The world ended on May 2, 1998.

At least it did for George Weasley.

He was not dead, of course. His mother and father still loved him. Bill, Charlie, Percy, Ron, and Ginny all still hugged him. His business was doing splendid, far better than it ever had before the war, Ron was even helping him run it. And yet, the world felt as if it no longer turned because Fred was gone and that was all that really mattered.

May 2 had been awful, but the funeral was even worse. Friends, family, and strangers wanting nothing more than to hug him or shake his hand when all he wanted to do was destroy everything that touched him. He hadn't shed any tears that day. He figured he was all out, but now that he considered it, he was sure he had just grown numb.

He had never had a problem smiling before, and even in the winter he was constantly warm, denying every coat his mother sent his way. And now, he was sure he had forgotten how to smile and even in the hottest part of July he wore a sweater, fighting off the chills that ran along his spine.

His mother had pleaded with him to go to therapy, to talk to someone about the tragedy but he had refused. There was nothing a therapist could tell him that he didn't already know.

He knew he was depressed; he knew Fred was never coming back, and he knew he needed to move forward. He had no interest in reliving the moments when he had witnessed the cold lifeless body of his twin lying on the floor of the school they had once attended. All he wanted to do was the lock the door to his new flat and never come out. He had considered returning to his home above the shop but every time he thought of the memories he had built there his stomach churned and before he knew it he was emptying the contents of his stomach into the nearest sink. So, he gave it to Ron and Hermione and bought himself a smaller one.

He was laying in the bed that occupied most of the studio flat, thinking about the day he moved in as he struggled to get up. The walls were grey, and the bedsheets were white. He hadn't bothered to buy curtains, so the dingy light of the cloudy morning was highlighting the dust he had let build up over the months. No pictures hung on the walls; no Knick knacks sat on the shelves. Dishes were piling up from the last spout of motivation, not that he ate a whole lot these days. Most importantly, there were no mirrors. He had ripped the bathroom one from the wall and shattered it in the street the moment he moved in, completely satisfied with giving up his security deposit for a little bit of sanity. His world was completely colorless. His skin was pale and the warmth that had generally resided in his face had seeped away like water from a washcloth. In fact, the only color one could find in the small room was his hair, shining just as brightly as it had the day the world ended.

He had dyed it once. A dark brown, the most boring color he could think of, but the moment his mother had seen it she burst into tears and begrudgingly changed it back, if only to avoid the dirty looks that Ginny shot him through the very uncomfortable family dinner.

Today was the first of March, and George could feel the anniversary of Fred's death drawing nearer with every movement of his body. His muscles ached and his bones creaked like an old rocking chair no one had touched in a century.

As he laid there he considered never getting up, but eventually with great effort he pulled himself from the cold sheets and pulled on the dullest clothing he owned. A grey tailcoat covered a white button up and black slacks, severely pressed hung a bit short over his ankles. The shoes were so old they no longer shined. He didn't bother brushing his hair, sure that the howling wind would mess it up anyway.

He left the door without eating breakfast and turned down the street in the opposite direction of the store. He couldn't bear to go to work today, and Ron could handle it.

Ron had gotten a lot better at handling it.

He was right about the wind, it battled against him like it was trying to force him to go to work, but he pushed on, determined to spend his day in miserable loneliness. Somedays he imagined Fred was screaming at him from the clouds, telling him to stop being a git and move on with his life, but he had never been good at taking orders. So, without any regard for the signs of the universe he continued to push on, wrapping his arms around himself as he tried to keep warm.

In honor of his mood, it began to pour and before he knew it, he was drenched to the bone, the neat he clothes he had donned pressing tightly against this skin. By now he was in a muggle town he had never been to. The streets were completely empty, no one wanting to get caught in the torrential downpour.

He was going to turn around, go home if not to work, when he heard a voice shouting through a roll of thunder. He glanced around, searching for the source, and was met with the sight of a woman hailing him towards her store. He looked behind him, checking for someone else, when he heard a sharp laugh.

"I'm talking to you, silly. Now, come in before you catch a cold," she called, stepping into the rain to usher him closer. He walked quickly, ducking through the doorway as he followed her inside. He watched as she shoved the door closed against the atrocious wind, the bell jingling ferociously overhead. When she had succeeded, deadbolting it for good measure she turned to face him. She wrung out her blonde hair as she studied him with bright eyes (they reminded him an awful lot of what his used to look like). "What on earth are you doing out in this weather?" she laughed, and he shrugged, unsure of how to approach the situation. He had not been met with such glee in an exceptionally long time. When he didn't respond he smile faded and concern rested heavy on her shoulders. "Are you alright?"

"I don't think so," he muttered, and she nodded.

"Then I think you need a drink." She ushered him to barstool and disappeared behind the counter. "Butterbeer or tap?" His eyes snapped to her when she mentioned the magical drink. "Butterbeer then."

"You're a witch?" he blurted, and she laughed, shaking her head.

"Oh no, but I know my customers, and you are clearly a wizard."

"How can you tell?"

"The wand in your tailcoat." He glanced down and sure enough, a faint outline of his wand was visible against the fabric. "No need to obliviate me though, I'm no snitch. I've had all types in this little pub of mine, vampires, werewolves after a particularly bad night, wizards, what you call muggles, I've even had a couple goblins gamble in my back room, no bias here." He didn't say anything as she twittered on, setting the mug in front of him and leaning on her elbows as she took him in with earnest curiosity. A few minutes of silence before she spoke again. "Do you want to talk about it, that's what bartenders are for to hear all your tragedies while you drown them in the best liquor we have?"

"Who are you?"

"Hannah Gladdis. And you are?"

"George Weasley."

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen, twenty in June. You?"

"Twenty-one in April. How'd you come to own a magical bar at nineteen?"

"It was a tragic thing really, last year the owner died in a war with your sort. I was a waitress then, but he left it to me in his will, so now it's all mine. Honestly, I'm surprised I survived long enough to own it, luck I guess."

"What happened?"

"These men in masks came and tore the place apart looking for the owner, shouting something about blood traitors, but he wasn't in. It was just me, hiding right behind this counter praying that they wouldn't find me."

"Did they?"

"Yes," she whispered, fear creeping into her eyes as she thought about the night she was describing to him. "They used two spells. One made me feel like I was on fire and the other made me bleed, I can barely remember it. The whole thing was awful, by the time they were sure I didn't know I could barely move. They set the place on fire and left me to die, still hunting for him, I guess since he's dead now. Somehow someone saved me, I don't even remember them but they must have performed a counter curse because I got out with only a few scars, but you would know all about those," she said noting his missing ear. "Were you in the war?"

"Right in the center of it. Do you have any firewhiskey?" She nodded and dropped beneath the counter and pulled out the familiar bottle.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"How do you know I lost anyone?" he growled, and she offered him a sad smile.

"I lost friends and I'm not even a witch, I figured a hero right in the center of it wouldn't come out unscathed. Also you're missing an ear." He grunted and threw back the shot of liquor she had poured. "You won though?"

"Sometimes it doesn't feel that way," he mumbled, and she nodded, taking one of his hands into hers. He watched her hands cradle his as if he were the fragile one, but he could see the scars that were etched into her fingers. He ran is thumb along one of the more prominent ones. When he glanced up, she was biting her lip, eyes focused on the thumb that was stroking the harsh scar. He whispered her name, but she didn't move. He said it again and this time her eyes met his. He wanted to say they were blue, but that didn't seem quite right. Her dark eyelashes were hanging heavily over them, casting shadows into the two small pools of ocean that stared back at him. He was going to say something more, let the light buzz from the liquor take control and pull her against him, but she moved away before he could. With an awkward laugh she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and pulled herself a shot, downing it just as quickly.

"It's not even noon," she laughed to herself and he shrugged.

"I've been drunk before noon before, nothing to ashamed of."

"Isn't that a sign of alcoholism?"

"Not that I've ever heard of before." He flashed her a tight, unpracticed smile that made his heart cringe against his ribs but it seemed to work. Pink washed over her cheeks and she was quick to busy herself among the empty glasses, searching for one to clean.

"So, what's someone like you wandering the streets during a downpour?"

"Escaping."

"By catching a cold?"

"Or something like that." She laughed awkwardly, running a damp washrag over the top of the bar, avoiding eye contact at all costs, and it was killing him. He wanted to look into her eyes all day. He had to think of something, do something, say something that would draw her back.

"Why didn't the Ministry take your memories?" he asked, and then silently cursed himself. Out of all the topics he could have chosen, he chose the one that terrified her. He hadn't spoken to a stranger so domestically in such a long time it seemed he was out of practice.

"They don't know, as far as I know they don't even know I exist. And I would like to keep it that way if you don't mind."

"Wouldn't it be better to forget?"

"To forget what?"

"All that pain and fear."

"I considered it at first, but then I decided it was better to know what was coming then feel broken all over again."

"No one is going to hurt you like that again," he growled, far more aggressively than he had intended and she laugh, taking his hand and finally allowing their eyes to meet once more. She didn't seem scared when she looked at him, it was if she almost wanted to believe him. She really seemed to believe the idea he could chase away her nightmares. He knew he would disappoint; he could barely chase away his own.

"You sound so sure, George, but alas, you won't always be sitting in my little bar to protect me."

"Then come home with me."

She was shocked to say the least, at least that's what her eyes said.

"I barely know you."

"Then get to know me."

"I'm working."

"You said it yourself, no one is out in this rainstorm." He sauntered towards the window and flipped the sign around and locked the door. "And anyways, it seems you're closed." She studied him closely, and he was acutely aware that she was still holding his hand. Finally, she nodded and for the first time in ten months his heart jolted with joy. He spun her around the bar and caught her in his arms. "Ready?"

"For what?" she began to ask but they were already gone, whipping through the air as he apparated them to the small flat.

She was laughing when they landed, clutching her stomach as she tried to catch her breath.

"My god, that was exhilarating," she gasped. She was still holding his hand, tighter than ever. He watched her as she looked around and cursed himself for not keeping the place cleaner. "I like your place." He was sure she was lying; it was so dull and lifeless it was almost a prison cell. The counters were dirty, and the trashcan was overflowing. "It could use a little color, but maybe that's the beauty of it. I can never decide how to decorate so I'm constantly having to remodel, this way I can just close my eyes and imagine the walls orange."

"Orange?"

"Or maybe a soft teal, I don't know, it depends on my mood." He caught him smiling again for the second time on the day he woke up feeling like death. She was like a ball of sunshine and she was standing in the little place he called home. For the first time since he had been born, he found himself wishing his home was bigger. Even when he was a kid he had never cared, but now that there was someone he was dying to impress he wished he owned the minster's mansion.

"It's not much..."

"It's lovely." Color tinged his cheeks and now it was his turn to busy himself in the kitchen.

"Would you like some tea?"

"Oh, yes, why thank you," she said as she glanced out the window, "What part of town are we in?"

"Just on the edge of Diagon Alley."

"Oh really! I've always wanted to come; I've heard it's absolutely beautiful. Wow, a real wizard town. Is it true what they say about Hogsmeade?"

"It depends on what they say," he chuckled, bathing in her excitement. It was a welcome tone, something he had not felt since months before the end of the world.

"That it's absolutely picturesque. Someone showed me a post card once, and I called her a liar, told her nothing but a painting could be that beautiful, but she assured me it was all true."

"She wasn't lying, if you want, I'll take you sometime."

"Wow, not even a first date and you're already promising to whisk me off to some beautiful village in the countryside." He blushed when he realized what he had said, abashed that this woman had gotten into his head so quickly. He had never been so infatuated with anything. He turned quickly, spilling hot tea over the side of his hand, but he barely even noticed. Her eyes were big and blue as she stared at him, cheeks pink and lips parted. "George..." she began but the teacups hadn't even hit the ground when he was taking her into his arms and kissing her as softly as his feelings would allow.

She tasted like Christmas. Cinnamon from the firewhiskey and butterscotch from the beer tainted her lips like frosting on cake he had only eaten in a distant memory. He wanted to throw her to his bed and devour her, experience every inch she would allow him, but her tentative fingers stopped him. He was stranger who had apparated her to his flat in a place she did not know, and now he was doing everything in his power to ravish her like the goddess she appeared to be.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, pulling away as far as he dared. He was not sure he would ever be able to be far from her again, not when he knew how wonderful she was. She stepped forward, still hesitant, and cupped his cheek in her hand.

"No, don't be. That was brilliant."

"Then would you mind if I did it again?" She laughed and leapt into his arms, pressing her lips against his. He had never understood people comparing others to home, but as he wrapped his arms around her and he felt her fingers unbuttoning his shirt as fast as she could manage. His hands dropped to the hem of her shirt, prepared to pull it off and admire her entirety but she jerked back. He stopped immediately, pulling away as he searched her face for what he had done wrong. She wasn't looking at him again, eyes crossed over her chest as she shuffled her feet.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled and he shook his head, taking her cheek in his hand.

"Don't be. Tell me what you want. If it's nothing then we'll do nothing," he whispered and with tentative fingers she brushed the place where is ear had once been. He wanted to pull away, but he didn't dare, not when she looked like she was going to break.

"Very few survived your war without scars, even us muggles." She pulled her hand away and took a deep breath before pulling her shirt over her head. He watched it hit the ground before trailing his gaze over her skin. She hadn't lied. Scars were etched across skin that had once been soft. They were harsh and angry, still red after what he had assumed was months of healing. Silence crept into the room as he stared, anger coursing through his veins as he imagined the kind of pain that had caused these scars. "Say something," she whispered, words catching in her throat.

"If I ever find who did this to you, I will not hesitate to kill them," he growled and she let out a short laugh. "I'm not kidding." She leaned up and kissed him softly, gratitude laced in every touch. He pulled her closer, fingers trailing the scars that plagued her. They tipped into his bed with unexpected grace, laughing between kisses. Quick fingers undid his pants and he followed suit, exposing soft skin raked with more scars. She didn't pull away anymore, in fact he was sure she was trying to get closer than possible. Her legs pressed against his hips as her fingers explored every inch of skin. He flipped them over, admiring her against the bedsheets, blonde hair spread out like a halo. He leaned down and kissed her softly as she giggled against his lips.

"Don't leave me," he whispered before he could stop himself and with all seriousness she nodded.

"Not in a thousand years."