The little boy opened the door abruptly and climbed the stairs leading to the attic. When he reached the top, he paused to look around and narrowed his eyes. It was dark in the room and he couldn’t see a thing. He stomped his feet on the hard wood floor, put his hand on the stairs ramp and called out with an impatient voice, “Dad! Are you coming?”

“Don’t yell like that, I’m right behind you,” a male voice answered him. George Weasley appeared at his son’s side a moment later, holding his own wand in his right hand. He lit it and pointed it in front of him. A few pieces of furniture lay around, along with old chests and cardboard boxes. He noticed the old armchair his mother had given to him when he had moved into this house five years ago. She had offered him many other useful things to furnish the rooms, but this chair was just a bit... worn. Plus, his wife didn’t really like it, so they had just tossed it aside and bought a new one to replace it.

He coughed a little, his throat a bit itchy. They didn’t come up here very often and the dust floating in the air reminded him of the little cleaning session he had promised to do a month ago. It hadn’t escaped his mind, just been pushed in a far corner where it couldn’t bother him.

“We’re never going to find them. It’s too dark!”

His son brought him back to their preoccupation, annoyance showing through his voice. George could feel him stamp with impatience beside him. He smiled as he recognised this personality trait he used to have as a child. He was always eager to discover new things, to plan a new prank with his brother or just to find an original way to annoy his younger siblings.

“Let me see,” George said. “I’m sure we’ve got an old oil lamp somewhere...”

He walked past his son to reach an old chest of drawers lying on the left side of the room. On top of it, he found the oil lamp hiding under a white table cloth. George pulled on it and realised too late he had just made a mistake. He immediately found himself surrounded by a cloud of dust. He sneezed a few times while trying to disperse the fine powder with his hand. He heard giggles coming from behind him.

“Now, now, what are you laughing at, Fred?” he asked, pretending to be offended.

The laughter stopped instantly. “Nothing, Dad. You just looked a bit funny.”

George turned around to watch him. The little red headed boy was looking at his hands sheepishly. His father smirked slightly and waited in silence until Fred raised reluctant eyes towards him. He simply winked, which made his son react.

“Dad!” he exclaimed. “That’s not fair. I thought you were really mad at me.”

“When am I mad at you, can you tell me that?”

Fred gave him an angelic smile.

“See!” George pointed out. “With that kind of behaviour, I could never hold anything against you. Now, come on, let’s try to light this lamp up.”

Fred rushed to his side. George waved his wand and a warm glow illuminated the attic. They both turned around to contemplate the room. More chairs, a bookshelf full of books and trinkets... and the chest they were looking for.

“Over there, son.” George pointed at the far end of the room and Fred ran and kneeled down in front of the piece of furniture.

“Are you sure it’s the right one?” he asked.

“Pretty sure,” George answered. He was pretty certain that all the old stuff he owned, whether it was related to his childhood and teenage years, or the few years before his marriage, had been stored in this chest. From the outside, it looked like any other chest, made out of oak wood, with carvings on the lid and a big metallic latch. But its contents were nothing ordinary. It was full of memories. He watched his son open it with excitement and rummage through the old clothes without approaching. He wanted him to make his own discoveries.

“Oh, it’s perfect!” Fred exclaimed suddenly, holding a long cloak in the air. “Oh, there’s a hat too! Dad, can I take them to make my costume?” He glanced at George in expectation.

George smiled. “Sure. Go show what you’ve found to your mum.”

And the boy rushed out of the room, leaving his father staring at the open chest. He stood there for a while, feeling an unexpected sensation of excitement rising in him. What else was in there exactly?

Before he knew it, he was plunging both hands through the remaining clothes. After a few moments of rummaging around, he reached what felt like the hard cover of a book. He took it out, as well as a metal box. He sat down on the floor and took a quick glance at the book. It was from a French author. George processed that information for a few seconds, searching through the sections of his past. The book, then the box... it could only be related to one specific period of his life. To one person in particular.

His excitement started to change into nervousness. If the box was there, it meant that he had in his possession an object far more important. He took his time, waiting until his heartbeat slowed down a bit, and took off the box’s lid. A pile of letters, a ticket for a play... and a necklace. He delicately lifted the silver chain in front of his face. The blue stone hanging on it slightly glowed in the pale light coming from the oil lamp. There it was. He hadn’t seen it in a long time.

Ten years earlier

He was sitting on his bench, looking at the people passing in front of him, but not really watching. Today was as beautiful as a spring day could be, sunny, with a little breeze, but his heart was nowhere near sunny. Today was painful, and it was only the end of the afternoon. His night would be another sleepless one. No matter what he would do to Stun himself.

Two years had passed since the end of the war. Since they had won the Battle of Hogwarts, since Harry Potter had defeated old Voldemort. Two years today exactly. Two years without Fred.

George swallowed painfully and felt his hands get cold. He rubbed them together, but he knew too well that the coldness wouldn’t go away that easily. He was cold, period. His whole body, but his mind too. Oh, he was the best when it was time to put up a facade in front of his friends, his family, even his customers at the shop. That was almost too easy, an old habit. People he met thought he was all right, that he had healed over time. Because he acted like he was all right. But deep inside, when he was alone even when he was surrounded, or in the darkness of his room deep in the night, he was a total mess. An empty, cold mess.

He used to come to this park not too far from Diagon Alley, because it was outside the wizarding world, because nobody knew him there. He would sit on his bench and think about nothing. Almost nothing. About one thing. One person. Some days, it was bearable. He could sublime the pain and just enjoy his day out in the Muggle world. The rest of the time, like today, everything seemed painful. The singing of the birds in the trees, the smell of flowers, the wind that would blow too hard... Today, all he wanted to do was hide under his bed and never come out.

Suddenly, he didn’t feel like sitting on his bench anymore. He got up and slowly walked towards the exit of the park, feeling weary and invisible. Little did he know, on the other side of the park, sitting on a bench similar to his, two brown eyes were spying on him from behind a book, wondering what could have caused this boy so much pain.

***

The story is always repeating itself, they say. Well, not that day for George.

The previous night had been exactly how he had predicted it: a nightmare. When he had arrived home, there were not one, but two owls perched on the edge of his bedroom window. A letter from his mum and a second one from his sister. He had thrown them in a drawer and sent the owls back to their masters. He should’ve eaten something, but pebbles seemed to have settled inside his stomach. His evening (and night) had been a sleepless travel between his bedroom and living room. After that, it was total darkness. Until he had woken up on his couch, feeling stiff and exhausted as ever.

And there he was again, in Regent’s Park. Except that something was wrong today. The bench wasn’t empty. Someone was sitting on it. On his bench. He was always alone on that bench. He liked being alone. Not with someone. What was going on?

“You can sit down, you know. I won’t bite you.”

He stared at the imposter who had the impertinence of sitting on his bench and who was pushing the insult further by talking to him. It was a girl. She was staring back at him with a strange expression on her face. He then realised he had been standing there for at least a few minutes. In addition to being irritated, he now looked like an idiot. He could say goodbye to his anonymity.

“Well? You sitting down or not?” the girl pressed him.

George shook his head. “I... you... it’s my... You don’t sit here usually.”

She arched an eyebrow at the remark. “No,” she simply said. Then she pointed at the opposite side of the park. “Usually, I sit on that bench, because there’s more shade. That way, I don’t get sunburns.”

“Then, why are you sitting here?” George knew he was being rude, but this situation was really annoying.

“Because the light is better over here today.” She showed him the book she was holding. “You have a problem with that?” It was her turn to sound annoyed.

Yes, he did. But could he tell her that without her thinking he was completely nuts? Probably not. He shook his head again, slower this time.

“I think I’ll just...” He turned to leave, waving his hand to his right.

“You don’t have to leave.” Her tone was calm now, soothing even. “We can sit together. I’ll read my book and you’ll just... do whatever you wanted to do on this bench.”

George stood there for a few seconds, resting his hands on his hips. Then, he turned back to her and slowly sat down at the other end of the bench. If she wasn’t going to talk to him, he supposed it could be fine. She didn’t seem that nosy anyway. So they sat down in silence, the girl with her nose in her book and George doing nothing, as usual. His mind was a total blank. He had come to the park to contemplate about his night, and now, he couldn’t even get his thoughts straight. All because of this “disturbance” in his habits. He wasn’t so annoyed by it anymore; that girl had managed to take his mind away from his worries, something that hadn’t happened in a while.

He glanced at her discreetly. She had light brown hair that reached her shoulders; as a little breeze blew, the strands would float in the air from all sides like leaves in the trees. Her silhouette was long-limbed, even fragile, though she looked short. From time to time, she was lightly pushing her glasses back on her nose, as they were sliding down because of the angle of her head. She then smiled a little, a kind of half-smile, probably amused by something written in her book. George found himself gazing at that smile for no apparent reason; it just felt peaceful to him. Yes, that girl looked peaceful. Everything he wasn’t.

The quietness stopped suddenly, when the girl started to cough. It was a strong cough that made her whole body shake. She quickly reached for a purse under the bench and took out a tissue to cover her mouth.

“Are you all right?” George asked worriedly. Her face had become extremely red, like if she couldn’t breathe properly. She waved her empty hand energetically at him.

“I’m fine!” she managed to say between two coughs. She then took a deep breath and everything stopped. George looked at her face again, still nervous. It was regaining its normal colour. A lonely tear was travelling down her cheek; she caught it with the tissue and wiped her eyes with it. Clearing her throat, she glanced at George, forcing a smile on her lips.

“I’m fine! There’s no need to look at me like that! It’s just... a... little cold.” She was obviously still trying to catch her breath.

“That’s some cold, if you’re asking me!” George exclaimed. “I thought for a second you were about to die on me in any minute!”

She laughed. “Don’t be so dramatic. It’s over now.” She bent down to grab her book that had fallen to the ground during the coughing fit and closed it. She breathed in deeply and slowly got up.

“You’re leaving?” His own question surprised him. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to be alone, after all.

She nodded. “It’s almost time for dinner; my parents are going to wait for me.” She picked up her purse. “Yours must be waiting for you at home, too?”

“Oh, no... not really. I live on my own.” As he let the words out, he realised that he hadn’t seen his parents in, well, quite a long time. His mother was probably very worried, especially because of the unanswered letter. He felt a new emotion rise in him: guilt. That was a change from the usual emptiness.

“It must be nice having your own place. I’d like that,” the girl went on.

George looked up at her. “Why don’t you do it?” He could feel he was becoming very curious about her.

“Oh, you know... It’ll come one day, in due time.” She looked at her watch and smiled. “I really need to go now. For someone who didn’t want to share a bench, you’re becoming a bit too inquisitive.”

George opened his mouth to protest, but she simply winked at him. He was the one winking at people usually. That girl was making fun of him! It was definitely a strange day.

“So, I’ll wish you a good evening, mister...” She was looking at him expectantly.

“George. George Weasley.” He replied almost too fast to make it look natural. He blushed a little.

“Good evening, George, George Weasley.” And she started to walk towards the exit of the park.

“Wait!” He had almost jumped to his feet, realising that he didn’t know her name. “What’s your name?”

“Valerie!” she shouted without looking back at him. She waved her hand in the air to salute him. George stood there watching, until he could no longer distinguish her shape. He then started to leave too, as the sun was slowly setting down.

He couldn’t fully understand what had happened this afternoon, but one thing was certain, it hadn’t been as dark and nerve-racking as he had planned it to be. He had forgotten about his pain, about his loss. And that Valerie had reminded him that he had been acting like an arse lately, especially with his parents. She was going home, trying not to be late for dinner, while he was avoiding the two people who loved him the most. Yes, there it was again, guilt. He hated that feeling. Fred wouldn’t be proud. With guilt, there is no pleasure. That was what he used to repeat all the time when they were planning their pranks.

He reached the nearest street and hesitated on the sidewalk. He could stay faithful to his old ways and just go back to his flat. Or he could take the opportunity to change something. Like that girl had done by sitting on his bench. Yes, something had changed this afternoon. He didn’t know what exactly, but it would come to him. In due time, she had said. He smiled slightly. Then, he almost ran to the nearest back alley and Disapparated to the Burrow.