Chapter One: Half-Life

The first time he saw her after the final battle was later the same morning, when he was kneeling on the floor near the left wall of the Great Hall amid the sea of dead, cradling the corpse of his twin and reeling from his loss.

Her crisp voice cut through the sobs and wails that echoed round the hall as families clung to the bodies of their dead children, husbands, wives and friends. She issued orders with what could only be her usual briskness, directing medi-wizards and witches to the wounded, helping to oversee the transport of the fallen from the hall to the hospital wing, where they would then be taken to funeral parlours and readied for burial.

She was one of the first to offer words of comfort to his grieving parents, and it was she who disentangled Fred’s lifeless form from his arms, giving him over to the care of Madam Pomfrey, who whisked him out of the hall in readiness for his final journey.

“This is a time for family now, young man. And yours needs you as much as you need them,” she’d said, patting his cheek with a wrinkled hand before turning on her heel and walking off to the next set of grieving relatives. Numbly, he watched her retreating form, his eyes fixed on the stuffed vulture wobbling from her hat.

Funny - he couldn’t ever remember seeing her without that ruddy hat. Did she wear it everywhere? Was it stuck to her head with a Permanent Sticking charm? Why would she do that?

His absent musings were interrupted as Charlie put an arm round his shoulder and pulled him away from the wall.

“Come on, George. Time to go home, mate.”

Home? What home? He didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want to go back to a house that would never again be rich with Fred’s laughter; to a house of people scared to look at him for fear of the loss his face would surely magnify.

But where else could he go? The flat above the shop? No. That was as filled with Fred as the Burrow, but without the benefit of the distraction his family would surely provide.

Reluctantly, he allowed Charlie to pull him along by the elbow until he was surrounded by his remaining family members.

Mrs Longbottom was right. He needed them.

The next time George saw her was after Fred’s funeral.

Over two hundred mourners lined up in the garden of the Burrow, queuing to offer their condolences to the grieving family after the service at the local church. It was an impressive turnout, given that so many other funerals were being held around the country in that first week. But George was tired of shaking hands and accepting platitudes. They had little meaning to him. No amount of sympathy would bring the one back that he cherished above all others. No amount of kind words would restore his heart to him. Why couldn’t these people just leave him alone?

He felt his mother’s eyes piercing gaze and knew she was scrutinising him, waiting for a breakdown and ready to whisk him off when it happened. He took a deep breath, unwilling to give her the opportunity of fussing over him yet again. Her concern was almost unbearable.

Clenching his jaw, George took the next hand thrust out towards him and shook it.

“Thanks for coming,” he said automatically, not knowing who it was and not really caring.

Why should he, when it wasn’t likely to be Fred?

“Hello, George. I’m really sorry about Fred. If you ever need anything, just let me know. I‘ve got some really great plants that might be good for Wheezes, if you're thinking about reopening the shop. Come over any time and take whatever you fancy.”

The voice was sincere enough to make him focus his vision.

“Oh, Neville. Thanks, mate. But I don’t know when I’ll be reopening the shop.”

“Well, do let us know when you do, young man. I thoroughly enjoyed those Patented Daydream charms you and your brother gave me a while ago and I am very interested in procuring more.”

George’s eyes wandered to the little old lady at Neville’s side. Was that his grandmother? He almost didn’t recognise her without her alarming hat. She was dressed in a long black coat and clutched a matching bag on her right arm. Her iron grey hair was swept severely off her face into a tight bun.

“Mrs Longbottom! I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you there,” he said honestly.

She huffed a little. “Yes, well, I’m usually wearing my favourite coat, and I don’t normally leave the house without wearing Spot either...”

“That’s her hat,” interjected Neville with a roll of his eyes (which earned himself a glare from his grandmother).

George had a sudden urge to snigger.

“...but I thought the occasion called for something a little more formal. My deepest condolences to you, George. Fred was a very fine and very brave young man. Just as you are. I’m sure your parents are very proud of you both.”

“Thanks, Mrs Longbottom,” he replied awkwardly, not really sure what else to say.

Until he looked at her bare head again. It seemed wrong, somehow, to see it without that ridiculous bird.

“You know, I think Fred would’ve liked it if you had worn your hat. He was very taken with it after your visit to the shop. He’d have had a right laugh to see it bobbing among all the glum faces here, scaring the wits out of the likes of Auntie Muriel.”

To his surprise, the elderly witch beamed.

“Well then, isn’t it lucky I brought it with me?”

He watched in astonishment as she slipped the bag off her arm, opened it and stuck her hand inside, pulling out the pointed hat and perching it jauntily on her head. Neville groaned in embarrassment as the huge vulture wobbled dangerously (a Ministry witch standing next to his grandmother jumped back in fright).

“I’d hate to disappoint Fred, after all. Now, where is that Aunt Muriel you spoke of?”

The urge to snigger had become a full-blown need to laugh and he gave in to it. Not that it was much of a laugh - more of a half-strangled bark. But the sight of the little old woman wearing her ridiculous hat at his brother’s funeral was enough to lift his floundering spirits, albeit temporarily. He nodded towards the Quidditch pitch, which was set up with long tables that groaned with sandwiches and finger food.

“Try the table at the far end. It’s where the sausage rolls are. Auntie Muriel can’t resist a good sausage roll,” he said.

She nodded, pivoting in the direction he’d indicated and hooked her arm through Neville‘s.

“Right-o. I’ll see you later then, George.”

And off she went, marching across the lawn with Neville (who was throwing apologetic glances in his direction), to honour Fred’s memory by bothering his ageing relative with her hat.

That was the only bright spot in that terrible day for him.

The third time George saw her was eight weeks later, from the dubious sanctuary of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. He had escaped to it after a row with Percy - or rather, a fight with Percy.

The two hadn’t been getting along since he returned to the fold of the family after the Battle of Hogwarts. Mum and Dad had welcomed the git back with open arms, too relieved to have the black sheep back after the loss of Fred, to rebuke him for his conduct. But George couldn’t be so forgiving.

Why should he be?

Why should he pretend that he was happy to see Percy when the selfish git had spent the last two years making his family’s life a misery? Betraying his own blood for the chance to suck his way up the career ladder at the Ministry of Magic? Kow-towing to a weak-minded prat like Cornelius Fudge and a dangerous bitch like Scumbridge?

Why should he accept his errant brother’s apologies: Percy, who’d sold his soul to a corrupt Ministry, then, upon realising his error, came to fight beside them at Hogwarts and had the very great honour of making George’s beloved twin crack the last smile of his life?

Percy had been trying to make it up to his family ever since he came back, George knew that. His older brother was not as proud or as opinionated as he had once been. He was still an annoying git - nothing would change that - but it was tempered with a new humility and humbleness that somehow infuriated George. Just that morning, he had offered to come to the shop and help him clear up the damage inflicted by Death Eater attacks in Fred's and George’s absence...

“You can’t do it own your own, George. There’s bound to be too much damage,” Percy said, watching him timidly from across the kitchen table.

“I said I can manage, didn’t I?” George replied, sparing the bespectacled Weasley only a cursory glance.

“I said I can manage myself!” was his acidic reply. Percy flinched. “Don’t you have a job of your own to get back to? After all, now that Umbridge has been arrested, you might be able to weasel your way into her office. It’s still vacant, isn’t it?”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” yelled Percy, springing up so fast from his chair that it toppled over backwards. “I said I was sorry, didn’t I? What more do you bloody well want?”

“That was in the past,” hissed Percy. “It was before I came to my senses. I’m not proud of what I did, but I’m trying to make up for it. Why won‘t you let me?”

“Why should I?” he barked, glowering at him with barely concealed hostility. “Why should you get off so easily after being such a prat?”

“George, don’t…”

“No, Mum! I’m only saying what everyone else should have! He thinks he can crawl back here with nothing more than a ’sorry’ and everything’ll be alright? Well, it won’t! Tell me, Perce: when all the rest of the family that you profess to love was out fighting for the freedom of gits like you, out DYING for the freedom of gits like you, what were you doing? Were you enjoying tea and scones with Thicknesse and all his Death Eater mates?”

“Did you get tips from Scumbridge on how to be a good little Pure-blood?” he drawled scornfully. “Did you follow her everywhere while she sentenced innocent people to Azkaban - and Merlin knows where else - just for being Muggle-born? Did you hear them begging for mercy as they pleaded for the lives of their families? Did it even bother you? Did you write the orders to have them chucked through the Veil?”

“GEORGE WEASLEY!” shouted his mother in horror. He stopped his tirade long enough to throw her a glance - she was shaking in dismay and twisting the tea towel she held.

“Is that what you want, George? Do you want to take your wand out and finish me off? Get rid of the traitor, so you can get on with your life?”

“Stop it! Stop it!” cried their mother, yelling at the top of her lungs.

“Don’t. You. Ever. Talk. About. Fred. Like. That. Again!” George shouted, punctuating each word with thump to Percy’s stomach. The older Weasley’s nose was broken and blood gushed from his nostrils, but he put up a fierce resistance by swinging at George’s temple and stunning him with a heavy blow that sent him toppling sideways into the table.

“Why dot? He’s dead, isd’t? He wod’t bide!” spat Percy almost unintelligibly due to his swelling nose.

“I MIND!” hissed George, making another lunge for him as he pulled himself off the floor. But before he could launch himself into his brother again...

“Mum...”

Now, several hours later, George sat behind the counter in the shop, mulling over the events of that morning instead of making a start on repairs to the shattered shelves and spilled bins. His eyes wandered aimlessly over ripped boxes, whose loose contents were scattered over every inch of the floor. The Dark Mark had been burned into the wall behind the counter, but he‘d blasted it off when he arrived (after repairing the shattered windows) and now there was a gaping hole through which the equally disarrayed storeroom could be seen.

He sighed despondently, knowing he should make a move to tidy up the mess. If he could lose himself in hard work, he wouldn’t have to think about the look on his mother’s face as she ordered her warring sons out of the house. He wouldn’t have to think about how much he wanted to throttle Percy for taunting him so cruelly.

He wouldn’t have to think about Fred...

The absurd thought made him laugh bitterly. As if anything could make him not think about Fred. His twin may be dead, but he was still everywhere George looked: the Burrow, the shop, the flat upstairs, the Leaky where they used to go for lunch after the shop opened, but before the war really started in earnest. Turning up at the Leaky and flaunting their disregard for the Death Eaters had been a matter of principle - and much amusement - for them. Not to mention the fact that old Tom had been delighted to see them - they were his only customers for weeks on end.

Most of all, Fred was in the mirror. Every time George brushed his teeth, or combed his hair, an errant glance into its depths would show him what he was missing most. He’d taken to covering it up every time he entered the bathroom, and was now an expert in shaving without the benefit of his damning reflection as a guide.

It had never occurred to him before that he might ever hate the sight of his own face, but now he did. Every time, he saw it he wanted to scream. It reminded him of the endless years of half-existence he had to look forward to without his twin. They stretched out before him in mockery, inducing an agony so excruciating, it almost left him breathless. How could he face himself, knowing what he had lost? How could he face his family, knowing that when they looked at him, they saw only Fred? His very existence must be like a stab in the heart to them.

It was to him.

So caught up in his morose thoughts was he, that George almost missed her when she passed the shop. But his gaze had just wandered over the ruined Pygmy Puff display by the window when he spotted a familiar hat staring glassily at him from across the cobbled street. He blinked and refocused his attention a few inches farther down from the hat. There, standing in the middle of the street talking to Amos Diggory, was Mrs Longbottom. She was obviously deep in conversation with the wizard, for she didn’t notice him at first, but when Mr Diggory raised his hand in farewell and moved off down the street, she looked straight at the shop.

Straight at him.

Even from the distance he sat from her, he could see the frown on her face and the concern in her eyes as she gazed at him. George couldn’t blame her: the shop was a mess and so was he. He must look a fright, thin as he was from his loss of appetite and dishevelled still from his scuffle with Percy. Alarmed that she might make a move in his direction, he quickly ran his hands through his wildly unkempt hair in a vain attempt to tidy it and straightened his coat. Pulling out his wand, he moved away from the counter to the far right of the shop, knowing she wouldn’t see him there, and began to clear up the devastation that was his business.

Life went on, after all.

By the time he was done there and had moved near the centre of the store to repair the broken shelving, she was gone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Chapter Two: Drifting 

The next time George saw her, the dam broke.

It had been three weeks since his mother ordered him from the house and he hadn’t been back since; too frightened of what he might say to Percy if he saw him, too ashamed to face his mother and admit he couldn’t make peace with the git.

So he stayed away, locked himself in his flat, alone with his memories and drowning in grief. He’d abandoned all pretence of restocking the shop. The CLOSED FOR BUSINESS sign still hung on the door, warding off hordes of disappointed children who’d dragged their harried parents to it between shopping sprees for Hogwarts’ robes and books. He knew he’d probably lost a small fortune, but what did he care? It was only money.

And he’d lost more than money could ever replace.

Sometimes Ron and Harry visited him after their Auror shifts were over (whether he liked it or not). Ron had Apparated straight into the flat two days after his fight with Percy and demanded that he go home and apologise to their mother.

“Stop being a selfish prat, George. Mum’s still upset and you need to go home and tell her you’re sorry. Percy has.”

“Well of course Perfect Prefect Percy has,” he said sarcastically. “He’s a reformed character, isn’t he? Can’t wait to bend over backwards and show what a star he is!”

“That’s not fair! At least he’s trying to act responsibly, which is more than I can ruddy well say for you!”

“Since when did you become Percy’s champion? You were one of his biggest critics when he betrayed us! Now you’re fawning all over him as much as everyone else!”

“I’m not fawning over him, you git. I just know what it’s like to behave like a ruddy idiot, to be in the wrong, then have to swallow my own pride and admit it afterwards. It’s not easy, you know. And I’m lucky the person I treated so bloody awfully was decent enough to forgive me afterwards and take me back - not once, but twice!”

He knew Ron was referring to his desertion of Harry in their Fourth Year at Hogwarts, then later when they were hunting Horcruxes, but it was not the same thing. Ron’s gaffes had been the result of idiocy; Percy’s the result of snobbery and an inflated sense of his own self-importance.

Not to mention the fact that Ron hadn’t taunted Harry about his dead relatives.

His refusal to come back to the house where Percy still lurked had angered Ron, and it had been all Harry could do to stop them lunging at each other. But Harry had managed to calm them both down and George had asked his friend to relay his apologies to his mother and tell her that he would be spending some time away from the Burrow for a while - news which had only inflamed Ron’s temper again. The brothers had barely managed stilted farewells before Ron grabbed Harry and Disapparated - and he had been relieved to see the back of them.

They came around twice a week after that, sometimes with Ginny, once with Bill and Fleur. That was when he had learned he was to be an uncle. The news had temporarily lifted the dark cloud which seemed to follow him everywhere these days. Him, an uncle! It was enough to raise his spirits and join them in a home-cooked meal (sent by his mother).

“You must keep up ze strength if you are to play weez you nephew, Jorj,” fussed Fleur, buzzing around the tiny kitchen and clearing surfaces with a wave of her wand. “We cannot 'ave you too weak to 'old him, n'est pas?”

“Fleur’s right, mate. You’re too bloody thin. You need to eat more. Mum’ll have a cow when she sees you. You need to get out and get some fresh air. When was the last time you left this place?” demanded Bill, indicating the untidy flat with a sweep of his muscled arm.

“I’m out every day,” he protested weakly. Which was true. He often went to the Leaky for a pint. Tom had even taken to reserving the same corner booth for him that he used every evening.

Ron had snorted in disbelief, leading Harry to elbow him in the stomach. George was not feeling up to another argument, so he spent the rest of the night concentrating on Bill’s and Fleur’s good news, willing the clock to tick faster so they would all leave and he could be left to his own devices once more. It seemed an inordinate amount of time until his wish was fulfilled and they left, eliciting a promise from him to visit his parents later that week before they Disapparated.

That had been two weeks ago, and he had broken that promise. What’s more, he had warded the flat with an anti-Apparition charm the previous week, so no one could drop in without his approval. It was a move which had provoked his father into sending him a Howler.

It had arrived this morning, stunning him with its volume and content. His father’s voice boomed from the little red envelope, calling him irresponsible and selfish.

Saying he was disappointed with him.

It was all too ironic for words: Percy - once the bane of the family - was now the golden boy, while he was now the black sheep.

The disappointment.

The bitter truth had been enough to make him storm out the flat earlier than usual and take his corner perch at the Leaky to drink himself into a stupor, instead of nursing his usual Butterbeer for two solid hours. The pub was full of happy faces and laughing voices; a direct contrast to the same time last year when the only person to be found in it was Tom the barman. George watched them resentfully, sipping his drink and cursing his existence.

Voldemort’s demise had changed everyone else for the better. Everyone was happy now: everyone laughed and smiled and congratulated themselves on surviving with their skins intact, everyone rebuilt their homes and returned to their normal daily routines. Life, after all, was worth living once again, now that the most evil dark wizard in centuries was dead. The fear that had become second nature to the Wizarding population had evaporated in a month of dizzy celebration after Harry Potter had lived up to his reputation and destroyed their collective enemy once and for all.

But his life was not worth living. Not anymore.

Not since Fred...

He slammed his glass on the table so fiercely that the amber liquid within sloshed over the edges and spilled onto the wooden surface. A few people at the opposite table glanced over and he glared at them in challenge.

“You lot got a problem?” he barked, not caring how rude he was. What did the opinion of strangers matter to him? What did anything matter to him anymore?

One of the wizards, a tall man with a bald head and a blue cape frowned in his direction, but didn’t reply. The man said something in a low voice to his friends and they all returned their attention to their own drinks, leaving him in peace.

Gits. What right did they have to look at him in judgement? Had he not sacrificed half his heart so they could sit there enjoying their beers in a public house without the fear of attack from Death Eaters? What did they know of suffering? They had probably hid under their beds for the duration of the war, only coming out after a seventeen-year-old boy and half his school friends had lifted the fear of death from their shoulders.

Sneering, he swallowed his remaining drink and lifted the glass up in the air, waving it in the direction of the bar. Tom caught the glint of light reflecting off it and sighed before nodding. Within a few seconds, the old barman had shuffled over to George’s table and was refilling his glass.

“You might want to call it a day after that one, son,” he said, watching the redhead in concern. “You’ve not even had lunch since you came in and that was three hours ago. Don’t you have a home to go to?”

“I don’t want to call it a day, I’m drinking my lunch and I‘ll go home when I‘m ready.”

“Come on, George. Don’t be like that. I’m only looking out for you, son,” said Tom.

“Do me favour, will you? Fill my glass - in fact, leave the bottle. And don’t call me 'son'.”

George was aware he was behaving badly, but his self-imposed near-isolation in the flat and the crushing weight of his grief were robbing him of his social skills.

Tom shrugged in defeat and refilled his glass, setting the Firewhisky bottle on the table next to it and accepting the small pile of Galleons George pushed across the table in payment. Shaking his head ruefully, the older man shuffled away, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He swallowed another glass of Firewhisky, hiccoughing as he set the tumbler back on the table. He was beginning to feel slightly nauseous, but he would be damned if he left for the flat before he was good and ready to fall on his bed in drunken oblivion. Dropping his head into his hands, he massaged his temples.

Which was why he missed her approach.

“Ah, George. Do you mind if I join you? All the other tables appear to be full.”

Lifting his head, George glanced up through narrowed eyes to see Mrs Longbottom watching him steadily. The sight of her in her usual green coat and ferocious hat made his heart sink. He was not in the mood for company.

“Look, Mrs Longbottom, I’m sorry, but this isn’t a good time for me.”

The old woman sniffed. “Yes, well, I can see that, young man. It looks very much like you haven’t known ‘a good time’ in several months. Or a bath, come to think of it.”

She dropped her red handbag on the bench and took a seat. “No need to worry, though. I won’t be staying long. I’m meeting Neville for dinner after his shift is over - he’s an Auror, you know, at least for the moment - and I simply can’t abide the thought of waiting in that stupid Ministry building for a full half-hour. Far too many self-important idiots bustling about with briefcases. And not an ounce of sense between them! Except for my boy, your brother and that fine young Harry Potter, of course. Not to mention your excellent father. Have I missed anyone out?”

Percy’s face flashed through his mind. “No, you’ve not missed anyone out,” he said wryly. “You’ll forgive me if I’m not up for conversation, though?”

“Oh, yes. Don’t think any more of it. You may sit in your little corner, silent and smelly, and I’ll sit in mine, chatty and fragrant. How’s that?”

Bloody hell - did he smell that bad?

He took a surreptitious sniff of his armpits as she raised her hand towards the bar, then waved his wand discreetly over himself when he realised he actually did pong a bit. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? And why did he smell so bad? He’d just had a bath...

...a week ago.

The realisation made him flush. What a stinking pig he was! How could he have forgotten to wash?

Which was a stupid question. It was easy enough to sit in the flat all day, and just run one brush over his teeth and another through his hair before he left for the pub. That was as much as he had the energy for these days.

Tom arrived with a cup of tea for his companion and placed a large, steaming mug of liquid beside it. He accepted Mrs Longbottom’s coins, giving her an odd look at her choice of tables, which she ignored. Instead, she tapped the mug with her wand before pushing it aside and lifting her dainty cup to sip from.

“Mm. Much better. Now, young man: how are you keeping?” she enquired, not bothering to wait for a response as she surveyed him critically before continuing: “Tut, tut. I see that was a rather silly question. You are aware that you look dreadful? Or are you actually trying to grow a beard?”

She eyed his several days' growth of stubble dubiously and he ran a self-conscious hand over his rough cheeks. “Er, yeah. Growing a beard,” he lied, thinking that perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea. If he didn’t look like himself any more, he couldn’t look like Fred, either.

“Gracious! And I thought you far too sensible to be walking about with fur all over your face.”

Was she trying to be rude? He gripped his empty glass, wishing she would leave.

“Never mind. No doubt you’ll take one look in the mirror when it’s fully-grown, and realise how much you resemble a ginger Yeti. That’ll soon get rid of it.”

“How do you know?” he said, with unmistakable sarcasm. “I might like it.”

Astonishingly, she ignored his rudeness, happy to sip at her tea and consider his question with perfect serenity.

“You might, though I doubt it. Have you ever seen a Yeti?”

“Have you?” he shot back in challenge.

“Of course. How do you think I met my dearly departed husband?”

Her answer was so quick and sharp that George couldn’t help himself: he laughed.

“Not that I’m suggesting for a second that Mr Longbottom was, himself, a Yeti - at least, not after I made him shave that ridiculous beard off. We met while I was on my Christmas holidays during my final year at Hogwarts. He was a Yorkshire lad, working as a Yeti Ranger in the Himalayas where my parents took me for a week during the break. Very dashing he was too, under all that hair. He swept me off my feet - literally. I was skiing down the mountain when he came barrelling over the edge on his Comet and crashed into me. Stupid of him not to watch where he was going, but then, he was being chased by one of his over-amorous charges who’d mistaken him for an attractive brunette. Not that I ever saw a brunette Yeti. They’re all white, you know - even the females.”

He hadn’t known. In all truthfulness, George had never thought about a Yeti in the whole course of his life, but he didn’t tell her that.

“I was most disappointed to see that you haven’t reopened your colourful shop yet, young man,” she said, changing subjects so fast he was caught off guard. “I was hoping to purchase another of those Daydream charms you do so well - one where I can watch your mother send that trollop Bellatrix Lestrange into the afterlife over and over again. Yes. Very impressive that was. Did your mother get the bouquet of flowers I sent her in thanks?”

“Er, yeah. A few days after...”

He trailed off, unwilling to say it.

But she did.

“After Fred’s funeral?”

George nodded, picking up the bottle of Firewhisky and pouring himself another glass.

“A sad day for your family, of course. A sad day for all who knew him: he was a splendid fellow, to be sure.”

“Yeah, he was. A right splendid fellow,” he said morosely.

There was a pause.

“I may have imagined it, but you didn’t sound very convincing when you said that.”

Surprised, he looked up from his inspection of the table to find her watching him carefully.

“What do you mean?”

She removed her ridiculous hat and perched it on the table, then lifted her cup and held it before her thin lips with two hands, gazing at him from across the rim.

“I mean, that you sounded as if you thought the very opposite,” she explained taking a delicate sip of her tea.

George was flabbergasted. Meant the opposite? Of Fred? He flushed in anger. “No, I didn’t bloody well mean the opposite. In case it’s escaped your attention, my brother - my twin - is dead!” he snapped.

“I am aware of that. But that doesn’t mean you’re not angry with him.”

“Angry with him? Why would I be angry with him? I loved him - I love him. I’m not angry with him. I want him back!” he exclaimed, too angry to care that he’d raised his voice.

She pulled her wand out of her bag and waved it over the booth, effectively isolating their conversation from the curious onlookers who’d turned when the volume rose.

“I shall ignore your little outburst, because I know you are upset. It is only natural for you to be so. But you can love someone and be angry with them at the same time.”

“What do you know of being upset?” he asked belligerently. “You didn’t lose anyone in the war. You don’t have to walk around as if there’s a piece of you missing. You don’t have to plaster a smile on your face and pretend everything’s alright, when you know everyone’s looking at you and wondering when you’ll lose it!”

“I beg to differ, George. You are wrong on each and every count.”

What the ruddy hell was she talking about? Had the weight of the stuffed bird she carted around on her head finally damaged a vessel in her brain?

The urge to tell her to sod off was overpowering. It was not his usual manner to be so rude, but the last few weeks had wrought a change in him; turned him from a happy, pleasant and gregarious young man, into an angry, bitter and completely miserable one. Still, he retained enough manners to swallow his anger and simply glare at her instead.

“What are you talking about? Neville’s safe and well, isn’t he? And unless you had a twin you didn’t tell anyone about, one who died at the Battle of Hogwarts while you were off having a grand old time duelling the enemy, you couldn‘t possibly know how it feels to lose a part of yourself - the best part of yourself.”

“You are forgetting that I have lost my son to the very same enemy,” she replied calmly.

“Your son wasn’t at the Battle of Hogwarts - he’s alive in St Mungo’s.”

She sighed and took another sip of her tea, setting the cup gently on its saucer before replying. “My son died over fifteen years ago, George. The person who resides in St Mungo’s under his name and wearing his face is little more than a…a shell.”

For the first time since he’d known her, she looked every single year of her advanced age. Her blue eyes were still clear and bright, her mind as sharp as a tack, but there was a vulnerability about her as she spoke of her son that George had never thought to witness.

She looked tired, sad and - to his very great surprise - a little bitter.

“Grief is not an emotion exclusive to yourself, young man,” she said softly. “Nor is guilt. Yes, I feel guilty. I blame myself for what happened to Frank and Alice that day. You see, my son and I… we had argued that very morning. He was supposed to be bringing Alice and Neville over that evening for a family meal and staying overnight, but... things were said. I was arrogant enough to tell him how he should raise Neville, accused him of not being strict enough with his boy. We fought, exchanged some very bitter words, then he left - stormed out of the house after telling me he would never subject his son to the regimental rules that he had endured in his own childhood. Can you imagine how angry I was? And hurt! That he had admitted to enduring his childhood, instead of enjoying it. Because of me! I was livid. I can still see him, stalking down the garden path, still hear my own stupid voice telling him not to come back until he’d come to his senses. But he‘ll never come to his senses. That is something which is quite beyond him now.”

A cloud of guilt passed over her face and she had to pause for a breath. George had temporarily abandoned his own grief to become witness to hers. He was surprised that she was speaking so candidly of her personal pain. He toyed with his glass, wondering how he would have coped if he and Fred had argued before his brother had died. Could he have pulled himself together as well as she had, knowing he’d never have the chance to apologise?

It was an uncomfortable thought and, for once, George found himself immensely grateful that Fred had died knowing with absolute certainty that his twin loved him.

Of course, Frank Longbottom hadn’t died - technically. But he knew that she visited what was left of her son every month, and the agony of thinking herself responsible for his condition was surely worse than anything he could imagine. It was a mocking reminder of her moment of weakness, a testament to her vanity.

“How did you find out what had happened to them?” he asked, unable to stop himself.

She brushed absently at her forehead. “I was sitting in the garden enjoying a spot of elevenses the day after our argument. It was a beautiful day. Sometimes, if I concentrate, I can still smell the same rosebush - it was in full bloom, you know. I am fond of flowers, but I’ve never been much of a gardener myself, unfortunately. Anyway, there I was, taking a bite out of a buttered crumpet, when there was a great shout from inside the house. It was my husband, you see, which was unusual - Mr Longbottom was not known for great bursts of emotion. He was one of those wonderfully enviable people who take everything in their stride. So I knew something was badly wrong. But I could never have dreamed what it was. The war was over, after all, wasn’t it? Voldemort was dead, or gone forever, his remaining Death Eaters had either fled or been arrested. I dashed into the house to find Kingsley Shacklebolt restraining my husband, who was scarlet with anger and had, in his grief, tried to attack the other Auror that delivered the news... He was crying, sobbing his heart out. He saw me enter, and before the Aurors could tell me themselves, he said... he...”

Her voice quavered slightly and George watched as she swallowed hard with the attempt to control her emotions. The elderly witch took a deep breath and offered a stiff, matter-of-fact smile.

“...he said ’They’re gone. Augusta, they’re gone‘. I was stunned. I thought they were dead - all three of them.”

“What? You mean Neville was there, too?” he asked, horrified. It had never occurred to him that his fellow Gryffindor may have been present at his parents’ torture. But then, hadn’t she just told him that Frank had left her to return to his wife and child, instead of bringing his family over to her house that night?

“Yes, he was,” she said softly, looking pained by the admission. “He cannot remember it, partly because of the injury he sustained, and I would thank you never to mention it to him.“

“I won’t,” he promised, shocked at the knowledge that Neville had also suffered at the hands of his parents' tormentors.

“I was distraught, of course. Kingsley told us that they lived, but that they were... Well, he took us straight to St Mungo’s where I found what remained of them. Frank and Alice were cowering in a corner of the Acute Spell Damage ward. I hardly recognised my own son - and he certainly didn‘t recognise me. He eyes were rolling in his head and he drooled like an imbecile. Poor Alice wasn’t much better. They went berserk every time someone pulled out a wand, hissing and spitting and trying desperately to escape the ward. The Healers had to Stun them both so that they could be treated. That day was, without a doubt, the worst of my life.”

“What about Neville?” George asked quietly, steeling himself to hear that her two-year-old grandson had also been Crucio-ed. Fortunately, he was spared that.

“Neville... He saw some of what they did to his parents, apparently. Dumbledore himself had Flooed to the hospital after hearing the news of the attack on Frank and Alice. He couldn’t do anything to help them, of course, but Neville was a different story. Frank or Alice had somehow managed to Floo him straight to the Ministry out of harm’s way, but had been unable to follow themselves before being re-captured.”

“Re-captured? How do you...”

“How do I know they attempted escape? Because of Dumbledore. Kingsley - a good friend to both my son and Dumbledore - had already notified him of the attack after Neville had been found lying unconscious in the Ministry fireplaces. The Headmaster Flooed straight to the hospital to find that his parents were beyond help. No one knew what exactly had happened to them and none of the Healers were able to make sense of Neville’s two-year-old babblings. So I entrusted Dumbledore with the task of performing a Legilimens on my grandson to see if they could learn anything - it’s a very complex and delicate piece of magic to perform on someone so young. A child’s thoughts are always in motion, flitting rapidly from one experience to another as their mind attempts to make sense of their environment and how it impacts on them. To perform the same spell on a traumatised toddler takes a wizard, or witch, of great skill and patience. Dumbledore was the only person I could have trusted not to do more damage to Neville’s mind that it had already endured.

“That was when we discovered that the Lestranges and Barty Crouch, Jr had attacked Frank’s home an hour after he left work for the evening. They were looking for their fallen master, thought he and Alice knew where he was, and tried to make them reveal his whereabouts. It was a pointless exercise, of course, but they tortured them for information nonetheless. Neville, who was being restrained by the Lestrange woman - that ghastly witch, holding my grandson - fell from her arms and hit his head in an attempt to reach his parents. After that, things are a little fuzzy, but it appears that at one point Alice was able to wrest the other witch’s wand from her and Stunned several of her opponents with it. That must have been the point at which she managed to Floo Neville to the Ministry, for after that, he had no more memory of the attack. And I made sure he never would. Dumbledore removed the memory that very night.”

George’s drink lay forgotten on the table. His head was reeling with the tragedy of her tale. “You must have been devastated,” he said, feeling stupid for stating the obvious, but she surprised him - again.

“I was more angry, at first. I was livid! I blamed Frank for what had happened.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you...”

She didn’t give him the chance to finish. “Because if he hadn’t argued with me the day before, they would all have been safely at my house and the attack may never have happened. Does that make any sense?”

No. It did not. And he told her so, adding:

“There’s nothing to say they wouldn’t have attacked on a different night if your son had joined you.”

“I know,” she stated firmly. “But I was so consumed with anger that I couldn’t think straight. I wanted to lash out. I wanted to ask Frank why he hadn’t just admitted I was right, apologised and brought his wife and son over for tea as planned. I wanted to shout at him for being so pig-headed, to shake him and curse him for possessing the streak of wilfulness that forever robbed me of a piece of my heart. I was angry at him for leaving me bereft.”

Suddenly, George understood why she had told him of her private pain.

“You...you think I’m angry at Fred for leaving me?” he whispered.

“Aren’t you?” she asked calmly.

The thought had never occurred to him before, but - to his dismay - he recognised it for the truth.

But he could not admit it - yet.

Shaking his head in denial, he picked up his glass and emptied the contents.

“No. No, I’m not.”

It was a lie and they both knew it.

“Then you’re not upset at being left - as you perceive it - alone?”

“I’m not alone!” he exclaimed, fighting to contain his anger once more.

“Then where is your family, young man?”

“At home,” George growled, wishing once more that she would leave. Mrs Longbottom was far too astute for his comfort. If she didn’t stop her questioning and leave soon, he might lose his temper.

“And why are you not with them?”

Merlin’s beard! Why wouldn’t she just shut up?

“What difference does that make to you?”

She peered at him once more over the brim of her cup. “You may not be aware of it, but I often meet my grandson after work. Usually, I Floo in to this very establishment and take a stroll up Diagon Alley before Flooing to the Ministry itself - can‘t abide waiting about in the stupid place. As a result, I have, for the past few weeks, been able to spot you lurking in this very corner, looking as miserable a wizard as I’ve ever clapped eyes on - apart from Mundungus Fletcher, but the least said about him, the better.”

There was a clink as she placed her cup in its saucer and pierced him with her canny gaze. “And not once have I seen you in the company of another living soul. Not a friend, not your family. Which leads me to believe that you have estranged yourself from them, for no mother on earth would allow even her adult son to leave the house looking as unkempt and, quite frankly, alarming as you do.”

He frowned in annoyance. “I’m not estranged. I just...need a little time to think, that’s all.”

“You’ll have to forgive me if I say that thinking appears to have done you very little good. You haven’t opened the shop, you appear to see very little of your family...you haven’t begun to move on with your life.”

The last comment was too much. Slamming his fist on the table, he glared at her.

“I don’t want to move on with my life! Don’t you get it? How can I pretend everything’s alright when it’s not? How am I supposed to be George without Fred? I don’t know who I am anymore! I don’t know how to live...”

A great wave of sorrow engulfed him and George broke. He dropped his head into his hands and cried, wept, sobbed as he had never done before in his life. The intensity of his grief frightened him and he was mortified to have lost control of himself in such a public place.

His companion raised her wand and, distantly, he heard her murmur a Notice-Me-Not charm. He felt movement as she slid around the bench and laid a wrinkled arm on his hair, patting it in comfort.

“There, there, my boy. That’s it. Let it all go. Better out than in.”

Raising his head, he looked up at her through teary eyes. “Why...why wasn’t I...there? I...should’ve been there to...defend him! I had no business having a...a grand old time mucking about in the hall with a couple of stu...stupid Death Eaters when he needed me! But he died...with a ruddy smile on his face! He left me! He left me with a smile, and now I’m supposed to go on without him. It’s not fair. It’s not bloody well fair!”

Mrs Longbottom opened her arms and he sank into them with a great, heaving sob, remaining there for many long minutes as grief wracked his body. She rubbed his back and whispered soothing nonsense, allowing him to vent his emotions for as long as he needed. Finally, after what seemed like ages, he drew back, wiping at his face with his coat sleeve.

Grunting, she opened her bag, pulled out a plain white handkerchief and offered it to him. He accepted it gratefully, embarrassed that she had been witness to his grief.

Mrs Longbottom did not seem the least bit bothered, though. She pulled across the mug Tom had brought over in addition to her cup of tea and pushed it in front of him.

“Coffee,” she explained as he glanced at it in confusion. “Not that I’m a coffee person myself - hate the stuff. But I am assured it works wonders on a hangover.”

“I don’t have a hangover.”

She pursed her lips. “Not yet. But if you drink much more of that,” she pointed daintily at the bottle of Firewhisky, “you’ll have the worst one of your life. You won’t find your answers at the bottom of a bottle, you know.”

And in saying that, she lifted her wand and Vanished both the bottle and his glass.

“Now, drink up, George. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

Too exhausted to protest, he lifted his cup and took a cautious sip of the beverage as she slid out of the booth and disappeared for a few minutes. When she returned, she was carrying a plate of bacon and eggs and a small basket of hot rolls, which she slid before him.

“You’d better eat something, too. No, don’t object or I’ll force feed you myself. You’re a great deal too thin for my liking - and no doubt for your mother’s, too.”

Not that he’d seen his mother in three weeks. With a shaky hand, he picked up the fork, loaded it with scrambled eggs, and shovelled them into his mouth. They were delicious, but he couldn’t eat more until he’d spoken.

“You were right,” he said, giving her a sideways glance. She had resumed her seat at the other end of the bench, which made him feel a little sad.

“Of course I was. I usually am. But right about what, in particular?”

“About me being angry with Fred. I didn’t know I was before, because...” George shrugged unable to find the right words.

“Because you were far too busy being angry at everyone else?”

Merlin, she’d hit the nail on the head again! He nodded.

“That is a natural and unavoidable part of grief, my good fellow. I, too, lashed out at those around me - though, doubtless not in the spectacular fashion you have. I didn’t only blame Frank for what had happened, I blamed the Aurors for not capturing the Lestranges sooner. I blamed the Ministry as a whole for being incompetent. I even blamed the Healers for not being able to save his sanity. Only once I had finished blaming everyone else, did it occur to me that I, too, was at fault. My own arrogance had pushed him away and seen to it that I would never have the chance to apologise for my hasty words. Even had he joined me that night, and the Death Eaters attacked them at a later point, he would not have been lost to me believing that I was angry with him. I shall never forgive myself for that.”

As far as George was concerned, she was being far too hard on herself. “I doubt that he would have believed that. He would have known they were only angry words, spoken in the heat of the moment. All families argue, but it doesn’t mean they don’t love each other...”

He faltered, thinking of Percy. Had they not exchanged some angry words of their own in the heat of the moment? If something happened to Percy, would he be living with the same regret as his companion had so recently admitted to? For all their differences, he did love his stupid brother. Even though he was a right git at times. And, to be fair, it wasn’t Percy’s fault that he had been at Fred’s side when his twin died. In fact, the speccy prat was probably consumed with a fair bit of guilt of his own because he’d behaved so badly, then apologised only a few minutes before his brother died.

Two whole years, estranged from his brother, only to watch him die minutes after being reunited. What must that feel like? George shuddered.

“Anyway, love or not, I was angry with Fred. I suppose I still am. It feels like he got off easy, dying so suddenly, when I’m left here to try and pick up the pieces of my life. I blame him for that. I blame Percy for being the last person he ever saw, instead of me. I blame my family for looking at me and seeing him instead. And...I blame myself for living when he’s dead.”

The admission was so soft, he wasn’t sure she’d heard it, though her reply proved that she had.

“I believe that is what our Muggle friends call ‘survivor’s guilt’. Another normal, if unpleasant, part of grieving - one I am also familiar with. Oh, yes, I am, you know. It’s not been easy getting on with life when one of the main reasons I had for living it in the first place was stolen from me.”

“Then how do you manage it? How do you go on when a piece of yourself has been destroyed? It doesn‘t seem that I‘ll ever be able to. It feels like I‘ve lost my identity. You always seem so in control, so confident, so...so unflappable.”

“Unflappable, eh?” The word obviously amused her for he saw her thin lips tilt into a smile. “Yes, I like that word. But you’re right. When you lose someone who is so much a part of you that you can’t tell where you end and they begin, it seems as if nothing will ever be right again. Life loses its colour, love loses its allure, nothing seems to matter outside the walls of your own pain. However, you will find that the pain is not your own. It is shared by all in your family. Your mother will, no doubt, be as bereft now as I was then...”

The vision of his mother’s tear-streaked face ordering him from the house three weeks ago floated through his mind and he felt a crushing guilt settle on his shoulders.

“...your father will be struggling to cope with his grief as well as trying to support your mother and all your family through theirs...”

You disappoint me, George Weasley.

That’s what his father’s Howler had said. Shame flooded him.

“...and your siblings? Well, Frank never had any, unfortunately, so I can only guess at this; but they will more than likely feel a great need to stick together, closer than ever before. The fear of losing another of their numbers will always be just under the surface of all their thoughts and they will find the comfort of each other’s presence the only balm to that fear.”

She was right. Suddenly, he knew why Charlie had remained for so many weeks after Fred’s funeral. Why Percy was driven again and again to offer the olive branch, regardless of how often George pushed it back in his face. Why Ron was so angry at his refusal to come home. Why Mum was reluctant to let any of them, including Harry, out of her sight.

They couldn’t bear the thought of losing each other.

And what had he done to comfort them? Pushed them away, scorned their advances. He had been so wrapped up in his own pain, that he had refused to take stock of theirs.

“Merlin’s beard, I’m a selfish git,” he muttered, toying with his fork.

“Poppycock! Of course you’re not - well, not completely. You’re simply grieving, and we all react differently to grief. Some people accept it and deal with it, some people lash out at those around them, not caring who they hurt in their own agony, and some people bottle it up until they‘re so poisoned by it, they can never truly enjoy their lives again.”

“Well, I know which of those categories I fall into,” he said dryly, thinking of all the people he’d hurt.

“Yes, well, now that you know, you can do something about it, can’t you?” she said, sounding relieved. “The first step to recovery is always the hardest, young man, but you have successfully overcome that hurdle. You have accepted your grief and may now begin to deal with it. I’m not saying it will be easy; it never is. But once you move out of that empty little flat and return to the bosom of your family, you will find it more bearable.”

George dropped his fork in surprise. “How did you know...”

“Gracious! Have you forgotten that Neville works with Ronald? Perhaps I should have brought you a nice slice of fish over, instead of that bacon - it does wonders for the memory, you know. In any case, your younger brother has been known to voice his frustration about his - oh, what was the expression he used - ah, yes; his ’barking brother’, in the company of both Neville and Harry.”

What? The little git! He was not barking!

“I see that has caught your attention. Well, if nothing else, you should return home simply to hex your brother for gossiping. Which should be fun. I have a brother of my own. Algie - do you know him?”

“No,” said George, picking up his fork once more and helping himself to another mouthful of eggs.

“Yes, well, Algie’s not known for his discretion either. Do you know, the day after my mother bought me my first...“

She lowered her voice, sparing a glance at the rest of the pub to make sure they weren’t eavesdropping (and forgetting she had completely warded the booth off).

“...brassiere,“ she whispered discreetly, covering her mouth with a wrinkled hand, “that he ran off and told little Pete Postlethwaite who lived next door about it?”

George promptly spat his eggs all over the table. Really, there was such a thing as too much information, and the last thing he wanted to be thinking about was Augusta Longbottom‘s first bra.

“I know! Shocking isn’t it? I was furious when I found out. Little Pete used to climb over the fence just to pull my pigtails, but after that, he would climb over just to ping my strap! Well, I soon sorted him out. My parents bought me a vulture instead of an owl - they were a little eccentric you know - and I trained it to attack the little miscreant every time he so much as peeped over the fence...”

His eyes were drawn to her outrageous hat, which she patted fondly. Merlin, had she stuffed her pet vulture?

“...and then, of course, there was only Algie to deal with. So, after we returned to school, I told the most unpleasant girl in my year, a Slytherin, oddly enough, that he was very enamoured of her. He spent the next ten months eating all his meals in the Gryffindor common room, afraid to leave it in case she was lurking in the corridor.”

Unable to help himself, George laughed. Bloody hell, she was devious enough to be a Slytherin herself!

“Not that I am suggesting for one second that Ronald gossiped because he wanted to annoy you,” she said with a rare smile of her own. “I believe he was merely concerned. So if you do hex him when you get back home, don’t be too harsh on him. A simple Silencio Maxima should suffice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said with a small grin as she looked at her watch.

“Gracious! Is that the time? What are you all about, charming an old woman into forgetting her previous appointments, young man? I’d best be off before Neville thinks I’ve ran off with a mysterious stranger - or a ginger Yeti. You will remember to take care of yourself, won’t you? I’d hate to think our pleasant little chat was in vain, you know.”

“I think I’ll be fine now, Mrs Longbottom. I’ll just finish my meal, then I’ll be off home.”

“Which home?”

He chuckled. “The Burrow.”

“Well, in that case, you might want to pop back to your flat first and give yourself a decent scrubbing. Molly will die of fright if you walk through the door looking like that,” she replied, donning her hat and hanging her red bag over her arm.

“I will. And Mrs Longbottom?”

“Yes, George?”

The fork tapped against his plate as he debated how to express his gratitude. Deciding to keep it simple, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Thanks for everything.”

“No, George. Thank you for listening to me rambling on like a fussy old woman. It’s one of my little faults, you know. But if you tell anyone I so much as admitted to having a fault, I’ll hex your other ear off! Can‘t have my stellar reputation ruined by gossip!”

“My lips are sealed,” he promised with a grin.

“Excellent! Cheerio, then. Give my regards to your family.”

And she walked off before he could tell her to say hello to Neville, or wish her well, leaving him alone once more.

But not for long. He had a family to get back to. If they’d still have him.

With a renewed sense of purpose, he set about fattening himself up so he could go home and face his demons.

And conquer them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was another three months before George saw her again. Three months of trying to come to terms with his grief over Fred’s loss and rebuilding his links with his family. Returning to them had not been easy. Admitting he had been a colossal arse even worse. But - much to his surprise - it had been Percy who had been the first to throw his arms around him and welcome him back.

“You are a nuisance, George Weasley,” Percy had hissed into his one remaining ear. “But you are our nuisance.”

“And you’re a prat, Perfect Percy,” replied George in kind, hugging his brother as tightly as Percy hugged him. “But you’re our prat.”

Once his mother had seen that, she had grabbed him and almost smothered him with kisses and hugs (and slaps to the back of the head).

And so, life had slowly returned to a semblance of normality.

Or as normal as it could be without Fred’s shining presence.

George spent plenty of time in his room, away from the boisterousness of his other siblings and Harry, but he would allow them in to comfort him when his grief was so overpowering he almost choked on it. And he returned the favour in kind, soothing his mother when he found her crying in the pantry one morning, or listening to Percy admit how much he wished he had been the one to die instead of Fred.

Percy had shaken his head, the tears he’d tried so hard to suppress spilling from his eyes, until George opened his arms to comfort his brother as Augusta Longbottom had done for him so many weeks ago.

Their relationship wasn’t ideal: they still rubbed each other up the wrong way at times. But then, that had been the way of things long before Percy’s estrangement from his family. So, all in all, George accepted it as a return to normal and was grateful for it.

Now, as he stood at the side of Courtroom 10 - the only hall in the Ministry of Magic large enough for the ceremony of awarding commendations to all those who had fought in the war - his eyes searched the crowd for one face in particular.

Or rather, one hat in particular.

He cursed softly. Where the ruddy heck was she? How could he lose a hat like that in a crowd like this?

“And now for our most distinguished awards,” announced the booming lilt of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Acting Minister of Magic. “There are six Orders of Merlin, First Class to be awarded, two of which are posthumous. Before I begin, let it be known that I will brook no disturbance from anyone while I read these names out. I expect all six recipients to be treated with the honour they deserve for all their sacrifices.”

Intrigued enough to halt his search for Neville’s missing granny, George loped up the steps to take his seat beside his beaming family. His mother wore a shiny silver Order of Merlin, Second Class for her ‘outstanding service of ridding the world of Bellatrix Lestrange’ as Shacklebolt had called it (before he‘d grabbed her and kissed her on both cheeks - much to his father‘s annoyance). Ginny had also received a Second Class award for her part in recruiting and training the re-formed Dumbledore’s Army; a task which had proved vital to the final battle. He grinned as he remembered her cheek when she returned to her seat and looked at her brothers awards.

Shacklebolt’s voice pulled him from his recent memories.

“Our first Order of Merlin, First Class, is in memory of a man who fought the forces of Darkness for over eighteen years. Once an agent of the enemy himself, he quickly grew disillusioned by the cruelty of he who called himself Lord Voldemort...”

An automatic shudder swept through the hall.

“...and realised the error of his way. He pledged his very life in the service of Albus Dumbledore, and to using his considerable knowledge of the enemy to infiltrate their ranks and gather vital intelligence for our fight against his former master. It was on Albus Dumbledore’s own order that he - reluctantly - ended the Headmaster’s life. Thereafter he used his skill to ensure that he replaced him as Headmaster of Hogwarts in order to reduce the damage students would be subjected to under the rule of Death Eater teachers. It is with great honour that I award this posthumous Order of Merlin, First Class to Severus Snape.”

There was a gasp after the announcement, and then an even bigger one as Harry stood to receive the Order in Snape’s absence. Over four hundred pairs of eyes watched him descend the stairs and approach the podium. He shook the stately Minister’s hand, they exchanged a few words, then the dark-haired teen returned to his seat beside Ginny.

“That was very well done of you, Harry,” said Mr Weasley, smiling at the Boy-Who-Lived proudly.

“It seemed the least I could do,” Harry replied softly as the murmurs around the hall continued to escalate. George didn’t know if he could be so forgiving of the greasy git. Still, Snape’s true allegiances had been common knowledge to him for a while now, so he’d accept that the man had been an ally. If not a friend.

Shacklebolt banged a gavel on his wooden podium to call for silence. The next recipient was, unsurprisingly, Albus Dumbledore.

“...and much has been written about his younger years, some of it true, some of it little more than an attempt by small-minded bigots to cash in on the death of a great man; to spread wicked rumours about his troubled past. But let it be know: none of us are perfect, and he would have been the first to admit to his own faults. This I know, because I knew him personally. But his past misfortunes were to the benefit of every single wizard and witch present today and all others who are not here to witness these proceedings. Using his own experiences, it was he who rallied us against the power of darkness, he who founded the resistance not once, but twice, as we struggled against the hold of those who would seek to re-order our society into a mockery of what we now enjoy. For his bold planning, his unfailing courage and sheer determination in standing against the most evil dark wizard we have ever known, I award this posthumous Order of Merlin, First Class to the only wizard ever to receive it a second time: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.”

A huge roar of approval went up as everyone present stood and applauded. Aberforth Dumbledore, resplendent in a brand new kilt (but minus his goat), shuffled over to the podium and accepted the award in his brother’s absence. It was several minutes before the clapping stopped and people retook their seats.

Once more, Shacklebolt addressed the crowd.

“Our next award is for a young man who, along with Ginevra Weasley and Luna Lovegood, defied the authority of evil which presided over his lessons and stalked the halls of a place all our children should have found sanctuary in: his school. Time and again he risked the very same torture that stole his parents from him in his childhood, to ensure that Muggle-born students - and others of what the enemy termed ‘questionable blood-status’ - could be smuggled to safety.

“But what is truly remarkable about this young man is not merely his courage, or his daring. It is his indomitable spirit. For all of us who saw the seemingly dead body of our one hope at peace, Harry Potter; for all who wept as Voldemort crowed triumphantly at his apparent victory over the Chosen One; it was he - and he alone - who stood defiant before the Dark Lord. Pure-blood that he is, when he was offered the chance of safety in Voldemort’s ranks, we all listened with fear and awe as he threw the offer back in his face and incited us all to battle once more. We watched in horror as he burned for his defiance, then roared with approval as he overcame his agony and deprived Voldemort of his last link to immortality. It was this action which allowed Harry Potter to defeat the evil wizard once and for all. It gives me very great pleasure to award this Order of Merlin, First Class, to the son of two of the finest Aurors the Ministry has ever known: Neville Longbottom!”

George, Harry and all the Weasleys clapped and roared just as loud as everyone else as Neville (blushing furiously) descended the stairs across the hall and joined Shacklebolt on the podium. The Minister shook his hand warmly and hung the Order over his neck until it settled on his chest. When it was done, George’s eyes followed his fellow Gryffindor back up the stairs until he saw where he was sitting. Sure enough, next to him, he saw the stuffed vulture he had been looking for wobbling atop the head of Augusta Longbottom. She threw her arms around her grandson and hugged him tightly, making George grin.

Excellent. Now that he knew where she was, he could find her later.

The rest of the ceremony proceeded in the same happy vein. After Neville’s award, Ron had been next (much to Ron’s delight and Ginny’s disgust).

“No more valiant soul was there, than one who would put his life on the line for the greater good and the service of his friend,” Shacklebolt had declared loudly (while George’s mother practically sobbed in ecstasy). “For his unwavering faith in, and outstanding support of, his friend; for the countless times he saved the life of that same friend, our deliverer, Harry Potter...”

Harry squirmed. “If he calls me ‘deliverer’ or ‘saviour’ one more time, I’ll...I’ll...”

“You’ll what?” asked George in amusement. “Hex him? The Minister of Magic? I dare you, Harrikins!”

“I’ll bloody well leave before he gets me up there! That’ll throw a spanner in the works.”

Having no clue what ’throwing a spanner in the works’ meant (although his dad seemed to - he was grinning all over his face), George shrugged and listened to the (in his opinion, deluded) Minister singing the praises of his baby brother.

“...and thus ensured he would be able to complete his task, it gives me great pleasure to award the Order of Merlin, First Class to Ronald Bilius Weasley.”

Another roar of approval from the crowd, but Ron looked strangely mortified. George heard him grumbling as he scooted his way out the aisle of seats and down the steps.

“That’s bloody brilliant, that is. My moment of glory completely ruined. Now everyone knows about my stupid middle name. It’ll probably be headline news in the ruddy Prophet tomorrow. Ronald bloody Bilius Weasley...”

George was snorting with laughter at the commentary. If Fred had heard that, he’d probably be looking for the first reporter he could find just to make sure it did make the front page.

Although, come to think of it, George could still do that...

The ceremony was over in another half hour after Hermione had been honoured for her part in supporting Harry and helping to hunt down and destroy Volemort's Horcruxes, as well as her participation in the final battle. Then Harry himself had been ’hauled up like a prize cow to be paraded before the local farmers’ as he’d so charmingly put it. Photographers took their pictures, reporters noted every word that both the Minister and the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice had uttered in their speeches, and it was a full twenty minutes before poor Harry had escaped the congratulations and handshakes of every Ministry official in sight.

Relieved to have the chance to finally escape and seek out his target, George told his family he’d meet them at the escalators and bounded towards the door to wait for Mrs Longbottom. It wasn’t long before her hat bobbed into view amidst the departing crowds and he patted his purple dragon-skin coat pocket for the fifth time that day to ensure its contents were still there.

“Mrs Longbottom! Mrs Longbottom!” he called out, confused when the hat suddenly stopped, turned about and headed back into the crowds.

What was she up to? Had she forgotten something? Hoping not to lose her, he kept his eyes on the hat and followed it, weaving his way through the crowd as she took a circuitous route back to the very doors he’d been waiting at. He quickly caught up with her and planted himself firmly in her path.

“Mrs Longbottom! Were you trying to avoid me? Didn’t you hear me calling out your name?” he asked, slightly miffed.

Her face, which had been squashed into a frown, lightened instantly. “That was you, George? Oh, thank Merlin for that! I thought it was another blasted reporter. Did I mention that they’ve been banging on my door, hunting for Neville, ever since Shacklebolt announced there was to be a ceremony for the Heroes of Hogwarts? Dashed nuisance, my boy! I’ve had to fend the ghastly vultures off for the past three weeks! Can’t get a moment’s peace to clean the house or do a spot of knitting!”

George laughed as she patted her own ghastly vulture and straightened her coat.

“Still, I’m delighted that it was you, instead of them. I was very proud to see you up there accepting your awards, young man. Special Services to the Resistance, as well as an Order of Merlin, Third Class, eh?”

“Yeah. All those Shield Cloaks and Decoy Detonators seemed to be a hit with Ministry officials and the Order of the Phoenix. Talking of hits, where is your famous grandson?” he asked, looking to see if he could spot Neville’s face.

“Oh, your sister grabbed him a minute ago and hauled him off for a chat with little Luna Lovegood. I’ll wait for him outside - don’t want to spoil his fun, and all that.”

“Now then, Mrs Longbottom! How can you say that? You couldn’t spoil anyone’s fun,” he said with a cheeky wink.

She stared at him through narrowed eyes. “Tell that to that Skeeter woman. I spotted her trying to ooze her way here before the ceremony started and hexed most of her clothes off. She’s probably running through the Atrium in her underwear as we speak, trying to avoid arrest by the Aurors for indecent exposure. Tell me, you young scallywag, did you just wink at me?”

He was too busy laughing at the thought of Skeeter being bested by her a second time to answer at first. “You should’ve got an Order of Merlin for that!” he gasped. “And Neville should get another one for coming up with that nickname. ’Diarrita Skeeter’! Pure class!”

“Yes, well, I’m happy to provide you with a giggle, of course, but was there something in particular you wanted? Or did you simply wish for the pleasure of my company, which I would be delighted to offer, of course,” she said primly, but with a definite glint of amusement in her eyes.

Crikey, he’d almost forgot!

“Yeah, I did want something, actually. Well, that is, I wanted to give you something,”

Shoving his hand into his pocket, George pulled out a small pink box and handed it over. She accepted it with a lift of her brows.

“It’s a 'thank you' gift,” he said awkwardly, feeling heat rush to his cheeks. “For rambling on like a fussy old woman when I needed it most. Not that I think you’re a fussy old woman. I think you’re as cool as Bill - he’s my eldest brother - and that’s saying a lot.”

Mrs Longbottom sniffed suspiciously. For one moment, George actually thought she was going to cry. Trying to spare her embarrassment, he plastered a smile on his face and pointed at the little pink box in her hands.

“The shop's not going to be opened for another week because Ron won’t be finished with his Auror duties until then, but Percy and Mum have helped me with the clean-up and I’ve got all the stock sorted. I wanted you to be the first to benefit from it, though. So I mixed up a batch of Patented Daydream Charms and filled them with things I know you’ll like. There are at least a dozen in there, but I shrank the box so it doesn’t look like it just now.”

“A dozen?” she enquired, finding her voice.

This time, George’s grin was genuine.

“Oh yeah!” he declared enthusiastically. “There’s the one that you wanted to see, with Mum finishing off Bellatrix. I’ve amended it so you can take her place and finish the bi... er, witch, off yourself, if you like. Then there’s one of Neville telling old Voldemort to shove his offer and slicing up his pet snake. There’s one of Harry sending Voldemort off to bowels of hell. Another one of Neville, this time shoving Hermione’s wand into MacNair’s eye in the Department of Mysteries - I thought that might amuse you. I...”

He faltered for a moment, before adding: “...I also included the one where you came into the shop not long after that. You know, when Fred was alive.”

As much as Fred’s death still pained him, it didn’t hurt as much to speak of it any more.

“I thought you might like that, too.”

Mrs Longbottom gave one of her rare smiles. “I would like that very much, George. In fact, it’s the first one I’ll view when I get home.”

She stepped towards him and cupped his chin. “You are a very brave and very honourable young man, George Weasley, and it is my very great pleasure to call you ‘friend’, if I may?”

He nodded silently, warmth flooding his chest at her request.

“I am very pleased to see that you have recovered so admirably since last I saw you. You have gained your weight back and the spark has returned to your eyes. Your family must be delighted to have their George back again. And perhaps, in time, you’ll consider having Fred’s portrait done, to hang on your wall and give you some added comfort.”

“It’s finished already. Mum commissioned it the day after his funeral and it’s hanging in the living room at the Burrow. I’m thinking of having another one done, for the shop. He belongs there as much as I do. But I’m not sure if I’ve left it too long.”

“It’s never too late if you already got one. As long as you get the first one done before the first six months, it’ll be fine.”

She dropped her hand and rearranged her features back into their usual look of faint disapproval. “Now, young man, are you just going to stand there like a lazy layabout, or are you going to escort a fussy old woman to the elevators? I believe there’s a party at the Great Hall in Hogwarts and I have no intention of missing it! I also have an overpowering urge to be shot of this ghastly place. Have I ever told you how much I dislike the stupid building?”

Laughing, George held out an arm and bowed gallantly. “It would be my very great pleasure to escort you to the ball, milady. Which will also give me a chance to tell you about the red Yeti daydream I’ve included in your gift. It looks a lot like me, actually.”

“Nonsense. Then it would be a ginger Yeti, wouldn’t it?”

George roared with laughter. “I’ve not forgiven you for that yet. But I’m willing to write it off as faltering eyesight. It’s most definitely a red Yeti!”

She huffed as he led her out of Courtroom 10 and towards the elevators. “Faltering eyesight, indeed. I’ve hexed men for less than that, you cheeky young whippersnapper. And stop winking at me!”

And so, the unusual pair of very good friends set off for the party arm-in-arm, her stuffed vulture wobbling and his dragon-skin coat flapping, as they jovially bickered all the way to the elevators.