SAINTLIKE.

━━   hey, isn’t that GEORGE WEASLEY? i read a daily prophet article on them, once ; the twenty-eight year old pure-blood WIZARD is a GRYFFINDOR alumnus who has gone on to be the PROPRIETOR of WEASLEYS’ WIZARDING WHEEZES. i’ve heard they can be quite imaginative & convivial, but i don’t know... they came off very avoidant & erratic in that interview. it really is hard to know what to believe these days though, isn’t it?

( 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 ) — belby orangery & arboretum ( 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬 ) — open

there’d been an issue with the latest shipment of supplies to slug and jiggers—some things were missing and some things had been added in. nothing too drastic but enough to warrant coming on down. and daisy’d drawn the short stick, in part because she had a car and there was too much stuff for magical transportation to be reliable. it’d gotten handled relatively quickly, dionisia apologetic and efficient in making sure it all got fixed. supplies were packed away into boxes and boxes settled into her car, all except one. she held it close to her body as she walked towards the greenhouses exit. maybe she should’ve asked for some help—shoved the box off on dionisia or that hande person dionisia had mentioned a few times. sweat glistened on her forehead and an ache built and built and built in her upper arms. her grip was loose and her arms might give out at any moment. but it was fine. really. it was fine. she’d make it to the car. until a purple blur moved in the edge of her field of vision. she thought nothing of it until a bouncing blub crashed the box, followed by another and another. she felt her grip go slack and the box slip out of her grasp. and she fumbled forward, tried to grab it. but it slammed into the floor, the sound of ceramics shattering echoing throughout the space. “what the fuck?”

—

George’s presence tonight was an expected one, deemed as such by both private connections and the public alike. After all, he was one of the many faces of St. Mungo’s charitable endeavors — his own, being famously scarred, was perhaps more well-suited than others’ to the idea of charity, a thought as difficult to swallow as the too-bitter drink in his hand. The man lets it settle on his tongue, while his other hand idly begins to swish and flick its way through some mindless enchantments. Undoubtedly, such actions were against Madam Belby’s rules for her precious arboretum, but in this space, beckoning an orange to peel itself into perfect slices and charming a tree’s flowers into fast-spinning pinwheels was far less dangerous than the absolute temptation of a roulette wheel or a poker room.

That is, of course, until there’s a cacophony towards the exit, a series of sounds that traces back to the enchanted flower-pinwheels now scattered atop the box, half-returned to their original state. “Blimey,” George starts dryly, too stunned by something as seemingly innocuous as his own mindless magic to form an adequate response. A hand reaches down to retrieve one by its vibrant petals, observing the details of his accidental handiwork. “They’re not so bad, for something improvised,” he comments before nearing the woman, an open palm offering a piece of fruit to her along with a sheepish smile, as he jokes in his best ( read: poorly-executed ) American accent, “Orange you glad it was only a flower?”

“Been a minute since Diagon Alley’s seen your pretty face, eh, Deaners?” It’s a standard greeting delivered in a less-than-standard way, with the speaker in question hollering to the visitor below from a place high above nearly everything else in the store as he balances precariously on the top rung of a narrow, wooden ladder. In the closing hour of the shop — famously, the most agonizingly sluggish part of his working day — George had taken to restocking the tallest shelves in the Muggle way, if only for the fact that doing so was as good a method as any other ( if not better, and likely less self-destructive ) to combat the creeping boredom he felt while waiting for someone, anyone, to come peeking in and once again fill the shop with the sound of laughter. 

All too eager for company, he peers down at his childhood friend, body leaned back at a considerably dangerous angle in feckless display of a scene practically ripped from their youth. “Actually, you’re way better looking from this high up!” George jests, obviously squinting to get a good look at the other before he gives up altogether and resorts to the inevitable: a quick slide down the side of the ladder and a surprisingly sturdy landing. His face scrunches up in comically over-drawn study of Dean’s face ( though a part of him secretly searches for anything new of note — scar or hickey or otherwise ) before relaxing into a grin as he acquiesces, “Nope, I just got to feel like the tall one, for once.” A thick hand comes to clap his friend’s shoulder, and he asks, the promise of mischief not far off the horizon now, “Did you drop by to try something new?”

He’s curious out of habit, not just nature, having trained his eyes to focus on some random, innocuous thing and figure out a humorous use for it — particularly where moments of uncertainty were concerned. It’s a practice he’d picked up while on a St. Mungo’s stay or at a support group session ( truthfully, rehab in all the many forms he’d tried had, by now, blended into a jumbled mess of one half-hearted attempt after another ) and so, muddy hazel hues fix onto the vase in the corner, its assortment of sprigs collecting dust in little spiral patterns. His head rests at a tilt, envisioning the sight from a different angle, while his ears are soon alerted to the presence of another.

Eschewing a proper greeting, George offers, “Hit that with a transfiguration charm, turn it upside down, and you’d have an adorable pygmy squid for a pet.” There’s a spin on his heels as he turns to face them, “So, which wand in here’s best suited to a bit of transfiggy, Tiggy?”

If one looked closely enough, it would become quickly apparent that George was a mess of swallowed excitement, edges shaking and fluttering like a bird’s wing against the current of a breeze. He flickered with good reason, however, fighting against the better  — or perhaps worse, as it turned out — part of his nature, and rather than partake in the celebrations, he’d instead chosen to survey from the top of the campgrounds, looking down at a world he knew as though it appeared through another’s memories : distant and unfamiliar, and all the more nostalgic for it.

An idea grew quickly, maddeningly even, if only for the fact that it gave him something relatively harmless to do. George stripped off his Harpies jersey at once, the ‘WEASLEY’ lettering faded from years of attending all of Ginny’s games and their ensuing celebrations. Rather frantically, he searched his coat pockets for a vial of anything that’d breathe life into his vision, half intent on creating his own kind of celebration and a memento of his sister’s victory. 

There’s a crunch of leaves behind him, but he’s too preoccupied with his little search to even care if his newfound company is friend or foe, and swings himself around to flash as eager and promising a smile as he can muster before realizing — “Alicia! Got any glitter? It’s an emergency!” 

The working day was winding up and more than anything, Lavender was looking forward to heading home. It wasn’t as though it had been particularly long and taxing, most of her time at work was spent sitting down for Merlin’s sake, but she was still exhausted. She always felt exhausted in the week leading up to the full moon.

She was surprised when she heard the bell on the door. They were closed, she’d put the sign up, hadn’t she? Lavender turned on her heel, ready to shoo whoever it was out of the store, but she stopped in her tracks when she saw who it was.He’d changed a lot since she’d last seen him, but she couldn’t blame him for that. She couldn’t imagine losing a sibling, let alone a twin. At school they were FredAndGeorge, almost a single entity, you never saw one without the other, but now? Even a short glance would tell you he was a shadow of his former self.

She grimaced at the childish nickname, and for a moment prepared to retort with something similar when she realised there was no malice behind it. “High praise coming from you,” She replied. “You with your joke shop, you’re practically the authority on mischief, aren’t you?” She ignored the jab, she was used to people discrediting her work, but it didn’t matter. Sybill always said Divination was only for a certain few. “I don’t fix the cards, I read them.” Lavender reminded him, but nevertheless she took the deck from his hand and began to shuffle. “Any game in mind?” She asked, adding “And they’re not going to explode, are they?”

—

“Mm, some might even call me the mis-chief,” George replied with an easy sigh, feeling reasonably at ease in the presence of someone familiar, even though there were years — years which felt increasingly like lifetimes — still between them.  “Explode? Honestly, Lav... You wound me. Even you know I’m at least a bit better at magic than Seamus. And, besides... They’re ancient, actually. Bill got them for me and Fr—” 

The start of his twin’s name was a foreign feel on his tongue, entirely out of a practice which had once been not just commonplace, but natural. They’d been a pair, yes, but a pair in and of itself was a kind of unit altogether — and with one gone, the remainder lost his footing, unable to deal with not just the loss but any sudden mention of his other half. George’s eyes fixed onto the table as he cleared his throat, the cracks in his facade noticeable no matter the smile he affixed like a bandage over memory’s wound as he continued, “Bill got them on one of his first assignments at some far corner of the world somewhere. How about we play Gin Rummy, hold the gin?” 

As if lit from within, his smile grew eagerly as Lavender dealt the cards, though it quickly faded upon notice of his hand. “Blimey, Lav... My hand’s utter rubbish. Sure you didn’t stack the deck somehow?” George jested as he discarded one of the many unnecessary high cards in his hand, the Jack of Spades. “Might as well start calling you ‘Quick Fingers Brown,’ if this goes the way I think it’s bound to.”

petriichvrs​:

GUILTY OR INNOCENT?

RULES:   you can only say guilty or innocent. reblog, don’t repost.

asked  someone  to  marry  you  ?   INNOCENT.

kissed  one  of  your  friends  ?   GUILTY.

danced  on  a  table  in  a  bar  /  tavern  ?  GUILTY.

ever  told  a  lie ?  GUILTY.

had  feelings  for  someone  whom  you  can’t  have  ?   GUILTY.

ever  kissed  someone  of  the  same  sex  ?   GUILTY.

kissed  a  picture  ?  GUILTY.

slept  until  5pm  ?   GUILTY.

fallen  asleep  at  work  /  school  ?    GUILTY.

held  a  snake  ?   INNOCENT.

been  suspended  from  school  ?   INNOCENT. ( technically. )

worked  at  a  fast  food  chain  /  restaurant  ?   INNOCENT.

stolen  something  ?   GUILTY.

been  fired  from  a  job  ?   INNOCENT.

done  something  you  regret  ?   GUILTY.

laughed  until  something  you  were  drinking  came  out  of  your  nose  ?   GUILTY.

caught  a  snowflake  on  your  tongue  ?  GUILTY.

kissed  in  the  rain  ?   GUILTY.

kissed  someone  you  shouldn’t  ?   GUILTY.

sang  in  the  shower  ?   GUILTY.

been  pushed  into  a  pool  with  all  your  clothes  on  ?   GUILTY.

shaved  your  head  ?    INNOCENT.

slept  naked  ?    GUILTY.

made  a  partner  cry ?   GUILTY.

shot  a  gun  ?   INNOCENT.

still  love  someone  you  shouldn’t  ?   ... maybe a lil GUILTY.

have  /  had  a  tattoo ?     GUILTY.

liked  someone  ,  but  will  never  tell  who  ?    GUILTY.

been  too  honest  ?     GUILTY.

ruined  a  surprise  ?   INNOCENT.

been  told  that  you’re  beautiful  by  someone  who  totally  meant  what  they  said   ?  INNOCENT.

still  have  communication  w/  your  ex  ?   GUILTY - ish.

cheated  on  someone  ?  GUILTY.

got  so  angry  that  you  cried  ?  GUILTY.

tried  to  stay  away  from  someone  for  their  own  good  ?   GUILTY.

thought  about  murder  ?    GUILTY.

how  about  mass  murder  ?  INNOCENT.

stalked  someone  ?   INNOCENT.

had  a  partner  ?   GUILTY.

gotten  totally  drunk  during  a  holiday  ?    GUILTY.

With a swish of his wand, the empty shelves of the store instantly filled with endless rows of the Delightful Dementors product line he’d invented in the wake of the Wizengamot’s recent announcement. Posters unravelled from the lofty store windows, highlighting the new toys and trinkets, each one more comically absurd than the last :

DEMENTOADS — watch as your new frog friend turns into the prince of your nightmares with just one kiss ! DEMENTOR DUNG — a new version of our classic Demon Dung, these fireworks set off with a loud smooch and our most powerful stench to date ! KISS FROM NO-NOSE — let them give you a little peck and watch them grow a nose ! varieties include: sneezing sniffers, playful proboscises, and the ultra-rare snoring snout !

It was laughter people needed nowadays and so, with great satisfaction, he watched as the morning crowd entered the store rampant with excitement, and bellowed for anyone along Diagon Alley to hear, “Grow your own Dementor today! Kiss from No-Nose, just three Galleons!”

The September breeze should not be so gentle, but it is, auburn leaves pooling at his feet as he paces through Hogsmeade at dusk. In his newfound sobriety, he’d adopted the practice of counting out a few observable things to keep him from spiraling like he had at the gala. And so, he chooses to fixate on the wind as he makes his way past The Three Broomsticks, wishing it blew more frantically in the selfish hope that nature itself might replicate his own state of being, if only to assure him he wasn’t so damnably alone. 

Alas, the wind simply wraps lightly around him, and George shuffles into whatever shop comes next and rests his head against a wall, eyes shut, entirely uncaring as to the shop’s nature now that he was clear of the pub. Inhale, exhale — he’d made it past the pub, even if just barely, and that had to count for something. After a moment, his eyes blink open to find a familiar countenance in a less familiar shop. Cartomancy. The irony was laughable. Divination had only ever been a subject in which he and Fred routinely tricked their teacher and amused the class, but cards — oh, he positively shined at playing cards, and without hesitation, he convinced himself that an invitation to play was less moving from one vice to another, and more a means of catching up with a former schoolmate in a way they might both enjoy.

“Lavvy-poo, is that you?” George asks with a wry smile, venturing further into the shop with bleary eyes as he takes it all in. “Scheming the world out their riches by way of some funny cards? Gotta say, Lav, I always thought you had a head for mischief, but who knew you were so devious?” He teases and sits himself closer to his old classmate, yet another one he’d barely seen over the years. “What say we have a game and catch up, hmm? I always carry a deck ‘round with me, so you can’t use any tricks up your sleeve.” He offers, retrieving the tattered old deck from his inner coat pocket. “You deal. One of us has got to keep the other honest,” George concludes with a feeble laugh, wondering exactly how much of the girl he once knew was forever lost to the War. 

     Angelina had enough of the night. She just needed to get home. She had made her appearance. She had made small talk with people and she had also ran into people she missed and people who she wasn’t sure where she stood with anymore. Angelina just needed some space and peace and quiet. It was so tempting to pick up a glass but she refrained the whole night and that took quite a lot out of her. She had her arms wrapped around her frame as she walked away from the crowd so that people wouldn’t see her as she made her escape.      She stopped though upon hearing footsteps ahead of her. She couldn’t make out a figure but she knew there was someone else around. Angelina continued to walk forward. Something in her told her that she needed to. A little voice that was whispering in the back of her mind that she needed to keep going. It wasn’t until she got close enough to see who it was that Angelina hurried to his side. Angelina falls to her knees next to him as she noticed the bottle of firewhiskey in his hand.     What had happened? Why did he look so beat up? She was at loss for words in that moment and concern was clear on her face. Angelina reaches up now with the sleeve of her coat to brush away the blood gently. Her touch was always gentle despite her not being such a gentle person. Angelina looked over her friend and she knew he was intoxicated. She knew it too well. “George..” She said softly, cupping his face, “What happened to you, George?” Maybe she should get him out of here. Somewhere safe. 

George flinches despite himself at the press of her hand against his cheek, surprised not only by the undeservedly gentle gesture, but the sudden need growing at the back of his mind, begging silently for more. Had it really been so long since he had felt the touch of another person, calm and kind? Worse yet, comes a louder voice, more consuming as it gnaws at him: Is it pity that causes her to touch him so gently? 

Any comfort she’d proffered quickly turns unbearable, yearning for more yet despising the very thought of being anyone’s burden. He shifts away from the girl he’s known since childhood, muttering, “Go on then, Ange. Rough me up like you would on the Quidditch pitch.” Gaining some modicum of strength ( if by sheer defiance of his body’s pleas for peace ), he continues, bolder, “Go on, I can take it. I’m not fragile—” The word ends in a sort of sad, twisted smile, pulling up then down at the corners of his lips like a kind of cruel puppet-master at play. There’s a choke in his speech, an abrupt, unintended declaration that spoke to the absolute opposite of the state of things. 

After all, he’d managed to turn everything in his life so impossibly delicate — from the way his family avoided saying Fred’s name aloud out of fear of his reaction, to the quiet whispers in his ear telling him his scars could be patched up with liquor and drugs, rendering what was already broken to begin with more and more breakable as the days went on. 

“I’m not fragile, I’m not — I can be strong, I’ll bloody...show that Auror...” George makes a feeble attempt at standing up, but gravity and the pleas of his body show him no mercy as he slumps back down to the floor he’s become well-acquainted with over the course of the evening. He collapses into shuddered sobs, caving into Angelina’s shoulder as he finally surrenders to the demands of his own pitiful circumstance. 

“Angie, please...” He croaks, tears streaming down his cheeks. “H-Help me. Please. C-Can we get out of here?” 

* PARCHMENT : The most formal ( i.e., boring ) version of the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes company parchment, not dyed.

* INK : The company name and crest are a deep indigo enchanted to give an impression of bursts of fireworks against a midnight sky. The rest of the letter is written in matching indigo ink, sans the firework-effect.

* GIFT : A small, white paper crane enchanted to fly in its accompanying cage. When the cage is opened, the crane unfolds to reveal a second ( more personal ! ) note.

Dear Mrs. Merry-Mathilde Lestrange, 

I am writing to express my sincere pleasure in encountering you at the Ministry Gala. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes is proud to call you a patron of our most humble shop, and we look forward to assisting you with any humor or hijinks that strikes your fancy in the future. 

Attached is a small token inspired by our conversation that evening. I hope it proves an endearing companion to you when released from its cage. 

We eagerly await your next visit! 

Kind regards, George Weasley

Co-Owner of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes

Letter in the Crane: 

Merry,

I need to get out of London for a bit. Care to join?

For the record — no, I’m not being cheeky. I just need to catch my breath somewhere that’s not here. 

Thought you might need to do the same. 

* PARCHMENT : Letterhead in a light pink hue, with an enchanted drawing of a lone pygmy puff rolling around the margins of the page. * INK : Dark purple, with a slight metallic sheen. * GIFT : Signed Weird Sisters album.

Ginny,

I’m testing out a new letterhead and need your opinion on it. Yes, the little purple puff is meant to look like Arnold. 

Contrary to popular belief, I’m not completely unaware of myself and understand if you’d rather stop reading, burn this, and demand a proper explanation in person. ( I’m just trying to spare you the misery of how my own stupidity has led my face to look. )

I don’t know why I made that night so terrible. I don’t think I’ve ever been that pissed

No, I’ve definitely, absolutely been there before, but... That night was different. Like I was someone outside myself, trying to make matters worse for everyone — including me. And, silliest of all, it was like I didn’t even have to try to get there. I even went into the night thinking I could do without my normal stuff. Just one night giving it up and everything went to unfettered shite. 

I think I’m a mess when I’m on it, and a mess when I’m off it, but that’s not really how it’s supposed to work, is it? You’re supposed to be a half-decent human being sans Firewhiskey — maybe occasionally a barely-decent one because of it, but certainly not an awful one without it ( guilty ) and an even worse one with it ( guilty again. )

Like that little bit of French I threw in? I’m thinking about nipping off to Burgundy for a week or so. Somewhere quiet. Might even bury myself under a mountain of cheese and see if I can work my way out. 

What I’m trying to say is thanks. And that I’m sorry. You could have ( should have, some might say ) left me in the Ministry all night and I think I’d still be thanking you. I know, it’s not high praise coming from me but I do mean it. And I know there’s no meaning to any of this without something to show for it, so if you’ll let me come with you, I’d like to go to one of those support groups you mentioned sometime last year. Someone I ran into suggested I go to a different thing with them ( it’s got ANONYMOUS in the group name for a reason, so don’t even bother trying to figure out who. )

Willing to let me tag along? - - - Circle Yes / Yes - - -

Not so saintlike after all, George ( your favorite brother )

While Kodi would have really rather spent the last hour of the gala relaxing and laughing, she recognized how important it was for the Department of Mysteries to be sealed away firmly from the public eye. So there she found herself, suited up in her red Auror robes, planted firmly at the entrance. There was a noise in another part of the hallway, and the moment she stepped to the side to investigate, she returned to two men trying to enter the one off-limits area. 

She strode towards them with purpose, grateful all over again for her sneakers, wand already drawn. One–the significantly drunker one–hit her with a Dancing Feet Spell while the other made a break for it. She snarled outright, her fangs flashing, as she almost overbalanced, feet tapping away at the floor. 

“I don’t care who you are,” she said, casting in rapid fashion a Knockback Jinx that slammed him face-first into the nearest wall and then an Incarcerous to bind him with thick ropes. “You are out of bounds, Mr. Weasley.” That name was definitely a familiar one, but wasn’t going to stop Kodi from doing her job. Once the Tarantellegra wore off, she marched over to him, keeping her wand pointed at him. “Get up,” Kodi barked. “You can see the inside of the much cooler Department of Law Enforcement instead, how’s that? Or at least sober up in the Auror Office holding cell tonight.”

While she didn’t think it was likely that he was a dark wizard with real intent to uncover the DOM’s secrets, that didn’t mean that what he had done wasn’t dangerous. He was a dumbass at best.

Now that one was secured, she looked over her shoulder, searching for the other would-be intruder. If he kept running like that, he’d definitely be stopped by someone else.

He’s too pleased with himself at the humor of his jinx to properly notice when the woman casts one of her own, and his face slams unceremoniously into the inky black stone lining the halls of the Department of Mysteries. George knocks into it harder than he should, and the amethyst-hued glasses he’d worn ( selected if only for how violently they clashed with the red of his hair ) shatter in the collision, crushed between the wall and eyes he’s thankful he’d had the sense to squeeze shut. Even without the stinging of glass against skin, George would know he was bleeding by expectation alone — how often the memories of war seeped into his dreams as a kind of combat-begotten glove over his hands, or as a sheath covering too many faces he’d known, almost to the point of rendering them ( in truth, all but one ) beyond unrecognizable. In each nightmare, it was always the same metallic sharpness that startled him so, convincing him upon waking up that it was on his tongue, or once again on his hands. 

George is too stubborn to scream, to give the woman the satisfaction that he’s in pain, not just of the physical kind, but that inescapable, internal one brought on by the house of cards that was his mental state. How stupid he’d been, believing a flight of fancy would result in anything other than the trip down memory lane he’d do everything to forget, the very same one he drank down each night in the hopes it’d simply disappear come the morning. He doesn’t even register the Incarcerous spell until the ropes are tight against his torso, already disoriented by his own trauma-laced recollection and largely uncaring as to his fate anyway. Uncontrollably, George dissolves into a fit of hysterical laughter, chest screaming in protest as the thick cords tighten with each heaving cackle. His body betrays the severity of the moment without his permission — he was being arrested, for Merlin’s sake, and no amount of reasoning ( drunken or otherwise ) could explain away this reaction, of all things. 

“Oh, come on, Your Auror-ness,” George starts, once he’s calmed down from his laughing fit. “Wouldn’t it be easier for you to just force a Hangover Potion down my throat and kick me out on the street? Get me out of your hair with just a slip of a drink?” He’s goading her and he knows it, aiming to provoke if only to see how far he can get — perhaps he really is a masochist, after all. 

Damien always knew George, or really any Weasley, was particularly quiet. But he forgot how loud and un-reserved they could be. The bellow makes his breath hitch and his eyebrows raise. People turn to look for the source of the sudden outburst and Damien slaps a hand over his face. Unlike others, Damien wasn’t necessarily annoyed like he would normally be. 

“I think you’ve had enough, George.” He lets him guide him over anyway. “A bottle? Fine.” George manages to bring a very small smile from Damien. But it fades as soon as George gets that signature grin, trouble usually follows it. However, it is so familiar that he couldn’t get that worried. “Alright, I can’t say no to that.”

“Damesies,” he starts gingerly, testing out the nickname for the first time and deciding he quite likes it. “So glad to see you’re up for a bit of fun tonight.” The sentence seems innocent enough, but of course, his pulse is already tightening with the promise of thrill and exhilaration as they walk down the long hallway. Halfway down the corridor, George takes a moment to survey the gilded portraits decorating the imposing walls as he takes a heavy swig from the bottle. “S’alright. Reckon a few more pictures would’ve really made this place sparkle,” he snarks with a roll of his eyes, clearly in jest, and passes the bottle back to his friend with an expectant look. 

They arrive at the lifts, and George jabs at the button with far too much zeal until the doors slide open. With a grand gesture, he motions for Damien to enter first and follows in after him. “Now, to actually see some cool shit.” The elevator lurches backwards suddenly before steadying its motions in its descent, and George knocks into the man unceremoniously, affixing him with a half-committed glare. “If you drop that bottle, I swear I’ll give the Unspeakables another mystery they won’t be able to work out, Damesies.”