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December 19th, 2001
George hit the floor with a dull thud, the impact knocking the air from his lungs.
“And stay out!”
He looked up in time to see the angry bartender turn away and storm back into the bar. George thought about following. Part of him wanted to cause a fight.
He might have done it, too, if he could actually stand.
“Here, let me help you up,” a voice murmured from above him.
George couldn’t focus beyond the recognisable white robes that all Healers wore, but he was pulled to his feet, hands holding him steady.
A jolt of connection slammed through him, when a bare palm met his arm, and he felt as though someone had just thrown a bucket of cold water over him, removing all traces of the alcohol he’d just spent hours consuming.
Now that he could focus, he could see that the man was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place him. Either way, as he stared into the hopeful blue eyes watching him, George only felt disgust.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he sneered, pulling his arm away. “But I’m not in the market for a soulmate.”
“But—”
“Fuck off,” George reiterated, cruelly.
Not giving the man a chance to say anything else, George turned on the spot, Apparating away to his flat, where he could start again numbing himself with alcohol.
Honestly, the whole evening had gone to waste.
…
December 21st, 2002
“George, you have to come,” Ginny snapped, glaring at her brother fiercely. “Mum will be heartbroken if you don’t. Again .”
George rolled his eyes. “She should be used to it by now; I haven’t been home for Christmas for four years.”
“And every time you don’t, it breaks her heart. We all understand that you’re still grieving, George. We are too. But you can’t keep being so selfish!”
George ignored her, storming away from her accusing expression. He slammed the door to the store room behind him. He was so sick of her bugging him about Christmas. He was so sick of them all bugging him at all.
Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?
…
December 22nd, 2002
“Oh. Erm… hi?”
George stared at Seamus for a long moment, before he turned his head away. He couldn’t look at those blue eyes. He couldn’t.
He heard a shuffle of feet, and then the younger man turned away from him.
“Merry Christmas, George.”
George heard him sigh before Seamus walked away from him. George had to fight the instinct to call him back.
It wasn’t like he could give him anything.
It wasn’t that he was angry with Seamus for being his soulmate. He wasn’t. He didn’t blame Seamus. In fact, George pitied Seamus, because the poor man had a soulmate who’d already lost half of his soul.
That wasn’t fair to anyone.
He supposed that there were stories of people rejecting their soulmates, and those people still managed to live happy lives. Seamus could meet someone else, who, for whatever reason, wasn’t with their soulmate.
He didn’t have to be cursed with having to deal with George for the rest of his life.
…
December 24th, 2002
The whisky bottle fell from his loose grip as his head lolled back against the chair. George’s eyes closed of their own volition, the alcohol lulling him into the blessed darkness of unconsciousness.
Except, a bright flash filled the room, and George was forced to blink his eyes open. He felt… odd. Sober, and yet, he was still relaxed in his chair.
The only possible answer was that he was dreaming, because it had been years since George had been anything other than tense while sober, and he’d packed enough whisky away that night that he shouldn’t be sober for at least twelve hours.
He looked around the room for the source of the light, only to rub his eyes when he saw what was causing it.
“Now I know that I’m dreaming,” he muttered to himself. “Nice robes, sir.”
Albus Dumbledore smiled brightly at him. “Yes, I’m rather fond of these ones,” he agreed, looking down at the lime green and purple coloured robes.
They were edged in tinsel.
Tinsel.
“But you’re not dreaming.”
George stared. “I beg to differ.”
“Of course you do,” Dumbledore replied, his tone genial. He was still smiling. “We’re concerned about you, dear boy.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“Well, everyone. All of your family. Your friends. Your soulmate. Both those who are still living, and those who are awaiting you in the afterlife.”
George tried to sit up straight in his chair, but it was like he was glued into place, and his limbs were too relaxed to let him move at all.
“Have you seen Fred? Can you bring him here?” he asked, the words coming out so quickly that they ran into each other. “Please, sir. Can you bring him?”
Dumbledore’s smile turned a little sad, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “This evening, you’re going to be visited by a few spirits, George. Please pay attention to what they’re showing you. Change, before it’s too late.”
Dumbledore started to fade from the room.
“Is Fred coming?” George shouted after him, fighting against the limpness in his body that was holding him in place.
“I wish you the merriest of Christmases, George.”
George shot out of his seat as Dumbledore disappeared. He ran headlong into the wall, banging his head as he did so.
Tears fell down his cheeks as hope was snatched away from him, and he turned to lean against the wall, letting himself slide down it, until he was on the floor, his head in his hands.
He just wanted his brother back.
…
“You’re a mess, kid.”
George ignored the voice. It sounded familiar, but it wasn’t the one he wanted to hear, so he wasn’t interested in listening to it.
“Come on, kid. Up and at ‘em. We’re on a schedule here, you know.”
A hand on his arm startled him. Mostly because spirits weren’t supposed to be able to touch the living. He looked up, and then blinked when he saw two matching faces looking down at him.
“Uncle Fabian? Uncle Gideon?”
“In the… well. Not quite flesh. Slightly solid pearly-ness?”
Gideon snorted at his brother, shaking his head.
“What? You literally just pulled him to his feet, Gid, we’re obviously not normal ghosts, are we?”
“Shouldn’t you know what you are?” George asked, looking between them as for a moment, he forgot his disinterest.
After all, how often was it that you were visited by your dead uncles?
They shrugged simultaneously.
“We’re not running this show, kid. We just showed up when and where we were told to show up. Come on. Like I said, we’ve got a schedule to keep.”
“Where are we going?” George asked, scowling. “I’m not exactly fit for company right now.”
“You haven’t been ‘fit for company’ for years.”
“ Fabian!”
Fabian rolled his eyes. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
Gideon sighed deeply. He took a hold of George’s arm. “Let’s go.”
…
“Well, that felt disgusting,” George muttered, as the three of them materialised outside a small house. “Where are we?”
“You’ll see. Lean against the wall and you’ll be able to look inside.”
George did as he was told and seconds later, he was overlooking a sad scene. A little boy knelt on the floor. There were two adults—a man and a woman—sitting on a threadbare couch above him.
A Muggle TV was playing in front of them all. On the screen, a Christmas like George remembered from his own childhood played out, full of colour, and smiles, and laughter.
“Mam, why don’t we have a tree like that?” the kid asked, turning around.
George belatedly realised that it was Seamus. He’d recognise those blue eyes anywhere.
The man on the sofa growled wordlessly at the boy, kicking a foot at him. Though it didn’t make contact, Seamus flinched away as though it had. The sight made George’s heart clench.
“Don’t be so bloody greedy, boy,” the man grumbled. “Do you think that money grows on trees? Don’t you get enough?”
“Yes, sir, sorry, sir.”
George shook his head and turned away. He couldn’t watch this. He was finding it hard to reconcile this kid with the Seamus that he remembered from Hogwarts.
At Hogwarts, Seamus had always been bright and happy, from what George could remember, anyway.
“I’ve seen enough of this,” he said to his uncles. “Can we just… go?”
Gideon shrugged and nodded his head, offering his hand. They faded, before they materialised once more, this time in front of the Burrow.
“You might as well just take me home,” George said, shaking his head. “I’m not going in there.”
“You’re right, you’re not,” Fabian agreed, tugging him over to the window. “Look.”
George glared at him for a moment, before he gave in and peered through the window into the living room. He felt a sharp pain in his gut, spreading quickly until he felt like he was on fire.
Sat on the floor by a brightly decorated Christmas tree was Fred, sitting beside George. They were both wearing their annual Christmas jumpers, their letters switched like always, and it looked like they were having a tug of war over a present.
George remembered this moment. They’d been eleven, and it was their first Christmas home from Hogwarts.
“Take me home,” he demanded, looking back at Fabian and Gideon. “I can’t… I don’t… I can’t watch this.”
Gideon gripped his arm and the scene faded away once more.
George felt like he could breathe again, only to have the breath snatched away when they materialised for a third time, this time seemingly floating in midair over Hogwarts.
Through the nearest window, they could see a younger George and Fred in the common room of Gryffindor Tower. They were sitting side by side in the armchairs by the fire, matching smiles on their faces.
Before George could protest, the scene faded and was replaced by another, from when they were younger, eight or nine. Another, when they were four or five, and then another, their last shared Christmas before… before.
George screwed his eyes shut, he couldn’t stand to see anymore. He couldn’t stand the influx of memories that were assaulting his mind.
“You’re home, kid.”
“Why?” George croaked out, ignoring his wet cheeks as he opened his eyes to look at his uncles. “Why would you show me that?”
“You needed to remember the happier times,” Gideon prompted. “Try and remember what it felt like to sit with people you love, to laugh, to joke, and be happy, George.”
“I… I can’t. It hurts too much.”
“Fred might be dead, kid,” Fabian murmured, “But you’re not. Do you really think that this is what he would want for you?”
Before George could answer, the two of them were gone.
“I remember what I felt like,” George said, to the empty room. “I felt whole.”
…
“Oi. Get up.”
George blinked his eyes open. He hadn’t realised that he’d fallen asleep until he was suddenly away, looking up at a scowling face.
“Up, let’s go.”
“What’s crawled up your arse?” George asked, making no effort to move.
“You’re making my best friend sad, and that irritates me. So. Time to get your head out of your arse, let’s go.”
Just like that, George recognised the young man in front of him. Dean Thomas. Seamus’ friend.
If he was honest, George was only vaguely aware that other people had died at the battle. At the time, he hadn’t been able to see past Fred, and since then, he’d been too drunk to care.
It was sobering to be faced with someone who’d died so young.
“I—”
“Nope. Let’s go.”
…
“What… why are we here? George asked, staring once again at the outside of his childhood home. “I’ve already done this once tonight.”
“Hmm. Your uncles showed you past Christmases. This is present Christmas. What you’ll see here is happening right now.”
George blinked, but approached the window when Dean gestured him towards it. Looking through, he frowned when he saw his mother sitting in the armchair, tears falling down her cheeks as Ginny and Percy attempted to comfort her.
“Do you want me to go over to his flat?” Bill asked, from the doorway.
He looked… worn. Old. George struggled to remember the last time he’d seen his oldest brother.
His mum shook her head. “He’s… he’s still grieving. It’s not his fault. Don’t be mad at him.”
“I am mad at him,” Ginny muttered. “He’s not the only one who lost Fred. We all lost him too.”
“He’s hurting, Ginny. We just… we have to be patient,” Molly murmured. She wiped her face, and attempted a smile. “Who wants some hot chocolate?”
There was a murmur of accent, and Molly left the room. Ginny sagged into the armchair she’d vacated, running a hand over her face.
“I understand that he’s hurting, but while he's busy destroying himself, we’re all here watching mum cry about losing two of her sons. He should be here, dammit.”
Percy nodded, running a hand over Ginny’s hair. “Mum’s right though, Gin. We can’t be mad at him when he does come back. We can’t chase him off.”
“If he comes back,” Bill said, tiredly. “I… I saw him in Diagon Alley a few months ago and…” he shook his head, either unable or unwilling to finish his sentence.
“We have to believe in him,” Percy said, his tone stern. “He’s lost at the moment, but he’ll find his way home.”
George looked over at Dean. “I… this is now?”
Dean nodded. “Yep.”
“I… my mum…”
Dean held his hand out. “Time to go. I need to show you something else.”
George took the hand, grimacing when they faded into nothing.
…
George blinked. “St Mungo’s?”
Dean nodded silently, looking straight ahead with longing on his features. George followed his eyeline and suddenly, he understood. Seamus was standing by the reception desk, talking to another healer.
George moved closer, his legs moving before he’d even thought about it.
“You’re sure that you want to stay?” the older Healer was asked, a slightly frown on his face.
Seamus shrugged and nodded his head. “Sure. Better me than someone who has a family to celebrate with, right?”
The other man glanced down at the bond mark on Seamus’ palm. Seamus noticed where his gaze was and closed his hand into a fist.
“Really,” Seamus added. “It’s fine. If I get tired, I’ll catch a few hours of sleep in the break room.”
George looked back at Dean. “He’s working? Right over Christmas?”
Dean looked at George coldly. “What else is he going to do? Your uncles showed you what his home life was right, didn’t they? Did you think he was going to go and deal with that, now that he doesn’t have to?”
George nodded slowly, suddenly ashamed that he hadn’t realised that. If Seamus wasn’t going to go home, and clearly his best friend wasn’t an option, what else would Seamus be doing?
“I… can we leave?”
Dean offered his hand silently, and George took it gratefully.
They landed in the living room of George’s flat, and George took a deep breath, relieved that he wasn’t going to be shown anything else.
“I don’t… I’m sorry about your friend,” he murmured. “I don’t… it’s not him. I’d hoped that… Well, it’s been a year. I’d hoped that he’d given up on me, and gone to find someone who can give him what he needs.”
“What he needs,” Dean replied, “is you. When you pull your head out of your arse, you’ll realise just how much you could offer each other.”
“I… I can’t.”
Dean shook his head and disappeared, leaving a disapproving air behind him, as though he was still lingering in the room.
George slumped into his armchair, letting his head fall back. Whatever this night was, he hoped it was done.
He didn’t know how much more he could take.
…
A rattling breath filled the silence, and George sat upright in his chair, horrified when he saw a Dementor approaching him silently. He scrambled from his seat, backing up against the wall as he floundered for his wand.
Where the bloody hell was it?
He was about to try and run from the room when he realised that he was… warm, and… laughter was coming from beneath the dark robe.
The robe was lifted, and before George knew what was happening, he was face to face with Fred.
He stumbled forwards, wrapping his arms around his twin, burying his face against Fred’s neck. Fred hugged him back tightly, murmuring comforting words into his ear as George sobbed against his shoulder.
George didn’t know how long they stood there for, but Fred didn’t seem to be in any major hurry. When he finally pulled back just enough to look at him, his heart broke just that little bit more.
They were no longer a mirror image.
Fred was still his twenty year old self, while George was twenty four and… not exactly taking care of himself.
Fred seemed to read the thoughts from his mind, because he smiled a sad smile. “I’m definitely the better looking one now, aren’t I?”
George’s grip tightened slightly. “I’m so mad at you,” he muttered, blinking away fresh tears.
“I’m sorry I left you, Georgie,” Fred whispered. “So sorry. But this… what you’re doing… you know that it’s not right, don’t you?”
“What else am I supposed to do?” George asked, his voice low. “You’re… you’re gone, and I don’t… who am I without you?”
“You’re George Weasley,” Fred said, his voice firm. “You’re still you, Georgie. Come on, I’ve gotta show you some things.”
“What… you’re going to show me future Christmases, aren’t you?” George asked, thinking about the things that he’d already seen through the night.
Fred nodded, looking sombre. “Yeah, Georgie. I’m going to show you the future. Come on.”
…
They arrived at St Mungo’s once more. George knew immediately that they were a few years into the future, with just a glance at Seamus. He looked… haggard.
“You know,” a nurse murmured, to George’s left. “He works every single Christmas. It’s weird. I mean… he’s bonded, you can see the mark on his hand, and yet, he leaves his soulmate to work.”
The girl she was talking to—a younger nurse—shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe he lost his bondmate?”
“It’s still shining blue,” the older nurse pointed out. “And, well, he works so much. I wouldn’t want my soulmate to work as much as he does.”
“Healer Finnegan is a fantastic Healer,” the younger replied, frowning. “And that he works at Christmas means that others don’t have to. Why are you making that out to be a bad thing?”
The older nurse shrugged, looking down at the files she was holding. “I’m just saying; it’s weird.”
George looked at Fred, only to see him watching Seamus with sad eyes. “He works every Christmas?”
Fred nodded. “He misses one. Just one. That… well. Come on, I’ll show you.”
George took Fred’s offered hand, and seconds later, they were materialising again. Except, they were still in the hospital.
“I thought you said that he missed one?” George asked, frowning slightly.
“Look closer.”
George took a few steps away from his twin so that he could see better, and gasped. It was him lying in the bed. Seamus was sitting in the chair beside the bed, his hand resting over George’s arm, their soulmarks pressed together.
“What… happened?”
“You drank yourself into a stupor,” Fred replied quietly. “And were found in the middle of Diagon Alley, face down in your own vomit. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, just the first time that it’s happened at Christmas. It… it won’t be the last. Seamus refused to work until you check yourself out. Every time.”
George shook his head. He looked awful.
Though, Seamus didn’t look much better. He just looked so tired.
…
Fred rested his hand on George’s shoulder and they appeared outside the Burrow.
George looked through the window to see a similar scene as when Dean had brought him. The only difference was that this time, Ron and Charlie were the ones comforting their mother.
“What year is this?”
“2009,” Fred replied softly. “But I can show you every year, and this scene is always the same. Mum always cries over you at Christmas. The others take turns trying to comfort her. It never works, but you know mum. She pretends well.”
George felt tears on his cheeks. He hadn’t even realised that he’d started crying again.
“This is all because of me,” he whispered. “I’m hurting everyone.”
Fred wrapped his arms around George’s shoulders. “You can fix it, you know? The future… it’s not set in stone.”
“I… can we go home?”
Fred shook his head. “I have one more thing to show you, Georgie. Then I’ll take you home.”
…
George put his hand over his mouth as he took in the scene.
Healers swarmed around a redhead on the ground outside of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. The show was clearly long closed, the outside of it had fallen into disrepair. It was painful to look at.
“I’m not giving up,” a voice snapped, and George was almost afraid to move closer.
“Seamus,” an old man murmured, resting a hand on Seamus’ shoulder. “He’s gone.”
Seamus fell back, tears streaming down his cheeks. “He… I…” he shook his head. “He never gave me a chance to help him.”
“Time of death,” the older healer murmured. “Eleven minutes past midnight, December 25th.”
Seamus slipped down onto George’s unmoving chest, and he sobbed.
George looked around to see Fred watching the scene with pearlescent tears falling from his own eyes.
This couldn’t be happening. It's just… George couldn’t deal with any of it. He fell to his knees, and he covered his eyes with his hands.
It wasn’t real.
…
December 25th, 2002
George sat up, looking around wildly. He was in his bed, in his flat. He fell back against the pillows, breathing heavily.
“That was some dream,” he murmured to himself, rubbing his face.
Oddly, he didn’t feel hungover the way he usually did in the mornings. In fact, he felt surprisingly good.
Sitting up again, he looked around the room. He didn’t even remember getting himself to bed. He must have been a mess though, to have slept through the night.
Light was filtering in through the curtains, so he knew that it was morning.
Christmas morning.
He shook his head. Taking care of his morning ablutions, he padded into the living room, only to stop dead in the doorway.
The room was spotlessly clean, and there was a tree in the corner, decorated in the most mish-mashed decorations George had ever seen. He instantly loved it. On the table was a stack of brightly wrapped boxes, and when George neared, he could see that each one of them was for a member of his family.
George frowned, looking around the room. On the mantle, a piece of parchment was propped up with his name on it. Flipping it open, he let out a small half laugh, half dob.
In Fred’s messy scrawl were the words, Time to get your shit together, Georgie. I love you.
George shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, the note gripped tightly in his other hand.
“You might… you might be right, Freddie,” he whispered.
He laughed out loud when he heard an echo of, “ I always am. ”
…
“George?”
George stepped past Percy cautiously, his arms laden with the brightly wrapped gifts he’d found in his living room.
He dropped the presents beneath the tree along with the others there, and turned around, only to immediately find himself wrapped in Percy’s arms.
He returned the hug, burying his face against his big brother’s neck for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered softly. “I’m sorry that I’ve been hurting all of you.”
Percy pulled back and cuffed George’s cheek. “You’re here.”
“Where’s mum?”
“Kitchen,” Percy replied, with a small smile. “Where else? Dad’s in there, too. Everyone else is still in bed, the lazy shits.”
George led the way into the kitchen, chuckling slightly when his mum turned to look and let out a happy little shriek. She crossed the room faster than George had ever seen her move, gripping him into a bone-crushing hug.
It took George a minute to realise that she was crying.
“Hey, don’t cry,” he murmured, rubbing a soothing hand up her back. “I’m here, Mum. You don’t need to cry anymore, okay?”
His dad smiled at him from the kitchen table, nodding his head slightly, a proud gleam in his eyes. George returned the smile before he turned his attention back to his mum.
Guilty that he’d caused this, but determined to fix it, he held her until she pulled away, a tremulous smile on her face.
“I love you, Mum.”
…
George being at the Burrow for Christmas didn’t fix everything. He hadn’t really expected it to. It still hurt whenever his eyes caught on pictures of Fred, and his hands were itching to find the first, most alcoholic thing he could, but he pushed through it.
He hugged his siblings, smiled for his mum, met his niece—and didn’t that make him feel like a world class douche—and he stayed.
He hoped that he’d made Fred proud.
As night fell, he stood to leave, and gently batted away his mum’s requests for him to stay the night.
Looking down at the bright blue soulmark on his arm, he looked back up at her. “I have someone else that I need to apologise to, Mum.”
A look of understanding appeared on her face, and she nodded.
“Don’t expect too much, too soon,” she murmured to him, kissing his cheek. “And come home more often. Please.”
“I promise,” he assured her, squeezing her hand.
If nothing else, he was done hurting her. Apparating away from the yard, George silently promised that.
…
He leant against the wall, waiting. He didn't know what time Seamus would be finished at the hospital, but he’d wait all night if he had to.
Thankfully, it was only about an hour after George had arrived that Seamus appeared.
He was frowning at George, clearly puzzled and very apprehensive.
“You have… every right to hate me,” George said quietly, when Seamus was close enough to hear him. “I’m a mess. But… I’m also sorry. And I want… I want to try and do better. Try to be better.”
Seamus was silent for a long moment, and then he shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed. “I don’t hate you.”
George would take that. He could… he could work with that.
It was a start.
…
December 25th, 2003
“Uh, shhhh,” Seamus grumbled, blindly smacking away George’s tickling hands. “It’s too early.”
“It’s Christmas,” George replied, nuzzling against Seamus’ cheek. “I want Christmas kisses.”
“What’s the difference between normal kisses and Christmas kisses?” Seamus mumbled, his face still buried in his pillow.
“Erm… I promise not to complain about morning breath?”
“We’re wizard’s George. We have spells for that. There’s never an excuse for morning breath. Try again.”
“Okay… it’s Christmas kisses and also anniversary kisses?”
“It was our anniversary on the 19th.”
“Well, yes. Of the bond. But today is the anniversary of me pulling my head out of my arse?”
Seamus snorted, but he turned his head to look at George, apparently giving up on getting any more sleep. “Hmm. That’s probably a reason to celebrate, isn’t it?”
“Exactly,” George replied, pressing kisses to the side of Seamus’ face. “Merry Christmas, babe.”
George kissed him, not worrying about the charms, until Seamus swatted him away and grabbed his wand off the bedside table, casting it on both of them.
“I literally just said that we had spells,” he grumbled, putting his wand back. “Kisses.”
George chuckled against his lips.
When they separated, George kept his grip on Seamus firm, holding him close.
“Marry me?”
Seamus blinked. “We’re already bonded, sweetheart.”
“I know. I know that, but… I… I want you to be Seamus Weasley, and I… I want to see my ring on your finger.”
“Possessive shit,” Seamus grumbled. “Of course I’ll marry you. But I’m also telling your mum about this very unromantic proposal.”
George blinked. “She’ll hex me.”
“Uh huh.”
“Shit.”
Seamus laughed.
George shook his head. “I love you, you cruel fiend.”
“I love you too.”
…
Sitting on a cloud somewhere…
Fred waggled his eyebrows at Dean. “You owe me ten galleons. Told you the soft git would propose on Christmas, didn’t I?”
Dean groaned. “How was I supposed to know that he’d be so goddamn cliche?”
“Pay up!”
“... we’re dead. Where the hell are you going to spend them? Actually… where the hell am I going to get them for you to spend them?”
Fred frowned. “We didn’t think this through.”