#georgeweasley

He spotted her instantly. The frantic energy in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, a micro-expression that only a sibling would catch, before the showman mask slammed back into place. 

"And look who it is!" George bellowed, pointing a long, gloved finger down at her. "Ladies and gentlemen, keep your wallets close and your sweethearts closer—it’s the sister! The only Weasley who knows how to balance a checkbook!" 

A scatter of laughter rippled through the ground floor. YN rolled her eyes, offering a mock curtsy that ended with a rude hand gesture shielded by her sleeve so only George could see it. He grinned, tapped the side of his nose, and vanished back into the inventory room. 

YN sighed, the familiar scent of gunpowder and sugar calming her nerves. She wasn’t technically on the payroll anymore—she had her own pursuits in Magical Law—but she found herself here at least twice a week. Ostensibly, it was to help with the books. In reality, it was to check on him. It had been years since the Battle of Hogwarts, since the world had lost Fred, but grief was a sticky thing. It clung to the walls of this shop just as much as the joy did. 

She waded through the crowd, deftly dodging a floating display of Self-Propelling Custard Pies. She stepped behind the counter, much to the relief of a harassed-looking Verity. 

"Go on break, V," YN murmured, taking the till. "I’ve got the rush." 

"Bless you, YNN," Verity breathed, looking like she was about to cry from gratitude. "The shipment of Puking Pastilles leaked in the storeroom. It’s a nightmare." 

"Go. Coffee. Now." 

For the next two hours, YN was a machine. She rang up purchases, explained the difference between a Nosebleed Nougat and a Fever Fudge to three different confused mothers, and confiscated a Fanged Frisbee from an on-coming first-year who was definitely too young to handle it. She worked with the efficiency that came from growing up in the Burrow; you learned to handle chaos, or you didn't eat dinner. 

By the time the heavy oak doors finally swung shut and the lock clicked into place, the sky outside had turned a bruised purple. The silence that fell over the shop was heavy, a ringing contrast to the noise of the day. 

YN leaned her elbows on the counter, exhaling a long breath that blew a stray curl off her forehead. "You can come down now! I know you're hiding up there." 

The sound of footsteps on the metal staircase rang out, clanging rhythmically. George descended, carrying two butterbeers and a bag of greasy takeaway from the Leaky Cauldron. He looked tired. The showman’s light had dimmed, leaving behind a man who looked his age, perhaps a little older. There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there five years ago. 

"Slave driver," George muttered, sliding a bottle across the polished wood counter toward her. "I was actually doing very important product research." 

"Sleeping on a pile of unboxed Skiving Snackboxes is not research, George," she retorted, cracking the bottle open. 

"It is if I'm testing their comfort levels for potential bedding merchandise. 'Weasleys' Wonder-Rest.' Has a ring to it." He hopped up onto the counter, swinging his legs like a child. He took a long swig of his drink. "So. To what do I owe the pleasure? Mum send you to check if I’m eating vegetables?" 

YN took a chip from the bag he offered. "Mum sent a knitted jumper for the cat. I told her you don't have a cat. She said, 'Well, in case he gets one, he shouldn't be cold.'" 

George snorted, a genuine sound. "Classic Molly. I'll put it on a Pygmy Puff. It’ll look like a fuzzy knitted distinctively-orange nightmare." 

They ate in comfortable silence for a while. The shop was alive around them; mechanical toys whirred softly in their sleep mode, and the magical lights dimmed to a low, pulsing hum. This was the part of the shop YN loved best—the heartbeat of it. It was the part that felt most like Fred. It was the innovation, the magic, the sheer audacity of existing. 

"I actually came to talk about the quarterly review," YN said, wiping salt from her fingers. "I went over the numbers you sent by owl. George, the profit margins on the WonderWitch line are insane. You’re up forty percent." 

George shrugged, picking at the label on his bottle. "Love potions are recession-proof, YNN. People always want to be loved. Or at least, they want to trick someone else into thinking they are." 

"Don't be cynical. It doesn't suit your suit." 

"It’s not cynicism, it’s economics." He hopped off the counter and began walking through the aisles, straightening displays with a flick of his wand. YN followed him. She knew this dance. He moved when he didn't want to talk about feelings, and he deflected with business when he didn't want to talk about himself. 

"You're expanding to Hogsmeade," she stated, not asking. 

George paused by a display of Ten-Second Pimple Vanishers. "Thinking about it. Ron’s keen on it. He thinks we can corner the student market without them having to owl-order." 

"Ron’s right. It’s a good move." 

"It's a lot of work." George’s voice dropped an octave, losing its theatrical bounce. He picked up a small, pink pot and turned it over in his hands. "A lot of empty space to fill." 

YN stopped walking. She knew he wasn't talking about square footage. The Hogsmeade shop had been a dream they had shared. The Twins. The plan had always been: Diagon Alley first, Hogsmeade second, world domination third. Doing step two alone felt like a betrayal, or perhaps just a stark reminder of the missing limb. 

"You don't have to do it alone," YN said softly. "Ron is helping. Verity is brilliant. Dad would retire just to run the register if you asked him." 

"I know." George placed the pot back down with precision alignment. "But it's not the same, is it? It’s like... playing a duet with one hand." 

YN walked over to him, placing a hand on his arm. The fabric of his dragon-hide suit was cool under her palm. "George. You aren't playing a duet anymore. You're playing a solo. And yeah, it sounds different. It’s missing the harmony. But the melody? The melody is still brilliant. It’s still you." 

George looked down at her. He was tall, lanky like all the Weasley men, but he slumped slightly, making them closer in height. He offered a crooked, half-smile. "That was incredibly sappy. Have you been reading Ginny’s poetry journals?" 

"Shut up," she swatted his arm, but she didn't let go. "I'm serious. The numbers don't lie. The shop is thriving. You are thriving, even if you feel like you're just treading water." 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, messing up the perfectly styled chaotic coif. "I suppose. It’s just... the Hogsmeade branch. We had ideas for it. Specific designs. I found an old notebook last week. Fred’s sketches for the storefront." 

"And?" 

"And they’re mad. Completely impossible. Structural integrity of a house of cards." George chuckled, a watery sound. "He wanted a slide from the roof to the street." 

"So build the slide," YN said firmly. 

"It’s a health and safety nightmare." 

"Since when do you care about health and safety? You sell fireworks that chase people." 

George looked at her, really looked at her, his dark eyes searching hers. "You think I should do it? The slide?" 

"I think if you don't, Fred will haunt you and put spiders in your tea." 

George laughed then, a real laugh that echoed off the high ceiling. "He would. He absolutely would." 

The tension in his shoulders dropped a fraction. He turned away from the shelf and gestured for her to follow him. "Come on. I want to show you something. Since you're here and being all wise and sisterly." 

He led her toward the back of the shop, past the 'Employees Only' curtain, and up the narrow, spiraling stairs that led to the workshop. This was the inner sanctum. It smelled of sulfur, burnt wood, and ozone. Tables were piled high with half-finished inventions, bubbling cauldrons, and scraps of parchment. 

George walked to a workbench in the far corner, which was noticeably cleaner than the others. He pulled a heavy velvet cloth off an object sitting in the center. 

"I’ve been working on this for about six months," George said, his voice unusually quiet. "Since you got that promotion at the Department." 

YN stepped closer, her eyes widening. 

It was a clock. But not a standard grandfather clock like the one at the Burrow. This was sleek, modern, made of brushed copper and floating gears. It didn't have numbers. Instead, the face was a swirling map of the stars, but the stars were moving in real-time. Around the edge, instead of 'Mortal Peril' or 'School', there were intricate engravings of concepts: Justice, Truth, Chaos, Order, Home, Adventure. 

There was a single hand made of gold, currently resting between Order and Home. 

"It's... beautiful," YN whispered, reaching out to hover her fingers over the glass face. "What does it track?" 

"It tracks intent," George said, leaning against the workbench, crossing his arms. "Dad's clock tracks location and safety. Useful, but a bit invasive if you ask me. This... this tracks where your head is at. What you're focused on." 

He pointed to the hand. "It's keyed to you. I needed a hair, which I stole from your brush at Christmas. Sorry about that." 

YN laughed, a wet, choked sound. "You stalker." 

"I prefer 'inventive genius.'" George’s face grew serious again. "You’ve been working so hard, YNN. Since the war, you’ve just... put your head down and charged. Trying to fix the world. Trying to fix the family. You’re always looking out for everyone else. I wanted you to have something that helps you look at yourself." 

He tapped the glass lightly. "See? Right now, you're focused on Home. That's us. That's me." 

YN felt a lump form in her throat the size of a Quaffle. She stared at the clock, watching the gears spin silently, levitating in the magical field George had created. It was a masterpiece of Charms work. It was the kind of magic that made the twins famous—not just flashy, but deeply, intuitively brilliant. 

"George," she started, her voice trembling. "This must have taken hundreds of hours. The enchanting alone..." 

"Eh, keeps me off the streets." He waved a hand dismissively, but his ears were turning pink, the tell-tale Weasley sign of embarrassment. 

"It's the most amazing thing anyone has ever made for me." She turned to him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "You really think I focus on Justice and Truth?" 

"Mostly," George grinned. "Though last Friday night, I bet it would have been pointed firmly at 'Chaos' when you were three fire-whiskeys deep at the pub." 

"I was not!” 

"The clock sees all, sister mine." 

YN looked back at the clock. It was a grounding anchor. It was a reminder that she wasn't just a cog in the Ministry machine, or a grieving sister, or a Weasley daughter. She was a person with intents, with drives, with a future. 

She turned and wrapped her arms around George, hugging him tightly. He smelled of smoke and expensive cologne. He stiffened for a second—physical affection had been harder for him lately—but then he relaxed, wrapping his long arms around her shoulders and squeezing back. 

"Thank you," she mumbled into his jacket. "It’s incredible." 

"Yeah, well," George patted her back awkwardly before pulling away, clearing his throat. "It’s a prototype. If it explodes, I take no responsibility." 

YN wiped her eyes, sniffing loudly. "You're an idiot." 

"I'm a genius. We established this." 

She looked at him, really seeing the effort he had put into this. The time he had spent alone in this workshop, thinking about her, thinking about how to translate her personality into mechanics. It was his way of saying he loved her, his way of saying he saw her, without having to use the words that sometimes felt too heavy to speak. 

"You know," YN said, her voice gaining strength. "You're actually the smartest one of us. Bill had the grades, Percy has the vocabulary, but you... you see how the world works. You see magic differently." 

George looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight. He picked up a screwdriver and started toying with it. 

"And," she continued, relentless, "you're the best brother. You pretend you don't care, that it's all jokes and pranks, but you have the biggest heart in the family. Even after... even with everything." 

She saw his jaw tighten. The praise was getting to him. It was too sincere, too close to the raw nerves he tried to keep insulated with laughter. 

"YNN..." he warned. 

"I mean it, George. This clock... it means everything. You’re incredible." A tear finally escaped, tracking down her cheek. She smiled at him, a wide, wobbly, open-hearted smile full of absolute adoration and gratitude. 

George stared at her, panic rising in his eyes at the display of raw emotion. He looked at the clock, then back at her tear-streaked face. He pointed the screwdriver at her threateningly. 

"Don't make me take it back," he said, his voice cracking just slightly before he forced a grin. 

YN laughed, sniffing again. "You wouldn't dare." 

"I would. I’d disassemble it right now. Turn it into a toaster. A sarcoutic toaster that insults your bread." 

"You can't take back a gift, it’s against the laws of magic." 

"I write the laws of magic in this shop," George countered, though his eyes were warm, crinkling at the corners. "Seriously. Stop looking at me like I'm a saint. I put a whoopee cushion on your chair at the Ministry last week. That was me." 

"I knew it!" She smacked his arm again. "Ginny told me it was Harry.” 

"Harry doesn't have the finesse," George scoffed. "Now, are you going to take your clock and get out of my workshop? I have a slide to design." 

YN grabbed the clock carefully, holding it to her chest like a shield. "You're really doing it? The slide?" 

"If I don't, you'll probably get the Ministry to cite me for 'Lack of Whimsy' or something." George walked her back toward the stairs. 

"I might," she agreed. She paused at the top of the stairs. "George?" 

"What now? More compliments? I’m allergic." 

"Come for dinner on Sunday? Mum’s making roast beef. And... I think she’d like to hear about the slide." 

George hesitated. Sunday dinners were loud. They were crowded. They were full of people who looked like him but weren't him. But he looked at YN, holding his invention, looking at him with that fierce, unwavering Weasley loyalty. The hand on the clock in her arms ticked slightly, moving from Home toward Adventure. 

"Yeah," George said softly. "Yeah, alright. I'll be there." 

"Good." She started down the stairs. "And bring the toaster ideas. I think Percy needs one." 

"Oh, I've got plans for Percy," George called after her, his voice returning to its usual boom. "Major plans!" 

YN walked out into the cool night air of Diagon Alley. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets glistening under the gas lamps. She held the clock tight. It was heavy, complex, and beautiful. Just like her family. Just like George. 

Inside the shop, George stood at the window, watching his sister disappear into the crowd. He touched the empty space beside him, a habit he couldn't break, and for once, the silence didn't feel quite so empty. 

"She liked it, Freddie," he whispered to the glass. "She really liked it." 

He turned back to the darkness of the shop, rolled up his sleeves, and summoned a fresh roll of parchment. 

George paused, the dropper hovering over the cauldron. He turned slowly, a grin spreading across his face. It was the Weasley grin—wide, mischievous, and freckled—but YN, who knew the map of his face better than anyone, could see the slight tightness around his eyes. It had been two years since the Battle of Hogwarts, since they lost Fred. The shop was booming, the laughter was back, but George still had moments where he worked with the intensity of two men, as if trying to fill the silence in the room. 

"Spontaneous combustion is a bit dramatic, YNN," George said, wiping his hands on a rag that was already stained neon green. "I was aiming for 'Mildly Toasty Toes.' Winter is coming, after all. Market research suggests people like warm feet." 

"Market research suggests people prefer keeping their feet attached to their ankles," she countered, walking over to peer into the cauldron. She was the youngest daughter, often lumped in with Ginny by outsiders, but while Ginny had the fire of a warrior, YN had the pragmatic, mechanical mind of an inventor. It was why she spent her days here, managing the chaotic inventory and keeping George from accidentally blowing up Diagon Alley. 

"Details, details," George waved a hand dismissively. He hopped up onto a stool, looking at her with sudden, laser-focused scrutiny. "Anyway, enough about my genius. Why are you wearing the blue dress? The one Mum says brings out your eyes but implies you’re trying too hard?" 

YN smoothed the fabric of her robes self-consciously. "I am not trying too hard. And it’s periwinkle." 

"You have a date," George accused, pointing a stained finger at her. "Who is it? Is it corner-shop Caleb? Or that bloke from the Ministry with the nervous twitch?" 

"It is not Caleb, and for your information, the 'bloke with the nervous twitch' is an Unspeakable, and he’s very intelligent." 

"Boring," George sang out, hopping off the stool and beginning to pace. "You need excitement, YN. You need a Weasley-approved suitor. Someone with pizzazz. Someone who won't faint if a Pygmy Puff sneezes on him." 

"His name is Barnaby," YN said, ignoring George’s theatrics. "Barnaby Pringle. He works in the Department of Magical Transportation. He’s reliable, George. He’s steady." 

George stopped pacing. He looked at her, his expression softening just a fraction, though the glint of mischief remained. "Steady? YNN, you’re twenty-one. You’re a Weasley. We don’t do 'steady' well. We do loud, we do brave, we do explosions." 

"I just want a nice dinner," she sighed, checking her watch. "He’s picking me up here in ten minutes. And I am begging you—begging you, George—do not be weird." 

George placed a hand on his chest, feigning deep offense. "Me? Weird? I am the epitome of professional entrepreneurial grace." 

"You are wearing a dragon-hide vest that changes color when you burp," she pointed out. 

George looked down. The vest was currently a soft lavender. "It’s a prototype. And I haven't burped in twenty minutes. It’s calming down." 

"Just... behave. Please?" 

George smirked. It was a dangerous smirk. "I will be the perfect host. I’ll even offer him a sample." 

YN narrowed her eyes. "No samples. No Skiving Snackboxes, no Ton-Tongue Toffees, and absolutely no Canary Creams. I don't want to spend my date plucking feathers out of his ears." 

"Fine, fine," George said, raising his hands in surrender. "No pranks. Just a brotherly vetting. I have to make sure he’s good enough for the best looking Weasley girl." 

"I'll take the compliment, even if it was backhanded." 

Precisely ten minutes later, the bell above the shop door chimed. Even though the shop was officially closed, the front door was unlocked for the occasion. 

Barnaby Pringle walked in. He was exactly as YN had described: steady. He was a tall, slightly lanky man with neatly combed sandy hair and robes that were impeccably pressed. He looked around the shop with a mixture of awe and mild terror, his eyes widening as a miniature firework dragon zoomed past his ear. 

"YN?" he called out tentatively. 

"In here, Barnaby!" she called from the bottom of the stairs, smoothing her hair one last time. She shot George a warning look. "Be nice." 

"I am a delight," George whispered back. 

They emerged onto the shop floor. Barnaby’s face lit up when he saw YN, a genuine, sweet smile that made her feel a little warmer. 

"You look lovely, YN," Barnaby said, stepping forward and offering a small bouquet of mundane, non-magical daisies. "I know you’re around magic all day, so I thought... well, something simple." 

"That’s very thoughtful, Barnaby," YN said, taking the flowers. She genuinely liked him. He was safe. He didn't have the haunted look that so many of their generation carried. He worried about portkey regulations, not Dark Marks. 

"Charming," a voice boomed from beside her. 

Barnaby jumped, looking at George. George was leaning against a display of Portable Swamps, arms crossed, staring at Barnaby with the intensity of a hawk eyeing a field mouse. 

"Barnaby, this is my brother, George," YN introduced, stepping between them slightly. "George, this is Barnaby." 

"Mr. Weasley," Barnaby said, extending a hand. "Big fan of the shop. My nephew loves your Headless Hats." 

George took the hand, shaking it with vigorous enthusiasm. "Call me George. Mr. Weasley is my father, and he’s terrified of this place. So, Barnaby. Transportation, eh? Riveting stuff. How are the Portkey regulations for transporting livestock these days?" 

Barnaby blinked, surprised by the specific question. "Oh, well, actually, there’s been a fascinating amendment regarding Aethonans, but—" 

"Fascinating," George interrupted, not letting go of Barnaby’s hand. "Tell me, Barnaby, do you have a sense of humor?" 

"I... suppose so?" Barnaby chuckled nervously, trying to retrieve his hand. George held on for a second too long before releasing it. 

"Good. Essential trait. Vital for survival in this family," George said, clapping Barnaby on the shoulder with enough force to make the man stumble. "Now, YN tells me you’re taking her to Le Jardin d'Etoile. Fancy. French. Expensive." 

"I wanted to treat her," Barnaby said, straightening his robes. 

"Admirable," George nodded. "But before you go, you simply must see the new line we’re working on. YN helped develop the formula, didn't you, sis?" 

YN froze. She had done no such thing. "George, we’re going to be late for our reservation..." 

"Nonsense, you have five minutes," George said, steering Barnaby toward the counter. "It’s a very exclusive product. We call them 'Charisma Chocolates.' Ideally suited for a first date. They’re meant to... enhance conversation. Make you more eloquent. Smoother." 

YN stared at her brother. She knew the inventory list by heart. There was no such thing as Charisma Chocolates. There were, however, Babbling Beverage truffles and Confusing Concoctions disguised as mints. 

"George," she said, her voice dropping to a warning growl. 

"Just a sample, YNN! A gift for the happy couple," George insisted, producing a small, gold-foiled box from his pocket. He opened it to reveal two innocent-looking dark chocolates. 

Barnaby looked at the chocolate, then at YN, then back at George. He clearly didn't want to be rude to the famous George Weasley, especially not when trying to court his sister. 

"Well, if it’s a new product... I’d be honored to test it," Barnaby said politely. 

"Barnaby, you don't have to," YN said quickly. 

"I insist," Barnaby said, trying to be brave. He picked up the chocolate. "Bottoms up, as they say." 

George’s smile was predatory. "Enjoy." 

Barnaby popped the chocolate into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully. "Hmm. Notes of chili? And... is that mint?" 

"Peppermint toad extract," George supplied helpful. "Wait for it." 

They stood in silence for ten seconds. The shop clock ticked loudly. A mechanical distinct whirring sound came from the shelves behind them. 

"I don't feel any different," Barnaby said, shrugging. "Perhaps I'm already charismatic enough?" He laughed at his own joke. 

YN exhaled, relieved. Maybe George had just given him a regular chocolate to mess with him. "Okay, well, that was fun. We really should go, George." 

"Right you are," George said, looking slightly disappointed. "Off you pop." 

Barnaby turned to YN, offering his arm. "Shall we, my dear? I am anticipating the consumption of nutrient-rich biomass with significant enthusiasm." 

YN paused. "Excuse me?" 

Barnaby blinked. His eyes seemed to glaze over slightly. "I stated that I am eager to ingest caloric sustenance in your proximity. Your visual input is highly pleasing to my optical receptors." 

YN stared at him. George let out a snort of laughter that he quickly disguised as a cough. 

"Barnaby?" YN asked, waving a hand in front of his face. "Are you alright?" 

Barnaby stood rigid as a board. He pivoted toward her with mechanical precision. "I am functioning within optimal parameters, YN. However, my internal monologue seems to be externalizing at a rate that is statistically improbable. Furthermore, I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to categorize the inventory of this establishment by alphabetical order and magical density." 

"George," YN said slowly, turning to her brother. "What did you give him?" 

"Okay, so it might not be a Charisma Chocolate," George admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "It’s a prototype for the 'Literal Lozenge.' It forces the consumer to speak with absolute, unvarnished literalism and strips away all social nuance. I thought it would be funny if he told you exactly how nervous he was." 

"You drugged my date with a prototype?!" YN shouted. 

"I prefer the term 'enhanced'!" 

"I am currently experiencing high levels of social anxiety," Barnaby announced loudly, his voice devoid of inflection. "I am also sweating profusely in my lower dorsal region. I find your brother, George, to be intimidating and possess a chaotic aura that threatens my need for structural integrity." 

"Oh my god," YN groaned, burying her face in her hands. 

"See? Honest!" George grinned. "He thinks I'm intimidating. I like him better already." 

"I am now experiencing a physiological reaction known as 'panic'," Barnaby stated, his eyes wide and unblinking. "My heart rate has accelerated to one hundred and twenty beats per minute. I have the sudden impulse to flee, but social convention dictates I must remain until the engagement is formally concluded." 

"Barnaby, sit down," YN commanded, grabbing a stool. 

"I will comply," Barnaby said, sitting down so abruptly his teeth clacked together. He sat with his hands on his knees, staring straight ahead. "The wood of this stool is uncomfortably hard. I regret wearing these undergarments. They are chafing." 

"George, fix him!" YN yelled. 

"I... I don't actually have the antidote brewed yet," George admitted, looking a little less smug now. "It usually wears off in an hour. Or two." 

"Two hours? I can't take him to a French restaurant like this! He’ll tell the waiter the escargot looks like garden pests!" 

"Valid point," George mused. "He probably would." 

Suddenly, Barnaby began to vibrate. It wasn't a tremble; it was a high-frequency vibration that made his teeth chatter. 

"System error," Barnaby buzzed. "Logical... paradox... detected. Social... protocol... conflicting... with... biological... imperative." 

"What is he doing?" George asked, leaning in closer. "I've never seen them vibrate before." 

"He’s a stickler for rules, George! You’ve stripped away his social filters but his brain is fighting to be polite! You’ve created a feedback loop!" 

Barnaby’s head snapped to the left, then to the right. "Must... compliment... dress. Dress... is... blue. Blue... is... sad color? No... blue... is... nice. But... fabric... is... cheap... synthetic... blend? Error. Error." 

He stood up abruptly, marched three paces to the left, turned around, and marched three paces back. 

"He’s stuck in a loop," YN said, horror dawning on her. 

Barnaby stopped marching. He looked directly at George. "Your hair is the color of oxidized iron. Your shop is a fire hazard. I find your lack of safety railing on the upper level to be negligent. I find your sister attractive but her choice in siblings is questionable. I am hungry. I am terrified. I want my mother." 

Then, Barnaby simply stopped. He froze in place, one arm half-raised, his mouth slightly open, eyes fixed on a point in the distance. He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He looked like a wax figure. 

YN waved her hand in front of his face. Nothing. She poked him in the chest. He didn't sway. He was solid, immobile, and utterly unresponsive. 

She turned to George, her expression a mix of fury and disbelief. 

"George," she said, her voice eerily calm. 

"Yeah?" George squeaked. 

"I think you broke him." 

George walked around Barnaby, inspecting him like a statue. He lifted Barnaby’s arm; it stayed in the air when he let go. "Well. That’s a new side effect. Total catatonic stasis induced by honesty overload. Fascinating." 

"Fascinating?!" YN shouted, the windows rattling. "George, he’s a person! Not a test dummy! You turned my date into a statue!" 

"He’s not a statue, he’s just... buffering," George said defensively. "He just needs a reboot." 

"How do you reboot a wizard?" 

"Usually, a bucket of cold water or a mild shock spell. But given the chemical nature of the lozenge..." George rubbed his chin. "We might have to wait it out. Or feed him the counter-agent." 

"You said you didn't have the counter-agent!" 

"I said I didn't have it brewed. The ingredients are right here." He gestured to the chaotic shelves. "I just need... dried billywig stings, essence of chamomile, and... er... a tear of regret." 

YN glared at him. "A tear of regret?" 

"It’s a powerful stabilizer! Potion-making 101, YNN." 

"You are unbelievable." YN turned back to Barnaby. She gently lowered his arm. He remained frozen, a look of mild existential dread plastered on his face. "I am so sorry, Barnaby. If you can hear me, I promise I will hex him later." 

"He can probably hear you," George noted, digging through a jar of dried insects. "The sensory input usually remains active. He’s just locked in." 

"So he’s trapped in his own body, listening to us discuss his ingredients?" 

"Ideally, yes. Ah! Billywig stings!" George tossed a handful into a mortar. "Start crushing these, will you?" 

YN grabbed the pestle, channeling her frustration into grinding the dried stingers into a fine blue powder. "Why do you do this, George? Why do you have to sabotage everything?" 

George stopped rummaging for the chamomile. The playful atmosphere evaporated, replaced by the quiet that sometimes haunted the shop after hours. He turned to look at her, his expression serious. 

"I wasn't trying to sabotage you, YNN. I was trying to... screen him." 

"I don't need screening. I need a life. I need to go on boring dates with boring men who talk about portkeys." 

"Why?" George asked softly. "You’re a Weasley. You’re brilliant. You invented the Sticky Trainers formula when you were fourteen. Why do you want boring?" 

"Because boring is safe!" YN snapped, tears pricking her eyes. "Because boring doesn't blow up! Boring doesn't die in a duel! Boring comes home for dinner every night!" 

The silence that followed was heavy. Barnaby stood frozen between them, a monument to the argument. 

George slumped slightly. He looked at the jar of chamomile in his hand. "I know," he said, his voice rough. "I know, YNN. I just... I look at him, and I see 'safe,' and I think 'fragile.' And I don't want you with someone who breaks. I want you with someone who can handle the explosions." 

YN looked at her brother. She saw the grief he carried like a second skin. She realized that his pranks, his testing, his constant need to push boundaries wasn't just about fun anymore. It was about stress-testing the world. He wanted to make sure things were durable enough to survive, because he knew what it felt like when they weren't. 

She softened. "George, look at him." She gestured to Barnaby. "You gave him a lozenge that breaks reality, and he’s still standing. He’s frozen, yes, but he hasn't run away. He hasn't fainted. He’s just... processing." 

George looked at Barnaby. A small, reluctant smile touched his lips. "He did say I was intimidating. That took guts, even if it was chemically induced." 

"He did," YN agreed. "Now, brew the antidote. Before he misses his reservation and his internal clock explodes." 

George nodded. He worked quickly, his hands moving with the practiced fluidity of a master potion-maker. He mixed the powder, the chamomile, and a few drops of water. 

"Now for the tear of regret," George said, holding the small vial over the mixture. He looked at YN. "I don't suppose you have any?" 

"I regret letting you meet him," she deadpanned. 

"That'll do." He held the vial near her eye. She laughed, a short, wet sound, and wiped a tear of frustration/laughter from her cheek, letting it drop into the vial. 

The potion hissed and turned a soothing golden color. 

"Right," George said. "Open up, Barnaby." 

He pried Barnaby’s jaw open—which required surprising force—and poured the liquid in. He massaged Barnaby’s throat to trigger the swallow reflex. 

For a long moment, nothing happened. 

Then, Barnaby gasped. A huge, lung-filling intake of air. He stumbled forward, catching himself on the counter. He coughed, blinking rapidly. 

"Oh," Barnaby wheezed. "Oh, dear." 

"Barnaby?" YN asked, placing a hand on his back. "Are you back?" 

Barnaby looked at her. Then he looked at George. His face went pale. 

"I... I recall... everything," Barnaby whispered. "The undergarments comment. The mother comment. The... sweating." 

"Side effects," George said cheerfully. "No hard feelings, mate. You were very honest. It was refreshing." 

Barnaby straightened up. He smoothed his robes with trembling hands. He looked at YN with a tragic expression. 

"YN," he said, his voice shaking. "I think you are wonderful. But I... I cannot feel my legs properly. And I believe I have developed a phobia of cocoa. And your brother..." He glanced at George with genuine fear. "Your brother is a menace to public safety." 

"He is," YN agreed. 

"I have to go," Barnaby said. "I have to go home and sit in a very quiet room and read the Ministry handbook on safety regulations until my heart rate drops below a hundred." 

"I understand," YN said gently. 

"I’m sorry about dinner," Barnaby said, backing toward the door. "I just... I can't." 

He turned and fled. The bell chimed frantically as he bolted out into the dark street. 

YN watched him go. She sighed, leaning back against the counter. "Well. There goes steady." 

George stood beside her. He picked up the box of chocolates and closed it. "He wasn't right for you, YNN." 

"You don't know that." 

"I do. He ran," George said simply. "A Weasley date requires stamina. He didn't have the stomach for it." 

"He had a literal stomach issue because of you." 

George bumped his shoulder against hers. "I’m sorry. Really. I’ll make it up to you." 

"How?" 

"I'll buy you dinner. Not French. We’ll go to the Leaky Cauldron. I’ll buy you a steak and kidney pie and a butterbeer." 

YN looked at him. She saw the brother who had held her hand at Fred’s funeral. The brother who made the world laugh because he was afraid of the quiet. 

"Steak and kidney pie sounds good," she admitted. "But you’re paying." 

"Deal," George said. He paused, looking at the door where Barnaby had fled. "I really did break him, didn't I?" 

"Completely," YN laughed. "I think he’s going to need therapy." 

"We offer that too," George grinned, gesturing to a shelf of brightly colored bottles. "Sunshine in a Bottle. Works wonders." 

"Let’s just go eat, George." 

"After you, sis."