Lumos

Chapter Fifty-Eight: "Duel (II)"

A/N: [Notes, playlist, and content warnings are on the start of the prior update, "Duel (I)."

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"Duel (II)"

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Part IV: Vinewood

*"I have been intrigued to notice that their owners are nearly always those witches or wizards who seek a greater purpose, who have a vision beyond the ordinary and who frequently astound those who think they know them best."

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George

October 14, 1999, 7:45 p.m.

Trouble hunted him, didn't it.

A bleak thought for a bleak evening, but George indulged it while he restocked Ten Second Pimple Vanisher. It usually got picked clean in Diagon before a weekend, and he'd been too preoccupied to brew more until Fred handled it that morning.

George himself had been a bit wrapped up in a floo call from his dad at the time, or he'd have refilled the display as Fred finished.

"I'm worried about Bill," Arthur had said. "Doesn't seem himself. Has he said anything to you?"

No. But Bill wasn't one to share, and Dad hadn't given any details.

When pressed, Fred had added a bit more insight: "Yeah. Harry overheard Mum and Dad chatting about it. I guess Dad caught him covered in soot and sleepwalking in the living room at the Burrow—while you lot were in New Zealand. Half-past three in the morning, and Bill was just standing there. Staring at an empty chair."

Chilling, that.

George's stomach twisted at the thought.

Or was that hunger? He snorted downwards, still sorting the inventory. "None of that, now."

Food later. If he finished this up, he could eat with Hermione when she got through at the Ministry. The last couple of days had left her "loads behind on everything, and I mean, truly, George—everything under the sun." Likely, it'd be a late evening.

George bit down on his lips.

Fred reckoned Bill was going a bit barmy with Fleur's pregnancy; Ginny thought it had something to do with Bill's mild werewolf-ish symptoms. Hermione thought it might be brought on by lack of sleep.

George was less worried about what had caused it and more worried about who it was happening to: The person least likely to accept help in the whole, sodding family. Brilliant.

George plucked another vial from the crate by the little, red topper.

Bill didn't take intervention kindly when he was in a decent mood. Put him in a foul one, and the odds got no better.

Just that afternoon, Fred had apparently gotten a door to the nose when he'd popped over to "check in" after Dad's call.

Bill didn't seem himself, no.

And he wasn't the only one. According to Hermione, Harry was acting a bit dodgy, too. He wasn't distant, exactly, but he'd been less chatty about work. He'd put off a meeting he'd promised to attend and hadn't explained why. Almost like he was cross. Or guilty?

About what, though?

George's brow knit. Not the wedding. Harry'd seemed keen enough that day and after it. He lifted the crate housing the glassware storage rack a bit higher against his chest.

Were Harry and Gin having problems? Bugger. First Bill, now Harry and Gin.

Was he meant to say something? Charlie wouldn't, but then Charlie almost never did. What was there to say?