Chapter 2: Forgetting and Pretending
In some of the Muggle handbooks his dad had gotten him on coping with grief, George had seen pictures of angels. They were all pretty young women with large white wings that smiled and glowed and lived in the place where people went after they died.
The girl hovering over him could only be an angel.
Her pale skin trapped the light and practically shone with it. Soft brown hair fell in loose ringlets down her neck, barely brushing her shoulders. The little smile gracing her narrow lips reached her warm, grey eyes and made them come alive. He didn't think to look for wings. He didn't need to.
She was an angel, and he was dead. It wasn't so bad, really.
'You hit your head pretty hard, I think,' she said gently, brushing his forehead with cool fingertips. George resisted the urge to laugh maniacally.
'Obviously, if I ended up here.'
The angel looked distressed. Angels shouldn't look distressed. George felt terribly guilty for saying whatever he'd said that had thrown her off. 'What do you mean, Fred?' she asked anxiously.
George's eyes widened. 'He's here too?' He struggled to sit up, but his body was weighing him down, and he slipped sideways off of what seemed to be a sofa and hit the floor. Pain shot through his body, and the headache worsened a hundredfold. A low moan escaped him.
The wave of nausea rose up with the moan, and he barely managed to grab the artistic vase off of the coffee table before he retched up everything he'd eaten in the last twenty-four hours. The girl took a step back. 'I'm going to go make coffee. I'll bring you some water and an aspirin, but I can't do anything about the hangover.'
She was gone before he could ask what an aspirin was.
He wiped his mouth on the back of one trembling hand and pushed back into a sitting position on the sofa. Fred's dragonskin jacket was folded neatly and laid on the far armrest, the embroidered name on the tag peeking through the purple fabric. George understood with a jolt of disappointment why the girl had called him Fred.
The sofa was pushed against a wall with a window looking out over the street. When he leaned slightly back, George could see the road going back down to a vaguely familiar intersection. He'd made a wrong turn, but he hadn't gotten far; the Leaky Cauldron was a five-minute walk from the cross-street.
He thought about reaching for his jacket, checking for his wand, and just Apparating out of the girl's apartment, but he still wasn't sure he could manage it. If he splinched himself and left half of himself in her living room, the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad would have to obliviate the girl, and that wouldn't be a nice way to repay her for carrying him up to her apartment alone and letting him sleep on her couch and offering him her coffee—oh, and vomiting in her pretty glass vase, which he was still holding in the crook of one arm. He set it back on the coffee table innocuously.
The girl came back into the room carrying two mugs of coffee, a glass of water, and a little white tablet. The way she balanced it all reminded George of Madam Rosmerta, and he wondered if the girl had worked in a pub as well. She set everything down gently on the coffee table and offered the water and aspirin to George, who took the pill into his hand with some degree of skepticism.
'I'm supposed to just swallow this?'
'That's the idea,' she said, taking up a cup of coffee and settling into the olive green armchair beside the sofa.
It was always inadvisable to eat strange pills offered by other people, a lesson that Fred and George had taught scores of people during their years in business. It was a mark of the severity of his headache and apathy to what happened to him that he swallowed the pill and downed the water.
His head still hurt.
'Sorry,' George said. 'But I think that white chew you gave me wasn't made properly. I don't feel any different.'
The girl laughed. 'It takes a little time to work, Fred. Have some coffee and see if you feel better in a few minutes.'
'Oh. Er, thanks…'
'Audrey,' she supplied with a small smile.
'Yes, then.' said George awkwardly. 'Thanks, Audrey.'
George could feel her eyes on him as he took a few tentative sips of the coffee. It wasn't bad—a little weak, but overall, not bad.
It was only a matter of minutes before her curiosity got the better of her. George expected her to ask why he'd been drinking, or how he'd ended up passed out on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building. What he wasn't expecting was, 'I hope you don't mind me asking, but what is your jacket made of?'
'Dragonskin,' George said without thinking. He could have kicked himself.
'I see,' said Audrey interestedly, but it was clear that she didn't see at all. He tipped the coffee mug quickly against his lips without looking at her. The hot liquid seared the roof of his mouth and burned his throat going down, and the spluttering cough he couldn't restrain after that was more embarrassing than his watering eyes.
She had shifted to the edge of her seat and was watching him intently. The way her lips opened and closed soundlessly made him think he was on the attack end of a barrage of questions, and he had only as long as it took for her to pick one. Her intense gaze was occasionally broken by the flickering of her eyes to the notepad and pen on the mantle over the fireplace. George felt like some sort of bizarre specimen.
It was making him very uncomfortable. If Fred had been there, he would have thought it was hilarious. Of course, to her he was Fred—not that it mattered.
'What happened to your ear?'
The ear was old news. George shrugged. 'I lost it in the war. It's not much of a battle scar—it was more of a case of…what it's called?'
'Friendly fire,' Fred would have said.
'Yeah, that,' George agreed. 'Although I doubt Snape could ever be accredited with anything dubbed 'friendly.''
'Greasy old bastard,' Fred would have said reminiscently, rubbing his palms together. 'Horrible aim.'
'Perhaps,' George allowed. 'But supposedly he was trying to save my life.'
Audrey's brows furrowed, and she set the mug on the coffee table beside the vase. 'I'm sorry if I seem…overly interested, Fred, but I'm an English grad student and I'm working on a novel, and you reminded me so much of one of my own characters I couldn't not help you.'
'Oh,' said George, blinking fast. 'That's…nice.'
'More like raving mad,' Fred would have muttered under his breath.
'Yeah,' she seconded with a nod, not grasping George's apprehension and bewilderment. 'It's like you just stepped out of my notebook or something. Tell me, where did you escape from?'
George shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was time to make as dignified an exit as possible. 'I have to go,' he announced abruptly. 'It's been spiffing, Audrey, but I have places to be. Thanks for everything!'
He seized his jacket and dashed out of the living room into the kitchen, which actually didn't lead anywhere, and so had to run back through the living room on the way to the front door and stairs. Right before he closed the apartment door, he called loudly, 'Your English is excellent, by the way!'
'She's a loony,' Fred would have snickered, 'and you thought she was an angel.'
'Shut up,' said George as he fled the apartment building and hurried up the street. 'I was barely conscious.'
He couldn't feel his legs at all as he worked his way back towards the Leaky Cauldron, but his headache had subsided somewhat, and for that he was extremely grateful. There weren't many people out in the streets. Only a few people gave him odd looks as he hobbled along, and a menacing glare was enough to threaten people off staring at him.
The sun overhead was creeping towards its zenith. Victoire's birthday party started at two, and George was very aware that if he was less than punctual, Ginny would have his arse for a quaffle, and he would gladly give it if not to suffer Fleur's wrath or his mum's, both of whom would be infinitely worse.
He pushed open the door of the Leaky Cauldron and went in.
It was doing a surprising amount of business for the middle of the day, although most of its customers seemed to be the partiers from the night before who'd no doubt gotten drunk and slept it off in one of the inn's rooms. Zacharias Smith and Ernie Macmillan were both sitting at a little table on the far side of the room eating lunch. Smith was still looking rather…singed.
George smirked and tried to slink through the back without being noticed, but Hannah stepped out of the bar just as he was passing with her hands on her hips.
'Hullo,' George said winningly. 'Happy Victory Day and all! Have you got the time?'
'Quarter till noon,' said Hannah brusquely. 'You stay put, George Weasley, I've got some things to say t—'
Hannah's tirades were a lot like Mrs. Weasley's in one respect: if you let her get going, it was hard to make her stop. George had earned enough of them to know he ought to leave right away.
George kissed her cheek charmingly and pushed by to the door. 'Sorry, Hannah love, but duty calls!'
'Can't keep the world waiting,' Fred would have added with a wink.
'George!' she yelled angrily as the door swung closed behind her.
He didn't see how she could still be mad about a few little fireworks, and it had been almost fifteen whole hours ago, really, but he resolved to send her something pleasant to make up for it. Rule #32 of the Gred and Forge rulebook was, after all, "keep on good terms with the person who mixes your drinks" right after "never try out imperfect products alone" and "the person who has the last Butterbeer buys the next case."
The brick wall was familiar, solid—he couldn't remember ever having been so glad to see it. George fumbled in the pockets of his denims for his wand. There was a moment of horror in which he thought that he'd left his wand at the barmy English grad's apartment and he'd have to go back for it before he realized it was deep in one of his jacket pockets. He drew it with a sigh of relief and tapped the third brick from the right.
Diagon Alley was empty. All the shops were closed, the streets quiet. George knew better than to think it would stay that way. When the restaurants and the ice-cream parlour opened that evening, Diagon Alley would be full of witches and wizards celebrating Victory Day.
George let himself in the front door of the shop, taking care to lock it behind him, and after peeling off his dirty clothes and tossing them into a corner, headed straight for the shower.
He let the water run hot while he dug through a basket of bottled potions under the sink for something for the hangover. The mirror fogged over quickly, and he was grateful for it. It meant he didn't have to look at the bruises over his eye and on his forehead until after he finished the shower.
Long showers had never been George's thing, but his skin felt positively grimy and his hair was lank and greasy. He scrubbed and shampooed four or five times, stopping once between scrubs to step out of the shower, brush his teeth, and have a tooth-flossing string-mint. Forty-five minutes later, he was cleaner than he'd been in weeks, and his skin was rubbed raw.
There was an instant bruise-remover in the potions basket. He left the cream on the black eye and the bruise on the side of his forehead as he changed into a fresh pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and an old Christmas jumper.
'That's one of mine,' Fred would have said, as if he didn't know. 'It's got an 'f' on it.'
''F' is for Forge,' George remarked. 'You can wear mine, Gred.'
'Ah, but they can tell us apart now, you know,' Fred would have mused, eyeing himself in the mirror by the dresser. 'Maybe I should cut my ear off too. I hear it's all the rage these days.'
George laughed.
There were a few odd things he had to do before he headed to Shell Cottage—he hand-made a birthday card for Victoire out of an old Daily Prophet, some pixie glitter, and some flashing paint, and transfigured a quill into a little box with holes in the side.
Most of the Pygmy Puffs in the shop downstairs were awake and running about excitedly when he came to their cage, as if pleading with him to choose them. He hadn't exactly gotten permission from Bill to get his daughter something alive for her birthday, and she was only two, so he scooped out a fat, docile turquoise one sleeping in the corner of the cage. When he put it in the box, it sniffed a bit at the air holes and then curled up and went back to sleep.
'It's perfect,' Fred would have said. 'Now put a bow on the box and let's go.'
George obliged with a wave of his wand.
It was five minutes till two. Clutching the hand-made birthday card and the beribboned box, he Apparated away.
The front garden of Shell Cottage had not escaped without decoration. A portable patio had been laid out over the grass, framed in with rose bushes and ivy covered arches. The long table had not been set yet, but little glass-covered candles were laid out every few feet. There was also an ice-bucket with a freezing charm on it off to the side with drinks in it slightly off to the side—George would not have noticed it, except that he Apparated right into it.
He leapt out of the bucket at once and started up the path to the front door, which had been propped open with a garden gnome in a body bind. There were streamers everywhere, and music coming from inside the house. Most of the family hadn't arrived yet, from the looks of it. George wandered in idly, and after peering into the kitchen on a frantic Mrs. Weasley and an impassive Fleur who was stirring batter with a three-month old Dominique on her hip, headed for the sitting room.
Charlie and Ginny were on the floor of the sitting room, playing with Victoire. Her blond hair had been plaited into two miniature French braids, and she had been dolled up in a red party dress. Fleur would not have approved of the flame-hiccupping stuffed dragon Charlie was tempting her with.
Victoire looked up when George came in, and with a delighted cry of 'Bang!' leapt up and ran to him. He set down her present and card and swept her up with a laugh. Ginny grinned at him, and Charlie buried his face in his hands; the story of how she had come to know George as 'Bang!' still brought tears of laughter to Charlie's eyes whenever it was mentioned.
'How's my birthday girl?' George asked, chucking her gently under the chin.
She giggled, and said shyly, 'Good.'
'Good!' said George, and he set her back down beside Ginny. 'What are you doing with these two crazy people?'
Victoire tugged the dragon from Charlie's hand and showed it to George. 'See?' As she squeezed it, a flicker of fire shot from the animal's mouth and made the hem of George's jumper smolder slightly.
'Nice,' George said, patting her head. As Victoire scooted back towards Ginny, George muttered to Charlie, 'So we're teaching Bill's kids to play with fire, now?'
Charlie shrugged and replied lightly, 'Fleur wouldn't let us get her on a toy broom, so…'
'Ah,' George said, 'Phlegm won't be able to stop it, eventually.'
'Yeah,' Fred would have agreed. 'It's fighting fate.'
'Quidditch is in her blood,' George added sagely.
'Tell that to Fleur,' said Bill from the doorway. George looked up—he hadn't seen Bill come in.
Victoire's face broke out into a wide grin, and she held the dragon out in front of her. 'Daddy! Look!' A spurt of fire lashed out, and the carpet sparked.
Bill put out the carpet with a wave of his wand and a glare at Charlie. 'How nice,' he said to Victoire. 'How about we put it away and go outside, okay? Percy and Gabrielle just arrived in the garden.'
'Gabby?' Victoire demanded happily. Bill nodded. Victoire jumped to her feet and ran out on stout little legs yelling 'Gabby!'
'Charlie,' Bill said over his shoulder as he turned to follow her. 'If you set my house on fire with that thing, I swear I won't save you from Fleur, so help me Merlin.' There was no anger in it, but it was probably the worst threat he could have made.
Ginny winced. 'If I were you, I'd get rid of that thing.'
'I kind of thought it would go with the tiny dragonskin boots I got her,' Charlie admitted. 'They're pretty cool.'
George laughed. 'Well, keep it around a little longer and maybe the Triwizard wonder wife will approve.'
'It looks like a Horntail,' Fred would have said. I'm sure it will bring back lots of happy memories for Harry.'
'He is coming to the party, isn't he?' George asked. When Ginny frowned, he added pointedly, 'Harry, I mean.'
'He's going to drop by, yeah,' Ginny said. 'Ron and Hermione should be here soon as well.'
'Should we go down to the garden, then?'
'Yeah.' George picked up the card and the box, and Charlie and Ginny retrieved their presents from the hall table. They walked down to the garden together.
Victoire was sitting in Gabrielle's lap and listening to a story in French, while Percy sat by and pretended he understood. George felt a pang of sympathy for his brother—he and Penelope had broken up for the fifth time earlier that week, according to Ginny's letters anyway, and it looked like it was for real this time.
Charlie and George settled in at the end of the table with drinks before Mr. Weasley could recruit them to carry out food, but Ginny wasn't so lucky. By the time Ron and Hermione showed up, the table was nearly sagging with the weight of dozens of dishes, and Ginny was run ragged.
Ron, George, and Charlie talked Quidditch over plates of roast turkey, pasta salad, corn, peas, potatoes, rolls, and pudding. The Kestrels had a bit of a new line-up, and it had been serving them well so far, but Ginny's team was second in the league, and given their record, they had a better chance of winning nationals. Ron was still clinging to the hope that the Cannons might pull through, as they had miraculously fought their way up to fourth in the league. George thought it had less to do with the Cannons improving and more to do with other teams having trouble finding players—post-war euphoria had led to an unexpected baby boom, and those who hadn't retired to take up family life were either too old to be on top of their game or too young to know all the tricks of the trade. Ron insisted the Cannons were just getting better. Harry, when he did finally show up, refused to take sides except to say he was betting on the Harpies all the way, which earned him a kiss from Ginny. It frustrated George to no end, especially as Fred would have backed him up.
Victoire was restless and excitable, and ran off to play in the bushes with Ginny and Hermione before the meal was over. Fleur had to run and fetch them back when Mrs. Weasley brought out the cake.
Victoire's eyes were as wide as saucers as they all sang Happy Birthday and the cake was set in front of her. It was an enormous chocolate cake with two tiers and an abundance of icing roses, and two fat candles had been stuck in the top and lit. Victoire stood in her booster seat to see them.
'Think of something you want,' Bill told her, 'And blow them out.'
'Dog,' said Victoire decisively, imitating Percy's sanctimonious little nod, and she stood on tiptoe to blow out the candles. There was a great deal of spit involved. They all applauded anyway, and Fleur cut the cake.
Victoire had finished her piece before Fleur had served Mr. Weasley and Gabrielle. She became bored quickly, so Ginny plied her with presents while everyone else had cake.
The picture-book from Ron and Hermione was pretty, but not nearly interesting enough to capture Victoire's attention. Charlie's present, however, was an instant hit.
Victoire clapped her hands and giggled as Ginny lifted the miniature dragonskin boots out of the box, and Fleur cried, 'Oh! Zey are darling!'
'They are that,' Mrs. Weasley agreed. 'Help her get them on, Gin.'
Victoire had already slumped out of her seat and tugged off her shoes. Ginny helped her slide the boots on over her stockings. It was a bizarre combination with the party dress, but Victoire was nothing short of delighted. She shrieked happily and ran around the table stomping her feet so they all would notice her boots.
Charlie was back in Fleur's good graces, of course. He winked at George as if to say 'what did I tell you?' and took a large bite of his cake.
Bill opened Charlie's card and snorted. 'You do know that we're keeping these cards to show her when she's older, right?'
Charlie choked.
Ginny tempted Victoire back to the table with George's present. She couldn't untie the bow or get the lid all the way off without help, but when she looked down into the box, her eyes went wide and she said quietly, 'Ooooh.'
'I had one of those,' Ginny remarked, also looking down into the box.
'Wot eez it?' Fleur asked warily.
Victoire scooped out the turquoise Pygmy Puff and held it up in front of her so she could kiss the top of its furry head, and then cradle it against her dress. 'It's from Uncle George,' Ginny told her, pointing down the table at George. 'You know…Bang.'
'Bang!' Victoire echoed.
Charlie choked again.
Bill was reading George's card with a little frown on his face. 'George,' he said suddenly. 'Can I talk to you for a minute?'
'Yeah, sure.'
George got up and followed Bill away from the patio. They were almost to the house when Bill stopped and turned around.
'Are you all right?'
George was almost annoyed. He wasn't staring off into space. He wasn't drinking himself into incoherency. He wasn't passed out drunk on a stranger's couch. Of all the times he had been asked that question in the last twenty four hours, he expected it least here…now.
'Of course,' George said defensively.
Bill sighed. 'The thing is…I don't think you are.'
'I don't understand.'
'George, we're trying to help you here. It's been three years since he died, and this can't go on.'
'I'm fine,' George protested. 'I've moved on.'
'Yeah, maybe, but you haven't stopped trying to bring him with you.' Bill shifted uneasily and bit his lip. 'Look, were you even paying attention when you signed Victoire's card?'
He held it out with trembling hands. The inscription on the inside read simply 'Happy Birthday, Victoire! From your Uncles Fred and George.'
George looked away. He felt very cold and empty suddenly, and the silence in his head was almost too much to bear.
'He's dead, George,' Bill whispered. 'Fred is dead, and you're confusing yourself, and if you keep this up, you're going to confuse my daughter.' He pulled out his wand and struck Fred's name from the card. 'I'm sorry, but I don't know how to help you anymore.'
Bill turned and walked away.
George sat down on the grass and wrapped his arms around his knees. He couldn't bring himself to walk back down to the patio yet to finish his cake and butterbeer and pretend like what Bill said hadn't shaken him.
It was dusk, and he was alone on yet another miserable Victory Day.
The red eyes narrowed into slits below the dark hood, and the white lips curled into a sneer. 'You can stop this, you know,' said the high, cold voice. 'It doesn't have to be this way, George Weasley.'
Fred strained against the ropes. Blood was streaming from the gash on his temple, and his lip was split, but his eyes were wide, pleading him—no, ordering him not to give in, not to be weak…
'Tell me where he is, and you will both be free.'
'Let him go,' George said. His voice cracked. He hated himself for it.
The Dark Lord laughed. 'What about you, blood traitor?' He touched George's cheek with a long, thin finger and then brought his wand slashing down. The skin opened where the finger had touched, and blood poured from George's face.
George trembled, but said nothing.
'Crucio!'
He tensed, waiting for the pain, but the scream that rent the air was not his own. Fred was writhing on the ground, his eyes rolling and the ropes cutting into his skin. George closed his eyes and covered his ears with his hands. He didn't know when he started screaming too, but he didn't stop until long after Fred had fallen back against the stones, panting.
'I am growing impatient,' the Dark Lord hissed. 'Where is Harry Potter?'
'Let my brother go,' George replied, opening his eyes at last, 'And we will talk.'
'Crucio!'
This time the curse was for him. His knees buckled as his bones froze and burned, burned and froze and his flesh was seared, and his head would explode if it didn't stop—
It was lifted suddenly.
George pushed onto his hands and knees, struggling to catch his breath, when he felt long, cold fingers curl into the back of his hair and pull his head up. Those red eyes terrified him, but also filled him with determination.
'I am not afraid of you,' he lied.
The Dark Lord jerked his head back so that he was forced to look where Fred lay, rigid and nervous. 'Are you afraid for him?'
'Let him go,' George said again.
The hand on the back of his head forced him to watch as the next cruciatus curse hit his brother, and the other writhed and screamed and pleaded, and it hurt more than when it had been him.
'I don't know where Harry is!' he gasped, nausea rising in his throat. 'Please stop, just stop!'
The Dark Lord's voice had a new tone, a dangerous one that chilled George's very being. 'Would you die for him, George Weasley? Would you die if it would save him?'
'Yes,' George rasped.
He dragged George to his feet and aimed the wand at his heart. 'You would?'
'No!' Fred shouted.
'Yes,' George said.
The Dark Lord laughed and turned on his heel. A flick of his wand, a murmured, 'Avada Kedavra!' and a flash of light, and Fred fell limply against the floor, his face slack and eyes wide and staring, lips parted slightly as if the words had died on his lips, and George was screaming, screaming and shouting and crying and pleading and nothing he did could bring his twin back…
George swung his feet over the edge of the bed and buried his head in his hands, letting his fingers grip his own hair so tightly several hairs broke away in his hands. He was shaking uncontrollably. When his breath slowed, he stumbled to the bathroom and opened the vault behind the mirror.
The deep shelves there were lined with bottles and bottles of Dreamless Sleep Potions. He had to shuffle seven or eight aside before he found one that was half-empty. Two capfuls would ensure he did not dream again that night.
After he'd closed the mirror, he turned off the lights and walked back into the bedroom, pulling some blankets from his bed. It was one in the morning, according to the clock on the wall.
With one quick, sidelong glance at the empty twin on the other side of the room, he left to curl up on the couch.
A/N: Most of George's dreams (yes, there will be more) are precisely that: dreams. Or more like nightmares. They're pretty frequent, and not at all prophetic or a contortion of something that actually happened. Hope no one was confused!