Freddie

George

George woke slowly and wondered if the events of the previous night had been the result of drunken dreams. He then saw a jacket thrown haphazardly on the floor that could only have belonged to the girl (Katherine he now knew). He climbed out of bed and stumbled his way into the shower. He rolled his neck at let his muscles relax as the warm water washed over his body. It had to have been a dream. Right? Then again, the last word someone would use to describe the wizarding world was "normal". He supposed that he could go and talk to Harry or Hermione to see if it was possible for Fred's spirit to be lingering somehow. Then again they might send him to St. Mungos. Making his decision, he turned off the water and stepped into the cold.

Half an hour later, George was outside of his flat, walking across the pavement to the Ministry of Magic. He brought his scarf closer to his face. The sharp, biting chill of winter was present in the air, and it bit at his cheeks and nose. Go back, it seemed to say, you shouldn't be here. Ignoring the voices, George ran across the street to hail a cab.

"Where to?" asked the driver, and George noticed with disinterest that he had a bit of shaving cream behind his ear.

"Great Scotland Yard," he responded, slouching back into his seat. He was going to use the visitors' entrance to the Ministry.

Soon, the cab reached its destination. George stepped out of the cab and tipped the cabbie. He then slammed the car door and walked quickly towards the magical telephone box that served as an entrance, leaves crunching underfoot. He had heard Harry recount his adventure in entering the Ministry this way for the first time, but had never done it himself before now. He entered a few coins of Muggle money and punched in the code; 62442. He smiled, amused, as he realized that these numbers' letter correspondents spelled "magic". He braced himself as the box began its descent.

George gasped as he took in his surroundings. He had been here before of course, with his father, but it had been quite a long time. The large chambers were filled with witches and wizards wearing robes of all colors. Incredible feats of magic were being performed all around him. People were arriving through the fireplaces in bursts of green flame. The disgusting structure of the Muggles in "their rightful place" had obviously been removed.

"Well it seems Hermione has done a brilliant job here," thought George. Hermione had been elected as Minister of Magic almost three years back. She won by a landslide; no one could deny her intelligence.

Snapping himself out of his memories, George lowered his head and walked briskly towards the lifts. Though he had been surrounded by people, he had never felt more alone. Even if they did think he was mad, it would be nice to talk to his old friends.

Upon reaching the lifts, George took a sharp right, abruptly deciding to take the stairs instead. The lifts had been too crowded, and he couldn't deal with the pitying glances and comforting words. It had been five years since Fred died, but the mutterings had not stopped. He knew that they were trying to be kind, but none of them could possibly understand. None of them. It was better to go off-grid for a while and surround himself with people who didn't know him or his history, a fresh start. Again, though, it was lonely.

George finally made it to the top of the stairs and walked down the long hallway until he reached a door with a plaque that read "Minister for Magic". He reached down to turn the doorknob and let out a quick shout as the tip of his finger was pricked with a needle that seemed to have emerged from the handle itself. Confused, George bent down to examine the doorknob.

"You do not have an appointment," a mouselike voice said from some hidden intercom.

"What the bloody hell is-"