Chapter Text
GEORGE'S POV
March 9th, 2008
March 2nd, 2008
Mr. George Fabian Weasley
Office Above The Shop
Weasley Wizard Wheezes Inc
New York, NY
Dear Mr. Weasley,
Your presence is cordially requested at the commemoration of the 10th Anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts on the 2nd of May, 2008. All former members of the Order of the Phoenix are highly encouraged to attend. The ceremony will include Ministry proclamations dedicated in memory of the fallen, presented to their loved ones. You will be receiving the posthumous proclamation for Frederick Gideon Weasley. Please confirm attendance and your willingness to accept this award as soon as possible.
Best wishes,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
P.S.
Do attend, Mr. Weasley, it’s been too long.
George stared up from the letter, eyes glazed over. After rereading it for the sixth time, he felt himself sag back into his chair. He’d anticipated something like this was coming. Letters from his father and Percy had hinted at what the Ministry had planned for the anniversary. Something somber but grand to mark the occasion. A headache started to form behind his eyes.
“Shall I block the time in your calendar?”
George startled, whirling in his chair to see the witch standing in his office doorway. Colleen Lovejoy leaned against the doorframe giving him an appraising, if unimpressed, look. She arched an eyebrow before joining him at the desk, picking up the letter to scan its contents.
“What, are you reading my mail now?” George huffed, snatching the letter back out of her hands.
“As if I need to,” she retorted. “It’s written all over your face. Only the prospect of going back could make you look like someone just kicked your Pygmy puff.” George snorted begrudgingly. “You should go though. Face your demons and all that. And before you try and give me some song and dance about ‘end of year’ and ‘holiday rush’, might I remind you that this operation essentially runs without you?”
“Oi! I am one of the founders here! Might I remind you who signs the checks?”
“That would be Mildred, in payroll,” she said dryly.
Colleen rolled her eyes before levelling him with a serious stare. She had a way of seeing right through George’s bullshit. It’s why he “hired” her when he came to New York. After making the sudden but deeply necessary move to the states under the guise of American distribution for WWW, George realised he wasn’t entirely prepared for international expansion. Something Colleen had pointed out to him directly when he sat across from her, pitching the firm she had represented on a potential joint venture. She’d spent the brief meeting putting him squarely in his place, pointing out all the things he hadn’t considered and all the mistakes he was destined to make. George had left that meeting dazed but deeply impressed by the witch. It was no short miracle when she’d owled days later saying she’d take no role less than Chief of Staff, stock options, and use of her own decorator for her office space. George’s response had been short.
“When can you start? Oh, and we don’t have an office.”
Since then they’d built out Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes-US, with a NYC flagship serving as their American hub. Colleen had indeed used her own decorator, not just for her office, but for the entire floor above their Greenwich Village storefront. Business boomed, and George genuinely contemplated how he’d ever lived without this brilliant – if prickly – business partner. That was nine years ago.
George picked up the letter and studied it, his eyes falling to the carefully written postscript from his former head of house. The headache behind his eyes was now radiating down through his skull. He sighed and looked up to meet her gaze.
“Block three days. One for dinner at the Burrow, one for the ceremony, one to check on Ron and Lee. Keep this off the shared calendar.”
“Done.” Colleen pushed off his desk and made way for the door. Stopping to turn slightly, over her shoulder she said, “Last I saw, she was on assignment for a case in Uganda. She may not make it back.”
George took a tense breath and closed his eyes.
“It's where he’s buried, Col, of course she’s coming back.”
“I’ll make the arrangements.” With that, Colleen shut the door.
George let out the breath he’d been holding in. It had been years since he’d seen her and nothing about this anniversary was going to make it any easier. Forcing the memories down before they had the chance to multiply, George stood up, collected his cloak and bag, and made for the floo that connected his office to his home upstate. “Chatham House,” he said with practised clarity before stepping into the fire, letter still clutched firmly in hand.
~
George dusted himself off as he entered his living room, using his wand to collect errant soot from the bottom of his robes. He made his way through the old cottage, hanging up his travelling cloak and bag. He shuffled to the study, dropping the letter on the desk, stopping to scratch his barn owl, Iris, behind the ear. She hooted and nipped his fingers affectionately. Pausing to pull on a jumper before heading back through the cottage and out the back door, George grabbed his broom and kicked off into the sky.
After arriving stateside and spending a year and a half living in a rented flat in the city, George determined he wanted to live outside of the hustle and bustle of Manhattan. While he enjoyed exploring all that the city had to offer, he missed the open air and countryside surrounding the Burrow. With some help from Colleen (okay, a lot of help; she really did know how to do everything), he’d found a cottage with some land on the outskirts of Chatham, NY just a few hours north of the city. With few neighbours and ample tree cover, George took to flying when he wasn’t working, exploring the countryside. Being on a broom helped mellow him, allowing his mind to wander without spiralling down into the dark place he’d been in the few years immediately after the war ended. While moving abroad had been undoubtedly impulsive, it had given George the distance he knew was necessary to think about pulling himself together. Sure, he was still largely a mess, but now he could be a mess from the comfort of his own home and beyond the prying eyes of Daily Prophet reporters or the easy apparition of his family.
As George circled through the air, he let his mind drift to the letter. He knew the Ministry would be marking the decade since Voldemort’s defeat with something significant. The Wizarding World had been largely stable in the intervening decade, but that hadn’t eased the long memory of those who fought in the war. Little kept former Order members like himself from worrying that support for blood-purist ideals would rise again. The 10th anniversary was the perfect excuse for a stark reminder of what their world had gone through fighting back against the Death Eaters and their lunatic leader, and why they could never let it happen again.
Plus, it was an election year. As much as George admired Kingsley, it wasn’t lost on him that trotting out the remaining Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore’s Army members was just good press. Most had gone on to be prominent members of the Wizarding World. For his former DA members, it would seem becoming war heroes before turning twenty one made you incredibly hireable. Or in George’s case, an easy investment. More than a few wizards had jumped to put money into WWW after the war.
George shook his head, focusing on the skyline. There’d be plenty of time to think through who he’d have to see at this thing. For now, he was content, somewhat, to let Colleen make the necessary arrangements and push any other concerns to the back of his mind. There was just one thing to do first. He set his course back to the house.
After cooking himself some dinner and pouring a generous glass of firewhisky, George sat back down at his desk. He pulled out a quill and some parchment, addressing his response to the Headmistress. His hand hovered above the page. Something had been nagging at him ever since he opened the original note. Why was he accepting Fred’s proclamation? His parents had received his Order of Merlin shortly after the battle. Molly and Arthur were still alive, and even if they weren’t, surely Bill, as the oldest, would accept on his younger brother’s behalf. And if none of them, there was the most obvious option.
George took a gulp, relishing the burn of the whisky on its way down his throat. He grabbed his quill and scrawled a direct, if brief, response.
“Headmistress,
Please accept my affirmative RSVP for the 10th Anniversary Commemoration. I would appreciate it if you kept my attendance to yourself at this time. As always, you’re right. It has been too long.
Best,
GW
P.S.
I’ll bring the fireworks.
P.P.S
While I intend to attend, I do not believe I am the best person to accept my brother’s proclamation. Please consider Hermione Jean Granger the appropriate recipient.
George hastily added the final postscript and folded the parchment before he had a chance to change his mind. He stood up, rousing Iris and offering a few treats before opening the window.
“It’ll be a long flight, but Hagrid will take care of you when you get there. Give Minnie my love.”
Iris gave a brief hoot before taking off into the sky. George sat down and drained his whisky glass. It was done. He could do this. How bad could it be?