I Remember You // George Weasley x Fem!Reader

Make Freddie Proud

George Weasley's life has been full of a whole lot of emptiness since the end of the war.

Since before then, really, and he could never put his finger on why. Even before he lost Fred, a hollowness began carving its way out in his chest, a darkness so vast that some nights it swallowed him whole. All of the firewhiskey in the world couldn't fill the void that seemed neverending.

That's what he was doing on the evening you moved in next door — drinking to his heart's content, getting so absolutely sloshed that he wouldn't know which twin he was if he looked in the mirror. That apartment had sat vacant for months, and he quite enjoyed the solidarity of being able to play old muggle films on the television so loud he couldn't hear his own thoughts, so noticing the scoot and move of furniture helped ease him nicely into his next pour.

George made note of you leaving later that night, and again coming home at half past one in the morning.

"Oh, fucking hell..." he mumbled to himself, eyes rolling around in his head as he tipped his recliner backward. Ginny made fun of the way his feet hung so far off the end every time she visited.

Every giggle, every clinking glass, every little moan — he heard them all through paper thin walls, and it only made him consider more seriously moving back into the apartment above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. But being there was just as bad, sometimes worse. Being there, he had Freddie's empty bedroom staring at him, reminding him of the fair share of loss he'd been dealt in this lifetime.

He'd had enough. Once he started falling down that rabbit hole, George knew it was time to turn in for the night. He wouldn't put himself willingly on a train headed straight toward alcoholism, so bed it was.

Only he learned quickly that restful nights were to be had no more. Not twenty minutes after he hit the mattress, a gentle thumping created a metronome against your shared walls. Creative and rather exaggerated — if he had to say so himself — moans echoed from your apartment to his. George took his fist and banged on the wall three times for good measure, and your theatrics stopped for a second.

But moments later, you knocked back.

He used a form of muffliato to help protect his peace for the night.

George sometimes spoke to himself in the mirror when he was getting ready for work in the mornings.

He was a twin, right? Some would call it deranged, maybe other would say he was stuck in the grieving process — but on the mornings after he got so wasted he couldn't walk straight, he forgot who he was anyways when the spitting image of Fred was staring right back at him. It was the scene he'd witnessed for years, so it was only natural. For him, at least.

But the morning after you moved in, he was only halfway through getting ready when he heard the scuffle of life next door. Water running, trunks of clothes being opened and rummaged through. He had half a mind to rush you at the door and tell you how unneighborly you were being.

Actually — he had a whole mind.

George scrambled to pull on his trousers and tuck in his shirts. He was only just hopping into his shoes when he heard your door open and close, followed by the jangle of keys.

"Hey!" He shouted from his own apartment, hoping it would deter his new neighbor from making a run for it.

He tossed open his door, and it entered his mind briefly that he could also congratulate the fellow that'd just moved in for scoring so quickly after his move to the city—

—But then he saw you.

And, oh.

Oh.

A little light came on inside his long hollowed out chest. The flicker of a flame so dull it almost didn't exist, but it did . Something clicked inside of him then, when he saw you standing there with eyebrows raised, waiting for him — no, daring him to bring up the night you'd had.