RP: The Golden Bell
Date: August 7th, 1998
Time of Day: 9:03 pm
Characters: George Weasley
Location: Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, 93 Diagon Alley
Status: Personal
Brief Summary: George sneaks into his own shop, does strange things with money, avoids sleep, and writes Verity a letter.
Completion: Complete.
Warnings: None
George pressed the shop door open manually, reaching up with long, thin fingers to silence the customer bell upon entry.
The golden bell had been enchanted by Fred in the shop's early days to float above the door and jingle whenever someone entered. Too often the twins had been busy creating new Wheezes, hid in the back of the joke shop or upstairs in the flat causing even naughtier, more intimate mischief. It was during these inopportune moments that Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was most often hit by young, lint-pocketed witches and wizards desperate enough for candy or quills to steal from their stock.
It never did matter that much to George. After all, in the end, the joke was always on the thief. Fred, however, had insisted that it was an insult to their ingeniousness and had enchanted the bell to be heard even over any explosions, eruptions or giggles they may or may not have been currently causing.
Now, however, the last thing George wanted was to alert anyone still in the shop of his return.
The small little bell struggled uselessly in his palm as he slipped inside, heating in its anger at being silenced. With the door shut safely behind him, George let the little bell go gently, not bothering to straighten its red bow that now lay crinkled against its metal shell. The bell straightened itself indignantly, threatening to shake in retaliation, but one finger point from George settled the matter and the bell went back to safeguarding its door, careful not to be caught off guard twice in the same evening.
Leaving the bell to its own enchanted mischief, George made his way quietly to the back of the shop. Though dark inside, George had learned first hand in the past weeks that just because there were no lights did not always prove that there was nothing lurking in the shadows. Without waiting to find out he paused only by the safe long enough to remove a small pouch set aside by Verity earlier in the evening, and retired through a ceiling hatch in his workshop to the flat above the storefront.
Climbing the rope ladder at the end of the day wasn’t always the easiest thing to accomplish, shop’s earnings in one hand, wand in the other. Tonight, however, George did not mind as much. He was calm, though seeking solitude and quiet, but he didn’t possess any disturbing symptoms; the rock-heavy weight that usually resided in his gut after visiting Fred lacked its usual bulk, reduced to the nervous rattling of a pebble lodged somewhere about his fourth and fifth rib. An annoyance easily accepted after months of unfamiliar solitude. In that time, the knot in his belly and around his heart had grown nearly familiar though it pained him less and less. Whether this was George slowly learning to accept his brother’s death he did not reflect on and merely regarded the sensation beneath his breastbone like a old comfy sweater, one he was all too willing and happy to keep putting on day after day when the alternative meant spending the long hours of the night alone with his thoughts.
Sitting down at Fred’s old desk, George lit a candle and dumped the day’s profits out on the desk’s warped surface. The deranged wooden top reflected years and years of melted cauldrons and poorly timed explosions but in George’s eyes, there was absolutely nothing wrong with its cracked and grainy surface, even if the Knuts and Sickles tended to get stuck in the grooves and dips.
It took him nearly a quarter of an hour to count, calculate and separate the coins. Though Verity’s total from the till, as precise as always, was downstairs in the account books, George counted money for a different purpose. The books could be adjusted in the morning to accommodate the deduction from profits.
He set aside two piles, one comprised of various coins totaling in twenty Galleons and the second a pile of 2 Galleons, 71 Sickles and 14 Knuts. He added the later to a large bag currently residing in the top drawer of the desk, knotted the golden strings and removed it from its home, relocating it with a flick of his wand to his night stand. The bag settled with a satisfying clankle of coins before the room was once again, peacefully silent.
The larger amount, George carefully scooped into an envelope so creased and stained in its age, magic and sheer strength of will seemed to be the only things keeping the tiny paper fibers from ripping apart. The only portion of the envelope still recognizable in its degenerated state was the large, loose, clumsy green writing, much less vibrant than it had been eight months ago when it had been written by the hand of Fred Weasley.
George smiled at the phrase, ‘Double the Trouble’, before placing the envelope and its flooding of money back between the folds of a very precious book, one in which he and Fred had recorded all their findings and future ideas and dreams from the moment they could conjointly hold a quill.
It was satisfying, if not a bit therapeutic, to still be carrying out those dreams. Even if Fred wasn’t beside George, his memory was always foremost. Still, memories and dreams could only take George so far and they were second, and would always be second, in comparison to having his twin beside him in every respect.
Tonight, George undressed and prepared for bed like any night, except his identical copy was not there brainstorming with him long into the wee morning hours. That had been one of the hardest things to adjust to and the main reason George reflected he’d had trouble sleeping. Whenever he lay down, it was simply too quiet and still and the atmosphere would eventually, despite his mustered attempts, remind him of the graveyard.
Grabbing a quill and a bottle of ink from his own desk, George took a stack of parchment to his bed, curled up against the headboard and began to comprise a to-do list. It was an old habit hard of breaking but one George looked forward to nightly. If nothing else, it provided him a distraction from thought and prolonged his waking hours until the moment he was forced to lay his head upon his pillow out of sheer exhaustion.
Careful not to spill ink on his quilt, George scribbled down a short, highly cryptic list. Over the years, the short hand had become so precise and mastered that its meaning was nearly impossible to interpret. Even Bill might have had trouble breaking the code and it was likely that the only one other that George who would have been able to decipher its meaning was Fred. Beneath the date and underlined ‘To Do Tomorrow’ was something of a shopping list, four tiny dashes that read as follows:
the last of which was more than likely an actually grocery item.
The list complete, George stuck the parcel under the bag on his night stand. It was heavy with coins and George fancied it nearly felt like a broomstick already.
The second parchment took more time.
He wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be in the beginning. A thank you, or an apology, or something not meant for anyone’s eyes but his own. In the end, however, George folded the parchment and sealed it with wax from his bedside candle, carefully and clearly scripting Verity Thruston to the outside of the Owl. He’d send it first thing in the morning, or maybe just leave it by the till for when she arrived early to open the shop.
Now, though, George’s eyes grew heavy.
He had done well, distracting himself with business for an extra hour and a half, but now his body and thoughts betrayed him. George knows this state well, too. At this point, there was only one thing left for him to do.
Putting away his writing quill and ink, George snuffed the candle and drew the patch-work curtains over the crescent window above his bed. Bunkering down for the evening, George closed his eyes. Though sleep wouldn’t claim him for hours yet, he knew it was no use struggling with his exhausted body.
Waiting for sleep, George lay still beneath the covers, his one good ear straining above the distant noises of night to hear the one sound that would bring comfort to his aching heart. The one sound, George knew, above all else he would never hear ever again; the identical breathing of his twin brother, mismatched and rhythmic against his own as they fell asleep in the flat above their joke shop.
Never again would they dream together.
Time of Day: 9:03 pm
Characters: George Weasley
Location: Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, 93 Diagon Alley
Status: Personal
Brief Summary: George sneaks into his own shop, does strange things with money, avoids sleep, and writes Verity a letter.
Completion: Complete.
Warnings: None
George pressed the shop door open manually, reaching up with long, thin fingers to silence the customer bell upon entry.
The golden bell had been enchanted by Fred in the shop's early days to float above the door and jingle whenever someone entered. Too often the twins had been busy creating new Wheezes, hid in the back of the joke shop or upstairs in the flat causing even naughtier, more intimate mischief. It was during these inopportune moments that Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was most often hit by young, lint-pocketed witches and wizards desperate enough for candy or quills to steal from their stock.
It never did matter that much to George. After all, in the end, the joke was always on the thief. Fred, however, had insisted that it was an insult to their ingeniousness and had enchanted the bell to be heard even over any explosions, eruptions or giggles they may or may not have been currently causing.
Now, however, the last thing George wanted was to alert anyone still in the shop of his return.
The small little bell struggled uselessly in his palm as he slipped inside, heating in its anger at being silenced. With the door shut safely behind him, George let the little bell go gently, not bothering to straighten its red bow that now lay crinkled against its metal shell. The bell straightened itself indignantly, threatening to shake in retaliation, but one finger point from George settled the matter and the bell went back to safeguarding its door, careful not to be caught off guard twice in the same evening.
Leaving the bell to its own enchanted mischief, George made his way quietly to the back of the shop. Though dark inside, George had learned first hand in the past weeks that just because there were no lights did not always prove that there was nothing lurking in the shadows. Without waiting to find out he paused only by the safe long enough to remove a small pouch set aside by Verity earlier in the evening, and retired through a ceiling hatch in his workshop to the flat above the storefront.
Climbing the rope ladder at the end of the day wasn’t always the easiest thing to accomplish, shop’s earnings in one hand, wand in the other. Tonight, however, George did not mind as much. He was calm, though seeking solitude and quiet, but he didn’t possess any disturbing symptoms; the rock-heavy weight that usually resided in his gut after visiting Fred lacked its usual bulk, reduced to the nervous rattling of a pebble lodged somewhere about his fourth and fifth rib. An annoyance easily accepted after months of unfamiliar solitude. In that time, the knot in his belly and around his heart had grown nearly familiar though it pained him less and less. Whether this was George slowly learning to accept his brother’s death he did not reflect on and merely regarded the sensation beneath his breastbone like a old comfy sweater, one he was all too willing and happy to keep putting on day after day when the alternative meant spending the long hours of the night alone with his thoughts.
Sitting down at Fred’s old desk, George lit a candle and dumped the day’s profits out on the desk’s warped surface. The deranged wooden top reflected years and years of melted cauldrons and poorly timed explosions but in George’s eyes, there was absolutely nothing wrong with its cracked and grainy surface, even if the Knuts and Sickles tended to get stuck in the grooves and dips.
It took him nearly a quarter of an hour to count, calculate and separate the coins. Though Verity’s total from the till, as precise as always, was downstairs in the account books, George counted money for a different purpose. The books could be adjusted in the morning to accommodate the deduction from profits.
He set aside two piles, one comprised of various coins totaling in twenty Galleons and the second a pile of 2 Galleons, 71 Sickles and 14 Knuts. He added the later to a large bag currently residing in the top drawer of the desk, knotted the golden strings and removed it from its home, relocating it with a flick of his wand to his night stand. The bag settled with a satisfying clankle of coins before the room was once again, peacefully silent.
The larger amount, George carefully scooped into an envelope so creased and stained in its age, magic and sheer strength of will seemed to be the only things keeping the tiny paper fibers from ripping apart. The only portion of the envelope still recognizable in its degenerated state was the large, loose, clumsy green writing, much less vibrant than it had been eight months ago when it had been written by the hand of Fred Weasley.
George smiled at the phrase, ‘Double the Trouble’, before placing the envelope and its flooding of money back between the folds of a very precious book, one in which he and Fred had recorded all their findings and future ideas and dreams from the moment they could conjointly hold a quill.
It was satisfying, if not a bit therapeutic, to still be carrying out those dreams. Even if Fred wasn’t beside George, his memory was always foremost. Still, memories and dreams could only take George so far and they were second, and would always be second, in comparison to having his twin beside him in every respect.
Tonight, George undressed and prepared for bed like any night, except his identical copy was not there brainstorming with him long into the wee morning hours. That had been one of the hardest things to adjust to and the main reason George reflected he’d had trouble sleeping. Whenever he lay down, it was simply too quiet and still and the atmosphere would eventually, despite his mustered attempts, remind him of the graveyard.
Grabbing a quill and a bottle of ink from his own desk, George took a stack of parchment to his bed, curled up against the headboard and began to comprise a to-do list. It was an old habit hard of breaking but one George looked forward to nightly. If nothing else, it provided him a distraction from thought and prolonged his waking hours until the moment he was forced to lay his head upon his pillow out of sheer exhaustion.
Careful not to spill ink on his quilt, George scribbled down a short, highly cryptic list. Over the years, the short hand had become so precise and mastered that its meaning was nearly impossible to interpret. Even Bill might have had trouble breaking the code and it was likely that the only one other that George who would have been able to decipher its meaning was Fred. Beneath the date and underlined ‘To Do Tomorrow’ was something of a shopping list, four tiny dashes that read as follows:
- 06 August 1998
To Do Tomorrow:
- sweep
- gobblin
- summit
- eggs
the last of which was more than likely an actually grocery item.
The list complete, George stuck the parcel under the bag on his night stand. It was heavy with coins and George fancied it nearly felt like a broomstick already.
The second parchment took more time.
He wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be in the beginning. A thank you, or an apology, or something not meant for anyone’s eyes but his own. In the end, however, George folded the parchment and sealed it with wax from his bedside candle, carefully and clearly scripting Verity Thruston to the outside of the Owl. He’d send it first thing in the morning, or maybe just leave it by the till for when she arrived early to open the shop.
Now, though, George’s eyes grew heavy.
He had done well, distracting himself with business for an extra hour and a half, but now his body and thoughts betrayed him. George knows this state well, too. At this point, there was only one thing left for him to do.
Putting away his writing quill and ink, George snuffed the candle and drew the patch-work curtains over the crescent window above his bed. Bunkering down for the evening, George closed his eyes. Though sleep wouldn’t claim him for hours yet, he knew it was no use struggling with his exhausted body.
Waiting for sleep, George lay still beneath the covers, his one good ear straining above the distant noises of night to hear the one sound that would bring comfort to his aching heart. The one sound, George knew, above all else he would never hear ever again; the identical breathing of his twin brother, mismatched and rhythmic against his own as they fell asleep in the flat above their joke shop.
Never again would they dream together.