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.

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