Prologue
Green.
That was something, right? At least it was different, kind of, because it definitely wasn’t the same. Or was it? His eyes, his nose, mouth, ears, even his dick was the same; only his hair was different, and it wasn’t enough. His hair was green, and he felt like a zombie. But he couldn’t look in the mirror ever again to see his zombie self. By that logic, there was no reason to assume that the muggle dye had even worked, for he would never look in the mirror again. He wouldn’t.
There was a knock at the door.
“Woah,” Ron said, glancing at his hair. “You’ve changed it.”
So it wasn’t orange then. Good.
“Yeah.”
“Er, Hermione and I are wondering if you want to come to dinner at our place tonight. Harry and Gin will be there too.”
“No thanks.”
Ron looked visibly disappointed. “Oh, ok. Remember to eat something though, ok?”
“Ok.”
“I’ll see you at work on Monday, I guess.”
“See you.”
Ron disapparated, and George Weasley was alone once again.
How many times must he relive and avoid his entire life? He couldn’t see himself, see his family, see his family’s children, even, without reliving. Rehashing. Relapsing.
He knew Ron and Hermione and everyone else worried for him, but he couldn’t even tie his shoes without breaking down in memories, let alone see anyone like him without reliving. Rehashing. Relapsing. Work was enough, it was all he could do to keep up appearances so no one would think anything was seriously wrong with him, because there wasn’t: he was George, the prankster, missing his best friend because he went away for a little while, a little sad sometimes because of it.
So he went to work (with Ron), and he kept track of the books (with Ron), and everytime he saw one of his old friends come in, he’d excuse himself and lock himself in the office, with a spell they’d invented that not even an alohomora could change. And then he’d charm himself to walk on the ceiling like they used to, and pretend that Fred was just in the bathroom, or playing a prank on him; he’d be back any minute.
He would.
But then his magic got too weak; he couldn't walk on the ceiling anymore. And he took days off, refusing to see his family. Relieving. Rehashing. Relapsing. One time he’d blinked and the entire room had been covered in empty firewhisky bottles. It had been a bad night.
But George hadn’t seen firewhiskey in years, and so his hair was green, and he was doing alright. He was fine, he was fine.
His hair was green, so that automatically fixed everything, and he was fine.