DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, who isn't me. The only profit I get from this is personal satisfaction.

Occupational Hazard

George decided to poke around the Magical Injuries Recovery Ward and refresh what medical knowledge he had. The patients were anything but pretty, but George had seen far worse during the Battle of Hogwarts. He stopped next to a young man who looked like his insides had been turned out before being given first aid and placed in the ward. Unexpectedly, he was still conscious.

"What's your story?" George asked.

"Why would I tell you?" the man groaned.

"I'm willing to trade," George said as he pointed to his ear.

The man considered it for a moment. "You first."

And so, George related a thoroughly edited version of what happened to his ear during the Battle of the Seven Potters. The man may have been disgusted, but his pride wouldn't allow him to show any emotion other than interest or disinterest in the gory details.

"Now it's your turn," George said.

"I never said I would."

"I don't care if it's embarrassing—the ear is probably the only non-embarrassing mishap in my life. My brother and I once tried to trick someone into believing we we're seventeen and we both managed to look like ugly old men by the end of it. Before that—or was it after? Anyway, we kept playing with these telescopes that would punch you in the eye and for some reason we couldn't figure out that it wasn't a good idea. I can keep giving you more until you're ready to share what happened to you."

The young man sighed. "Fine, I'll tell you. This," he said as he gestured to his torso, "is what happens when the location you try to Apparate to is already occupied by a Blast-Ended Skrewt. It gets its nasty toxins all over and inside of you and trying to Apparate away will only mean forgetting to bring your guts with you. At least the Skrewt probably had a bad day too."

"Any day that a Skrewt is made to feel dissatisfaction is a good one in my book," George replied. "I hope someone put dittany on this or you're not going to be feeling too good tomorrow. Or now, for that matter."

"The healers aren't total morons," the man replied. "You don't secretly work here, do you?"

"If I'm lucky, I will soon," George replied. "If not, I can try to come visit anyway unless I fall into a coma that I can't get out of."

"Isn't that the definition of a coma?" the man asked.

"Normally I'd say yes," George replied, "but I fell into a coma twice today and I haven't even had lunch yet. All I need is a little drink and I'm fine—the trick is that I'm not the one who has to ingest it."

"Has anyone ever told you that you were an odd duck?"

George considered the question. "I can't remember any specific instances, but I'm certain that it has happened, yes."

"Well, good luck with getting the job. Merlin knows that we could use a few more odd ducks around here."

George took that as opportunity to get to know some of the other patients. Most of them were left with the feeling that "James Oliver" was crazy, but only a man who was probably a former Death Eater openly disliked him and that suited George fine. Healer Dorsi showed his face, finally, as George talked to a newly bitten werewolf.

"Mr. Oliver, are you ready for your exam?"

"Do your worst."

It started as a quiz for symptoms of various injuries and maladies and how to treat them. When the healer got to spattergroit and Fred recommended having them put a frog liver on their throat and stand in a barrel of eel eyes during the full moon, then the healer began to show real doubt in George. He tried to restore the healer's confidence, but it was already gone.

"I'm not going to get the job, am I?" George asked when the examination concluded.

"Not now," Healer Dorsi replied. "Maybe after you do some serious study instead of working from heresy and old wives tales."

"In my defense, the spattergroit cure came from one of the paintings here. I never got the chance to check its accuracy, but advice from a hospital is surely likely to be correct, isn't it?"

Healer Dorsi sighed. "Don't get advice from the paintings again—they haven't kept up with any developments since they were painted and are less accurate than what old pureblood biddies recommend. But still, you should do a bit more reading before I trusted you with a payable position. You may do volunteer work in the meantime, but you won't be trusted with crucial operations until you are employed."

"And since I'm not currently employed anywhere, I should be spending my time looking for another job instead of helping out here," George sighed. "Thanks for the offer, though—as soon as I get some stability, I'm sure to become a familiar face."

Healer Dorsi nodded and George went to go find some other job that would take him. He went into every shop on Diagon Alley, but none would have him. He decided that, even though it was completely disreputable, he might as well continue onto Knockturn Alley. Luckily—or perhaps unluckily—the first person he came across was none other than Mundungus Fletcher.

"Dung!" he blurted out without thinking.

"Do I know you?"

George's mind raced. If Mundungus could help George get situated, it would work better if the dirty little thief believed that George was an old acquaintance. "I'll never forgive myself for letting you get 300 kilos of Floo Powder out from under the Ministry's noses. I could have used that."

"Is that you under that face, Charlemagne? Boy, I haven't seen you in over ten years, it must be. Where have you been all this time?"

"Getting into trouble, what did you think?" George smirked. Charlemagne was a thief/con man/smuggler that Mundungus had told George stories about back during the old timeline—how he was Dung's first partner in the magical underworld who fell off the face of the earth the year Fred and George were born. George didn't know everything about Charlemagne, of course, but he probably knew enough to pass as him. "I finally decided to just wipe the slate clean and start over. James Oliver is the name now."

"You aren't seriously going to honest, are you?" Mundungus asked.

"I managed to delude myself into thinking that it might be possible, but there's the peculiar fact that employers expect you to be able to provide a history—and short of forgery, I've got nothing."

Mundungus snorted. "You always did have trouble making papers. I'd be happy to provide you with what you need, though it'll require something of you, of course."

"Name your price, Dung."

"Seeing as you're a newcomer—or everyone thinks you are—I'd like to have you become friends with ol' Aberforth so he's more likely to be lenient on a fellow he likes, and once he's in your pocket, you become my face in the Hog's Head."

"I know you, Dung," George said. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Aberforth is just like his brother—he's likely to see through the glamour you've put yourself under…and why are you grinning like a Cheshire cat?"

That only made George grin wider. "I just so happen to be one hundred percent glamour-free," George replied.

"How in Merlin's name did you manage that?"

"Now really, Dung, did you expect me to just tell you all of my secrets?" George asked with a wicked smile. "Let me just say that it is not recommended unless the pointy end of the wand is starting to look lovely, if you catch my meaning—and most of the time, not even then. But besides a glamour-failure that ain't happening, what else do I need to worry about?"

"Besides what Aberforth will do if he ever finds out who you really are? You'll have to find out on your own."

They spent the next several minutes going over the details for George's fake paperwork. Fortunately, Dung sensed nothing amiss about George's behavior. Apparently Charlemagne really was that good at stepping into a role so that even his body language became unfamiliar.

"Spare me a couple sickles for the Butterbeer, would you?" George asked when they were done.

Dung gave him a funny look. "What happened to your pocket change?"

"Long story," George sighed. He knew that meant he had to think of a long story to tell the scalawag later, but it was better to have a long story without a bunch of holes in it than a quick one that was bound to fall apart sooner or later.

"Well, only this once, but you owe me," Mundungus said as he handed over a pair of dirt-crusted sickles. George wondered how Dung managed to get the Goblin-made silver dirty before he realized they were counterfeit.

"Real coin, Dung. I'm trying to be legitimate, remember?"

"Just making sure you haven't gone completely soft in the head," Mundungus replied as he swapped the fake coins for real ones. George tested the coins, found them satisfactory, and Apparated to the Hog's Head.

The pub was exactly as it was when George saw it last, in nearly thirty years. It was fairly early in the night so there weren't many patrons there yet. George sat down at a table and performed transfiguration charms on the candle stubs to make them flowers the color of the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes uniform. Aberforth quickly noticed George's actions and put a stop to it.

"I have too few candles as it is," the old wizard grunted.

"Sorry, I thought that this place could use a little livening up," George replied.

"You're new around here. I take it."

"I've spent too much time outside of magical civilization," George lied—this time he'd actually prepared a story in advance. "Mum was ridiculously overprotective of me to the point of not even letting me attend Hogwarts. Before I lost her, the most wizards I interacted with at once was a group of freedom-fighting Muggle-born we ran into during the war, and they didn't cover proper etiquette. I apologize, good sir."

Aberforth snorted. "On-the-run etiquette works pretty well at the Hog's Head, for the most part—including the part where you don't mess with things that don't belong to you."

"Good to know."

"What have you spent the last eight years of peace doing, if you don't mind me asking?" Aberforth asked. George knew he was probably fishing for information, not merely making small talk—though whether the Dumbledore who was the professor was going to hear about it, George didn't know.

"I thought Muggle society would be a better fit for me," George said. "Big mistake—I'm a rubbish investor. All I know that could save me now is reintegrating with the magical community. Unfortunately, I was a tad busy evading Death Eaters during the OWL and NEWT years and I never got around to taking them."

"How old are you?"

George quickly did the math in his head. "Twenty-eight," he replied, using his age when Voldemort fell a second time to coincide with the end of the first war. "I know I look older than that, but these added years are nothing—a man I knew died when he was less than forty but looked like he was in his mid-sixties. Stress is a harsh mistress, though I still think one of the stupid things my brother and I did as children may have helped."

"Well, not that you aren't a fascinating young man, but I have a business to run," Aberforth said.

George placed his sickles on the table. "One Butterbeer, please. And a water glass."

"Cowardly pansy, are you going to water down perfectly good Butterbeer? It's not even going to get you drunk unless you're a house-elf or have a barrel-full!"

"I was hoping to find and talk to someone who could get me employed, and as I only have the money for one Butterbeer, I need to make it last."

Aberforth sighed as he got George what he requested. "You'd be better off making friends over at the Three Broomsticks. You fly much too straight for the crowd we usually attract here."

"I've given the straight route my best shot and I keep falling short of the target. I just don't have the skill set for anything. Maybe I can find my true calling here."

Aberforth gave a noncommittal grunt and went off to take care of the other customers.

George took a sip of his watered down Butterbeer and went to sit next to a man he knew for a fact was a Death Eater, though the name didn't spring immediately to mind.

"Hello, stranger," George said. "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

"Do what you like," the Death Eater replied.

George wasn't expecting a Death Eater to let a complete unknown sit by him, but he figured that since James Oliver wouldn't know he was associating with one of the bad guys, he had to act as naive as he was pretending to be.

"Thanks!" George said as he shook the Death Eater's hand. "I'm James Oliver. What do you do for a living?"

"I exterminate dangerous creatures."

"Sounds like fun! Do you need an apprentice?"

"No. And if the Ministry ever finds that I am in need of one, they will have to assign the bloke to me without my consent."

"Oh, you work for the Ministry? What brings you out to Hogsmeade, then?"

"Nostalgia," the Death Eater replied without another word.

"Oh, you went to Hogwarts? I never did, but I hear things were always interesting. Is it true that dragons guard the entrance? Is the Defence position really jinxed? Does Dumbledore really use Legilimency on all of the students and staff?"

"Yes, no, probably, and I don't know."

George added up the questions in his head. "I thought I only asked you three questions."

"The yes was to whether I attended Hogwarts."

George laughed. "And here I thought there were dragons at Hogwarts. Right shame that the students can't have that as a threat to keep them in line. Have you ever got to fight one of them, for your job?"

"Not yet and I hope I never will. Dragonology is a little too much of a death wish for my tastes. My contract says I have to get a large bonus if I ever face any of the ten XXXXX creatures. Let the reckless youngsters who fancy themselves experts deal with those."

"Well, I'm younger than I look and even younger at heart. Maybe I can join one of the reservations." With a little luck and a lot of irony, he might even get on Charlie's team before he did.

"You're on a job hunt, I take it?"

"Right you are," George said. "If you hear about any positions open for an informally educated wizard like myself, could you pass word onto me?"

"We'll see," the Death Eater replied.

The pub door opened. Three greasy-haired men came in, all swaggering like they owned the place. The greasiest of them spoke first. "Hey, Macnair. Who's your new friend?"

"You still claiming that you were under the Imperius Curse?" another asked.

The Death Eater—Macnair, if the greasy git was right—swore under his breath. "Gryffindors."

"Go bother someone else," George said. He was all for roughing up a Slytherin in most circumstances, but James Oliver had no such biases and was far more likely to side with his new drinking companion.

"Did you know that you're drinking with one of You-Know-Who's followers? Sure, he claims that he was under the Imperius now, but it's obviously a lie. You turn your back on magical Britain just by being near him!"

George stood so that the greasy gits got a clear view of his ear—or his lack of one, anyway. "I spent my time in the war fighting Death Eaters. I was lucky—I only lost an ear. My brother was killed by Death Eaters. What did you do?" He waited for an answer and got none. "I thought so. Do you really think I would voluntarily talk to a Death Eater? I'd like to think I'm a better judge of character than that."

"Then you're a fool," the greasiest git said as he pulled out his wand. Without even thinking, George pulled out his own and cast a silent shield charm. The man's jinx ricocheted off the shield onto the man who stood next to him. He turned his head to look at his comrade and George sent out a pair of stunners at him and the other git still standing. For good measure, he stunned the one hit by what George recognized to be a ricocheted jelly-legs jinx, of all things.

"How do people graduate from Hogwarts so incapable of defending themselves?" George lamented as he levitated the three unconscious wizards out onto the street.

"You aren't half bad," Macnair noticed.

"I had to be," George replied. "You had better not be an actual Death Eater, by the way, or I'll have to come and find you."

"I was under the Imperius curse," Macnair lied simply.

"So I gathered. I've been under the curse too and it is insanely difficult to throw off. But if you ever decide to support any future Dark Lords, I am ethically obligated to come euthanize you."

"I'll stick to killing dark creatures, I promise," Macnair replied. George hoped against hope that Macnair would keep that promise.

Aberforth came over to the table. "As I rule, I don't permit any sort of fighting in my pub, dueling included."

"Sorry, sir," George replied.

"I saw the whole thing, it was self-defense," Aberforth said with a wave of his hand. "What I'd like to know is if you're always so quick on the uptake."

"War reflexes never go away," George replied.

"I can see that. How would you like a job working here and making sure the fights stay outside where they belong?"

"Really?" George asked.

Aberforth nodded. "You were a quicker draw than me, which is saying something. The pay won't be great, but you'll have a bed and you can forage through whatever food that doesn't get eaten by the end of the night."

"How can I refuse?" George asked. "Although you should be aware that I have a bit of a narcolepsy problem."

"So do half the patrons who drink here," Aberforth smirked. "We'll talk if it becomes a problem, but I'm getting old and I need someone who I can trust to run this place as well as it always has. I have a feeling that you're it."

"Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence. When can I move in?"

"Let's see how you connect with the other patrons first. We'll talk sometime after two or three."