After the story breaks, Elora is the only one who comes knocking. Sullivan answers the door for her while I'm still in my silk pajamas, and it's mortifying when I apparate to the café around the corner in such a state. The indignity is made worse when the barista forbids me from claiming a table without paying. I buy a tea and a biscuit,

Halfway through both, I decide it is safe enough to apparate back.

Without any funds, I know I will end up abusing Robbie's generosity. Only giving myself the weekend for recovery, I'm already back out applying for new jobs. Potioneer positions at the ministry, administration at the wizengamot, barmaid, everywhere that will take me. Everywhere, of course, but the joke shop.

Everyone is keeping my CV on file, but nobody is hiring this exact second.

I'm putting on the eyeliner for my date on Monday afternoon when an owl screeches at the window. I jolt, barely shifting the line a bit too high and groan. The owl screeches again.

Someone has gotten back to me. Already. Or, I suppose Sullivan and Robbie could be expecting something, but they aren't in yet.

I trip over my feet as I rush to the window, only to see George's bloody owl. Or, I suppose, it's Fred's owl now too.

Fred hasn't shown up since I kind of publicly kicked him out. Years ago, I sent him two letters, and he never sent a reply.

The owl's beak taps the glass and it squawks as it stares at me.

"Fine," I grumble, twisting the lot to let in the messenger.

The bird dips his head in, dropping the letter on the carpet. He doesn't properly enter though, instead flying straight back toward the joke shop. Fred's bound to be staying there anyway. In my bed. His bed. Our bed between those two points.

I stare at the envelope on my floor. The twins may look identical to most, but not to me. Once, George told me that as children the pair agreed on one set of handwriting, a mishmash of what came naturally to each boy. Identical penmanship only furthered their favour bit, tricking others.

Yet, I recognize the way the bottom of the k in my name is in line with the other letters, and so I know Fred didn't write it. When he writes my name, the k dips down below the other letters, and then almost connects to the i. Ergo, it must have been George.

I am disappointed I don't feel relief.

Eventually, I just leave it. I've got eyeliner to fix, after all. I agreed to meet Stuart in two hours from now. After the debacle with my pajamas, I'm committed to looking nice in public. Thrice I've changed outfits. I debate opening the bag I brought with me filled with the things we took on our trip back in time, just to take out the red linen top Fred bought me. Eventually, I grab a matching navy vest and skirt so I don't have to think about the cloth any longer, or how it fit me so well even though in the two years since Fred's death, my body had changed so much.

His has too now. I haven't touched him since shortly after we saved him. Two years have passed for him since then. He has become so much broader. I flex my hand, imagining his arm in my grip.

Finishing my make up doesn't distract me from thoughts of Fred. I return to the sitting room, still hours to go before the night out, and stare at the letter. It's something else at least. George is not his brother. Now, they're identical in name only.

I'm grateful it's not a howler he sent me. The twins got their fair share, as did I. Still, the envelope doesn't feel any less explosive. If it were urgent, George would have sent a patronus instead. Obviously, he could have shown up at the door. We all know Elora was more than willing to inflict herself upon me, and while George is kinder, I would not call him less tenacious.

George allows me the choice.

I remember sending Fred two letters that he never received. How he thought I was not interested in him, content to sojourn with Ander Ander rather than talk to him. It could be Fred reaching out now, I suppose. He can reach out, anyway.

Fuck. I grab a letter opener to tear past the seal.

Dear Larkin,

I hope you are doing well with the news. I know it's shocking anyway, but I'm afraid I have to ask more of you. If you're not going to be working at the shop, I'm going to have to ask you to return some of the prototype designs. Ron's anxiously awaiting (and you know how little Ronniekins gets a stomach ache when he's anxious, and how Mum gets when perfect little Ron is upset with me). No need to hang out here, or anything, but if you need a shoulder to cry on, I'm here. Can't lend you an ear though, since I've only got the one.

Love, George xx

P.S. Bill and Fleur had their baby. Actually, seeing Fred shocked Fleur into labour.

With that, I've got no idea what he's asking. Well, I'll have to write congratulations to Fleur later, but I've got no fucking clue what prototypes he's on about.

Even though I've been here for a few days, I haven't unpacked. No sense it is, because once I have a job (and enough for first and last months'), I'm going to move into my own place. It's all there though, in the bag we brought back from Spain. The clothes Fred bought for me, the empty vials of liquid luck, and two and a half years' worth of crimes. Stolen files from the ministry and a fucking time turner no less. Shit.

I nab the bag and apparate to Diagon Alley.

School isn't out quite yet but I can see customers through the window into the joke shop. A young girl with her father. A woman browsing the WonderWitches line. From here, I can make out George behind the till.

Is Fred back to work yet? It wouldn't surprise me, but I don't see him through the windows. He could be prepping deliveries in the back.

So, I take the shops doorknob in my hand and twist it open. An intruder charm blares and the candles in the store begin to flash red. George grabs his wand and utters a charm, and the alarms stop.

"Really?" I asked him, crossing my arms over my chest.

He shrugs, "we keep having reporters show up."

Footsteps pound off the spiral staircase leading upstairs. Fred peeks down at me, grinning.

I roll my eyes.

"Hello, Future Mrs. Weasley," Fred jumps over the last two steps, shouting through the shop. I grimace as he saunters over. "You know, I think it's bad luck for me to see you before the ceremony."

"We're not getting married," I straighten my back.

Fred finally stops, just in front of me. He's close enough that I have to lift my chin just slightly to meet him eye to eye.

"Really?" Fred reaches forward. He takes my hand in his. "I could've sworn this was my engagement ring."

It's still on my finger. it always is, so acutely that removing it would feel like carving out my own bones. I'd rather lose another toe in an apparition accident.

"I came to return some things I accidentally took with me when I moved out," I pulled the bag off my back, holding it aloft.

Fred takes it, sling it over his shoulder like it doesn't carry the weight of two years, "what about the things you intentionally took? You know, your clothes, shampoo, my heart and soul? Should we expect those in the post or are they included here?"

"Afraid I'm keeping those."

"Pity," Fred juts out his bottom lip. "Could do with your shampoo. Maybe we need to add Amortentia haircare to the Wonder Witch line? I could use a business partner."

"And already abandoning me for your ex," George mocks a hit to the chest. "If it's alright with you then, I'm quitting. Can you man the till while I help Larkin?"

"Course," Fred winks at me before moving over to his brother.

They switch spots, and possession of the bag. I try not to look at Fred and fail, as George guides me to the storeroom in the back of the shop, where we send out shipments. Sorry, where he does since I've quit. Or rather, where they do.

Together, we sort through the pile of stuff sitting cross legged on the floor. Things we ought to destroy, because no good can come from us keeping them. Like, so many newspaper clippings. I swipe the clothes Fred bought me, even thought it would be best to throw them away. I take the letters too, before George sees them and can throw them in the Fred pile. Things that belong to George, to me, and to Fred. And then of course, things that belong to Ron.

"We told him, by the way," George says as we shove the last of the things we took from his younger brother. "Sort of had to, really. No one else knows."

I nod my head. I try to swallow.

"Is he doing okay?"

"Ron? Well, I wasn't joking about the stomach pains-"

"Fred," I say, as I grab my pile and shove it back into my bag. It doesn't feel like enough things to explain two years of my life. I suppose I didn't live them through a second time.

"He's... I don't know," George finally exhales. He leans his back against a shelf, folding his arms across his chest. "He might, you know, look different, but he's exactly the same."

"Good," I swallow.

"Is it?" George scrunches his nose. "Larkin, he survived a war too. He told me about helping the Spanish rebels too. I mean, he doesn't act like he was at the last battle at all."

"He's always been better than us."

George opens his mouth to speak and then clamps it shut.

I grab my bag and stand. When George doesn't move to join me, I leave on my own. Fred stands behind the till. My heart pulls tighter in my chest as I pass him, looking at him out of the corner of my eye.

"See you soon, love," Fred waves.

"In your dreams," I roll my eyes.

He doesn't waste the opportunity to smirk, "yeah, most nights I do."

~~~~~

Aww, cute. Far less heartbreaking anyway. I am buzzing with every chapter; they're all so exciting! What do you make of Fred now?