Chapter Text
i.
Like most bad things in life, it starts off with a dead body. It’s certainly not George’s favourite thing to see, but it definitely improves the otherwise dingy decor of this place.
They’re in an alleyway, of all places, with the rain only avoiding them because of some well-placed Impervius charms. The man on the floor is laying down on the street, spread-eagled, in a way that would be comical if it wasn’t… well, if he wasn’t as bereft of life as he seems to be.
“Question,” he says, slowly inching his way inside. “A couple of questions, actually.”
“Go on,” Harry says.
George starts to count off on his fingers as he speaks. “One, why am I here? Second, who is that on the ground? And third, is he as dead as he seems?”
“He’s very dead,” Harry says grimly.
“We checked,” Ron says.
George tilts his head to the side. “How thorough was your check?”
“Very thorough,” Harry says.
“I hoped you wouldn’t say that,” George sighs. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve avoided the rest of my questions, by the way.”
“It’s complicated,” Harry says.
“I don’t know if I’d say that,” puts in Ron. “I think it’s quite simple, actually.”
Harry considers. “Yeah, actually. You might be right.”
“We don’t know who he is,” Ron tells George. “And you’re here because… well, let me just show you.”
He uses his wand to move the man’s coat aside to reveal the t-shirt he’s wearing underneath. It’s a sloppily-made t-shirt, clearly the work of some bored teenager with a wand and too much free time to spare, featuring a picture of himself that – unfortunately – George is all too familiar with. George is well familiar with the style of t-shirt, as well, but this definitely isn’t the most high-quality one he’s seen. He knows the better-quality shirts, because he gave everyone in his family one of them for Christmas two years ago.
“Oh,” George says, looking at the man now, and then, “but I still don’t know why I’m here.”
“He’s wearing a t-shirt with your face on it,” Ron says, “so we thought you might know him. We can’t identify him.”
“You could identify him by his wand, couldn’t you?” George asks.
Harry shakes his head, grimly. “He doesn’t have one. Not one that we found on him or in the surroundings, anyway. Usually, we’d have to double-check if he even is a wizard, but, given what he’s wearing…”
As if on cue, the George on the man’s t-shirt grins up at them. Handsome fellow, George thinks.
“We’re pretty sure he is,” Harry concludes.
George shrugs. “If I knew everyone who bought clothing with my face on it, I would know enough people to fill several Quidditch stadiums.”
“So you don’t know who he is?” Ron asks.
George bites back the urge to make a snide comment about Ron’s verbal comprehension skills (or lack thereof), but he only manages to abstain out of respect for the well-dressed gentleman before them. “No,” he says instead. “No bleeding idea.”
“He hasn’t written to you? Sent you fan mail?” Harry asks.
George looks at Harry. “Between the two of us,” he says flatly, “who’s more likely to get fan mail?”
“Good point,” Ron says.
Harry sighs heavily. “Worth a shot, anyway,” he mutters. “If something comes to you…”
“You’ll be the first to know,” George says.
***
He doesn’t like to think about that day too much, the day of the match. He jokes about it, he gives t-shirts with his face from the day on it to his family, but he doesn’t think about it. Not seriously, not really.
And death is always sad (as he knows too well), but he doesn’t know whoever the bloke is that Harry and Ron called him to see. So it shouldn’t faze him.
Yet, as he walks back into the shop, it’s all he’s thinking about.
***
Harry comes into the shop the next day, just when he’s getting ready to close up. The shop door jingles as he walks in, providing a cheerful contrast to his dark robes and even darker expression. Once again, George thinks, it would be comical if it wasn’t for everything else. (That should be the motto of his life.)
“Got a minute?” Harry says.
“Is this about the matter you consulted me on yesterday?” George asks.
Harry nods.
George sighs. It was too much to hope for a peaceful day, he supposes. He picks his wand up from the counter and points it at the door. It latches into place, and the lights dim in the shop. “There,” he says, “we’re all closed up for the day. How can I help you?”
“He had a picture of you,” Harry says.
George raises an eyebrow. “Yes. On his t-shirt. We’ve established this.” He wonders if it’s the lack of sleep that’s making Harry slow on the uptake, or if old age is hitting Harry about thirty years too early. What’s next, a receding hairline?
“Another picture of you,” Harry says. He rummages around in his pocket, hands George a picture.
“Surely you’re not allowed to steal from a crime scene?” George says, to fill the silence, and so he won’t have to flip it over. He has a sneaking suspicion about what the picture will be.
“It’s a copy,” Harry says.
George already figured that bit out, but he nods anyway, to be polite. Let nobody accuse George Weasley of impoliteness. Heaven forbid. He flips the picture over, and looks at it.
“It seems to have been taken during–”
“The Yule Ball,” George says dully. Looks at the picture. Him, Lee, Fred, Angelina. All grinning at the invisible cameraman, arms around shoulders, the picture of youth and innocence. The literal picture of it, he thinks, and then wants to laugh.
“I haven’t seen that picture before,” Harry says.
“Why would you have?” George says.
Harry shrugs. “I’m your friend, and I haven’t seen it. Why would a random person who you say you’ve never met have it?”
George shrugs as well. “There were four pictures. One for each of us,” he says. “I’ve still got mine.”
“So he didn’t have your picture?” Harry says slowly.
“No,” George says.
“So… it was either Lee’s copy, or Angelina’s, or Fred’s,” Harry concludes.
“Well deduced, Auror Potter,” George says dully.
There’s a sinking feeling in his heart. He knows what this means. All of this, the mysterious events of the day, the dead body in the rain, the fucking picture… all of it means he’s going to have to speak to Angelina Johnson.