For as painful as returning to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes had been A.F.D, George fell in love with work.
Not the inventing part, that part still hurt his chest so badly that he could hardly look at the table in the workroom that he and Fred had spent long nights at. It had gone untouched for two years, the door usually locked up. Sometimes, George would leave it open so that he could walk by and pretend that Fred was inside, working hard at an idea that he wasn't ready to share yet.
The labor, the bills. He thrived on the quiet, intensive work that had to be done to keep the shop running. He couldn't lose it too. So, he dove head first into the trades made, the exports and imports, the business ads, the maintenance. He worked with his mind, his hands. Instead of his heart.
He left that part to Lee now.
George rolls his eyes at the relentless flirting that's taking place at the counter, peering over the boxes he's stacking to see that Lee is chatting up a girl with long chocolatey hair and red lips. He snorts and rolls his eyes again, wondering which customer he'll compliment next.
The girl looks up and sees George watching, her cheeks flushing a deep red that nearly matches her wasp stung lips. Lee follows her gaze and grins brilliantly, half turning back to the girl and whispering something in her ear.
Her eyes grow round and George reaches for his wand to hex the life out of Lee Jordan when that girl starts walking his way. A prickle of panic runs up his spine, his palms sweating to the point of nearly dropping the box he's stacking. He didn't really like talking to strangers anymore. Any charm that he had once had was crushed under rubble and stone at Hogwarts, leaving behind a cold and clinical shell that didn't really know how to communicate. Intimacy was a topic that Connor O'Connor had tried to broach multiple times, but George clamped shut and left in a fit whenever it came up. Some things were just better left unsaid.
"Is it true that you make all of those love potions?"
George studies the writing on the box in his hands, the locked up creative version of himself curious about rebranding. The letters were small, and while it hadn't bothered him before, a number of his clients had injuries from the war that impacted their sight. But that would mean changing it, and George fucking hated change.
"No," His voice sounds stiff, and the peripheral view he has of this girl reveals the tight tank top that slips up when she clasps her hands together under her chin. He grimaces at the way she obviously doesn't get the hint. "We made the first few rounds, and then hired vendors to do it for us."
"You and Lee?"
The box he's studying drops to the floor, his blood turning an inhumane scalding temperature in his veins. His face is practically radiating heat, and the breathing techniques he'd begrudgingly adopted do nothing to cool his boiling heart. His empty hands flex, his fingers curling in to hide in the dampness of his palm. Breathe. Breathe. This girl didn't know. She didn't do anything wrong.
He still wanted to scream, to destroy the neat tower of product he'd spent an hour shifting to be perfectly in view of the large glass windows. The heat of anger burns him like the summer sun and then he's blurting, voice curt and heated, "What--"
"George."
His spine is going to snap from the tension in his body, and still this girl is just looking at him, licking her red lips and smiling coyly. She doesn't know. No body fucking knows. His eyes flit to where his best mate is stood with his arms crossed across his body, his skin dark and muscles strained against the tight white T-shirt he insists on wearing despite how unprofessional George says it looks. His eyes are narrowed and George wants to scream at him too, tell him that this is his fault and if he would just keep the flirting--
"Don't you have an assignment?"
George glowers at his friend, wishing he hadn't mentioned the healer's challenge issued to him. It had been a moment of weakness, a cry for understanding. Why did no one else hate change? Why was Lee so okay with new pubs and remodeled signs, and broken cobblestones replaced with ones that hadn't heard the screams of war?
Inhale. Inhale. Inhale.
Exhale.
It's not the right breathing technique, its close to fucking hyperventilating. But it's enough for him to nod once and get the fuck out of his store before he says or does something he regrets, something that will make him spiral out of control.
The door bangs shut behind him, and for a moment George just stares out at the streets of Diagon Alley. It's still summer, so the crowds are smaller for now. His feet start moving before his mind truly does, carrying him over the cobblestones. The streets are mottled with old and new stones, a mismatched jigsaw puzzle that pricks at his heart and leaves him feeling angrier. He's grateful he's not wearing the grey suit he'd taken to wearing at work, his fingers quickly unbuttoning the cuffs of his button down so that the sleeves can be pushed up past his elbows. It's hot, the air sticky with humidity. It does nothing to help his mood, and he already knows exactly where he is going to tell Connor O'Connor to shove his bloody challenge when he sees him later on this week.
He hurries by Twilfitt and Tattings, crinkling his nose at the pompousness that still radiates from the shop. At least that hadn't changed. The same couldn't be said for Magical Menageries, the only hint of change is a brand new sign hoisted high above the door, frozen in the still summer air. The jewelry vendor had changed however, looking stronger and more permanent, though the old bitter crone that ran it was no where in sight. He doesn't want to stop at those. They are too close to the shop. They can remember what the shop used to be like, just like he can remember how Diagon Alley used to be.
His feet stall in front of Eeylops, his eyes studying the owls perched gracefully in the window. They vary in size, in coloration. Each one is unique, from the way their eyes study the human in the window, to the way their beaks curve at the tip. He hadn't had his own owl...ever. Errol had always been his families, and while he liked the old bird, Percy had been the most broken up over it when he had finally died. Since then, George just went to the owl post, not keen on introducing a new warm body to his life. Even these owls were strangers, but he isn't as disgusted at the thought of communicating with them as he would be anything else.
He wishes for a second that the Owl Emporium had some renovation so he could just consider this his challenge, but he can practically feel his stupid mind healer staring at him over his bloody glasses. No, this wouldn't count.
He begrudgingly moves on, wiping the sweat over his brow with the shoulder of his shirt. He might have to give up. The heat was stifling on top of his erratic emotions, but he wasn't ready to face Lee. That girl could still be there, assuming that George and Lee had made the initial batch of love potions that were so popular in the shop. Fred. It had been Fred's idea. Fred's pitch. He'd gathered ingredients, studied their old potions book that they'd never paid much mind to in school.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Definitely hyperventilating now.
His chest aches and he's now shivering despite the heat and anger, and his head feels like it may flush down the fucking drain of despair. George lifts his head from where it's slumped forward, pissed that the cobblestone street was now blurry.
He blinks away the sting of emotion and sees that he's walked all the way to the Northside of Diagon Alley, and while there are a number of options of changed place's here, far more than the south side he'd just escaped from, his eyes are drawn to one particular building.
Positioned just next to the second hand bookstore George had always shopped at with his family, is Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor. The nostalgia hits him like a wave, buoying him and dragging him down at the same time. He just wanted this to be over, he just wanted to complete this stupid fucking challenge, return to the shop and have it out with Lee over something his best mate had no control over. He wanted routine, he wanted change to disappear from his vocabulary.
The change here isn't horrible though.
The last time he'd really been down this way, the ice cream parlor had still been boarded up. It had looked like a coffin nailed shut, fitting since the death and torture of Florean had only happened two years ago. It had sent a ripple of pain throughout the alley, the once sunshiny establishment a painful reminder of the families that used to eat their ice cream inside to find shade on a warm day. A reminder that Florean was gone, and those families probably were too.
The door is a shade of bubblegum pink now, and George reluctantly admits that he likes it a lot better than the green. The wizard shopkeep had been declining steadily even prior to his capture, so the clean windows and absurd display of an ice cream tower were a welcome sight.
He wouldn't mind a treat either to soothe his wounded heart. Not that he would confess it. It made him feel like a damned toddler.
His palm presses flat against the wood grain of the door, and then he pushes before his mind catches up with him and tells him to run away.
He's greeted by a rush of cool air and a smell that makes his mouth water. He tries to focus on that, how sweet the cool air feels against his warm skin and in his lungs, instead of how the walls are yellow instead of the bright white they used to be when he would sneak in here with Fred for a treat before catching the Hogwart's Express.
The table's are different too, every pastel color of the rainbow instead of the fire engine red that matched his flushed cheeks when his mum would scold them for running away from her. He wrinkles his nose at the green table, trying not to sneer. At least the tile floor was the same, white hexagons dotted with black every couple of inches. He and Fred tried to count them once.
"Welcome to Florean's! What can I get for you today?"
George lifts his head from where he's staring at one of the black dots and blinks at the person standing behind the counter. His brow's furrow in disbelief, instantly recognizing the short girl that had bruised his ribs from running into him a week ago. She's smiling, her hair pulled back and covered by a pink ball cap that matches the door of the parlor. Her head tilts to the side, a stray curl bouncing in front of her ear as she asks, "Is something wrong?"
George wipes his palms on his slack, shaking his head, "No."
It comes out gruff, maybe even a little rude. But he's taken aback by this girl, her toothy grin, and the complete lack of recognition on her face. He walks closer and peers down at the display case. Theres rows of ice cream, each flavor labeled by a floating placard that glitters in the light. His heart stops when he reads 'Chocolate and Raspberry'.
His vision blurs again, though this time its not tears.
Fred loved Chocolate Raspberry.
George doesn't even feel it when his head hits the tile.