Chapter Text
George owns two of everything.
They're all basically identical, every single one of them, even though he knows without a shadow of doubt which one is actually his and which one belongs to Fred.
Belonged to Fred.
Because now it all belongs to him.
The only thing they owned that wasn't a twin of the other was their wands.
And now George owns two of those as well. Fred's wand works just as well as his own, and George wishes it wouldn't. Wishes it wouldn’t feel like it was his own wand, wouldn’t feel like he was… some substitute for Fred, like he could ever stand in for Fred. They may have put in a significant amount of work into being indistinguishable from one another, but at the end of the day, they were still different people.
George hates it. Hates it when people look at him and see Fred because he is not Fred. Fred is dead. He’s gone. The only thing left is a lesser half. The whole of them had always been greater than the sum of their parts. It’s cliche, to say that missing Fred is like missing a limb. It’s wholly inadequate as well, because a missing limb doesn’t feel like you don’t have half your heart. It doesn’t feel like someone severed your entirety into half and tossed one part into an incinerator.
It’s everywhere, this missing half. Everywhere in the shop, everywhere in their flat above the shop, it’s everywhere in the Burrow and it’s in every single safe house George and Fred had stayed in during the war. It’s all there, and yet the fact that it's not there burns inside of George.
His house has been cleaned and repaired, people pitched in, everyone was very helpful, very sweet, grieving their own losses as he was his, and George—
He can't live here. He can't, not with reminders everywhere. Not when he can see Fred everywhere. In the window with the chipped sill, not the bathroom with the broken tile, not the glittery stickers put up on their wardrobe, not the twin beds with burn marks on the headboard. He does not have the strength.
It already takes all he has in him to be able to breathe on a good day. On bad days— on bad days, George does not know what he does, because he does not remember them. The bad days pass by in a haze, nothing of them remaining except a tempus charm, showing a date he could have sworn should have come the next day.
The quill he uses to write the letter is Fred's.
George can't find his own, he tried. He tried for a few desperate hours but he cannot find his own quill, and now he has to use Fred's. Except he isn't even sure whether it's Fred's or not because he'd been lying earlier. Lying when he claimed he could distinguish his things from Fred.
Some days, he can't even distinguish himself from his brother. He feels just as dead, after all.
The only thing he can distinguish from his own and Fred’s is his wand.
Everything else there is two of. There’s just no two of Freds. George wishes there was. He wishes he were Fred, that he could’ve died instead. Except no, he doesn’t. He wouldn’t wish this agony on Fred, he couldn’t wish it on him. Knows that Fred would not have handled it any better.
But George is trying. He’s trying so hard, because Fred wouldn’t want this either. Would never push George to be happy, but would never feel content either, knowing just how unhappy George was. So… for Fred, for Fred, he does it. He uses the quill, the one that might have belonged to Fred, and writes the letter. The ink blots are messy, and his writing barely legible, but he writes it, he writes it, and writes it, and writes it. End of the day, it’s less than a page. Less than half a page, but it’s a letter.
And he hopes it’s one step in the right direction. That Fred won’t hate him for it. But Fred’s not here to hate him for it, so he sends the letter anyway.
Even now, there are days when all of this feels like a dream. Like right now, being able to sip some herbal concoction with his mother in their sun room, delicate tea cakes he had picked up from a Muggle bakery spread out on the table in front of him, it all feels surreal. Too good to be true.
Narcissa Malfoy looks lighter than she has in… years, maybe. Draco had almost forgotten that beneath all the stress, the lines on her face, the rumpled clothes and trembling hands and whispered words and curses— he’d almost forgotten that his mother was– is– beautiful. That she is the very image of a good, gentle, aristocratic breeding, with elegance and luxury written in every single gesture she makes, every stitch of clothing in her, the delicate braids of her hair and the clasps holding it together.
Draco never thought they'd all make it out of the war intact. Never thought he would ever have their manor again, tainted with memories, yes, of screams and blood and death. But their home nonetheless. Never thought he could laugh with Mother about something as trivial as an article in the seventh page of the Prophet, something inconsequential and stupid and funny.
He is not stupid, nor is he ignorant, even if he has become a bit of a recluse since the war. Or, well, as much of a recluse as one can be when dating Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world.
And he's heard the rumours. It's difficult not to notice the rumours when people come at him with wands drawn and spitting vitriol at his face, after all. That he got off easy, that he is not in prison, that he was given concessions, favouritism, the vulgar words, implying things. Climbing the social ladder back up like his father post war, only this time, not with money, but with… Sexual favours, to put it delicately.
It’s not easy, especially not as easy as it had been before the war ever happened. But he wouldn’t really want it any other way, either. The war happened, and they all played their roles within it. To act like nothing changed– to want nothing to have changed– would be to spit on the faces of everyone who lost someone, who lost themselves, who sacrificed more than just their lives. The sheer disrespect of it would be unfathomable.
Still, Draco does not like it, if only for Harry’s sake.
He hated these particular rumours more than the ones that claimed he had put the imperius on Harry, because at least the latter didn't imply that Harry was the kind of man to compromise on his morals for something as stupid as sex.
“Draco, darling,” Narcissa says, startling Draco a little from where his attention had wandered off a little. The look in her eyes is a little too knowing for Draco’s liking, but he’d never expected to be able to hide things from her anyway. “Did you have any trouble on the way here?”
“Ah,” Draco looks at the name of the muggle bakery emblazoned across the quite pretty, light pink packaging resting on the table. A large looping S for Sweetlings. He looked back up at his mother, shrugging, “Not particularly, no. The cashier recognised me there, and gave me a few extra cookies, though.”
“That was sweet of them. Would this be the same cashier who helped you pick out some more… discreet clothing?”
Draco smiled at her a little helplessly, because yes, it was. Harry may have lived in the muggle world for a good, long while. But given the kind of people he lived with, he’d never developed a sense of good muggle fashion. Nothing tasteful, nothing befitting a Malfoy, or even someone of Harry’s own status either. He smoothed a hand down the button down shirt he was wearing underneath the more distinctly wizarding robes, the light ones one wore within the house in the more chillier months. Oxfords on his feet rather than dragonhide boots or the likes.
A faint heat blossomed across his cheeks when he recalled the way Harry had looked at him this morning while they’d been getting ready.
Things weren’t perfect, but Draco didn’t want them to be. This was alright. This was okay. This was… more than he’d expected he would ever have when the Dark Lord first put his wand against Draco’s forearm and a searing pain enveloped his very consciousness, his magic, his soul.
This was more than enough, and Draco clung to all of it with the fierceness of a nesting Hungarian Horntail protecting her eggs.
Guilt has been such a frequent companion to Harry in the last few years, that its presence has almost become comforting now. She sits with him when he is alone, and she sits with him when he is at the Burrow, having dinner with a family larger than he can count. She sings to him when he walks through a still battered but recovering Diagon Alley, and she sings to him when he wakes up in the morning, Draco's body a warm weight pressed against his.
She is there, constantly, wherever there is peace and contentment.
You get to have this , she says, do you know how many people don't?
Harry knows. He has seen the numbers. He has seen the bodies. And he has seen what those bodies leave behind. He could list the names off in his sleep. Sometimes, according to Draco, he does.
She holds his hand in a gentle grip whenever he shares a tender moment with Draco. Does he deserve this? Why do the others not deserve this too? She’s there when he’s at the Institute, waving his wand in the careful motions required to seal split skin or mend shattered bones. Where was this, when you came across the bodies at Hogwarts? Could you have saved them, if you knew this then?
She is there when he gets George's letter, a little louder than usual. Did you forget about him?
Harry hadn't. But she doesn't care about that. Or maybe he had forgotten about George, maybe he had been too caught up in that very same guilt that rears up its head when he reads the letter.
George. He’d thought… Harry had thought one of the Weasleys must have been helping him, or perhaps Lee, or Angelina. But end of the day, Harry hadn’t stepped in himself at all. He’d known the shop wasn’t running, he’d seen the number of family dinners that George didn’t attend. He knew all of that, so why, she asks, why did you not check up on him?
Maybe he just needed space, Harry tries to argue back. If he needed space, he wouldn’t have had to reach out to you through a desperate letter.
When Harry finally meets George, sees the haggard look on his face, the thinness that's taken over, the hair that hangs limply, smells the faint antiseptic scent of a refreshing charm clinging to his wrinkled clothes– well. She is there as well, sitting on top of his shoulders, thighs around his neck, ankles locked at his chest. Harry swears that he can hear her laughing, faint little giggles that shake Harry at his very core.
George fits right in with the still slightly grim interior of Grimmauld Place, although it has become significantly better than it used to be. Fred and George had always stood out like odd, bright spots of colour in Grimmauld, before. But George has gotten duller, and Grimmauld a little brighter, and neither look out of place with each other.
“George,” Harry says, trying to keep too much emotion from leaking into his voice, not knowing at all how George would react.
The smile that George throws his way is so weak it almost makes Harry wince. He’s so thin, has he been eating at all? Harry doesn’t think even he, or Hermione or Ron, had been this thin while on the run and living tent from tent.
You should have checked up on him, she says, tightening her grip on his neck.
“Would you like some tea, or some hot chocolate?” Harry asks, wondering whether he sounds as awkward as he feels.
“It’s okay—”
“Not what I asked,” Harry cuts him off, “Now, tea with a shit ton of honey, or hot chocolate with a shit ton of marshmallows?”
“It’s really not—”
Harry shuts him up with a wandless silencing spell, “Nuh huh,” he says, wondering whether this is the right approach or not, but trying it anyway. He holds up a finger, “One, tea?” He holds up the other finger, “Or two, hot chocolate?”
The perplexed, almost offended look in George’s eyes is miles better than the misery that had hung around him a moment before. The misery isn’t gone, of course, but is still a little muted. Reluctantly, he holds up two fingers.
Harry nods decisively, summoning a pair of mugs, a thermos, and a packet of mini marshmallows from the kitchen as he sets about making two cups of nice, too sugary, too rich, too thick hot chocolate. He pours it in, warms it further up until it's completely steaming, and then adds enough marshmallows that they start spilling out over the edges.
George stares at his mug for a solid two to three seconds, before he slowly reaches out and picks it up, although he doesn’t drink yet.
“Well then,” Harry says, sitting down on the couch next to George, and cancelling the silencing spell. Although a little niggle of worry irks at him, the way George hadn’t even tried to grab at his wand in order to undo the spell himself; he pushes it away. Not the point, not right now. “First of all, George,” he gentles his voice without making it condescending, “I’m really glad you owled me. Really, truly glad. But… are you sure?”
George still hasn’t taken a sip, and is instead staring blankly at the table, gaze far away. “I… what else could I do?”
That’s not a yes, at least. George isn’t sure whether or not he wants to do it.
“Okay,” Harry says, “There’s… a lot of things you could consider first. Not to say that you haven’t considered them!” Harry added hastily, “This couldn’t have been an easy decision—”
“I haven’t, actually.” George idly plucked one of the marshmallows from the mug, turning it over in his fingers, but not eating it. “I haven’t considered much of anything.”
“It’s a… big decision, George.” Harry is floundering, like he’s lost his footing. He’s been feeling off kilter since
Dangerous, Potter. How’re you gonna be healing other peoples busted bones when you’re tripping over your feet and busting your own? Mariah’s voice is sharp and clear in his head. She’s never been particularly kind, but she is one of the best teachers, and the best battle healers that the Institute has. And it settles him, that voice. Cuts through the weight of guilt that had settled across him, over him. He straightens up a little, taking in a subtle but deep breath.
“It’s really not about me at all, you know that, right?” Harry says firmly, trying to feel around the problem, even though he’s sure he can see the shape of it. “I’m glad you owled me, but you have to know I have had nothing to do with your shop since I gave you that money at the end of fourth year.”
George frowned at him, “The shop wouldn’t have been possible without you.”
“No, George,” Harry said, wondering if he was making a mistake, but forging on anyway, “The shop wouldn’t have been possible without you or Fred.” George paled a little, but Harry wasn’t done, “You both would have come up with some other way to fund the thing, and the shop would have still been a hit no matter whether I invested in it or not. End of the day, there was no need to consult me about any decisions regarding the shop at all. ”
“There was, ” George insisted, squeezing his eyes shut. Harry sighed, and scooted closer to George, until they were pressed against each other.
“Come on,” Harry said softly, “Drink up, or I’ll have to cast a warming charm again.”
George threw him a nasty look but it didn’t have much power behind it, and did take a bite out of the marshmallow he’d been playing with. He didn’t look like he was enjoying it, but George needed to eat. The hollowness of his cheeks reminded Harry too much of the way things had been on the run, the absolute scarcity of food, looking at the way Hermione and Ron were wasting away, and unable to do anything about it.
“ Drink,” he said, more insistently, and George huffed, but finally, finally took a sip. “Right,” he said, and just for solidarity, took a few large gulps of his own drink, even as it burned his mouth a little. He leaned back a little bit, staring up at the ceiling. “Selling the shop is, end of the day, completely your decision, and no one can tell you what to do about it.”
“I guess.”
“You don’t guess, it just is. But the fact that you came here, to talk to me about it… maybe you should wait, then? Just for a little bit? Try and take a break away from it all. A proper break. Not with you living at the shop, or the Burrow, or with you trying to open the shop every few months when you’re clearly not ready for it. Just, get away from it all.”
“That’s what I was trying to do, when I thought about selling it.”
“I obviously cannot, will not, stop you if that’s what you want.”
George was tellingly quiet at that. After a few seconds, he lifted his mug up again, taking a small, almost tentative sip, and Harry let loose a half smile at that, more relieved than the action should warrant.
“I do think,” Harry continues when it’s clear George isn’t going to say anything, “That maybe you should wait. I cannot even begin to comprehend what you might be going through, and I wouldn’t pretend to understand. But the war left all of us out of sorts, and it’s alright to take some time.”
Harry felt like he was reading out one of those grief and mental health pamphlets that St. Mungos had put out a few months after the last battle. But they’d been surprisingly useful anyway, even just the fact that they were printed at all went a long way towards letting people know they weren’t alone. That enough people felt that way to warrant a goddamn pamphlet being published and distributed.
“It’s been more than two years, Harry,” George said quietly.
“And you were with Fred for twenty years. I don’t know what kind of argument you think that is.”
“What do you suggest, then?”
“A break. Just… a proper break. Get away from it all. I know that Draco finds a lot of joy in just… going out into the Muggle world. Absolutely no one there knows about the war, about him, about who he is or what he did— no reminders at all. Maybe that’s something you need. Or maybe you just need a quiet place to yourself that wouldn’t remind you too much of Fred, the way the shop seems to do. You’d know better than anyone what you need, you just have to have the space to figure it out.”
George snorts a little, “Draco Malfoy in the muggle world. Now that’s something I’d pay to see, actually.”
“Well then.” Harry set his half full mug down on the table, “Good news, you don’t have to pay anything for that spectacle. You can go out for lunch with him tomorrow while I’m at work.”
The owlish blink that was directed Harry’s way made him have to stifle a small giggle. George cleared his throat, “Wait, just like that?”
“There’s nothing more to it, George. You can move in here, god knows Grimmauld’s got plenty of rooms. We keep discovering more, for some reason. I think the Order members had barricaded most of the place to us when we were here before. Anyway, I could help you move, it shouldn’t take long. I’m sure the others would be happy to help as well, you won’t even have to go back to pack up yourself.”
“Can I have a moment?” George asked, words so soft that Harry almost missed them.
He nodded, getting onto his feet and banishing his own mug to the kitchen sink. “Of course,” he said, stepping away from George, “I’ll be right around the corner. Yell if you need something. Or send a paper plane, or a butterfly, I don’t know, whatever suits your fancy.” He gave George a crooked little smile, backing out of the room and leaving George there. Just before he passed the door, though, he turned around and quickly cast another warming charm on George’s mug.
When George finally calls him back, about twenty minutes later, he uses a tiny, purple dragon made of light to do it. The tight hold guilt has on Harry’s chest loosens, and when he sees the empty mug of hot chocolate on the table when he enters, the hold vanishes entirely.