George paced around the room, just about ready to pull his hair out. Which would be difficult considering how short Molly Weasley had just sheared it.

"You are getting to look like Bill. I can only deal with so much unruly hair in this family," she had said as she forced him down into a chair and whipped out her wand. He had left that encounter with ridiculously short hair and his pride wounded, which was only aided slightly that Bill and Charlie had suffered the same fate.

He rubbed his hands through his short hair, grimacing at the spiky feel of it. He needed to learn that spell to grow his hair out or he was going to go mad. He turned once he met the wall and was again reminded why he had originally been upset. This new product was an absolute mess. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was working correctly. The pin would just not stay a pin. It kept fighting him, flying about, whistling, and turning colors. It absolutely refused to stay a normal-looking pin. He glared at the fireplace on the opposite side of the room, remembering his conversation just hours earlier with Lee.

"Did you try a freezing charm?" Lee had asked as he frowned thoughtfully at his fireplace.

"No, I just sat on my arse and hoped it would fix itself. Of course I tried freezing it, Lee! It lasted for about a minute before it popped up and caught me in the eye," said George's head, which was floating amidst the flames.

"Oh, so that's why there's all that cream on your eye. It gave you a shiner!"

"You're not helping," growled George.

"I dunno, mate. This was yours' and Fred's product, not mine. I don't know what's gone into it so I can't help much."

George groaned. "Bugger. I've been at this for a month, Lee. I'm seriously thinking of scrapping it."

"You can't! You know how excited Fred was about this one. You can't just leave this unfinished."

George sighed heavily. "You're right. I know you're right."

There was a pause as they both just looked about pensively before Lee said, "Man, this two-country-business-thing is bloody difficult."

"Right?" George agreed. "I'm going absolutely mad trying to come up with new pranks and keep the store going."

"It's just as bad over here. Plus, everyone here keeps asking me where I'm from because I don't have the accent. I think I should just wear a sign about my neck saying 'I'm from South London. Bugger off.'"

"Somehow I think that'd be bad for business."

"Yeah, I thought so too," said Lee thoughtfully.

"You were the one who said you'd be 'right at home' in Ireland."

"Oh bollocks. You just knew your mum would kill you if you didn't stay in England."

"Well, that's certainly true. Hey, I've got to go. My legs are starting to seize up here."

"Alright. Sorry I couldn't help. Let me know if you figure it out, alright? Best of luck."

"Yeah. Thanks, mate. I'll talk to you later."

George looked back at the pin, which was vibrating and shifting quickly between being a pin for a jacket and a sewing pin. He rolled his eyes. Why did he have to be so rubbish at Transfiguration? Well, he had never been awful at it, per say. He had always passed it with an E, but he had always been best in Potions and Charms. Fred had been the one with the perfect scores on the Transfiguration tests, which was why he had been so excited when they had thought up the idea for this new product. This was really Fred's baby. And now with him gone, almost a year to the day now, George was getting desperate; wanting to make sure he finished what Fred had started.

As the pin started to rocket around the room, pinging off the walls and desks, George covered his head with one arm as he fired a stunning spell with the other. The pin dropped onto the floor with an innocent tink. He crossed the room, threw the tiny piece of metal that was quickly becoming the bane of his existence into a desk drawer, and stalked from the room.

.

.

He climbed up the stairs to his flat and immediately headed to the fridge. He stood in front of it for a minute, just staring unseeingly into the small box. Finally, he decided on a bottle of Butterbeer. As he cracked it open, he headed to his favorite armchair in his sitting room, kicking off his shoes as he went. He took a long pull from his bottle and picked up the quaffle he had lying around. (He had stolen it from Ginny the other day as a punishment for spiking his dinner with catnip, which he now knew tasted absolutely disgusting.) He began to toss it in the air as he tilted back in his chair, catching it again before it could make acquaintance with his face.

What should he do? He had to finish this product, as frustrating and seemingly unsolvable as it was. He had to, for Fred. But he didn't know how the hell to do it. And Lee was no help. Not that he didn't try; working with Lee was just a lot more difficult now that he was in Ireland and not in the same shop every day. Fred would have been proud of them, continuing on the shop and even expanding to keep up with the high demand, but knowing that didn't make it all any easier. George still had days where he would catch a glimpse of something random in the shop or in their flat, like the Portable Swamp, and the memories and the pain would come flooding back, crashing into him so hard that it would take him down to his knees, his eyes filled with tears. It was not the best state to be in when you were supposed to be running a company almost by yourself.

His mind started to wander as he tried to think of possible options for what to do to fix the pin, and maybe some of the other products that were stuck in the middle of testing. Suddenly, an idea popped into his head. An idea that was so ridiculous, so crazy…

He lost his grip on the ball and it fell before he could react. The quaffle hurtled down and smacked into his face. He jumped at the shock and felt the chair start to fall backwards. He shot his torso forward, wobbling, until the chair regained its balance. Clutching his aching nose, he thought about the possibility that had just occurred to him.

It was insane.

It was impossible.

It would never, ever, ever, ever work.

And yet…

.

.

'That's it. I'm going to die here. I'm going to shrivel up and just become sad and dead inside.'

Hermione jammed the heel of her hands into her closed eyes and grinded furiously. Little squiggles and light bursts broke in the blackness; yellow, orange, and red. She opened her eyes. She was still in her cubicle at work. Damn.

She looked down at the parchment on her desk, another form regarding a magical creature that was behaving wrongly, according to some wizard. She copied the form and viciously crumped the copy in her hands, trying to make it as absolutely wrecked as possible. She squeezed it once more for good measure before throwing it into the bin at the other end of her cubicle, which was almost overflowing with crumpled balls of parchment of all different colors. This was her stress technique, although, judging from her elevated pulse, it was failing her at the moment.

Another interdepartmental memo zoomed in and hovered right in front of her face. Hermione snatched it out of the air, crumpling it slightly in her hand as she did so. Her eyes scanned it quickly. She groaned and put her forehead on her desk. She felt like bashing it repeatedly against the solid wood, but she knew that wouldn't be much help. Plus, she didn't need more of a headache than she already had.

It was safe to say that she disliked her job. Strongly disliked would even be an accurate term. And what she hated most was that she felt obligated to continue working there. After how much she had fought for Buckbeak, Dobby, Winky, and all other house elves, everyone had expected her to go to work for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She herself had thought it would be a perfect fit, especially with the major Ministry reform after the War, making the Ministry a much more accepting and fair place.

But no, it had been a terrible, awful decision. It was a dead-end job filled with hours of paperwork, droning meetings, five-scroll-long reports, and mind-numbingly, exhaustingly boring coworkers. She couldn't stand it. She itched for the excitement she had been filled with in her years at Hogwarts. Yes, the year of the War had been dangerous and awful and so utterly depressing, but there was always something that could be done, she had always been needed. Here she was just another talking head for a system that didn't care too much about what they were controlling or saving.

She looked up at the clock that hung opposite her desk and smiled slightly. It was two past five in the evening. That seemed like a good enough time to scarper out of here and head home.

.

.

Hermione was ready to start relaxing. She was out of her work robes, into her pajamas, her hair tied up into a huge messy knot at the top of her head, and she had a new book to read. This was going to be a nice night, an escape from the drudgery of her days at work. She carefully carried her mug over to her sofa, ready to sit down and enjoy some time with her new—

Knock knock knock knock!

Her hand jolted slightly from surprise and some nearly-boiling tea slopped over the edge and onto her hand. She shouted a small Ow! and hurriedly set her mug down before realizing that she should probably deal with whoever was at the door. She expected it would be her dotty neighbor, Mrs. Edgeworth, who constantly came over about eight at night to ask if Hermione would like to join her for an afternoon tea. So, when she opened the door, the last person she was expecting was—

"George?"

"Hey Hermione, I—"

"What in the name of Merlin happened to your hair?" she said, staring at him aghast.

"Oh. Ah. Mum got to it. She did the same to Charlie and Bill, but they already fixed theirs, the lucky sods."

"Oh god. It's awful. Hold on. Come here." Hermione grabbed George's hand and dragged him into her flat, through the sitting room, and into the bathroom. She stood with him in front of the mirror and he looked back at his very strange-looking reflection.

"I look like I'm in the muggle military or something," George said.

"Alright," she said as she pulled out her wand. "I want you to tell me when to stop, alright?" She flicked her wand silently and he watched in the mirror until his hair was back to its normal, messy self.

"That's brilliant, Hermione. I really appreciate it," he said as he ran his fingers through his hair, taking delight simply in the fact that he could.

Hermione carded her fingers up the back of his head before ruffling his hair. "I think this is a much more fitting length for you. You're jawline shows more with your hair like this."

"Been looking at my handsome and angular profile, have we now?" George teased.

Hermione rolled her eyes and shoved his head as she walked out of the bathroom. "So did you come here to have me grow your hair out or—"

"Actually, no," he said as he trotted over to where she was sitting on the couch, taking a tentative sip of her tea. "I came to ask you something…odd."

"How intriguing," she said dryly. "And what would that be?"

George cleared his throat, all his thoughts about how this was the absolute stupidest plan ever zooming through his mind at top speed. "Err…Hermione…I was wondering if you would, ah, come work at the shop with me."

Hermione stared at him for a moment, the tea in her hands all but forgotten. There was absolute silence before laughter burst from Hermione.

"You're joking, right?"