closed: a drink, or twelve, and maybe some company
It had been two weeks.
Two weeks, very much to the day, since Susan had come barging into the shop, since the unreal sort of happiness his life had settled into, despite and perhaps because of the tumultuousness of the past few months, had come crumbling down around him, since Picard's little wriggling form had become his sole source of comfort as he lay awake at night trying to not imagine the way she was laying awake in that damp and cold and bare square of a cell.
He had talked to every person he could think of, pleaded her case to every Auror and every administrator and reached out to every person he knew who could possibly provide some kind of character witness, who could reach out in any way beyond the ones he had thought of.
And still, time and time again, he was faced with the same response - wait until her trial.
Nothing can happen until- We can't do anything until- It won't be that long until-
Never mind the fact that for Cecilia, it had already been two weeks of dreary isolation with only the company of corrupted, dark-minded, actual criminals to break that hush of segregation. Daily visits, choked down by slews of rules and time limits, could hardly provide a break in the incessant lull of life on that coldly isolated island-
And George had been trying. With every breath and every step and every door he knocked on, he had been trying to keep it together, to disregard the obvious desperation weighing down on him, to move past the weight that made his shoulders cave in and his resolve falter and stumble, that itched at the backs of his eyes and idly made his skin crawl.
But it had been another long, empty, newsless half of a day. And he was so desperately sick of long, empty, newsless days.
Which was why George Weasley was finding himself at the Leaky Cauldron in the middle of the afternoon, nearing the bottom of his third pint and spinning a twice-refilled shot glass between his hands.
Two weeks, very much to the day, since Susan had come barging into the shop, since the unreal sort of happiness his life had settled into, despite and perhaps because of the tumultuousness of the past few months, had come crumbling down around him, since Picard's little wriggling form had become his sole source of comfort as he lay awake at night trying to not imagine the way she was laying awake in that damp and cold and bare square of a cell.
He had talked to every person he could think of, pleaded her case to every Auror and every administrator and reached out to every person he knew who could possibly provide some kind of character witness, who could reach out in any way beyond the ones he had thought of.
And still, time and time again, he was faced with the same response - wait until her trial.
Nothing can happen until- We can't do anything until- It won't be that long until-
Never mind the fact that for Cecilia, it had already been two weeks of dreary isolation with only the company of corrupted, dark-minded, actual criminals to break that hush of segregation. Daily visits, choked down by slews of rules and time limits, could hardly provide a break in the incessant lull of life on that coldly isolated island-
And George had been trying. With every breath and every step and every door he knocked on, he had been trying to keep it together, to disregard the obvious desperation weighing down on him, to move past the weight that made his shoulders cave in and his resolve falter and stumble, that itched at the backs of his eyes and idly made his skin crawl.
But it had been another long, empty, newsless half of a day. And he was so desperately sick of long, empty, newsless days.
Which was why George Weasley was finding himself at the Leaky Cauldron in the middle of the afternoon, nearing the bottom of his third pint and spinning a twice-refilled shot glass between his hands.