❝The war is won❞
Voldemort has been defeated by Harry Potter for good, and the Wizarding World has begun its healing. The paved streets of Diagon Alley are filled with people vanishing broken glass, fixing up robbed shops, and reinstating their bus...
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AUGUST 11, 1998
HARRY
"GEORGE, WE'RE HERE!" Harry yelled as him and Ron entered the upper level of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.
It was a quiet nine p.m., and most of the shops- besides the restaurants- were closed. The store was empty and dark, but Harry could see lights up the stairs.
Members of the family took rotating shifts to keep George company. Since there were over twelve of them, the time was shared evenly, but the first month was the worst. He couldn't get out of bed for the first three weeks, and refused to eat the next one. He had to have someone, normally Mrs. Weasley, there at all times. Now he was mostly fine the majority of the day, but they still apparated in once at night to be there for him and once in the morning to make sure he woke up. Last time Harry was there was a week ago, and George almost set the kitchen on fire when he wasn't concentrating and tried to boil water with the wrong spell. He had apologized profusely, rubbing his tired eyes and blaming himself.
"D'you hear that?" Ron muttered to him, ginger eyebrows drawn together in confusion.
"Hear what?"
"Talking,"
There were voices going on upstairs. It was too quiet for him to distinguish who the voices belonged to, though. He and Ron moved quickly up the stairs, concerned- they were the only ones supposed to be there. They threw open the door, and-
Harry thought George would be on the couch. He wasn't. He somehow was voluntarily at the dining table, a place that Harry once coaxed him for an hour to sit at. His hair looked like a mess, but he wasn't wearing his pyjamas or his wrinkly robe, but a pair of navy robes that Mrs. Weasley had tried and failed to get him to put on. And he was drinking a Gillywater.
So was the person sitting opposite him. With slightly frizzy brown hair and a pair of linen robes, Harry couldn't see them. Before he could ask, Ron said: "George, who's that?"
George blinked up at them, hazel eyes clearer than they'd been since May. "Hello, Harry. Ickle Ron. This is B-"
And then Harry recognized her.
"Billie?" he interrupted.
She turned around, her blue wire-rimmed glasses catching the lamplight, and Harry watched as the corners of her cornflower eyes crinkled up in a smile. "Hi, Harry,"
"Who- what's going on?" Ron asked, pointing in between the two.
"Oh- Ron, this is Billie Holt. She's a seventh year and her dad made the banoffee pie,"
Ron gasped. "Really? You've got to get the recipe for that. That pie was the best thing I've had in days,"
"Have you all just forgotten about me here?" George said grumpily.
