DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, who isn't me. The only profit I get from this is personal satisfaction.
Making Inquiries
George thought back on his nieces' and nephews' time travel stories. There were a few common elements that showed up with surprising regularity. One of those was the necessity of learning Occlumency, so Voldemort didn't find out about the time travel. George figured that it was probably a good idea and so he snuck into the Hogwarts library. He never really thought he'd have a good reason to go to the land of books before—he and Fred had favored experimental learning over book learning—but there was a definite lack of teachers willing to teach him mind magic, so he would have to do things the hard way.
George found a few books—in the Restricted Section, of course—and began to read at one of the tables. He looked for a section that taught Occlumency, but being in a library must have caused him to channel his inner-Hermione and he got distracted by some other subjects.
First to pique his interest was the technique of extracting a memory to place in a Pensieve. It looked like a fairly simple process, though he didn't have a way to check that he did it correctly. Maybe he could hit two chasers with one Bludger, so to speak, and give Young George memories from his possession periods to examine with Dumbledore later.
The next subject to distract him was Legilimency. His mind started turning in a weird way: what would happen if he cast it on himself before he possessed Young George? Would he be able to split his mind in half and be aware of both versions of himself? It was something to try out the next time he had the opportunity.
He decided to save the Obliviate spell for another time and tried to focus on learning Occlumency. But, of course, he was distracted again by one small phrase: "it may be possible that Occlumency can guard against possession." He sincerely hoped that it was not true—at least not for the variant of possession he did with his younger self. If Dumbledore started teaching Young George to protect his mind, George would be in a fair bit of trouble. Maybe he should focus on learning Legilimency first.
George pointed his wand at his head and whispered, "Legilimens." It felt a tad odd, but he couldn't be sure whether or not it was working properly or not.
He heard footsteps coming up the aisle: it was time to go. He replaced the book, made sure he was still invisible, and snuck past Filch and Mrs. Norris, who he suppressed the urge to kick. On his way out of the castle, George broke into the Potions storage cupboards and grabbed some ingredients "James Oliver" wouldn't or couldn't buy and headed for the secret passageway out.
The next morning, as soon as pumpkin juice entered his mouth, George cast Legilimens on himself and sat in the nearest chair he could find. When he went to his younger body, a small part of his consciousness remained in the Hog's Head. He could still see ahead of himself, but he was incapable of moving his older body. Maybe I should cast the Imperius Curse on myself next time too.
A bop on the head in his younger body made him focus on more important matters: he was upside down in a tree and being pelted by Bowtruckles.
He sighed inwardly. It was a prank he'd done before. He couldn't really expect Fred and Young George to surprise him, he supposed, but he'd like to have something of a challenge. He tried to keep a part of his mind back at the Hog's Head to serve as a handicap, but he'd lost the link when he thought too hard in Young George's body. So instead, he closed his eyes and began his escape.
The Bowtruckles were easy enough to dodge. Those creatures were noisy things. Since George didn't have a wand on him, he had to wandlessly cast Diffindo on the rope around his ankles that bound him to the tree and grab onto the branch before he fell to the ground—there was a sinkhole that would give way the moment he stepped on it. He got a good grip on the branch and swung himself back and forth until he built enough momentum to fling himself out of the unstable ground zone.
When George opened his eyes, Fred and Lee were in front of him with dumbfounded looks on their faces. "Not bad. I didn't try that one until after Halloween of my first year."
"You've done our prank?" Fred asked. "The prank we spent hours coming up with?"
"Well, who would let a perfectly good sinkhole next to a tree go to waste?" George asked. "In any case, I get bonus points for escaping with my eyes closed."
"Yeah, right," Fred scoffed. "You just got lucky."
"Keep testing me, Fred. You'll see that you're dead wrong about my luck."
Albus Dumbledore usually visited the Hog's Head to check up on his brother once every couple of weeks. This particular night, it had been almost two months.
Aberforth noticed. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"
"For good reason," Albus replied. "I've had a great deal of information that all but fell from the sky and I have no idea how trustworthy it is."
"All sources are unreliable, Albus," Aberforth said as he handed the Headmaster his customary brandy.
"True, but for most the degree of reliability is estimable," Albus said. "In this case the source is either very reliable or has gone to a great deal of effort to convince me of its reliability. If it is accurate, I have been saved a lot of headaches. If not, I could be in a great deal of trouble in the future."
"Simple answer is more likely," Aberforth suggested. "Not everyone can be perfectly upfront with you but they know you're often the only one who knows what to do with whatever information they tell you."
"I disagree," a nearby man said. Dumbledore was surprised to find he had no idea who the man was and so gave him a quick glance over: black hair, brown eyes, fading freckles, an ear that looked like it had been hit with a dark curse, and wore what looked like one of Aberforth's old cloaks. All this took less than the two seconds the man took to walk over and join them. "If whatever it is that someone tells you seems too good to be true, it probably is. Careful research and source checking is the way to go here. Better safe than sorry."
"And who might you be?" Albus asked.
"This here is James Oliver," Aberforth said. "He's started to help me with the place. Not very magical culture literate, but he knows how to hold himself in a skirmish better than any of my other regulars."
"I'd say he's exaggerating, but that'd be a lie," Mr. Oliver said. "Wizards simply don't have the ability to defend themselves like they used to. Thirty years with no consistent teachers is a recipe for disaster. I know it's probably just the jinx on the Defence position, but can't the great Dumbledore figure out a way to get around it?"
Aberforth looked like he was about to point out that the person Mr. Oliver was speaking to was in fact the Headmaster, but Albus quieted his brother. It was rare that anyone gave an honest opinion of Professor Dumbledore when he was around and he was going to milk the opportunity for all its worth. "Indeed, he can be shortsighted about a great many things, but how would you suggest he fix that particular problem?"
Mr. Oliver began counting on his fingers. "He could have the job swap between two teachers every year. He could split the class into two or more different ones. He could change the name. He could institute a dueling club with someone other than the Defence professor, to preserve the longevity of the club. He could have an unknown entity terrorize the students until they learn how to protect themselves. He could assign a ghost to teach the class. He could go find whoever cast the jinx in the first place and get it removed."
"Enough. I see your point," Albus said. Aberforth was trying very hard not to laugh, but he was not quite successful. "Do you really believe you could break the curse, though?"
"Well, not me," Mr. Oliver defended. "If I ever taught Defence—even if I only made my contract last one year—I'd still probably have something horrible happen to me like getting locked in my trunk all year while a Death Eater takes Polyjuice to impersonate me. That does not sound like fun."
Albus laughed. "You certainly have an active imagination, don't you?"
Mr. Oliver shrugged. "I always called it 'paranoia,' but at least it saved my skin at least a couple times during the war. Though I guess there really wasn't a Taboo on You-Know-Who's name—but you still won't catch me using it."
A Taboo? Dumbledore thought. I suppose I never really considered that as a weakness of the Order. If I ever have to reinstate it, I'll try to get people to call him Tom instead. It'll take away from his ability to incite fear, at the very least.
"I think Professor Dumbledore would like listening to you," Albus told Mr. Oliver. "You should owl him with ideas on how to fix his problems."
"Why? You've heard everything already and if I think of anything else, I'll probably still be working here, Headmaster."
Albus laughed. "How long did you know who I was?"
"I suspected when you came in; it was mostly confirmed when Aberforth called you Albus," Mr. Oliver explained. "Besides you, I only know of one other Albus and I'm pretty sure he was named after you sometime after you turned 100. Although if I want to be completely honest, I suspected Aberforth might have been your alter ego until I found out you were brothers. Still, a little confirmation was nice."
"And you had no problem insulting me to my face," Albus noted.
"I'm not a man with two faces," Mr. Oliver said. "Different situations may call for different facets of my personality, but I prefer to just be me. It's easier that way."
"As long as you don't tickle a sleeping dragon in the process, I'm inclined to agree."
"Well, unless you insist we keep chatting, I want to not fall down on the job any more than I have to, so if you'll excuse me?" Mr. Oliver hopped over to another table.
"He's a very interesting fellow," Albus said after taking a long sip of his drink. "What can you tell me about him, Aberforth?"
"James is a Muggle-born who fought during the war. He was a member of a group of Muggle-borns on the run from Voldemort; he refuses to speak of their identities and once implied that he made an Unbreakable Vow to keep the group's components in absolute secrecy, even though most or all of them are dead. James is mostly a fair judge of character, though he did somehow manage to befriend and defend Macnair his first night here."
"Where has the man been all these years?" Albus asked.
Aberforth shrugged. "After the war, he decided to integrate with Muggle society. He suffered some major investing setbacks recently and was unable to recoup his losses. He came here with the intention of networking to find an occupation and his dueling skills impressed me enough to give him a shot as my assistant."
"You don't really need one," Albus pointed out.
"If I keep him here much longer I will," Aberforth grunted. "Somehow even my most somber customers like him and I've had a 10% increase in patronage just because he's here. He does fall down on the job occasionally, but it usually isn't his fault—he has narcolepsy."
"Really?" Albus asked.
"He mentioned having it the first day but I never saw it until earlier this week. He had at least three episodes yesterday," Aberforth said. "Personally, I think the cause is the fact that I've started getting the prettier women as patrons. I'd bet you a bottle of brandy that his wife was in his group of fighters and he doesn't want to feel unfaithful to her, but he doesn't want to be unfriendly either. So his body compensates by shutting off entirely. At least he doesn't look his 28 years or he'd never get any work done. He's aged almost as badly as Severus Snape."
"Well, few in this world have gone through what my Potions Master has. I imagine that Mr. Oliver also has depths he would rather not be known. Keep an eye on him, would you?"
"Sure, though I doubt I'll need to. With James, what you see is what you get."
A Handy List of George Weasley's Personas
1. 40-year-old George Weasley. George acting normally.
2. 11-year-old George Weasley. George acting like he did as a child.
3. Unknown-aged Saintlike One. George acting mysterious, all-knowing, and possibly crazy.
4. 28-year-old James Oliver. George acting like a Muggle-born war veteran.
5. 37-year-old Charlemagne. George acting like a liar that "tells the truth" to Mundungus Fletcher and helps him with his "business."
"It's been well over a month," Mundungus said. "You're going to take me out for a drink tonight and tell me all about how you got to where you are now."
"Did you ask someone when my night off was?" George asked suspiciously.
"No one ever goes to the Hog's Head on a Wednesday," Dung replied. "It wasn't that hard to figure out."
"Fine, but you have to go as someone else—I can't be seen in public with you. All you need is a veil and a dress…"
"I am not dressing up as a witch," Mundungus said.
"It's either witch or I will have just saved your life and you decided to treat me to a drink."
"Why can't I save your life?"
"I have a reputation for having a quick wand. There'd have to be a much bigger reason that you had to save me than for me to save you. Or you can bypass the 'how we met' stories and go as a witch."
"I hate you, Charlemagne, I really do."
"So, you remember when the last night in America I saw you, there was a group of Muggles trying to warm themselves by the fire?" George asked as he held a drink in his hands.
"Yeah," Mundungus replied. George knew Dung would because he'd commented on it while telling George and his brother about the Fall of Charlemagne several years in the future.
"Well, that's not all they were doing. At least two of them were actually coppers. I, being unaware, decided to work my charm on one of the young ladies and then she's screaming 'RAPE!' at the top of her lungs. Before I could do anything, one of the coppers got a lucky blow behind my neck and I went instantly unconscious. I woke up in a cell and they interrogated me, but I played the 'disoriented' card and avoided answering anything. They had confiscated my wand while unconscious, so I couldn't escape."
"You never were very good with the wandless stuff," Dung noted. There was a lot of stuff Charlemagne wasn't very good at—which was a blessing for George since he had plenty of excuses for stupidity. Now that George thought about it, Charlemagne was a lot like a Lockhart that didn't rely on good looks but rather plain old charisma.
"I tried to escape, but stupid unforeseeable circumstances prevented each attempt. In the second one, my wand got snapped by someone who thought I believed myself to be a vampire hunter and that the wand was a wooden stake."
"Muggles are so stupid."
George didn't reply to that. "The last attempt I got away of course, but one of the guards shot a hole in my ear. I was all over the local Muggle news and it took a fair bit of coin I had hid away for emergencies to get the story expunged from their memory. That took longer than I thought it would and, in the meantime, I ended up getting a Muggle operation to change my physical appearance, albeit with a little magical help. The ear wasn't salvageable because previously I got someone to shoot the most obscure dark curse they knew at it so I could claim it was a war injury. I fluctuated for a long time between the Muggle and magical worlds and I somehow lost myself. Then I remembered you—and don't you dare ask me how I could have possibly forgotten you because I don't even know—and I decided to come back to Britain. I know there was something traumatic that must have happened to me somewhere in all of that, but it was either someone erased the memory except for the subconscious parts or I managed to suppress the memory myself."
"Wow, Charlemagne. That's just… wow."
"It is quite a lot to take in, isn't it?" George agreed. "We have plenty of time for you to ask me all about what I can remember, but the server is going to wonder why she can't make out anything we say." George removed the Muffliato charm and he greeted the witch who had just brought him and Dung their food, (George had decided he was hungry and felt that dinner instead of drinks would be more embarrassing for Dung) speaking as jovially as James Oliver would. Dung was having a harder time broadcasting enthusiasm, but the veil luckily masked his facial expressions.
Albus Dumbledore found Mundungus only a day after his "date" with Charlemagne. They tended to not talk much, so if the Headmaster was seeking him out, it had to be important.
"Mr. Fletcher, I understand that you have become friendly with one James Oliver," Dumbledore started.
"I've talked to him a couple of times," Mundungus replied with a shrug.
"I wonder why you did not submit his name to me as one who came recently to magical Britain."
Mundungus swore mentally. So Dumbledore was serious about finding this raccoon guy. "He doesn't fit your profile."
"And I would guess that he fits it better than any individuals I gave learned of," Dumbledore replied.
"He doesn't have a raccoon Patronus," Mundungus assured the professor.
"Oh?" Dumbledore asked with a raised eyebrow. "And what form does it take?"
Mundungus was about to say that there wasn't a form, but quickly realized that that excuse was stupid—a form could be suppressed if the memory fueling it was no good. "A firefly," he replied. If Charlemagne had to demonstrate later, Mundungus could claim that he thought the wisps looked like a firefly. That of course meant Charlemagne had to have at least gotten to that point in casting the charm, but Mundungus had enough faith in the only man who called him Dung to pull it off.
"A firefly? Really? It's so rare to have a non-mammalian or non-avian Patronus. I wonder what it signifies…" Dumbledore trailed off.
"Maybe he's a light in the darkness?" Mundungus suggested. "Or he views himself as an insignificant speck?"
"The former, if his decidedness towards the darkness of society is any indication."
The hair on Mundungus' back flared in irritation. "You're insulting my way of life again."
"I apologize, Mr. Fletcher. I was merely indicating that many who chose paths similar to your own have become darker people more likely to follow dark wizards."
"You-Know-Who got good grades in school, didn't he?"
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes—just a fraction, but Mundungus could still see it. "That's quite irrelevant and you know it."
"I'm just saying that light and dark can be found anywhere," Mundungus replied.
Dumbledore sighed. "I suppose you would know that better than most."
"How does he keep predicting our plans?" Fred asked his two best friends. They had just executed their eighteenth prank against the Saintlike One; this one, like the previous seventeen, had ended in failure. "Dumbledore said that we aren't being surveilled by magic. We keep switching where we plot the pranks. What are we missing?"
"Maybe he just thinks we're predictable," Lee suggested.
"Who expects to wake up tied up upside-down being pelted by Bowtruckles or on the Giant Squid or in a barrel of Cornish Pixies?"
"Apparently the Saintlike One," George said. "Maybe we should randomize the process."
"How?" Lee asked. "Pick a spell, a place, and a trap out of a hat and try to combine them?"
Fred shrugged. "Sure, why not?"
Ten minutes later, they began pulling parchment from their hats.
"Alohomora," Fred read his scrap of parchment.
"Surrounded by gnomes," Lee read.
"The Quidditch Pitch," George said. "This is going to be interesting."