A Clock That Points to Home
The rain in Diagon Alley didn't fall; it assaulted the cobblestones. It was a torrential, gray sheet of water that turned the usually vibrant magical district into a blurred watercolor painting. But inside number 93, the weather was strictly irrelevant. Inside Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, the atmosphere was, as always, a riot of chaotic orange, purple, and flashing neon lights.
YN shook her umbrella violently before stepping fully across the threshold, the magical dryer at the door blasting her with a puff of hot, cinnamon-scented air. She smoothed down her robes, her red hair—a shade slightly darker than the trademark Weasley ginger, leaning more toward auburn—frizzing slightly in the humidity.
The shop was heaving. It was a Tuesday afternoon, which logically should have meant a lull in customers, but logic had never really applied to the twins’ business model. Teenagers from Hogwarts on Hogsmeade weekends (though how they’d snuck this far down was a mystery), parents looking for bribes for their children, and tourists wanting a piece of the post-war legend were packed shoulder to shoulder.
"Verity!" A voice boomed from the mezzanine level. "If that kid touches the Edible Darknesses again, charge him double!"
YN looked up, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. George Weasley was leaning over the railing of the second floor, his magenta suit clashing gloriously with the lime green railing. He looked like a ringmaster in a circus that had exploded.
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.
"Right then," he said to the empty room. "Let's build a bloody slide."
