"Thought you'd never come back," he said with mock-worry in his voice. "You've been gone for hours!"
A light flickered into life by the other bed. "Yeah - sorry -" Fred was fumbling with something on the floor. After a few seconds, George heard the click of a trunk opening, and then the clunk of something being dropped inside. The trunk lid slammed back down, and he saw his twin straighten up, beaming.
George couldn't help but mimic his expression. "I take it you got it, then?" he asked.
"Yep," replied Fred, gleefully. "Slimy gits thought they could nick our patent - had it hidden in their safe!"
"And you didn’t leave anything that could be traced back to us?" George queried, though he knew the answer before Fred raised his eyebrows.
"'Course not!" he cried, then shrugged. "Well… there might've been some Edible Dark Marks involved, I suppose." He spread his hands, palms up, as though anyone would have done the same. "You didn't think I'd just let them get away with it?"
George tried to look disappointed. It didn't last more than five seconds, before both twins burst out laughing.
"I thought we'd pop round tomorrow," Fred suggested, climbing into bed with a satisfied look on his freckled face.
"Yeah," George agreed, "see if they've…" He trailed off. He was now looking at Fred with an odd expression, his grin faltering, eyes becoming slowly unfocused. Someone was shouting his name, though it sounded miles away.
Fred frowned at him. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Forgotten I was dead?"
"GEORGE!" Lee's yell was accompanied by a series of loud bangs. He was hammering hard on George's bedroom door, evidently annoyed. "Do you know what time it is, you lazy sod! Get up - we've got customers!"
The banging ceased, and George opened his eyes to daylight. The room was exactly as it had been in the dream, only the trunk at the end of Fred's bed was very closed and very dusty, having not been opened for over a year. Sunlight poured through the flat's windows, highlighting the heaps of clothing, boxes of untested items and unopened post lying around the bedroom. In one corner was the door to the kitchen, where George could hear that Lee had set the kettle boiling, and from which came a smell like burnt toast. The door to the bathroom was half-open, chilly light glinting off the dripping cold tap.
George stared at the windowsill, where several more letters had been delivered overnight, and then at the door, still vibrating from Lee's wake-up call. He didn't look at the other bed, knowing it would be just as neat and untouched as it had been since… since…
"George!"
"Alright, alright!" He scrambled out of bed, pushing the dream to the back of his mind and grabbing the nearest clothes to hand. He splashed icy water over his face and avoided glancing in the mirror. The knot in his stomach drove any thought of breakfast right out of his head, so he ignored the whistling kettle, hastily brushed his teeth and dashed downstairs.
There was no one in the shop except Lee.
"I thought you said…" George began, frowning at his friend, who was slouched behind the till as though nothing exceptional had happened.
"Yeah, well," Lee began, shrugging. "When I said 'customers', I really meant 'customer' -" He gestured to a stand near the shop door, where, unnoticed by George, a lone customer was hovering near a table of Fake Wands. It was Angelina Johnson.
She had looked up at the sound of George's voice, and was now walking towards him with a vague smile on her dark face. The smile did not quite reach her eyes, which were swamped with a sympathy that George didn't want to see. "Hi," she said cautiously. "Just thought I'd drop by, you know… How's it going?"
George thought he knew what she meant by 'How's it going', and was not sure he was prepared to give her an answer. The last time he had seen Angelina it had been just over a year ago, when she had been lingering by the door to the Great Hall in Hogwarts, staring at the row of the dead with tears streaming down her cheeks. It had been so crowded, the air so thick with dust and relief that he had barely recognised her, and he had been too overcome by his own grief to comfort anyone else.
She was now only a foot or so from him, the smile becoming even more forced. He knew exactly what she must be thinking - here he was, a living, breathing replica of Fred, standing right in front of her.
"Hi," he said flatly. Then, because he thought she must be expecting it, "I'm fine. How're you?"
"Fine," Angelina replied in a well-rehearsed tone. "Um - I got a job just down the road," she told him, her voice becoming a little more natural now. "The Quidditch supplies place - the one with the crazy manager. That's why I'm here, actually."
George raised an eyebrow at her, and she continued: "Lee told me you've got some products for spying on people. For a joke, you know. Only, my boss wants them for a - well - a more serious reason. He's… been a bit paranoid lately."
She was now staring around at the many shelves and stands piled high with brightly-coloured objects, all whirring and sparking at random intervals. "Business good?" she asked.
"Most of the time," Lee answered her with a nervous look at George. He, too, glanced around at the shop, though he was taking in its lack of customers. "Not this morning, obviously…" he muttered. Angelina nodded.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, before Lee continued, "So - products for spying on people… right this way." He got up, moved around the desk and led Angelina off towards a stack of black and yellow boxes marked with pictures of magnifying glasses. George watched them for a second, then, relieved that he no longer had to pretend to be content, he settled himself into Lee's chair and flipped open a copy of the Daily Prophet that was lying by the till.
His eyes moved over the words without really taking in any of the stories: "New Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement - the Third in a Year"; "Suspected Intruder to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry"; "Missing Muggle Found in the Leaky Cauldron". He rubbed a finger against his temple absently, turning the page without any desire to keep reading. Why now? Why now, when he had just started to move on?
The jangle of the shop door announced that Angelina had left, and soon Lee was standing on the other side of the counter, reading the Prophet upside-down.
"What's that about a fire-breathing goat?" he asked, pulling the paper towards him. George made no attempt to retrieve it. "D'you reckon we should get a few for the shop? Be a right attraction…"
The boy with the dreadlocks glanced anxiously at his friend, noting the dark circles around George's eyes. "What's up?" he asked.
George shrugged. "Nothing," he murmured, then saw that Lee was clearly not convinced by his answer. "Really -" he said, "just a stupid dream."
Lee nodded. "Bulbadox powder in your pyjamas again?"
"Something like that…" George said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What did Angelina want?"
"What do you think?" Lee replied, heading towards the door to the flat. "To see if you're alright, of course. Spying on people… you know the guy that runs the Quidditch place - I mean, he's a bit of a maniac, to be sure, but spying on people? It seems we never really had any effect on her ability to tell lies." He put a foot on the bottom step. "Cuppa?"
"Thanks," George told him, and watched his friend disappear up the staircase.
He was being stupid, he told himself. It was just a dream, just a reminder… Fred wouldn't want him to mope around like this.
His thoughts were momentarily distracted by a number of parcels piled on the desk before him, two of which were already emitting puffs of smoke. He dragged the one nearest to him over and flipped open the box. Inside were a few a bits of straw, a rather unpleasant smell, a half-eaten box of Puking Pastels, and a note:
"They made me sick. Money back, please."
There was also an address. George groaned.
He lifted the Pastels out of the box and shoved them to one side, crumpling the note in one hand before tossing it into the bin, which burped obligingly. He was just about to throw the box into the can as well, when he noticed a small bundle of tissue paper sitting underneath the straw. He pulled it out, and as he moved it between his hands the paper became unravelled. Something shiny fell out onto the desk.
It was a thin, gold chain supporting several dark beads and a few shards of polished glass. It looked exactly like the Good Vibrations charms sold in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes - the kind of necklaces that would make the wearer happier if he or she felt a bit under the weather. During the development stage, however, a few had gone wrong and turned black, working to make the wearer even more unhappy rather than reversing their mood. George recalled the very short note: there had been nothing about a charm in there. Perhaps the sender had forgotten to mention it? Perhaps there was nothing wrong with it at all?
He picked up the chain, dangling it before him and watching the garish light of the shop glinting off the pieces of glass. "I may as well test it on myself," he thought dully. "If there was ever a time when I wouldn't be bothered about the change, it would probably be now…"
After only a moment's hesitation, he slung it over his head, letting it settle round his neck. It slipped down under his robes and he felt the cool glass brush against his skin. He stayed very still for a moment, trying to be as aware as possible of his emotions. He didn't feel any different.
There was a thud, as Lee came stomping back downstairs, two cups of tea floating behind him. "Thought I'd better keep them in the air," he told the other. "That step half-way always gets me - we need to get that board fixed."
"Right," noted George, accepting the tea and taking a great swig. The shop door jangled again, and several rather small people crowded inside, chatting and giggling as they pointed to the huge array of products. "Business as usual," he said.
"Ok, then." Lee trudged back over the desk, clutching a wad of paper in one hand and a small box in the other. "Takings for today," he slapped the paper down in front of George, "and one returned Daydream Charm. Apparently it, er, wasn't to her mother's liking." He grinned. "You alright here, if I -"
"Yeah," said George, a little too quickly. Lee eyed him with an uncertain expression. "You go on home, I'll lock up."
One uneasy second passed, before Lee nodded. "See you tomorrow, then," he said cheerily, flashing a grin as he walked out of the shop. George watched him move off into Diagon Alley, which was now almost empty and hushed with twilight. The street lamps were beginning to glow of their own accord, as fewer and fewer people hurried up and down the road, heading for home or collecting last-minute items. George pulled the shop door shut and sealed the many locks with his wand. The lights overhead flickered off, and he trundled upstairs to the flat.
The knot in his stomach seemed even tighter as he thought of the kitchen, so dinner was now also off the menu. He slipped into his bedroom, and felt his exhaustion from this morning catch up with him in a sudden rush. Dropping down onto his bed, he kicked off his shoes, and fell instantly asleep.
What felt like a split-second later, he was awake again.
It was still dark outside, the lamps having been extinguished in the street below his window, but, he realised with a sickening jolt, there was a light on somewhere in the flat. And not just anywhere - right next to his bed.
"Hey," he heard Fred's voice. "Hey - get up."
George let out a long breath. "Not this again," he groaned, refusing to roll over and look at the dream-Fred who was, undoubtedly, filling his trunk with more salvaged goods.
"No - George, I'm serious - get up!"
"Go away," George muttered, clamping his eyes shut and trying, desperately, to go back to sleep.
"George, you git - wake up!"
"What?" He sat up, spinning round so that he was facing Fred's bed, staring blearily at the figure standing beside it. His heart sank low into his stomach, and he lowered himself back onto the bed. "Leave me alone," he whispered. "Get out of my head, just leave me alone."
"I'm not in your head, you moron!" barked Fred's voice again. "I'm right here!"
"You're a dream," George told him, speaking to himself as much as Fred.
"Why, thank you," replied his twin, "but now really isn't the time for flattery. Look - I don't really know how I got here, so if you wouldn't mind -"
George sat up again. "What are you on about?" he almost shouted. "You're always here, always. Stealing stuff from Zonko's - hiding it in that sodding trunk! You never bloody leave me alone. You won't let me get on with my life even though it's been a whole year since you - and I can't -"
He looked away, staring at the cluttered floor, then he shut his eyes tight to stop the tears that were ready to flow. Fred stood, frozen, on the other side of the room, watching his brother with a pained look on his face. There was silence. Then, without another word, George sank back into his bedclothes and drifted back to sleep.
The rap of Lee's knocking woke him for the second time in two days, though it was less urgent on this occasion, and was not accompanied by yelling.
"George? Are you alright, mate?"
George let out an unintelligible murmur and rolled over. "What..? What time is it?"
"Half ten," came the reply, muffled by the door. "I wouldn't knock - I mean, I'm not struggling out here, but -"
"Yeah, fine," George said resignedly, pushing himself upright without opening his eyes. "I'll, uh… be down in a minute."
He got shakily to his feet, then heard Lee's footsteps fade as his friend returned to the shop. The daylight gleamed unflinchingly through the windows and the babble of early-morning customers floated up from the room below. George shuffled into the bathroom, washed, and then debated whether or not to stay wearing the same clothes as the day before. After a moment's consideration, and a few hearty sniffs, he decided it was best to change.
Sitting down on the edge of his bed, his brain still not fully awake, he groped around for clean clothes amongst the jumble surrounding his bed.
"Here," someone said, as George found himself hunting for socks, and he glanced up to see a pair being held out to him.
He breathed out a sigh of relief. "Thanks," he muttered, taking the socks and pulling them onto his feet. He stood up and walked to the door. Then he froze.
Slowly, very slowly, he turned round.
There was someone lying on the other bed. Someone alive and well and grinning and looking very, very much like George. Only, it couldn't be. This person had both ears.
"What?" said Fred, one eyebrow raised. "I told you I wasn't a dream."