Chapter Text
“Oy, Georgie! You gotta come see this,” Fred screamed from the first floor of their shop.
George could hear the commotion clearly from where he was sitting at the top of the spiral stairs, buried under a stack of papers in the circular room that worked as a makeshift office. He imagined for the previous owners, this might have been a place to keep the most valuable wares, to walk the wealthiest customers up the long helix until they felt intrigued by the exclusivity offered only to them. The tall wood-paneled walls were lined with glass cases, now filled to their brims with potions ingredients, meticulously labeled and sorted; each box for a different best-selling product and an entire case for “experiments.” But for George, even the amount of order he and Fred managed was not enough to keep up with the chaos that was his mind. The business was expanding at an alarming rate and it took almost all of George’s energy to simply keep up the books, let alone the supply and creation of new, innovative products.
He’d have to hire a new cashier soon, and maybe even an accountant. But the prospect of interviewing made him a little bit nauseous. More to do. Always more to do.
“Georgie!” Fred screamed again.
With a sigh, George closed the giant tome that was functioning as a legger. He checked his reflection in the glass for just a moment -- you never know when a beautiful woman might decide to stop in -- and with a quick adjustment to his vest, he descended the stairs.
As the shop came into view below him, colorful shelves and school children running all around, collected in corners and laughing with their friends, it wasn’t very hard to find what had Fred in stitches. A young boy, at least he presumed he was male, had hair growing wildly all around his neck and each time he tried to speak to George’s twin, who casually sat upon the counter overlooking an adoring crowd of youngsters, his voice came out as a purr or a roar; a little lion in all but body.
Fred turned to his brother and smiled. “Combined those jelly beans and the shape-shifting gumdrops you released last week. Wish we would have thought of it ourselves.”
And with that, Fred jumped onto the counter and reached into his pocket. He examined the candies within and with a quick decision, tossed two George’s way.
“Ready for some fun, Gred?”
With the eager eyes of the children and the cheshire grin of his brother upon him, George left the mounds of paperwork behind him in exchange for some mischief.
“After you, Forge, my good sir!” George called as he too hopped up on the counter, the crowd around them growing ever stronger.
“Now, friends, don’t try this at home,” Fred said, to which George followed up, “Yeah, wait until you get to school. Give ol’ Minerva a show for us, won’t ya?”
And that was what you saw as you walked back to your bookstore as the sun began to set. Not George Weasley, the wonderfully brilliant mastermind behind new and amazing treats, the skilled bookkeeper and investor, the hilarious and bright man who found such joy in his work and his family, and the soft and caring brother who always knew the right things to say to make anyone smile. No, what you saw was a self-obsessed fool standing on a countertop with a face vaguely resembling a seal as he tried to balance massive gumballs upon his snout. You saw only a man who was fueled on the adoration of others and on creating chaos for the sake of chaos, running a shop that was so popular it was encroaching on the entirety on Diagon Alley.
You looked on only for a moment, at the bright yellow lights of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, like a beacon to children of the joys within. And you thought just maybe that strangely beautiful pompous Weasley brother met your gaze just before you continued your journey to your humble shop down the road.
“You okay, George?” Grizzly bear Fred asked his brother. But George didn’t really hear him. His eyes were intent on the street just outside. Bright eyes, the brim of an adorable nose, and the shine of a maroon cloak in the setting sunlight consumed his vision, but not more than the saddened pout on that near perfect face, a perfect face that slipped into the crowd of busy commuters and was gone as quickly as it came.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah,” George said after a moment. “Just--”
“A pretty face?” Fred asked with a wink. Immediately, George began to blush, or at least he thought he was. It was hard to tell with the strange texture of his skin at present.
“Prettier than Angie’s?” Fred asked later that night as they locked up the shop.
George sighed, “You know that’s over, Fred. Please stop bringing.”
As Fred clicked off the last of the lights, he addressed his brother who was already halfway up the stairs towards their apartment. “Maybe if you’d gone on a single date these past four years, I would. Speaking of which, I’m meeting Lee at the Leaky Cauldron if you want a crack at getting back in the game?”
George laughed, “Lee’s not really my type, mate. Have fun.”
George heard Fred screaming, “You’re not going to find that pretty face in our apartment, Georgie. At least not until you invite her up yourself.”
And George shut the door to their suite before he could hear any more of his brother’s silly encouragements. Thought George knew he was right, he had more pressing things to focus on at the moment. Romance could come much later. If this woman was perfect for him, she’d be perfectly fine waiting until the business was settled.
Though he’d been saying that to himself for years now…. Would things ever settle or had he and Fred opened a can of worms that would consume their lives forever?
That night, in your apartment over your shop just ten doors down the way, you also laid in bed contemplating the same things. Years now you had been with the same person, the man you thought you’d marry someday if things kept going as they had when you first started up. But they hadn’t. Thomas was still your dear friend, and you owed him so much for helping you transition to life in the UK, but the passion was completely gone. You were both going through the motions, you knew, neither of you willing to say the words to end it for good.
Passion. When you first opened your shop, you were so excited about bringing fiction to the lives of the wizarding community. All the books shop you had seen only sold textbooks and reference literature. Occasionally there was “fiction” masked as memoir, but a proper narrative was lost on adults. You wanted to expose witches and wizards to adventure, horror, humor, and romance. You even brought in books from muggle communities. You had a robust section for children and a daily storytime that was widely attended, mostly due to your impressive use of magic to create visuals and voices to go with each story. But sales were questionable. You loved what you did but it wasn’t necessarily sustainable. The landlord was already on you about a potentially having someone else willing to pay a higher price for the space. If that were true, you may have to kiss this dream goodbye. But then what would you have left? Thomas who hadn’t kissed you with love in months?
At least you had a good group of friends who’d let you crash on their couches until you figured out your next career move. The Weasleys had a help wanted sign up still, didn’t they? You laughed at the thought of working for those pompous fools.
But speaking of friends, you lifted yourself out of bed and lit the candle upon your desk, waking Diomedes, your owl, and penned a letter to your longest and dearest friend.
The following morning, George insisted on now interruptions. He needed several hours in the office to get up to date on the books before they met with the realtors next week to discuss expansion.
And as lunch time came and went, George had almost actualizing the previous month when he heard a strong and insistent banging at the window just beside his desk. He pulled his head away to see a tawny owl, more cream than brown, with a long piece of parchment tied securely to his ankle. The owl tilted his head, asking to be let in. George obliged his request.
Immediately, the owl swooped in and positioned himself on the end of the desk, his leg in the air to be plucked of the parchment. He didn’t recognize the bird. Maybe Ron got a new bird through work or Ginny is using one from a local owlery while she’s in tournament play.
“Someone trained you well, little mister,” George said to the animal. As if hearing him, the bird screeched and flapped before settling back against the bookshelves in the far corner of the room, clearly awaiting a reply.
And so George opened the scroll, expecting the opening line to explain the unfamiliar bird but instead he found a note in pleasant script addressed to a, “Peaches.”
Dearest Peaches,
I’ve been thinking a lot about those nights you and I spent in your clubhouse during summers as children. We would talk about how we wanted life to be when we grew up. I remember each night was a different elaborate story. We would start a band and travel the world performing in every tavern and pub in the wizarding world until someone took us seriously. We’d buy a house in the hills of the Pyrenees and catalogue all the creatures that hid within. We become two of the greatest aurors the world would ever know and tear down dark wizards around the world, maybe hunt vampires and werewolves too. We’d marry brothers so we could be sisters-in-law and have a brood of children who’d be best friends. We had so many dreams.
Did you ever notice that we never simply imagined being happy? Each story was always about doing something grand. All the small moments of life -- the lunches with friends, the Christmas dinners with family, the books we’d read and the vacations we’d take -- were completely left out. But isn’t life just a series of small moments? Does there have to be a grand adventure, a great love, an epic quest, to make this life meaningful? Or can we just exist? Can we just be two people happily moving forward each day?
Don’t get me wrong. I want passionate love. I want harrowing escapades. I want tales to tell. But more than anything I want to wake up each day to something that makes me smile and fall asleep to the same. And I feel like I am just getting there...
I hope today you find something to make you happy, my friend.
Yours,
Cherry
As George read the words, he felt he could anticipate the next sentence. Had he not wanted the exact same thing as a child. He pictured sitting with Fred in their beds, pushed together despite mum’s protests about how to doing so would scuff her floors, and plotting the trajectory of their lives. Dragon-taming with Charlie or curse-breaking with Bill or playing quidditch for England’s team as they won the World Cup. But now, as adult life was settling in, he was realizing he was much more fulfilled by the smiles he put on children’s faces, by the laughs he shared with Fred as they came up with a new treat, and the coos of his nieces asleep in his arms after Easter dinner.
Whomever was on the other end of this letter, this “Cherry” which he assumed was a codename, seemed to know just the tiniest part of his soul. He found himself smiling at the thought of a woman for the first time in many moons.
“Dear Cherry,” his letter began as he completely ignored the growling of his stomach letting him know he needed lunch. The tawny owl was staring at him intently as he put words to paper.
Your owl seems to have confused my office for the home of your dear Peaches. Thought I must say, I am not sure he made a mistake. I needed to read your words today. Things have been overwhelming stressful and I have found myself trying to see the forest through the trees. Your letter has helped remind me that the trees are valuable all on their own.
I like to think I’m the kind of guy who can find joy in most things, but sometimes the pressure to succeed is overwhelming. Work used to just be fun. The fact that it made me money was an added bonus. But now… I don’t know. It feels like work. Like you, I think I’m getting close to the things that make me happy. Maybe I just need you to help change my focus...
But, tell me, Cherry. I’m intrigued. How come a woman with a lovely mind like yours hasn’t found herself some passionate love?
Sincerely,
Call me Rhubarb