Work Text:
The shop was quieter these days.
It wasn’t empty — the shelves were still lined with half-finished ideas, boxes of products that would never get their official name, notes written in Fred’s handwriting. But it felt quieter in a way that had nothing to do with sound.
George moved slowly through the aisles, turning signs over, checking the locks. The war had ended years ago, but the world still looked cracked at the edges, patched together with the kind of care you give something fragile.
The last firework display of the night had ended an hour ago. Kids still laughed outside, their footsteps echoing faintly down Diagon Alley. George smiled, just a little, at the sound. It was nice, he thought — to know laughter hadn’t completely vanished.
He stopped by the counter, the one with the burn mark where Fred had accidentally set off a prototype. He never fixed it. Couldn’t. It was the only thing in the shop he couldn’t bring himself to mend.
A photograph sat nearby — the two of them, arms slung around each other, grinning like idiots. Fred’s hair was windblown, his eyes bright with mischief. George traced the edge of the frame, thumb brushing the corner where the image had begun to fade.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, voice soft and a little hoarse. “I’m still keeping it running.”
No one answered, of course. But for a moment, he almost expected to hear Fred’s laugh — that sharp, loud bark that used to fill every corner of this place.
George stood there for a long time, letting the silence settle. Then he reached into the drawer beneath the counter and pulled out one last firework. The design was old, clumsy — one of their first ever. It probably wouldn’t even go that high anymore.
He took it outside anyway.
The air was cold, heavy with the smell of rain. He set the firework down in the middle of the cobblestone street, flicked his wand, and stepped back.
It shot up slowly, sputtering sparks of gold and red — nothing like the brilliant chaos they used to make. But when it burst, it painted the sky in soft color, fading almost as soon as it appeared.
George smiled. A small, tired, honest smile.
“See that, Fred?” he whispered. “Still got it.”
The last traces of light drifted down, turning to smoke before they touched the ground.
The alley was quiet again. The shop stood dark behind him.
And George stayed there, hands in his pockets, watching until the smoke disappeared completely — until there was nothing left but stillness and the faint hum of memory.