i.

“You’re joking.”

Molly chews back her smile, shakes her head coyly. The house isn’t quiet, per say, but in a rare stroke of luck the twins and Ronnie’s naps have aligned.

And he’s wedged around the bathroom sink with his wife, giggling like children over a potion that’s just changed color.

“A girl…”

The day she’s born, Fabian is there. Peers over the bassinet for so long, Arthur wonders if he too is counting ten perfect pink toes.

“Shit,” he says to Arthur over a cigar that night, after talking war, “this world will never be good enough for her.”

ii.

It’s his turn tonight, when they hear little feet across the kitchen floor. He’s not surprised it’s her, face still blotchy, hair sticking up everywhere from this afternoon’s tantrum that left her knackered.

She whips around in the pantry doorway, eyes like saucers. “I’m hungry.”

After leftover stew from her yellow paisley bowl, he lays in bed with her. Grants her request for a story on the condition she doesn’t suck her thumb.

“Once upon a time, there was a witch named Ginny who lived in a deep, dark wood…”

“No, Daddy,” she whispers, eyes nearly closed. “I’m a dragon.”

iii.

Molly tells him she cried the whole way home from King’s Cross. By early afternoon, he can still tell— the aftershocks seem to surprise her, those gasping little breaths. 

“You know the best part of being the last one left,” he divulges over homemade strawberry ice cream that has yet to do the trick, “is that no one’s here to fight you for your pick of broomstick.”

The rest of her bowl melts on the porch swing. She’s out until it gets dark in the orchard, comes in for supper with leaves in her hair and the biggest jack-o-lantern grin. 

iv.

The day they bring her back home, he carries her trunk upstairs and sits beside her on the bed. Apologizes for ever blaming her, even for a second. 

She counters by saying something lifeless and self-loathing and broken. Eleven-year-old fingers pick at bruised nail beds— tiny, perfect hands. He still can’t fathom it.

That night, Molly brings her dinner and doesn’t come back down. When he heads up to bed, he sees they’ve clearly emptied all her shelves, stacked every novel and journal and textbook outside her door where they can’t hurt her. 

He’s never been angrier in his life.

v.

Since this morning, he’s meant to tell her he’s sorry— sorry they couldn’t offer her anything better on her birthday than this condemnable house-turned-war room. Sorry for the second-hand leather satchel wrapped in faded Christmas paper, even though she wanted a broom; sorry everyone’s thoughts are on tomorrow’s hearing.

After dinner he finally says it, out of Molly’s earshot. Sitting on the stairs leading from the kitchen, plates of fudgy cake in hand. 

“Don’t apologize.” She’s still smiling huge, bumps his shoulder. The Flatulence Fez the twins crowned her with slips down over one eye. “I really love the bag.”

vi.

It should’ve been the day that made them proudest as parents, marrying off their firstborn. It wasn’t. 

This morning, they boxed up centerpieces and charger plates in the shed, repaired all the furniture, met with the Order. His ears still ring. The house is eerie without those three. 

He finds them in her room. His wife is clutching their daughter as she sobs harder than he’s ever seen, inconsolable, wracking herself hoarse. He feels it like a sword to the chest.

In bed later, Molly shakes her head with that look he earns sometimes when he’s being thick. “She’s heartbroken.”

vii.

Friday before Easter, he changes from work robes into something Muggle and tweed and itchy. Platform 9¾ is packed with people avoiding eye contact, and the Express is late. It was late in December, too— arrived without Luna. He waits, terror tightening his throat.

He’s numb with relief when he sees her, one of the only kids lugging a trunk like he advised. She’s swimming in a jumper he’s sure is Ron’s, and that twinges a bit. There’s something different, he notices, walking to the entrance. Colder. Quiet. He doesn’t ask… can’t quite bear to.

Four days later, they flee.

viii.

She’s fighting him. Kicking, clawing.

He holds on with everything he has, arms clasped around her chest, and it’s like he can feel her breaking inside. But if he lets go, he’ll lose her, too. Like Fred. 

Like the body they’re all staring at, lifeless at Hagrid’s feet.

Weeks later, when the Boy Who Lived finds him in the shed one night, hedging, guiltier than anyone he’s ever seen, he already knows. For a moment he considers letting the kid squirm, like the father ought to do.

But then he remembers her first year, and wordlessly hands over a screwdriver. 

ix.

“One more,” she tells their waitress, pointing at a coaster she’s put in the middle. “For my sixth brother.”

The table falls quiet. But then George chuckles and they all take his cue, except Molly.

Snow collects on the windows as the bangers and pies and chips are served. She laments early-morning practices to them all, pretends she’s already bored of all the travel.

“Knock it off,” Charlie snickers, grinning. “Rookies can’t complain. We know you’re having a blast.”

At the end of the night she beats everyone to the bar, pays their tab. Arthur suspects it’s her whole paycheck.

x.

“I definitely saw you cry,” she accuses. She’s graceful even in smugness, grinning something wicked over her lipstick-stained champagne flute.

He pretends to grumble, but he knows she knows. “Hard not to, with the bloody groom getting all choked up.”

The band calls them up soon after, and he pulls her close. “It’s okay,” she murmurs as her face starts to blur again, inches away. “Just admit you’ve gone soft, Dad. I won’t tell.” He tugs on her hand to spin her, chuckling.

They cut cake, and Harry whispers something that makes her laugh, and she lights up the room.

xi.

Predictably, the stadium loses it when she flies out with a new surname on her kit. Ron rolls his eyes as she lands on the pitch with a bit of swagger.

She flies well today, but he reckons she could miss every shot and the commentators would still talk of nothing else. In the stands, Harry laughs when Arthur leans over to ask how it feels to play second fiddle. 

“I’ll never be good enough for her,” he snorts over the rim of his pint. “But I’m sure you knew that.”

She scores twelve goals, and the Harpies clinch playoffs.

xii.

“I’d kill for a drink about now,” she mutters, leaning against the railing. He knows better than to say she probably shouldn’t be out here, either— the venue’s porch, serving as refuge for men who normally never smoke.

He takes a long drag as they watch her boys toddle after their dad on the lawn. “Nearly there, sweetheart.” Treading lightly with his words, lest he incur any of what Muriel’s other well-intended mourners did with their attempts at small talk (“Like a fucking whale, thanks for asking”).

“Hey,” she smirks, “maybe you and Mum can buy a beach cottage now.”

xiii.

The mug Molly poured when they arrived is tepid now, sitting on the table. Shadows lengthen like ghosts beneath his daughter’s eyes; he suspects they’re five days old.

The kids are all asleep, Molly updates them.

Her jaw tightens. At her temple, he notices a couple of gray strands. “I can’t—” she whispers. Squeezes her eyes shut; nothing else comes out. “They need their dad. I’m not good enough on my own.”

“He’ll come home safe, darling. Always does.” And he makes her promise to never say that again. 

He takes both of her hands in his, and they’re cold.

xiv.

They’re celebrating Ted and Vic beneath a canopy of fairy lights. Bill’s weepy toast prompts Fleur to frisk his brothers till she finds George’s flask.

She never realizes Ginny’s stowing the bottle. 

His children outlast their kids and spouses. It’s one of those nights he can’t let himself miss, tired as he is. 

His daughter points a wobbly finger. “Lils has a boyfriend, by the way. Doesn’t think we know. Harry’s going spare.”

He chuckles. “Now he gets it. Imagine trying to justify hating the Chosen One.”

She laughs, nearly tips her chair. “You should tell him that. Might help.”

xv.

It comes in waves. Feels like a lifetime has passed since yesterday; another before that. Molly— bless her— tried to prepare him for it. Tried to comfort him. Imagine.

It feels too big now, their little house on the beach. Perfect for two lives, cavernous with just one. 

She finds him in the garden before sunset. Small, warm hands enclose his. 

“Look, Dad.” 

It’s a delicate, fluttering thing with blue wings, bobbing on the wind. Molly’s favorite. 

“She’s found us again.”

Everything except the occasional pair of socks, or pajamas, or annual Christmas jumper. That were always maroon.

Ron hated maroon.

For the first fifteen years of his life, if anyone had asked him why he had a personal vendetta against the color, he would have grumbled something unintelligible then changed the subject. Mostly because he didn't really know why. The sight of it just filled him with a disdainful loathing that didn't feel justified or particularly rational. It just was what it was. A simple fact like the sky was blue, and two plus two equals four. Mum assigned him maroon at birth, and Ron hated it.

He wasn't ever git enough to tell Mum, though.

No, Ron had resigned himself to suffer in silence for the rest of his life in maroon hats, and maroon scarfs, and maroon dress robes, all for the sake of Mum being able to sort the laundry into color-coded stacks.

It wasn't until later, until he was seventeen, that he clung to the color like a lifeline.

Sitting up in the mouth of the tent, and watching the rain come down in sheets, Ron tucked his nose into the collar of his jumper. He pulled in a deep breath that still somewhat smelled of wildflowers and freshly baked bread. His chest ached with the memory of it. Of home. And he realized he'd wasted so much energy, so much time, hating that maroon had been chosen for him, that he'd failed to cherish the fact that he'd been chosen.

For so long, he thought being a Weasley meant a passed down wardrobe and worn soles on his shoes. When, really, it meant he belonged somewhere.

Something inside him shifted after that. He hoped he hadn't figured it out too late. And he vowed never to take that legacy for granted ever again.

Which was why, a year later, when December rolled around and Mum asked, "Ron, dear, what color would you like for your jumper?"

Ron nodded in understanding, “Everything…I know. It’s like my brain won’t shut off.”

“Tea?” Ron nodded again and Ginny pushed a chair out with her foot, inviting him to sit. He joined her, and they sat there in silence for a moment, the weight of the last days hanging heavily in the air. Amidst the shared silence, Ron’s thoughts wandered to Hermione, asleep in his sister’s room upstairs, unaware of the turmoil in his heart.

“I miss him so much,” Ginny finally whispered, her voice breaking. “It doesn’t feel real.”

Ron jumped at the sudden sound of her quiet voice, it was unnerving hearing her sound so broken. His gaze turned to his little sister, willing to comfort her, yet painfully aware that he lacked any effective means to do so. Instead, he reached out and clasped her cold hand, a silent gesture of understanding and support. Words, they both knew, were insufficient to mend this wound, but maybe a simple touch could provide some solace.

“He’d kill us if he saw how fucked up we are,” Ron admitted after a few moments of silent hand-holding, his voice quivering.

Ginny nodded in agreement, her tears glimmering in the dim light as she clung tightly to her brother’s hand.

After what felt like hours of silence, when in reality it was only a few minutes, Ginny spoke, “You’re not considering joining the Aurors, are you?” She sniffled.

“Gin, this isn’t the right time...”

“I won’t let you.”

Ron stayed silent, fully comprehending her fear, but making clear that now wasn’t the moment to discuss his future. Instead, he brushed away a tear from her cheek and drew her into an one-armed hug, holding her close as if to silently promise her that he would do whatever it took to stay alive. Ginny, obviously feeling overwhelmed by her emotions, started crying into his shoulder, her heartbreaking sobs muffled by his shirt.

“It’s just not fair!” She hiccuped, gasping for air. “I want this nightmare to stop!”

He felt his heart shatter into even more pieces when he heard the raw despair in her voice. Lost for words he simply held her tighter, as her sobs wracked her shoulders and reverberated through his own body. Battling the hot burning in his eyes he struggled desperately to remain strong for her. He ached to absorb her grief but the overwhelming helplessness only added to his own pain. After a few almost unbearable minutes her heart-wrenching sobs gradually subsided into sniffles. Eventually she lifted her head and mumbled an apology, her eyes still glistening with tears.

“It’s okay. No need to apologize.” Ron gave her a reassuring smile.

He couldn’t deny the deep concern he had for his sister. Seeing her break down like this was a stark departure from the strong, resilient girl she had always been. Ginny, having grown up surrounded by brothers, was known for her toughness, and her desperate tears were a proof of the immense grief they were all feeling.

Ron’s thoughts once again turned to Fred. He imagined him sitting somewhere up there, perched on a cloud, likely growing quite annoyed by the thick blanket of grief that had settled over the Burrow. But in addition to the grief over his brother and the constant worry for his family, there was something else that had been weighing heavily on his mind, something he needed to share very desperately before it became too much. As they sat there in silence he wrestled with the idea of opening up to his sister. Just as he was about to dismiss the thought, reluctant to add even more to her burden after her heart-wrenching breakdown, Ginny beat him to it as she turned to him, her voice still hushed. “You know, Ron,” she began, her brown eyes fixed on him with intensity, “I can tell that something else is bothering you besides Fred.”

Ron’s heart started racing at her words, wondering if she had suddenly become a professional in Legilimency. His cheeks turned a shade of red that was even visible in the dim light.

“What do you mean?” He asked, while swirling his lukewarm tea, before placing it back down on the table in front of him, hoping his sister couldn’t see right through him.

“I’ve noticed something’s different between you and Hermione.” Ginny gently placed a hand on his arm. “Come on, Ron. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other, something has changed. As soon as you’re in the same room, there’s so much tension you could cut the air with a knife. I can sense that you’re both uncomfortable. All these furtive side glances. Something’s obviously different.”

Ron knew that he couldn’t evade the truth any longer and let out a weary sigh, slumping back in his chair. “Well, yeah, we’ve been through a lot together. It’s hard not to…feel...something.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Come off it, don’t take me for a fool. It’s painfully obvious that you’re head over heels in love with her. You’ve been for ages. It’s about bloody time you two sort it out.”

He stared at his hands, noticing how his scars wove their way through hundreds of tiny freckles, before closing his eyes and admitting the painful truth, “I’m afraid of screwing things up.”

His sister let out a weary sigh and reached for his chin, gently lifting it up to meet her gaze. “Ron, I say this from the bottom of my heart, don’t be such an idiot! Life’s too short! You’ve seen that firsthand in recent years. You love her, so stop wasting time.”

Her words hung in the air, a silent plea for him to recognize the truth that had been staring him in the face. After a brief pause, Ron found the courage to share what really bothered him so much.

“She kissed me. During the battle. She kissed me…in the midst of everything...she just threw herself at me and kissed me.” Ron whispered as he briefly closed his eyes, remembering the moment he shared with Hermione in the Room of Requirement.

Ginny’s eyes widened in genuine surprise, as she tried to process Ron’s words. “She kissed you? Like…on the cheek?”

Now it was Ron’s turn to roll his eyes, as he heard the shocked disbelief in Ginny’s voice.

“With her mouth on your mouth and her tongue against your tongue kind of kiss?”

“Stop it!” Ron’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red, and he shifted uncomfortably under her intense scrutiny.

Ginny couldn’t help but chuckle, her teasing nature surfacing. “Wow, I wouldn’t have expected that from her.”

He sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair. “That’s what confuses me the most.”

“So, what was it that made her bold enough to jump on you? What did you do?”

Ron chuckled softly, recalling the moment. “I think it was me trying to save the house elves trapped in the kitchen.”

“I see,” Ginny grinned, suppressing a laugh. “And what happened next? Did you kiss her back?”

“Yeah, of course I did!” The memory of that moment replayed in Ron’s mind, his cheeks reddening even more as he recalled the intensity of the moment.

“About bloody time!”

Ron rolled his eyes again. “Come on, now. Give it a rest!”

Sensing the seriousness of the situation she stopped grinning. “Sorry, it’s just so unexpected. I thought you two would never figure it out.”

“We haven’t figured out anything. That’s what’s bothering me. We were kind of in the heat of the moment, and, well, nothing’s happened since. We haven’t had a chance to talk about it yet, and it’s eating me up.”

Ginny laughed softly, shaking her head. “You two are so bloody hopeless. Honestly, Ron, it’s crystal clear that you love her, and she feels the same way about you. Everyone knows. Even Charlie, who has no friggin’ clue about love mentioned it! Just tell her.”

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his teacup. “This all sounds so much easier than it actually is.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t already told her how you felt when you were at Bill’s place. Bill told me you stayed at her bedside for three days and refused to leave her side.”

His shoulders tensed slightly at the memory. “Well, we had other things to worry about. I was more concerned about getting her back on her feet. It didn’t really matter what I felt. She and Harry were more important.”

Ginny leaned back in her chair, and Ron sensed her eyes on him, the weight of her gaze heavy on his exhausted body. He was aware that she was observing the exhaustion etched on his face, recognizing the sleepless nights he endured due to his tormenting thoughts.

“But this is exactly what I mean,” she insisted, her eyes locking onto his eyes with determination. “You’ve been through hell together, unless you’re waiting for another battle to happen so you can make a move?”

His eyes met hers with a serious, almost desperate expression, silently pleading for guidance. He knew that her words held a truth he couldn’t deny, yet his uncertainty still held him back.

“What’s the problem, Ron?” Ginny asked with sincerity, all traces of humour gone from her voice, as she waited tentatively.

“I don’t know.” Ron mumbled, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his own indecision. His gaze dropped to the table briefly before returning to meet Ginny’s determined eyes.

“Why?” Ginny demanded, her frustration evident in the way she exaggeratedly slapped her hand against her face, a theatrical expression of disbelief. “You love her, she loves you. End of story. What’s holding you back?”

He sighed, the tension in his posture softening as he allowed himself to open up a bit more. “I don’t wanna lose her,” he confessed.

Ginny fixed her gaze on him, her expression growing more serious. “Really, Ron, you have to stop being an idiot about this. The way you’re handling this makes the risk of losing her a thousand times higher.”

“I don’t -” Ron began to protest, but Ginny cut him off harshly.

“Pull yourself together, Ron!” Her words were sharp, almost like a wake-up call. “It’s not like Hermione’s going to wait forever! She made her move, she put the bloody quaffle squarely in your court. It’s your turn now. Tell me, can you bear the thought of her marrying some cool Quidditch bloke, like Krum for example - someone she doesn’t truly love? Because if that happens you’ll wish you had gotten your pathetic arse up and come out into the open!”

“No, of course not! I can’t stand the idea of her being with someone else,” Ron huffed out in frustration as he ran his hands over his face.

Ginny, observing his turmoil, crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, a knowing look in her eyes. With a subtle raise of her eyebrows, she gave him a small nod. “See?”

“But I still hope that maybe she’ll bring it up herself.”

“What if she doesn’t? Do you plan to keep waiting until you’re one foot into the grave?”

Ron’s anxiety was palpable, and he could feel the weight of his emotions pressing down on him, similar to the suffocating grasp of the locket. “I’m just so afraid of messing it up,” he admitted again, rubbing his tired face again, his voice filled with self-doubt. “I’m not good with words.”

Ginny’s expression softened a bit, her brown eyes seemed to bore into him. “Hermione loves you, Ron. She kissed you, for Merlin’s sake. Are you really that daft? This is Hermione Granger we’re talking about!”

He swallowed and nervously fidgeted with the fringes of the tablecloth. “I’m so terrified of messing up our friendship and making things awkward.”

Ginny shook her head, her voice firm. “Ron, things are already awkward between the two of you! Life’s too short. You both deserve to be happy. If you don’t talk to her, if you keep avoiding your feelings - and her feelings - you’re not only hurting yourself but her as well.”

He nodded slowly, the weight of his sister’s words sinking in.

“Go talk to her!” She urged. “Now!” Ginny gestured for him to leave his stone-cold tea and go to the bushy-haired witch, who was sleeping upstairs.

Taking a deep breath, Ron tried to steady his nerves.

“What are you waiting for? Talk to her. Now! And don’t be an idiot this time.”

“It’s the middle of the night, Gin. She’s asleep,” Ron pointed out, seeking a rational excuse.

“Then wake her,” Ginny told him firmly, pulling him to his feet. “Now go.”

He hesitated, considering waiting until the morning. Ginny’s determined gaze, however, told him otherwise. She raised an eyebrow and threatened, “Don’t make me wake her myself.”

Now Ron was convinced that his sister had practiced Legilimency, during the time he had been on the run with Harry and Hermione.

“She’s asleep. It can wait till the morning. I’ll talk to her after breakfast.” he protested again as he tried desperately to make his excuse sound genuine.

Ron felt a strong urge to wait until the morning. He knew that barging into her room in the middle of the night might not be the most considerate approach. He didn’t want to start their conversation half-asleep and disoriented, potentially making it harder for them to communicate effectively. On the other hand, he knew that his hesitation had deeper reasons. He was afraid that if he confronted her with his feelings now, he might not be able to find the right words or handle her potential reactions. He needed time to gather his thoughts, to ensure he could express himself clearly and be prepared for a potential rejection.

Yet, Ginny’s resolve was unshaken, “No, Ron, that’s completely out of the question. You will talk to her now cause otherwise you will lose your nerve and back out. I know you.”

Ron couldn’t help but roll his eyes at her persistence, muttering under his breath, “You’re an insufferable pain in the arse.” Despite his grumbling, he couldn’t help but feel grateful for her interference, because deep down he knew she was right.

Ginny smirked at his remark. “You’ll thank me later,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile, while placing her hand on his shoulder in support.

He ruffled her hair affectionately, and in response, she tried to playfully hit him on the head, but couldn’t reach up, causing them both to laugh.

“You better not mess this up, or I’ll give you a piece of my mind,” Ginny warned, her playful tone hiding the genuine concern she had for her brother.

“Trust me, I don’t want to mess this up either,” Ron said with certainty in his blue eyes as he looked back at Ginny before glancing at the table. Noticing the teacups that were left, practically untouched on the wooden table, he looked back at his sister, “Erm, will you need help cleaning-”

“Don’t worry, I got it from here,” Ginny cut him off as she turned to clear the table the muggle way. “Go talk to Hermione, and please for Merlin’s sake, tell her how you feel!” Ginny added, and he nodded his head.

Before he left the kitchen, he turned to her again, “Erm, Gin?”

“No, you will talk-”

“I just…you know, thanks, I guess, for listening. Really, I appreciate the arse-kicking.” He said, shrugging. Ron gave her a soft smile, then winked at her. “Don’t tell the others, but that’s why you’re my favorite sister.”

Ginny swiftly grabbed a tea towel from the counter and flung it towards Ron’s retreating figure. However, he had already hurried out of the kitchen, leaving the green piece of fabric to land on the tile floor.

“But how are we sorted? What do we have to do?” Ron asks, taking the seat beside Dad and loading his plate with scrambled eggs and sausages. 

A tawny owl carrying an envelope with the Hogwarts seal arrived for Ron just last week, and he’s talked of little else since. His wondrous curiosity – this wide-eyed eagerness to know where each class is located and what time dinner starts and how soon he can try out for the Quidditch team – would all be sweet, were it not for the fact that Ron has been directing most of these questions towards him and Fred. 

George, groaning, reaches for the pot of tea and wonders dismally if pretending he’s lost his hearing might prompt Ron into shutting up for the rest of summer. The temptation to just tell Ron the truth is growing stronger by the minute. So what if Ron knows all they had to do was pull on a tatty old hat? It surely won’t ruin his first day at Hogwarts, not the way Mum and Dad went on about it. Does it really have to be kept a secret?

Fred, however, waves a hand at Ron, throws George a quick sidelong glance, brow raised. “Just a small test. Doesn’t take too long either, the sorting ceremony.”

George sighs but gives in. For tradition, as they say.

“It’ll be over faster than you can say ‘blimey’. You’ll barely even feel the pain before - poof!” He snaps his fingers. “You’re done, just like that. New house, new mates, you’ve got it all.”

The color drains from Ron’s face. “Pain? What d’you-”

“Don’t worry, you can scream if you’d like.” Fred is the picture of calm as he addresses Ron, who's frowning. “We’re all used to it by now, watching the wee ones squirm. It rarely lasts longer than a minute.”

Dad, his face hidden behind the morning paper, clears his throat loudly.

“Right, right,” Fred says hastily, “but we’re not supposed to talk about it. You’ll find out soon enough, only a few more weeks.”

“Just don’t look too scared when you get there,” George advises, buttering his toast before slathering it with generous amounts of marmalade. “They won’t sort you into Gryffindor, then, and you’ll fail our house test.”

“And that would be a shame,” Fred yawns. “Mum’ll have to disown you.” 

“That’s enough,” Dad interrupts, his voice straining suspiciously behind that newspaper. “Ron, don’t worry, and don’t listen to these two. It’ll be fine, trust me.”

Ron nods, unsure, and stares down at his plate. George tries his best to keep his mouth straight. It’s always so easy, messing around with Ron. 

Ten minutes later, and he’s passing Ron on his way to the kitchen for some of yesterday’s scones. George, glancing down at his younger brother, falters for a heartbeat. He should just let it go, really, but he can’t resist. Biting back a laugh, he pats Ron's head, offers the boy a sympathetic smile when he looks around.

Ron’s expression turns, if possible, ever more morose as he turns back to his cold eggs. 

“Listen, if you fail the sorting ceremony, Ronnie,” George assures him, “there’s always Hagrid’s apprenticeship to look forward to.”

Fred grins. “Yeah, no shame in working with Chizpurfles and Chimeras, dear brother.”

“Working with what? Is that legal?”

“So long as you don’t lose a limb, sure.”

Dad makes a sound, somewhere between a cough and a laugh. 

George is having a terrible, no good, very bad day. You’d think working in a joke shop is nothing but laughs, but there’s a surprising amount of paperwork involved. About the same amount of paperwork as the errant thoughts about Fred that keep popping into his mind. It’s one of those days. 

 Paperwork and grief: two things that (in George’s experience) tend to dampen the laughs at the joke shop.

Especially when Verity, who usually does the paperwork, has done nothing today but glower at him. Or she’s done her version of glowering: frowning and manning the till without taking on paperwork duty. Which, from Verity, is a sign that something’s deeply wrong. 

Finally, at ten past twelve in the afternoon, George says, “Get on with it.” 

“I’m sorry?” Verity asks.

“Whatever’s bothering you. Spit it out.” 

Verity, ever the professional, seems to take a moment to decide whether she wants to say anything or not.

George wonders what’s weighing her down. It could be something as small as missing the bus (Verity despises a lack of punctuality, and despises it even more when it comes from her) or something as big as a family member being ill. Both would result in the same slight frown on her face. Finally, she says, “I broke up with Gertrude.” 

George racks his mind, which brings forth an image of a blond woman raising her eyebrows at him and looking vaguely angry. Right. Gertrude. He’d never liked her much when Verity brought her around. She was maybe his least favourite of Verity’s girlfriends. And, given the sort she’s brought around to the shop, that’s saying something. “And when you say you broke up with her…” 

Verity’s mouth twitches. “I mean… she broke up with me. Or, rather… She ended things with me in a sushi restaurant, and I couldn’t enjoy my food in peace.” 

“She ruined the sanctity of your sushi?” George says, incredulous. “That’s it. This calls for ice cream. Let’s go.” 

“Go where, Mr Weasley?” Verity says. 

“Fortescue’s, of course.” 

“If we both go, there’ll be no one manning the shop,” Verity points out.

George fixes his gaze upon Verity, thoroughly unimpressed. “Verity. I appreciate your work ethic, but it’s a weekday afternoon. No one’ll say anything if we close for lunch, and this situation calls for ice cream. Let’s go.” 

Before she can protest, he’s managed to sweep her away and out of the shop. (She gets the closed for now, check back in later for more mischief! sign up on the door with a flick of her wand right on time.) 

Working in a joke shop, surrounded by neverending work and the thoughts of his brother, can be exhausting. But some days there’s ice cream, so. There’s that. It will have to do, for now.