Eye Of The Storm

12. Jump to the future

1st August 1997

George grunted, heaving the box over his head before pushing it up onto a high shelf. It teetered, before settling back against the other boxes. He sighed, clapped his hands together and turned.

It had been two long years since Ollie had run away. Since then, he hadn't heard a word never mind a trace of where she might have gone.

They had sent countless rescue teams out. They had planted spies in the Ministry. Voldemort had become desperate, actively searching for the young girl as more and more of his followers were murdered, some defenseless in the dead of the night. The only other person worse off than George, was Hagrid.

Who blamed himself entirely. Certain he had pushed her away.

Every night, George laid awake and listened to the wind. Letting himself imagine it was Ollie causing it. Every morning, when the sun kissed his eyelids, he imagined Ollie. Every afternoon, when rain splattered on the shops windows, he imagined Ollie.

Fred long ago stopped trying to comfort him, stopped trying to reassure him she would return. George wasn't sure if it was because he grew tired of George's episodes, or if he stopped believing his words.

His mother still cast him wary looks.

Remus wouldn't look him in the eye.

Sirius over compensated, and dumped money into the shop.

Ron stopped asking questions.

Hermione packed away her books.

Lee could barely hug him.

"You look good."

George faltered, it wasn't the first time he had heard her voice but it was the first time it sounded so crystal clear.

"You look like shit." George whispered, but it was far from the truth. He just couldn't bare to look at her, keeping his focus on the ground.

It was impossible. There was no way.

"I'm sorry."

George blinked, emotions thudding in his chest.

"You aren't real." George clenched his fists at his sides, and lifted his gaze.

Her hair was longer, still the unruly dark curls and up in its signature pony tail. She had the same scars across her face, but a few more on her collar bones which were peeking out under a thick heavy cloak.

Her hands trembled as she met his gaze.

"Tea?" George squeaked, and when she nodded, he turned on his heel and led her up the flat stairs.

George faltered, hand poised on the handle that would led them into the flat.

"What did I give you for Christmas, two years ago?"

It was a simple question, and she should have answered right away. George turned, to find the staircase empty.

He heaved a big sigh, refused to let his emotions swell and pushed into the flat. He needed a cup of tea, or a nap or hell, a shot of Whiskey at this point.

George found Fred in the kitchen, bent over a small bit of parchment and a forgotten croissant on the table.

"Another owl order?" George yawned, reaching up to tug on his good ear. He busied himself with the kettle, waiting Fred's answer. "Is it for the canary creams? We've run out last-"

"We have to go to the Burrow." Fred choked out.

George turned slowly, to find Fred's hands shaking as he held out the parchment towards George.