire trying to figure out which George it should synchronize with. The whole family was stuck on "home," but since George was home, that was mostly irrelevant. To test it, George took the clock off the wall and carried it beyond the anti-apparition wards Bill had once placed around the house and Apparated to St. Mungo's. The "George" hand didn't so much as quiver to "hospital," and so George Apparated back home before people started asking him questions about what he was doing there.
Now that he thought about it, George would have to start anew with his career—he couldn't just rely on his mother to keep a strange—if familiar—grown man fed for no reason. The shop was out of the question since George didn't have any resources to start with. That meant he'd have to find an employer who would take on a wizard with no O.W.L.'s on record. Maybe he could claim that he was home-schooled or from another country? And, of course, someone was bound to notice his resemblance to the Weasley family, so he'd have to find a way to change his hair color at the very least. Black like Harry's family would probably be appropriate—the boys of the Boy-Who-Lived were born Weasleys, after all.
With that, George quickly returned the clock and went out to Dad's shed to find some hair dye. He could have just changed it magically, of course, but he'd rather not take a chance that someone like Mad-Eye or Dumbledore saw through the glamour or if he somehow lost his true hair color forever—cosmetic spells could be finicky like that and Fred was usually the one who cast them. Besides, it was nice to finally have a good excuse to use one of the Muggle products he kept at the shop for people like Dad.
The current Arthur, George knew, probably thought he'd be working in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office until the day he died. Not many people realized how brilliant he was at the job, and Dad liked it that way. Anytime a witch or wizard asked about some Muggle item, Dad had made a point to get his description just a little bit wrong. If they didn't know better, it didn't matter, but if they grew up with Muggles then Arthur would probably learn something new as they tried to correct him. He didn't have all the opportunities that he had while he was still a kid to slack off and immerse himself in Muggle culture-and it changed far too quickly for any working wizard to really keep up with anyway. So Dad was considered an idiot and that just made them underestimate him. The fact that Dad was usually mellow (with the exception of when Percy decided to leave the family) only helped.
George went back inside the house, grabbed the Daily Prophet out of the rubbish bin, and went up the bathroom to apply his new hair job and find a job in the Job Seekers section to apply for.
Most jobs mentioned graduation or exam requirements. There were a couple, however, that conveniently forgot to mention them, instead citing specific spells or other specialized abilities. One job asked for someone to be able to brew the Wolfsbane Potion regularly; George had no idea how to do that, but if he ever did figure it out (after all, potion-based products were integral to Weasley Wizard Wheezes and the only reason he and Fred Trolled that O.W.L. was to completely and utterly avoid ever having to sit another class with Snape again, not lack of ability) he'd try to find a nice ol' werewolf with galleons to spare willing to accept his services. There was also a temporary job to keep a Patronus going to protect wizards visiting convicts in Azkaban, but George decided against it, as it was too depressing and on the off chance that someone might remember his Patronus' form and wonder why the younger George Weasley had it once he learned how. There was also a request for volunteers to help patients in the various wards at St. Mungo's. Although the pay wasn't great—and not everyone would even get paid—George decided it was better than nothing. He could even think of a way or two to help the patients to get better already.
By this time, George was officially the first (chronological) black-haired Weasley and he couldn't believe that he had managed to distract himself from seeing Fred for fifteen whole minutes. He silently went to the bedroom his past self and Fred had shared and opened the door. Fred was lying on the top bunk as usual, snoring happily away. To George's surprise, his young self only made the quiet sounds of breathing as he slept. He'd have to mention that fact next time Percy complained about being unable to sleep through the noise. George touched his twin's sleeping form. Fred stirred at his touch, but he didn't awaken.
I'm back, Fred, George thought. I'll save you, don't you worry about it.
Once it became an appropriate hour—the sun was up at least—George walked into St. Mungo's with a deliberate air of confidence. "Hello, I'm interested in a job," he said to the secretary.
"What are your credentials?" she asked in a monotone voice. Apparently, she hadn't woken up yet.
"Well, that's the hard bit," George said. "I don't have them—officially, at least. I was kind of too busy to take the exams, with the war and all." He just didn't mention which war he was talking about. "I did pick up on basic treatments and things—I was the best Healer in the group, anyway."
"And why are you looking for work here, Mr.…?"
"Oliver," George said, saying the first name that popped into his mind, though how his thoughts drifted to his old Quidditch coach, he'd never know. "James Oliver. Blood-wise I'm technically a Muggle-born, but Mum tutored me to be a good wizard. I was laid off a little while ago because the customers were put off by the ear, but an injury makes the patients more cooperative, I think, don't you?"
"I rarely interact with patients directly, but maybe you would be interested in interviewing with Healer Dorsi? You may find him in his office on the fourth floor."
"Thank you, Miss," George said with a tip of an imaginary hat as he went upstairs.
He found Healer Dorsi's office door open, so George let himself in. Healer Dorsi, as the secretary said, was there and examining some files. He looked up at George with an air of annoyance. "May I help you?"
"I'm James Oliver, I'm interested in a job," George said brightly.
"Yes, of course you are," Dorsi grumbled. "Why, though, should I trust you to do anything if you're just going to make more work for me sorting everything out?"
Well, he's certainly a ray of sunshine, isn't he? George thought to himself. "I'm personally aware of several symptoms of various things and how to treat them."
"Yes, like how you treated that ear of yours?" Healer Dorsi scoffed.
"Do you perform treatments on yourself when you're flying on your broom hundreds of feet in the air while Death Eaters shoot dark curses at you?" George retorted. "Because if you do, I'll be happy to learn what I should do next time."
The healer barked a laugh. "So you didn't get that just doing something stupid, that's nice to know. Well, besides the whole trying to defeat He Who Must Not Be Named, but we didn't know about Harry Potter when Death Eaters took your ear or my leg," he said as he stepped out from behind his desk to show George the wooden one that reminded him of Mad-Eye's. "So what field healing do you have behind you? And be sure to mention any deaths you had on your watch."
"Oh, boy," George said. He hadn't personally healed anyone during the second war, but there were more than enough deaths to regret. "Dumbledore was dead before I knew there was a battle going on."
"Dumbledore?"
"Not the real Dumbledore," George said quickly. "We just called him that because he was old and was the most likely of us to kill Vol—You-Know-Who. A couple months later, we lost a one-eyed man—the eye was long gone before I joined up with them—who died the night I became Your Holeyness. Almost a year later, we lost a lot more: Moony and his wife, our resident spy, my brother—everyone died before I could get to them. I was too busy fighting and I regret it every day."
"But yours was the only injury you treated?" Healer Dorsi asked.
"My brother was able to do that," George said, not wanting to bring Mum into it. "We invented all sorts of weird ways to cause symptoms of various illnesses as kids; we practiced on each other and figured out how to reverse the effects the hard way. The antidote for Nosebleed Nougats was invaluable."
"I'm surprised you didn't try to market it," Healer Dorsi mumbled.
"I couldn't do it," George lied, "not with my brother gone so soon. If I could help around here, though, I might be able to make things up to him."
"Well," Healer Dorsi said, "it sounds like you have a hair's chance of a possibility of knowing what you're talking about. Come back this afternoon and I'll have an informal exam for you. Is there anything besides your ear that is not in good working order?"
Right at that moment, George felt a jolt as he suddenly was back at the Burrow, sitting at a table with Dad, Fred, and Percy.
"Could you pass me the butter, George?" Dad asked.
"He's not George, I am!" Fred said.
"Sorry, Fred."
George looked down at his hands as he grabbed the butter and handed it to his father. He was a lot smaller than he was used to. A quick examination of his ear confirmed it: he was possessing his younger self.
What in Merlin's name could have triggered that? George wondered. How do I get back to my older body? Why didn't I ask the Trickster what I had to do to become young-me?
"He's joking, Dad," George said. When Fred gave him a look that said, now what did you do that for, he added, "I'm actually Ron. The twins gave me a potion that made me look like them—I think they're planning to turn the whole world into Fred's and George's." Fred smiled. That's better.
"You've not even started Hogwarts and you're already brewing Polyjuice, boys?" Dad laughed. "I'd tell your Mum, but she'd only tell you off for messing with your younger brother."
"You were right the first time: I'm George."
"Of course you're George," Ron said groggily as he came down the stairs. "What's for breakfast?"
As Percy started to tell him, George jolted back to Healer Dorsi's office.
"What did you say, again?" George asked. He was lying on the floor, so he got back up and tried to act like nothing had happened.
"I asked if there was anything wrong with you," Dorsi said. "If you are narcoleptic, I think that might count."
"I've never been able to control it, but I'm working on it," George said.
"We try to be understanding of ailments here, but if it will interfere with your job…"
"It started quite recently," George said hurriedly, "but I'm confident that I'll figure out a cause very soon."
"For your sake, Mr. Oliver, I hope you are right about that."
George nodded and was jolted back to the Weasley table.
"…okay, George?"
"Okay what?"
"Don't tell me you've already forgotten again?"
"Again?"
"You're really funny, George," Ron said as he rolled his eyes.
"Did it take you this long to figure that out?" Fred asked his youngest brother. "He's the funny looking one and I'm the handsome one."
"Yet somehow I'll be the one who gets married and has two kids," George muttered.
"Only two?" Dad snorted. "You're a Weasley, you need to get going!"
"Arthur, what are you talking to my boys about?" Mum asked as she came to the table with a skillet of sausages.
"Nothing, Molly. They just need to go upstairs and make sure they're all packed so we can get to the train station."
"Thanks, Dad," George said as he grabbed a sausage and went upstairs with Fred.
"What's the matter with you today?" Fred asked.
"I've gotten cynical in my old age," George deadpanned.
"You're not allowed to be old—I'm the old one, remember?" Fred laughed. It was both wonderful and bizarre to hear him laugh again. "But seriously, every time after I drank my pumpkin juice, you changed—like you were suddenly obliviated."
Fred drinking pumpkin juice is the trigger for me possessing me? George wondered. Honestly, that Trickster needs to get a life.
"Fred, I know you're confused—and honestly, so am I—but I need you to trust me when I say that what's happening is a good thing. Next time you drink pumpkin juice that's probably going to change, but either way, I am still your brother, Fred."
"No, I'm Fred—you're George," Fred joked.
"Let me write a note to myself to remind me," George said as he grabbed a quill and a bit of parchment and forced himself to write slower than normal since young George didn't have all of those essays under his belt to make writing less of a chore and more of a habit.
Dear George,
If I'm right, every time Fred wants some pumpkin juice, I'm going to possess you. I apologize for the inconvenience. I'm going to try and work out a system so that I can do what I need to and you can take the classes you need to take. Since I'm feeling generous, I will try to be the conscious one during History of Magic—trust me, you'll thank me later. Any other agreements will have to be cleared in advance. If you try to abuse our relationship, keep in mind that I have a higher tolerance for pain than you do. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell Fred about me until I know what to tell him. And don't stop him from drinking pumpkin juice entirely, because that is completely unfair and I will break into Hogwarts and force Scabbers to eat your feet off until you see reason. I'm sorry about all the threats, but I am looking after your best interests.
Sincerely,
The Saintlike One
"Go get a sip of pumpkin juice—just one—then make me read this," George ordered his twin. "Then, I'd appreciate it if you waited at least one hour before consuming anything, okay?"
"Sure, whatever you say, George."
Fred watched George as he downed the last of the pumpkin juice. It happened again: George had changed.
"Hey, brother of mine, do you remember what happened in the past couple minutes?" Fred asked.
"No," George said. "What's happening, Fred? This is really starting to scare me."
"You wrote a note to yourself," Fred said as he handed George the folded piece of parchment.
George read it and Fred read over his shoulder, even though he probably shouldn't have. Once Fred finished it, he knew he really shouldn't have. It was worse than he ever could have imagined.
"How did I write this, Fred? I'm being possessed by a lunatic."
"Or maybe you're the lunatic and the version of you that wrote that is the real you," Fred suggested.
"You don't really believe that, do you?" George asked, the terrified look still in his eye, which only made Fred feel worse.
"Nah, that other you was acting too smart to be you," Fred quipped—him being completely serious would only make George feel worse. "The question is whether or not we can trust you like that."
"I'd say you should just never drink pumpkin juice again, but then Scabbers would probably hate you," George replied.
"No, I'll have to bring him back. But I'll do it in front of Dumbledore, who's bound to notice you're getting possessed by this Saintlike guy whenever I have pumpkin juice."
"Let's just hope that Mr. Holy isn't actually Dumbledore."
"If Dumbledore's possessing me, then all I'll have to do is tell Mum and she'll make what happened to your left buttock look like a birthday party."
"That was Dad's doing, not Mum," Fred retorted.
"And that was the only reason she didn't do something even worse."
George returned to Healer Dorsi's office once more. "Yep, I've definitely have some theories of how to control my narcolepsy. If I ever fall into a coma for more than a few days, then you guys have permission to worry about me."
"You make theories while you're asleep?"
"Dreams are the most creative parts of ourselves," George replied cryptically.
"I would much rather share war stories than listen to narcoleptic dreams. I still don't know if hiring you is worth it."
"I'll inform you of my progress when there is some. Thank you, Healer Dorsi."
"Don't thank me before I deserve it."
Fred placed a vial of pumpkin juice in his pocket right before grabbing his trunk and heading out the door to the Ford Anglia Dad had fixed up. Fred kept closer to George than usual, wary of any change that might come over him, even if he didn't drink any pumpkin juice.
Why did it have to be George who gets possessed in the most insane way possible? Percy's the one who needs some insanity in his life, not my other half.
In one part of his mind, however, Fred couldn't discount the possibility that George was pranking him. He had no idea what would provoke George into doing such a thing, but Fred didn't know his twin with perfect exactness any more than he knew everything about himself—he knew more than practically anyone, but there were still plenty of surprises in life.
"Alright, kiddos!" Dad said as he got in the car, "Did we forget anything?"
"We forgot Bill!" George said, though not as quickly as he normally would have. Is he slower because he's the Saintlike One again? Fred's internal paranoia asked. He met eyes with his twin and saw a strained smile forced on him. No, he's just terrified of what might happen to him.
"Where's Bill, Arthur?" Mum said worriedly. "I haven't seen him all day!"
"He graduated last year," Charlie said. "Fred is just having you on."
"Oi! I'm Fred!" Fred said, but only because he had to. He doubted anyone besides George would ever be able to identify him reliably, and that was probably just because there was only one for him to worry about.
"Sorry, Fred," Mum said.
"If the only thing we're missing is Bill," Dad said, "then we need to get you guys off to Hogwarts."
The journey was the quietest one Fred could remember. Charlie was talking to Mum and Dad about dragons, Ron was picking on Ginny, but Fred and George didn't say a word. Percy was the only one who seemed to notice.
"What is wrong with you two? You better not be planning anything funny."
Fred couldn't think of a retort quick enough to that and neither could George.
"You aren't worried that you won't make it into Gryffindor, are you?" Percy asked. "Do you have any idea how long it's been since a Weasley or Prewett failed to get in? You have to count Blacks who married into the family for about three generations before you get to a blood Weasley, and he isn't even on our direct line! The Sorting Hat simply identified me as a Weasley and tossed me into Gryffindor in less than five seconds. You'll both be fine."
Fred and George exchanged glances. It was best that no one find out what was going on with George before Dumbledore could look at it, so the right thing to do was let Percy believe his ridiculous assumption to be true.
"Thanks, Perce," they said at the same time.
"At least I know you aren't planning to shrink my…" Percy trailed off, then shook his head. "Never mind, I shouldn't give either of you ideas."