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wingedtimemachinesoul · 14 days ago

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“Time is sentient, George, and it does not stand with being manipulated.”

The Essence of Time ch 1 ✨

George Weasley has always loved the color gold. It was half his Hogwarts house. It was also something his Weasley house never had within its four walls. It was earned, through blood, sweat, and tears of his own merit in his joke shop— school drop-out notwithstanding. Gold, from its hue to its shine to its value, is beautiful. Not in a greedy way, just an unattainable beauty that always seemed to walk beside him, companionably. Something he could admire, and then partake in, while having both nostalgia and longing all at once.

Gold interested him, it always did. Now, in the After it taunts him. In his dreams, in his memories, in every bleeding moment of his existence. Even in the Before, when he was a shell of a man, merely clinging to his firewhiskey and living on despite all desires, gold did not bother him as such. Nothing bothered him, he didn’t have a care in the world. In the Before, he was a pair without his match. Left in a limbo of sorts, one foot in the world and one foot in the beyond, following after Fred. Each day was a test— or at least it felt like one. What decision would he make today: stay or leave? It was a cruel choice, and many that he doesn’t quite remember making consciously. Most he probably did not, if he was being honest with himself.

The first of April 1999 brought it all to a head, and dragged George Weasley kicking and screaming by his remaining ear. That was the last night he had to make that particular choice, and if his current circumstances are of any indication, he definitely had no clue what was waiting for him on the other side.

George’s first birthday without his twin sent him tumbling into the arms of the bottle. Following that, he stumbled down the narrow stairs which led to the back of his shop, aggravated and searching for his wand.

The spell wouldn’t work, when he whispered or when he shouted. It just wouldn’t. He slammed the offending wood against his wrist over and over— wild sparks ricocheting off the shelves. Explosions and liquids and fireworks and bubbles filled the air, crowding the space and overwhelming his senses. He screamed until his voice caught in his throat, until all he had left was soundless sobs, that rocked his body against the floor. It was pointless— his wand refused to harm its master. To break the allegiance it so cherished.

He chucked the black walnut against the wall, sending gold sparks flashing through the dark workroom. Pointless. Utterly pointless. George let out a hoarse moan, the choice floating above him, mocking him.

I tried! He roared to no one. To the great beyond, he really didn’t know. It was the Before, it’s all a blur to him now.

But did he, really?

The shop creaked at times. Whether the age, or the weight, or the magic of a building full of laughter, they never knew. They were accustomed to the sound, even joked more than once that 93 Diagon Alley just liked to check in, say hello.

At that moment, on George’s twenty-first birthday, but not Fred’s, their home creaked. The stairs actually. They were steep, and narrow and many.

It was at the bottom of these wooden stairs, well after high tea time, late on the first of April that Hermione Granger found one lone broken man. The morning of the second of April found that broken, twenty-one year old man safely tucked in his bed, Skele-Gro resting offensively on his nightstand, and his collarbone wrapped tightly. His friend holding tight to his hand on the uninjured side of his body and staring at him with her all-seeing owl-ish eyes. And on that morning he couldn’t face her, nor on the third morning. He couldn’t face himself, either. He had avoided that choice for three-hundred and thirty-four days. He limped through the sunlight and the moonlight, not living, but not doing the other thing either. And then when he finally made a choice— the world in all its buggery wouldn’t let him do it. Not his magic. Not his home. Not his friend. So he avoided her gaze. He stayed silent and didn’t answer her questions, her pleas. He sat and breathed, and fumed, and mourned. But she didn’t give up. It was a battle, apparently, the kind he hasn’t played in a very long while. Hermione Granger played very well, George soon learned. She could play the long game. She could outsmart anyone, he already knew that, but battle strategies? Warfare? Color him impressed. She met his silence with presence. She emboldened herself to solidify her right to be there, in his home. She washed his dishes, all one million of them that had piled up from his despicable human needs. She scourgified his laundry, and mopped his floors the Muggle way. She gave him a satisfied, if not small, smile under her flushed skin, slightly damp from the hard work. On the fourth morning, over the black tea she handed him, she hummed a tune he had never heard.

What song is that?

A smirk had graced her lips and she could’ve shocked the pants off Merlin himself with what she said next.

Hit Me Baby One More Time.

Muggles and their music. George hadn’t smiled in three-hundred and thirty-seven days. He smiled that day.

So Hermione stayed, teetering around his home and his shop in some unspoken agreement they made. He never received the first Howler full of hysterics, the mediwizards never arrived to cart him off to St. Mungo’s, and Hermione maintained her visits. His family never heard a word of what happened, and he never complained when his friend turned her key into his lock and announced they were nipping to Tesco for crisps since he didn’t have anything.

The anniversary came and went, but George did not grieve alone. He may have wanted to. He may have felt a twinge in his collarbone, and he may have glanced one too many times at his stairs, but he was not alone. Instead, he saw his mother for the first time in six months, his friend with a watery smile in the shadows, watching. Spring turned into summer, and with the heat came sunlight. Glorious sunlight that sparkled off the pond at the Burrow, and turned the hairs on his arms white. The sunlight glistened in Ginny’s hair like a fiery halo, and reflected off Harry’s glasses. It tinged Ron’s skin pink, and brought out the golden flakes in Hermione’s brown eyes. George had forgotten she had such striking eyes. The first time he had noticed the color was years ago at Hogwarts, when she had been wearing a gold chain around her neck, its pendant tucked under her robes. The necklace brought the color out in her eyes, but had done nothing to hide the deep rings of purple underneath. The sunlight brought many memories back to him in the Before. The memories brought pain. But the pain brought ideas. Memories and ideas. An idea that Hermione didn’t like. That was illegal. You don’t understand, George— it cannot be done. Hermione… please. It took many more nights, weeks even, but his friend agreed to look, to see. But no promises, George. At the dawn of fall, her key turned in his lock and wide, owl eyes met his. The gears started turning before she even finished speaking. They would have to travel far, to meet with a Mistress Linnea Birger in Sweden, an expert.

She was rude and unhelpful and George brooded the whole portkey home. As Hermione kicked her shoes off by his front door, he was still grumbling about the international forms he’d filled out in the Portkey Office of the Department of Magical Transportation. The long-suffering sigh and a cup of steaming tea finally soothed his temper. The slam of a book upon his coffee table was as natural to him as the creaking of 93 Diagon Alley. Finally, finally, the night of the winter solstice Hermione says she has it. Nothing about this will be easy, George. Nothing really ever is, is it? The Headmistress will not be pleased when she speaks to her Gargoyle in the stairwell, but the pair are hopeful she could be distracted with joy in the After. Hope, a dangerous feeling indeed. The last Time-Turner, preserved by Professor Dumbledore for services to the school in 1994, lays within the Headmaster’s office. How Hermione knew that is beyond George’s knowledge, but he’s following her lead. They walk in silence, each step bringing them closer to George’s nightmares. The seventh floor, once a place of such fun, now left just as scarred as the rest of them. The castle mourned too. Its magic was ancient and deep, more complex than any have understood. It withstood the great battle, but the castle lost too many that day. One barely a man, who brought such joy into these walls, such cleverness and bravery. A man who breathed life into this magic, kept it going even in the dark, just as he was taught. They would fix this. This pair, one newly formed and one broken, would restore just a bit of what the castle lost that night. They would succeed. They had to. The wall has been repaired and it's waiting for them in the left corridor. George keeps his eyes on Hermione, her spellwork upon the old Time-Turner more rapid and complex than he’s ever seen. The dust, golden and sparkling, swirls up around them. It sticks to his clothes, tangles in her hair, brushes his ear. He doesn’t ask questions, he just watches her work, entranced. The dust creeps up her neck, and she pauses for a split second, wildly seeking him out.

Time is sentient, George, and it does not stand with being manipulated.

What? It’s too late. The Before is rapidly shifting, the ground under them is trembling. Their hands rip apart and George didn’t even remember reaching for her. Spells begin flying over their heads, and George vaults in front, shielding his friend’s body with his own. She pushes him off, landing a shield over their heads and scrambles back as green flashes around them. "Hello, Minister!" George lurches, a visceral response. Nonononono— Hermione, she’s faster. She moves like a cat, vaulting over stone and wood, shoving her way through the bodies and the blood. He didn’t even hear her cast, didn’t see her wand move, but the wall stood still and Fred laughed and Percy adjusted his glasses and Fred laughed and laughed. One moment George was across the corridor and the next his arms were around his twin. Blood and snot and dust and tears— madness. Total madness. “She did it! Oh, Fred, she saved you. Hermione did it. Hermione! Fred, you’re here!”

Fred patted his back. Fred!

“HERMIONE! You did it, Hermione!”

George gripped his brother so tightly it must hurt, but Fred didn’t complain.

“Georgie? What’s wrong?”

George loosened his grip on his twin, a beaming smile on his face. Gold dust still coated his hands, mingling onto Fred’s shoulder.

Fred peered back, concern and bemusement resting on his freckled face. “And who is Hermione?”

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