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The calm after the storm was brief, maybe even more so for George Weasley. The darkness that had been growing in the wizarding world, like thunderous rain clouds, had been dispersed, but it left behind the strong winds of change.
What followed the Battle of Hogwarts was a flurry of trials, reparations, and rebuilding. It would take months, perhaps years, and still, the next generation would feel the ripples.
George reached out to open the door of the flat above the joke shop. He held it open for a long moment.
Waiting.
He jolted, as if waking up from a dream, and let the door swing shut behind him. It was hardest in the small, everyday moments where he would forget Fred Weasley wasn’t there. Since birth, the twins had rarely been apart for longer than a few hours. A constant companion through life.
But now, George was alone and what a strange thought that was.
It was lonely. It was quiet. It was altogether strange and unsettling, George decided. He had never given much thought about what it was like for other people to be alone for extended lengths. It always seemed like a given that he and Fred were never far from each other.
The protective wards clicked back into place, and George began to descend the stairs. His steps faltered as he reached the ground floor. The back door that led into the shop was right there. His chest tightened as it always did when he stood there.
Their life had always been about bringing laughter–sometimes it worked and other times it didn’t, but they had never faltered. George was faltering now.
He could see it clearly, the Battle of Hogwarts. There was no escape in his waking moments, while even sleep gave no reprieve. His dreams replayed the night. Fred had gone ahead as George was helping another student get to safety. He had heard the echoes of Fred’s laughter and thought he could make out the voice of his estranged brother, Percy.
The lifeless form of Fred’s was taken to the Great Hall, laid among all the others who had given their life for the cause. His eyes had been closed, but a smile was on his lips.
As he had laughed in life, so too did he laugh in death.
George’s hand remained outstretched, hovering by the handle but not touching. He couldn’t do it. He could not bring himself to enter the shop, no matter how many times he had tried.
George averted his gaze to the wooden floor. Making his way outside, he didn’t look around before Disapparating with a soft crack.
Muggle London scarcely noticed when he stepped out from the shadows of an alley. Here, he was no one–his clothes might be a tad odd, however, as he had forgone traditional wizarding robes, it was nothing worth a second glance.
He had tried, once, to walk around Diagon Alley, but everything had felt wrong. Not that they had felt right the past couple of years either. Numerous shops had been ransacked, some closed altogether, and a handful had become host to the darker arts of magic. Albeit, at the time, the most striking thing was the people or lack thereof.
As new life will sprout up through the ash after a volcanic eruption, so too did life return to Diagon Alley.
A handful of new shops had popped up now that things were safe again. George found it disorienting to see how quickly change came. Meanwhile, other stops, like Ollivanders, remained the same as ever. He could see himself and Fred shopping for their school supplies, excited for another year of pranks. Both were devastating reminders that the world was moving on without his other half, without himself.
George wandered listlessly. He had long since learned enough to navigate the Muggle streets safely, though he did not understand how their vehicles worked without magic. Nor did he understand how the lights changed colour or why their pictures did not move, yet they had boxes with moving pictures. If Fred were here, he would surely be thinking up at least a dozen new product ideas based on what they were seeing.
It was curious to see this other side of London, one that had no idea the kind of war that had been waged. They lived so differently. George could see why his father was fascinated with Muggle things, though his explanations were often lacking. George idly wondered if this was how Muggle-borns felt stepping into Hogwarts.
—
For some time after Fred’s death, George had retreated to the safety of the Burrow, but as time passed, his visits had become less frequent. He was always welcome, of course, George knew that. Still, his visits grew shorter.
He knew his mother was worried. She smothered him when he did stop by with a near-endless supply of food and concerned words. His father was a little more delicate, but he had always had a steadier approach, preferring to let his kids come to him.
It was an indisputable fact that George loved his family. However, there was a certain kind of aching loneliness that echoed when everyone was gathered around the dinner table. It was an ever-present gnawing that refused to settle when he stayed too long, because there would always be one voice missing from the chatter.
A smaller, quieter fracture came one evening in the garden.
Night had fallen, and a chilly breeze stirred the nearby trees, sweeping across the grass. The windows were alight with a warm glow, and silhouettes could be seen. Somewhere inside, there was a shout followed by laughter.
Joy felt fleeting, yet he craved the carefree feeling.
Perhaps that is why George reached into his pocket for his wand.
“Expecto Patronum.”
The charm had once been easy. He could still picture the silvery wisp that would flow from his wand like a flood, coalescing until the shape of a mischievous meerkat sprang to life.
Now, though, there was nothing.
The space in front of him was decidedly empty and dark. Not even the faintest wisp appeared.
George lowered his wand with bone-deep weariness. It occurred to him, like a distance though that was on the fringes of his mind, that he might never see his Patronus again, corporeal or incorporeal.
He tried not to think about it too much, yet his mind kept wandering back to the charm that now alluded him.
It was a few weeks later that he found himself back in his family’s garden after stealing away from the party, staring at the glistening stars that lived ever so far away. A thicker cloak was draped over his shoulder as a chill lingered in the air.
He had grown thinner, his hair was scruffier, and dark bags were prominent under his eyes. He knew this. Although he tried to hold his head high around his family.
It was like this that the older witch found him. Her dark brown hair was broken up by streaks of white that were not caused by age. Lacie came to stand on his right side, thankfully, for he never fully recovered all his hearing in his left.
“The night is lovely.” He didn’t respond, but she forged on anyway. “You know, there were times when Sirius was in Azkaban that I could not stand to look at the stars. And yet, there were even more times that they were the only thing keeping me in the present.”
George forced himself to consider her words.
“I imagine,” he began slowly. “I imagine that if Fred could see me now, he’d try and make me laugh.”
Without thought, George raised a hand to the side of his face where his left ear was missing. He smiled, a pained, grief-stricken smile, but a smile nonetheless.
“He’d probably say something about how I might be holey but he is holier now.”
“We all care for you,” Lacie said gently. “Take your time. The journey ahead will be hard, but you are not alone, no matter what it feels like.”
The silence stretched between them, and George shifted uncomfortably. Neither he nor Fred had been good with moments like these.
Eventually, his thoughts were too much. He blurted out the thought that had been circling his mind for weeks. He wouldn’t say he was very close with Lacie, but she had always been kind with a streak of mischief if the stories told were true. “I cannot produce a Patronus anymore. I am not sure I ever will again.”
Lacie turned to him. He glanced down at her, tensing up. She would tell it to him straight. She was never one to hide things, though she had more tact than Sirius–not that it was hard to be more tactful than Sirius.
“That may be true,” she said, twirling her wand between her fingers, “but there was a time I thought I would never produce another Patronus either.”
An objection almost spilt from his lips, for Sirius had come back.
Lacie held up her hand to stop him. Her eyes were understanding as she explained, “I believe I lost my Patronus the day Sirius was taken to Azkaban, and it took me almost five years to regain it.”
Five years was a long time. Five years and Sirius would still have been in Azkaban.
George clenched his hands in tight fists as he tried to calm his racing heart. His throat felt tight.
“How?” George's voice wavered just a little. “How did you manage it?”
“It takes time.”
“Just time?”
“When I was able to cast a Patronus again, I wondered what was different. What had changed?” Lacie reached for her wand that was tucked into her robes pocket. With a simple flick, a thin booklet was summoned. She flipped through the pages and tore out a select few. Pocketing the book, she offered the pages to George. “I have a theory, and I’ve been meaning to write a paper on it. I think you may find it interesting.”
George took the pages carefully, though it was too dark to mark out the words. He folded them to slip into his pocket.
—
Nothing changed, and yet everything had changed. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the fog began to lift. The sadness lingered, heavy as ever, but there came fleeting moments where George found he was tired of being listless. Moments of clarity that broke through everything else. Stagnation was never in his nature, and yet he had been trapped in amber for the longest time.
He wanted to laugh again–with Fred, but that was no longer an option. Fred would never have wanted him to give up his happiness; he would have wanted him to remember but not to drown. Never to drown.
Life beyond grief seemed so far away. May forever remain on the horizon, but living alongside the grief no longer seemed insurmountable. Each step closer was progress.
Others may have told him he was beginning to adjust, to get used to life without his twin. George knew the truth. He would never be used to it. How could he? Every reflection of himself was a reminder of what his twin could have been, what once was.
All he could do was try. Some days it worked, and others it failed so completely that he wanted to run from every problem he had ever had.
Time moved on, agonizingly slow yet painfully fast.
A piece of paper slipped from his pocket. George picked it up. It was the pages that Lacie had handed to him some time ago. He hadn’t been ready then. Now, he could admit to himself that he was afraid to learn what she had written.
Today, he felt lighter somehow. He finally sat down on the edge of his bed and unfolded the pages.
Her writing was messy–barely legible, if George was completely honest. Perhaps it was beneficial, as it forced him to slow down as he read. To really understand what she had written. Much of the information on the first page was already known to George from his time in Dumbledore’s Army during his seventh year. It was the last page that gave him pause.
The Patronus charm is a complex piece of spellwork. Limited research exists on the mechanics of its casting, but it is widely accepted that the corporeal form reflects the caster’s innermost self. Unlike most spells, the wand movement is of tertiary importance in its casting. What matters more are the happy memories which power the charm. Major upheavals such as love, loss, and trauma can cause a Patronus to change forms, and in extreme cases, prevent the caster from producing one.
Most research on this topic focuses on forms that have changed due to love, but understanding how trauma affects a Patronus may be even more important.
Trauma affects the way in which a witch or wizard understands happiness. Memories that were once their happiest may feel tainted. Their sense of self is fractured, leaving them unable to produce a Patronus. They find themself fundamentally changed. However, it is possible to regain the ability to cast this charm. Just as some Patronus change form due to love, other Patronus will change form due to trauma. The key is that the caster must accept who they have become. They must draw on who they are and not from wishing to be who they once were.
Memories that once worked may no longer be enough. Instead, successfully confronting their trauma or drawing on hopes or dreams for the future may work better. Trauma changes a person, but there is immense strength in those who are willing to keep hoping, to keep dreaming, to keep trying.
George stared at the words.
Hope curled in his stomach; his Patronus may not be lost after all. Another part of him dreaded that its form may be altered. He could almost picture the sleek meerkat, romping around with the red fox that had been Fred’s Patronus.
He took a deep breath. Even if his Patronus’ form was changed, it was still his. Nothing could change that.
“Expecto Patronum.”
George held out his wand. A thin trail of silver mist escaped before dissipating. It was hope. It was progress, and for now, that was enough.
—
George wandered around the shop, flicking his wand here and there to clean the shelves that had collected dust. He restocked products, shifted displays, and arranged the chaos to be just so. It had taken time, a lot of time, before he had been willing to step foot into the shop, let alone into the workshop in the back.
It had only been a week since he had announced that Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes would be reopening.
Now and then, tears would prickle at his eyes as the emptiness that was Fred’s absence swelled. This had been their dream, years in the making. They built this business together from the ground up. There were so many products that were still in the works. They were supposed to have so many successful years ahead, working together to shape the next generation of pranksters. Reminding the Hogwarts staff that even though they had left, they could still cause trouble.
Friends and family drifted in and out of the shop to help with various tasks. Some helped with cleaning up while others stayed to chat. Each offered the comfort of their presence.
The hardest visitors were his brothers, their brilliantly orange hair so familiar. Anywhere else it wouldn’t be an issue, but in the shop, when he caught a glimpse of their hair around a corner, he could almost swear he could hear Fred calling out some witty remark.
George didn’t say anything, nor did they, but he was sure they knew.
—
Everything was nearly ready for the reopening. There was only one thing missing.
George stood behind the counter and carefully hung up a series of photographs. The first was taken long before his and Fred’s time at Hogwarts. They were so small and young, but they were laughing like someone had told the funniest joke they’d ever heard. The second photo captured them at work with their heads bent together. They seemed to be puzzling over a product prototype. Fred was animatedly pointing, while George was nodding, scribbling down notes. And, of course, the third was the grand opening of the shop, taken outside. They were both beaming with mischief-filled smiles.
The golden light from the sunset filtered through the large windows. Tomorrow would be the first day when customers would be welcome once more.
“Well, Fred,” George spoke to the empty room. “We built this together. It will always be ours. Now that it is in my care, I’m going to do my best to uphold what we both wanted. We are going to be the source of laughter throughout the wizarding world.”
The words felt right. Fred was gone, but what they had built together remained.
“Maybe… just maybe,” George palmed his wand before slowly raising it. He whispered the words, “Expecto Patronum.”
Silver mist burst forth. A dense cloud formed before it began to change. Pointed ears emerged, followed by a bushy tail, and finally a fluffy coat. Unlike the tall, sleek red fox that had been Fred’s, George found himself looking at a smaller Arctic fox that pranced around the shop. Trails of silver were left in its wake as it phased through shelves and ran through the air.
The creature of pure light radiated a soft warmth, and for a moment. He grinned at its antics and for a moment, George thought he could hear Fred’s voice ringing out, followed by his ever-so-familiar laughter. The corners of the shop that once seemed like painful reminders somehow felt just a little brighter.
George allowed himself another tired but true smile as the Arctic fox perched itself on the counter. It seemed to be looking at the photographs he had just hung. The ache of losing his twin would never vanish, but he would continue their dream.
With a playful leap, the fox moved towards the photos, and the charm dissipated in a delicate puff of silver light.
Fred was gone, but his memory and laughter lingered.