INCOMPLETE SENTENCES

Chapter 1:Remembering and Forgetting

May 1, 2001

'Are you all right?'

George started out of a reverie and smiled automatically at the intense expression on Verity's face. 'Yeah,' he said. 'I'm fine.'

'Don't worry so much,' Fred would have said, tugging on one of her short, blonde braids. 'Makes you look like our Mum.'

Verity bit her lip. She didn't look pleased, but she leaned over the counter and kissed his cheek anyway. 'Ok-ay. Take care, then?'

'Of course,' George replied, looking back down determinedly at the stack of owl-order forms in front of him. He didn't look back up until he heard the flat 'dang' of the broken bell tied to the front door as it closed behind her.

The joke shop was technically closed for the day. The narrow, empty aisles were amiably disordered, slogan-emblazoned boxes stacked haphazardly on rickety shelves. The usually animated and excitable Pygmy Puffs were snoozing quietly in their cage, their small bodies heaped in a warm myriad of breathing color. Sun-bleached wooden floorboards had been magically scrubbed to a dull shine. A sea of glittering dust swam in languid circles around the barrels of fake wands and trick sweets, glowing lavender from the sunlight shining through the violet posters plastered to the shop windows.

It had been Verity's idea to close the shop early. Although he had protested vehemently at first, he was glad to flip the 'Sorry, We're Open' sign to the 'Bugger Off, We're Closed' side when four o'clock finally came. He wasn't counting on spending nearly an hour after that subtly hinting to Verity that she didn't need to busy herself after hours to keep him company.

It wasn't like he had plans for the evening. He had refused Molly's offer of dinner at the Burrow, as well as Lee's invitation to a Victory Day Party at the Three Broomsticks, saying to both that he'd just rather not come.

So now he was sitting there, staring at a pile of owl-orders he didn't have to fill for another two days. With a sigh, he shoved the orders to one side and put his head in his hands. If his heart had risen like a rock to his throat, then what was the twisting, burning ache growing in the pit of his stomach?

The broken bell rang once as the front door swung open.

'Can't you bloody well read?' Fred would have said exasperatedly.

'Yeah,' George put in, still not looking up. 'The sign clearly says that we're closed.'

'I'm not here to buy anything, you great prat,' said a familiar voice.

'Gin?'

Ginny laughed. 'Who else?' Grinning, she ducked around the counter and threw her arms around him. Her arms were warm across his back, and the ache in his stomach had subsided slightly. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed his little sister since he'd seen her at her last game.

'Hey,' he said affectionately, hugging her as well. 'Haven't seen you in a while. You look well.' She did look well—she was leaner and stronger than she'd been before the Harpies had recruited her, and she was just starting to develop a bizarrely endearing sort of Quidditch tan around her face and neck.

'Thanks,' she said, stepping back a little. 'I wish I could say the same, but you look like you haven't slept in a week.'

'Flattered,' Fred would have responded drily.

'Anyhow, it's not so bad,' George added with a shrug. 'How're the Harpies holding up?'

Ginny beamed at him. 'Second in the league! I think we'll overtake the Kestrels soon enough, too, and we're playing the Cannons on Saturday.'

'I know. I've got quite a large bet on, so don't you dare slip up now.'

'The Cannons don't have a chance,' Ginny assured him. 'Just don't tell Ron I said that.'

George shook his head. 'He knows it. The day the Cannons win the league—'

'—Zacharias-bloody-Smith will be Minister of Magic,' Fred concluded with a grin.

Ginny hesitated, and then said quickly. 'Okay, it'll never happen. Anyway, the stadium gave me some extra tickets, and I brought them for you…I thought you might want to give the others to Lee, and Verity.'

'Yeah,' said George. 'They'd like that.'

Ginny fished around in her cloak pockets and produced a heavy envelope, which she tossed onto the counter beside the stack of owl-order forms. When she noticed the forms, however, she turned to George with an accusatory glare that almost made him step back. 'What in Merlin's name are these?'

'Notes for my steamy new romance novel,' George said promptly with a straight face.

'Owl-order forms, Gin,' Fred would have clarified in a long-suffering voice.

Ginny's eyes narrowed. 'You're working overtime, aren't you?'

George shrugged again. 'Business's picked up lately.'

'George, the shop is closed! Tomorrow's a holiday!' Ginny's wand was out before he could blink, and a sharp jerk sent the forms cascading into a drawer under the counter. She sealed the drawer shut with a silent incantation.

'What was that for?' George demanded angrily.

'Get out,' Ginny said quietly, but her voice was shaking.

'You can't kick us out—it's our shop!' Fred would have protested.

'I mean it.' Ginny crossed her arms, her wand still dangling from her fingertips, and George really did take a step back. 'Go out to dinner, to a party, or something!—just don't hole up in your stupid shop and wait for this all to be over again! It isn't helping!'

'I don't know what you're on about—'

'George, swear to me you won't stay here all night.'

'She's gone mental,' Fred would have breathed, elbowing George.

'Ginny—'

'SWEAR IT!'

'All right!' George shouted. 'I swear! Just leave us alone, for Merlin's sake!'

Ginny walked to the shop door and stopped. When she spoke again, it was in an even, measured voice. 'I'll see you tomorrow at Shell Cottage for Victoire's second birthday party. Have a good time tonight.'

The single clang of the bell was followed by a 'pop' as she Disapparated out of the street. George glared out into the empty alley for several minutes before whipping out his wand and brandishing it violently at the drawer while muttering every counter-spell he could think of to unlock it, short of blasting it to bits. After fifteen minutes of futilely guessing what spell she'd used, George jumped up, seized the envelope off the counter, and stormed up the back stairs into the flat over the shop.

He threw the envelope onto the little table by the door and, as a sudden fury seized him, kicked the heap of cardboard boxes piled by the wardrobe. One of the little black telescopes rolled out onto the floor. He snatched it up, arm cocked to hurl it against the wall, when a tiny fist shot out of the telescope and punched him in the face. 'What the bloody hell!' he shouted, dropping it and clutching the bruise blooming over his eye.

'I can't believe you fell for that one,' Fred would have said, shaking his head.

George stumbled over to one of the twin beds and flung himself over the bedspread, still holding one hand to his face. The springs creaked and dug uncomfortably into his back—he and Fred had broken that mattress jumping on it and yelling like a pair of eight-year-old boys when they got the Ministry order for a hundred Shield Hats and Cloaks.

His eye felt like it had been victimized by a rogue bludger.

'Merlin's beard,' George hissed at the ceiling, unsure whether he was angry, or just miserable, or merely distracted by his splitting headache. He lay there, waiting for the throbbing to subside, and when he tired of staring at a water-stain on the ceiling, he got up and walked over to the coat stand. Two lurid green dragon-skin jackets hung there, a little worn and with magically expanded pockets full of loose change, old tricks. George's was on the right's, Fred's on the left, their names magically embroidered on the insides of the collars. After a moment's indecision, he pulled on the one on the left.

Ten seconds later, he Apparated into Diagon Alley and started off towards the Leaky Cauldron.

-

The Leaky Cauldron was a raucous haze of drinking, singing, smoking, and half-sober reminiscing. The iron-ring chandeliers practically shivered with the enthusiasm of the bar-frequenters, making the light of the candle stubs waver tremulously on the walls and tabletops. George ordered a Firewhiskey from Tom as he passed the door and settled himself in an empty seat at the end of a long table.

Eddie Carmichael and Harold Dingle were sitting at the next table with no less than Mundungus Fletcher, their arms around each other as they sang the Hogwarts school song to a variety of melodies. A minute later, Michael Corner rejoined them with a fresh round of drinks and a painful rendition of 'Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts' to some tune that sounded bizarrely like 'God Save the Queen.'

'Hey, George!' He turned as Hannah Abbot set his drink down in front of him. Her brown hair was braided down her back, and she was wearing a thin apron that tied in the back in a large bow over bronze-coloured robes. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, but her smile was infectious. 'You doing all right? What happened to your eye?'

'Nothing,' said George. 'I'm fine. So, Tom's got you working the bar now?'

Hannah nodded. 'He's getting on, you know, talking about retiring and all, but there's not many people he'll trust to run this place right.' She gestured vaguely at the apron. 'He seems to trust me, though.'

'I like the apron,' Fred would have remarked, waggling an eyebrow suggestively . 'You should wear an apron ALL THE TIME.'

George laughed. 'Hey, it really does suit you. This all, I mean. You're like the up-and-coming—'

'—lovely Madam Rosmerta, but for the Leaky Cauldron,' Fred would have agreed with a wink and a shameless, pointed glance at the glass in front of George.

'Er…what?' said Hannah.

George resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Hufflepuffs were, as a general rule, completely oblivious. 'Never mind, Hannah. Thanks.'

'Okay,' she said, smiling tentatively again. 'Let me know if you need anything.'

She walked off towards the bar. George took a swig of the firewhiskey and—choking slightly—set it back down. The frothy gold liquid slothed over the edge of the glass. When the light hit the surface of the wet spot on the table just right, it shone a funny sort of scarlet, with honey-brown swirls and streaks.

It felt good just to hold the glass in his hand, his fingers curving around the smooth edges. He tried taking a sip, but his eyes watered, and he gave up and downed half the glass as seamlessly as possible. It was easier to drink that way.

'And then,' Ernie Macmillan was saying further down the table, 'You-Know-Who came out of the Forest with all the Death Eaters, and they had Hagrid—that's the gamekeeper, half giant?—carry Harry Potter's body. Everyone thought he was dead!'

'Hullo!'

George turned his head and stared blankly as Zacharias Smith slid into the seat across from him, holding some sort of strawberry-coloured mixed drink with an umbrella sticking out of it. Great Merlin, George thought, where were all the bloody Hufflepuffs coming from?

'It's Fred, right?'

'No, you dolt, I'm George,' Fred would have said, feigning indignation.

'Hey, how's the toy store going?' Smith said, somehow managing to sound both aggressive and condescending as he started on what had to be the ponciest-looking drink ever.

'Joke shop,' George corrected automatically.

Smith laughed. The sound made George's head hurt. 'Yeah, whatever. Same thing.'

'Yeah?' Fred would have demanded. 'You think? Well, we think that umbrella sticking out of your drink—'

'—is the same thing as it sticking out of your bloody eye,' George finished, raising an eyebrow threateningly.

Smith crossed his arms. 'What are you on about?'

George was Put Out. Put Out, as in he was suddenly, irrationally angry at Smith for being such a stupid sod, at himself for getting riled up at Smith, and at the world for not having the decency to knock Smith off sooner. They'd not even been talking two minutes, honestly! His head was pounding, especially the right side of his face where the telescope had punched him, and the burning feeling in his stomach was back and more intense than ever. He wanted to hit something. Or someone. Smith was closest. George curled his hand more tightly around his glass and forced himself to look pointedly at the empty seat to his right. 'Merlin, I think I hate him,' George said, as if he were talking to Fr—someone else and hoping against hope Smith would get the hint and leave.

'Always was an arse,' Fred would have agreed.

'An utter arse,' George seconded with a glower, downing his glass.

'Are you drunk, Weasley?' Smith asked delightedly. 'Blimey, you're pathetic. It's not even six o'clock yet.'

'Drunk?' Fred would have repeated with a malicious grin.

'Yes, I'm drunk,' said George clearly. 'So I don't really have control over what I'm doing, exactly.' He felt around in his pockets and produced two galleons, which he dropped in his own empty glass for Hannah, and then a handful of narrow, short-fused purple firecrackers, which he plunked into Smith's drink beside the umbrella.

Smith's jaw dropped. 'What the bloody hell're you playing at!'

'Cheerio, then,' Fred would have said brightly.

George's fingers found the end of his wand, and he pulled it out as he backed away from the table. 'Don't bother to keep in touch, mate.' He lit the fuses with a flick of his wand and Apparated to the front door.

His feet had barely touched the threshold when the drink exploded in a volley of crackling booms and pops.

George sidestepped a purple sparkler and ducked out into the street. The door banged closed behind him. He could still hear the snaps and whirs of the firecrackers bouncing off the walls and ceiling, the shouts and laughs of the wizards inside, and Hannah's indignant cry of 'GEORGE!'

'Brilliant, mate,' Fred would have said.

The pub noise was a bizarre contrast to the quiet Muggle street. The sun hadn't quite set, and it wasn't late enough for the streetlamps to switch on, so the neighborhood lay in a state of semi-darkness. The bookshop and record-store on either side of the Leaky Cauldron were closed, as well as the barber's and the antiquary across the street. The dingy old theatre on the other side of the cross-street had been boarded up. George thrust his hands in his pockets and started off around the corner.

Six or seven blocks from the Thames, he came to a grubby little pub with a plaque on the door that read, 'The Black Centaur.' It was half concealed in the wave of untamed ivy tumbling from the second-story window garden boxes. Musty yellow, electric lights glowed like blurred suns through the thick, narrow diamond-paned windows, and from within came the low murmur of muted conversations and the occasional, misplaced roar of drunken laughter.

He hesitated on the stoop. A desperate desire to Apparate back into the empty flat in Diagon Alley flared up in him, but he thought of sitting alone on the sofa and spending the evening staring at the hideous wallpaper he and Fred meant to replace years ago, and a reckless apathy seized him.

He pushed the door open and went in.

It was a drab, eccentric sort of place. The walls were dark green and covered with standards for everything for medieval lords to football teams. The right side of the room was cluttered with stout tables and mismatched chairs, and in the centre of it were a couple of old codgers as much engrossed in a chessboard as their drinks. A long, narrow bar stretched the length of the left wall. A rowdy bunch of university students about George's age were playing some sort of drinking game at the end of the bar, and the affable old bartender was laughing and talking with them as he refilled their drinks.

George wandered to the bar and took a seat about halfway down. The bartender was eyeing him suspiciously. He tried to look nonchalant as the man came over, wiping his hands on his apron.

''Lo,' said George. 'I'd like a fire-whiskey and a large gillywater, please.'

'Same for me,' Fred would have said.

The bartender blinked. 'What?'

'Or,' said George thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on the counter, 'I might do a witch cognac with a dash of Pepper-up Potion, if you don't mind.'

'Look,' the bartender said politely, 'I don't know what you're talking about, but I don't want any trouble.'

'Why do you think I'll be trouble?' George asked, startled.

'How'd you get that black eye?'

George's hand went automatically to the sore, bruised flesh around his eye, and he winced. 'I—fell...'

'…on his eye,' Fred would have added helpfully.

George didn't notice how his own voice broke, but the bartender's disbelieving expression softened, and he ventured a sympathetic smile. 'Lover's spat?'

'Um, yeah,' George agreed hastily.

'Nothing like a couple of drinks to ease the pain of a broken heart,' the bartender said with a sage little nod. 'I don't know why you'd want Witches' Brew, though—I'd have a Scotch or two and then start on Godiva.'

George shrugged. 'I'll take your word for it.'

'Any kind in particular?'

'Just make me forget.'

The bartender grinned and walked off to get a clean glass. Fred would have waited until he was out of earshot to remark, snickering, 'Imaginary girlfriend's got a mean punch.'

'Shut it,' George said irritably.

'Ooh, tetchy,' Fred would have murmured with a crooked grin.

Sulking, George headed for a table in the back corner, passing the chess-players on the way. 'That's not on!' one of them was saying angrily. 'You moved your pawn sideways!'

'You're a blind old fool, Jack Cooper!' the other said hotly. 'It's a rook, see?'

'It is not.'

'It is too.'

'Well, you've got both of your bishops on black!'

'That one's a knight if I ever saw one, and you've got the nerve to call me blind!'

'Merlin, I hope we don't look like that when we're a hundred and fifty,' Fred would have hissed.

George bit back the laugh just as the one called Jack waved him back with a shout. 'Hey, you! Kid! Come here and tell Gerald that that there's a bishop!'

George approached hesitantly. It wasn't the fact that these two were completely inebriated that put him on edge—more like the fact that they weren't.

Gerald was at least seventy, with a shock of white hair, thick-rimmed green glasses, and a purple flowered bowtie that ought to be illegal. Jack had glasses too—round black ones that magnified his eyes and accentuated the smooth curve of his bald head—but the ridiculous glasses were nothing compared to the green and orange plaid golfer pants he was wearing beneath a black button-down. George couldn't understand how anyone who wasn't drunk out of their mind would wear those of their own volition.

Jack grinned toothily up at him and gestured with a thumb at a pawn on the left side of the board. 'Bishop, isn't it?'

'It's a knight,' Gerald said loudly.

George leaned slightly over the table to see better. It looked as though a child had arranged the pieces on the board at whim. George found it most interesting that the black queen was directly facing the white king but was just out of reach of the pawns, and protected on one side by a knight. The black king was in Jack's pile of taken pieces. 'It's a pawn, but—'

'It doesn't really matter,' Fred would have said, nodding.

'I mean, it looks like you took his king a long time ago,' George explained, pointing.

Gerald reached for the piece and turned it over in his hands. Then he reached for the black queen and held them up side-by-side. Jack's face lit up in startled comprehension.

'So I won, then?'

'Actually, it would probably be best—'

'If you played a rematch,' said George indifferently. 'We'll watch, if you like.'

'You'll make sure Jack doesn't cheat?' Gerald demanded, glowering.

George shrugged. 'Yeah, sure.'

The bartender brought him his drink while Jack and Gerald set up the board again and ordered drinks for themselves. George put Jack's bishop and rook in their proper places before starting on his Scotch, and the game began.

It was singularly the most boring game of chess George had ever watched. Jack and Gerald had clearly been playing together a very long time, and knew each other well enough to predict each other's next moves and plan out their strategies several steps in advance. They also knew each other well enough to know the other would have predicted a certain move on their part, and made a point of Not Doing It, so that they were playing in bizarre, nonsensical ways that the other would not have foreseen. Of course, that undermined the entire point of planning out moves in advance, because one surprise move meant the whole plan on both of their parts had to be scrapped.

'And the pieces don't even annihilate each other,' Fred would have complained.

George was just finishing off his first drink when Jack slid a pawn diagonally five spaces across the board and picked off a knight.

'You can't do that!' Gerald said at once. 'Only bishops and the queen can do that!'

'It is a bishop!' Jack protested.

They both looked around at George, who glanced down at the piece in question and shrugged. Their agitated voices were doing nothing for his headache, and the dissipated knot in his stomach was gathering again as a dull ache in his chest. 'It's a—'

'Sorry to interrupt,' the bartender said from over George's shoulder, 'but would you like another one of those?'

George paused. He had a couple of pounds somewhere in one of his jacket pocket, but mostly he was carrying galleons, and he didn't want to have to wipe the bartender's memory for the sake of getting drunk that night. Jack intervened swiftly. 'Yeah, bring him another, Bill. Kid, this one's on me.'

'Thanks,' said George, surprised.

Jack winked. 'No problem. So kid, is it or is it not a bishop?'

'That was slick,' Fred would have said admiringly.

George didn't look twice at the pawn as he said firmly, 'It's a bishop.'

'Oh,' said Gerald, disappointed. 'I was sure it was a pawn.'

The next disagreement came ten minutes later, when George was halfway through the second scotch. Gerald had slid another pawn four spaces forward and to the opposite side of the board, and with a pleased expression declared check.

'Abso-bloody-lutely not!' Jack said fiercely, banging his fist on the table. 'You moved your rook twice!'

Gerald glared. 'It was there before! It's been there for the last fifteen minutes!'

They turned at the same time to George, who had his glass halfway to his lips.

'Bill!' said Jack loudly. 'Kid's glass is getting low! Bring him another, would you?'

'Yeah,' Gerald put in, a little louder, 'but this one's on me.'

'How kind,' said George, blinking. 'Well, in that case…yeah, the "rook" was definitely there before.'

Two and a half? hours wasn't all that…yeah, not compared to some of…thingies he'd seen, George thought, four scotches, one gin, two godivas, and a Merlin-knows-what (but it was good) later as he stumbled into the street. He thought vaguely of Appa—Apparrr—that disappear appear thing, but it occurred to him that his stomach might not follow, and with a hysterical laugh, he started down the sidewalk.

The builti—aparr—house things swum…lazily in mud puddle lakes, grasping? groping? clinging? at concrete curbs. George wove his way towards the…cross-street, careful not to fall into the—mud lakes or maybe rivers. It would be a long way—to fall.

He couldn't remem—reca—was it a left here or…not left?

Left was rows of things with a walk-thing in the middle, and there was…ah, the Thames! at the end.

Not left was rows of things with a walk-thing in the—yeah, and there was that river again at the end.

'S'a trick,' George announced. Well, he wasn't fool—tric—taken in. He was going…left.

It was very dark, so it must be very, very late…very, very, very, very…

Or, maybe it was dark dust stuff from peru—good stuff, that!

He put his hands out in front of him to feel his way forw—aheaa—on, but he didn't feel the—sidewalk? in time to stop it from hitting his head. Then he didn't feel anything at all.

-

The first thing he saw was the light. It was somewhere between white and yellow, and when it seeped through his eyelids he felt as though he were staring into the sun. His head weighed about a hundred pounds, and some git was taking a pair of Beaters' bats into both sides of his skull at the same time in a semi-successful attempt to pound his head into a heap of mush brains.

He groaned and tried to roll over, but his body wasn't ready to move yet. Wherever he was, it was very comfortable. Very, very, very, very…

'Are you all right?'

He blinked and came to, staring up into an extremely curious pair of pale grey eyes.