Chapter 1
Melancholy
Warnings: Some swearing. Some angst.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the fictional world of this fic.
It had been a horrible, shitty morning. From the moment Katie Bell had stepped out into the rain with her swiss cheese excuse for an umbrella, nothing had gone right.
Not only had she ruined her new trainers with an ill-timed step off the curb into a slightly viscous puddle, but she tried three times to unlock her car before realizing that it had been broken into, her meager belongings scattered around the backseat as though a particularly vengeful spirit had a lot of pent-up anger. Only, she knew no vengeful spirits. The spirits she did know were not particularly vengeful. At least, they weren't the kind who would break into her car to steal a melted Bounty bar and the five quid she'd hastily stashed in the glove compartment the other week. As it was, her spirits sank down to form a cold pit of melancholy in her stomach.
Katie fished her cell phone out of her tote bag, umbrella clutched beneath her chin, cursing colorfully. She was notorious for being late to work, but today would be a new record. Francine, her boss, would be deeply displeased. Well that makes two of us, Katie thought, getting riled up at the thought of having to make her case to the grouchy old witch on this kind of morning. She would have disapparated right there, but there were too many muggles wandering around for her liking. No use, she thought hopelessly, swiping through her contacts for the cab company that was her last-ditch effort.
Ten minutes later, Katie was anxiously staring out the window of perhaps the most rancid smelling cab in the entirety of London. As the traffic slipped forward at a glacial pace, Katie felt a rising panic in her chest, pushing up her throat like a scream.
"Could you please pull over just here?" Katie's voice sounded rusty – a side effect of the delightfully predictable autumn deluge, probably. As if he had only been half-listening and decided at the last moment to comply, the cab driver swerved violently into the left lane. The resulting cacophony of honking rose up like the London Symphony Orchestra.
"Cheer up, love," the driver said as he caught her eye in the rear-view mirror, "You're too pretty to look so glum."
Ugh.
She gave him a tight-lipped grimace and slid out of the cab. As he drove off, the cab's tires splashed water down the backs of Katie's trousers.
She stood there in the rain for a moment, not bothering to open her umbrella. She was steeling herself for the verbal vitriol she was about to endure. The facade of Francine's Flying Foundation looked innocuous––little more than a quiet corner shop in Croydon. But as she let out a sigh and thought, might as well get this over with, Katie waved her hand discreetly, pushing past the protective disillusionment charm that hid the well-renowned Quidditch training program's true exterior.
Katie had barely set foot in the door when Francine's wiry frame rounded the corner of her office, her eyes flashing with poorly concealed irritation. With arms crossed, her pursed lips widened imperceptibly to let out a huff.
"How many days this month have you sauntered in at half nine, dripping who-knows-what on my entry rug?"
The entry rug was a temperamental thing, it hissed at Katie until she was no longer trodding on its fine tassels. She made sure to flick the water that seeped from her hair in its direction for good measure. This was their relationship in sum.
"It was one thing when you were recovering from the war," Francine's voice did not make it sound like there had ever been an excuse for tardiness in their employer-employee contract, "but two years is enough time to come to terms, I think. You leave me no choice but to let you go."
"Understood. And I will work extra diligently to prove to you that I'm–" Katie paused in the middle of her I'm-very-sorry-I-was-tardy speech (something that she had to pull out every few weeks when she inevitably got her schedule mixed up or her car wasn't working properly), "wait, sorry––let me go?"
The melancholic pit in her stomach sunk to her feet.
Francine's smile bordered on smug. "Yes, Ms. Bell. Your tardiness will not be tolerated. Your Quidditch skills have been a rather valuable asset to our youth education program, but this is insupportable. You are fired, effective immediately."
This was how, at 11:00 in the morning, Katie Bell found herself at the Leaky Caldron nursing a tepid pint of ale and picking absently at the chipped wood table with her car key.
The car had been her mother's. It was an old station wagon with a bent rear bumper and a ridiculous assortment of stickers she could never get off the back window. Magic probably would have worked, but that seemed sacreligious somehow. It was the car in which she'd learned how to drive during the summer between her fifth and sixth year at Hogwarts, before things had gone the way they had. Before she'd been cursed.
"Another round?" Tom, the barman, eyed the dregs of her pint.
Why not, she thought.
"Why not?" she said.
"Great question," a voice said, tone teasing. It was a familiar voice. It brought on a feeling of warmth and then something else. A mix of nostalgia and pain, maybe. George Weasley sank onto the barstool beside Katie, his smile not unkind. "What does Katie Bell do before noon on a Tuesday? She has a pint!"
Katie was already rolling her eyes as she sipped the foam off the fresh beer Tom placed in front of her. George had a parcel under his arm and his fine cloak was a little travel-worn, but he pushed aside the package and rolled up his sleeves, flicking his eyes to the taps behind the bar.
"It's none of George Weasley's business what Katie Bell does before noon," she retorted.
"Everyone's business is George Weasley's business," George said pointedly, pushing two silver sickles to Tom as he received his own pint of butterbeer. "How have you been, Bell?"
How have I been? Katie's blue eyes met George's brown ones, searching for the ache that she felt day in, day out. Beneath his amused expression, it was there. The same disquieted feeling that was impossible to name. Was it an echo of a sadness that she had once felt? Was it an active hurt that she couldn't source? The losses they'd experienced had already happened, but every day she lived them again.
"I'm looking for a job," is what she decided on. She took a swig of her beer as George's lips pressed together. This made it seem as though he was painfully aware of what she felt. He probably is.
The last time she'd seen George was several months ago, at a New Year's party with some of the other surviving members of their cohort. Due to the damage that had been done to the castle, as well as its students and staff, it had taken a full year for Hogwarts to open back up for the education of young witches and wizards. Once it had reopened, several of them had gone back to finish their last year, including Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood. Katie couldn't bring herself to join them.
"Are you no longer at the Quidditch training center, then?" George asked lightly. Too lightly.
Katie swallowed the lump in her throat. This shitty day is getting to me, she thought, keep it together, Bell.
"Nah," she managed, "bit boring, if I'm being honest."
"Hmm."
Perceptive git. George Weasley had no right to be this aware of the surrounding world. Yet another casualty of the war, Katie supposed.
"I might have a lead for you, when you're ready to be re-employed."
Katie blinked in surprise. She watched George finish off the last of his butterbeer in three large gulps, belch unbecomingly, and then set the glass back down on the bar with a wink.
"Send me an owl," George flicked a galleon toward Tom to cover Katie's drinks, "or I'll just grab a pint with you before noon next Tuesday, whichever comes first."
With a little smile, he rolled down his sleeves, grabbed his parcel and walked off toward the rest of Diagon Alley, the trademark spring in his step slightly less enthusiastic than in his Hogwarts days.
Katie felt numb. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt ungrateful and unworthy of being in such a state. George had lost his twin. His business partner, his brother. He had faced an unimaginable loss, and she was the one who had simply walked away from her closest friendships because she couldn't pretend that she was healing in the way everyone else seemed to be.
Three days, she thought, drinking from her glass, I'll give myself three days of completely unproductive and deeply indulgent sadness. Then I'll get my shit together.