AN: So this is my story about George after the war. I'm covering Harry/Ginny and Ron/Hermione, so this is really the one place left that J.K. left in a very disappointingly open place. I have a bunch of fics to finish, so I'm not sure how often I'll get to update this, as I want to be sure I write it just the way I want it to go. Please review. This is my new fanfic baby, and it needs lots of love to grow.

Disclaimer: If I owned HP, Fred would be alive and Malfoy would be dead. You've read the 7th book. Draw your own conclusions.

The inside of the joke shop was quiet. There were only the slight noises from the Pygmy Puffs and the whizzes and tiny bangs from some of the rowdier products. During the day, it bright and vibrant. Kids walked through, laughing and pointing at the signs – You-No-Poo, Extra Strength Oderizer, Disappearing Snitches – and buying nearly everything they saw. Ministry officials came through the front of the store, looking uncomfortable, to reach the back and examine the newest in Dark Arts protection. It was a place of loud whirrs and strange smells and intoxicating possibilities, and a regular stop for just about anyone passing through Diagon Alley.

Now, however, there was a grey silence about the place. It was so defined that George could hear the breaths coming out of his nose and the creak of his chair whenever he moved the slightest bit. It was far past midnight, but George hadn't even considered going to sleep.

Making a note with the quick scratch of his quill, he added another ingredient to the potion in front of him. A purple mushroom clouded over the caldron, turning his hair purple where it hit him. George bent down to examine the hair on his arm. "Interesting," he murmured, and made a few more short notes in his journal. He poked his arm with his wand a few times; the forth time, the hairs melted back to their usual light orange. He raised his hand to do the same to his hair, but thought the better of it and set his hand back down.

Sighing, he flipped a few pages back to be sure he hadn't missed anything. His eyebrows furrowed as he attempted to read the tiny, cramped writing, the result of little sleep and a lot of frustration. Absentmindedly, he scratched the left side of his head with the tip of his wand; it dipped in and out of the grooves of the patch of skin covering the place where his ear should have been. He looked from the book to the caldron, then poked it with his wand, muttering madly under his breath. The potion bubbled then turned a bright shade of pink. George grinned triumphantly, then scribbled a few incantations on a blank page.

Yawning, he twisted his torso so as to be able to check the clock on the wall behind him. Noticing for the first time that he had to be awake in four hours, he hurriedly waved his wand over the desk he was working on. The potion vanished and reappeared in a flask in the cupboard right beside the desk; the caldron flew over to the sink and began to busily wash itself; the journal floated gently to the open drawer of his bedside table and landed gracefully. He yawned again, then stood up to head for his bed and possibly to get some sleep.

"George." His head turned towards his fireplace. Green flames had suddenly leapt out the wood. In the middle of them was a head with dreadlocks spouting from inch of the top. "George, I found the missing ingredient. It's ..."

"Kneazle spleen, I know," George replied hazily, holding back yet another yawn.

"How did you figure it out before me?" Lee asked, his lip sticking out slightly in a pout of disappointment. "And why is your hair purple?"

George smiled, or attempted to do so; only one side of his mouth actually managed to come upwards. "Stories are for the morning, mate. And don't you think I look fetching? Purple is all the rage, after all."

"You need sleep badly, don't you?" Lee asked, grinning. "Alright, I'll come back tomorrow. Though I should point out, blue is much more your color." With a crack, Lee's head was gone, and the flames blew out, leaving no trace they had ever been there.

George stumbled to his bed, still wearing his purple staff robes. He was out as before his head made it to the pillow.

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"Ok, that's it ... now pull on the end."

Kingsley did as George instructed, pulling the nib of the quill in his hand. Instantly, the feather lengthened into finely bound twigs; the stem stretched and widened, becoming brown, shiny, and solid. In less than two seconds, the beat-up quill had turned into a beautiful mahogany broomstick. One eyebrow rose slowly as Kingsley gazed down at the newly-appeared broom. For the Minister, it was a good show of surprise. "As always, I am impressed, George," he said in his slow base.

George gave his strange half-smile in response. "Of course. I give you nothing but the best, Royal. I wouldn't still be making this rubbish for the ministry if you and Harry didn't still work there. It's not like anyone else buys this, what Voldemort gone and all."

Kingsley laughed his rumbling laugh. "You're one of the few people who still talk to me that way, Rapier. I always have to find an excuse to be the one to come and examine your newest invention."

"Glad to be of disrespectful service, as always," George replied, bowing so much that his nose nearly touched the floor. "Now, give the end of that handle a twist."

Kinsley did as directed. The broom shrunk rapidly back into a banged-up quill. The Minister nodded, pleased. "I'll send someone to talk numbers." He hesitated, then spoke again. "You're about to be invited to a dinner at the Ministry, George. Just thought that you should know before someone else sprung it on you."

George rolled his eyes. "I don't do dinners, and I don't do anything at the Ministry. This is work for old friends. That's all."

Kingsley sighed. "I tried to tell those in charge of the event precisely that. Your name is still on the guest list. Apparently, we are indebted to your service towards the Ministry, and we must make some show of gratitude. Lee sends a message. He says that you had better come, because Katie has already made him promise."

George shrugged. "Tears and beers for him, then, isn't it? Make my excuses polite, if you want, but I won't go to the Ministry."

"In that case, Lee says he's having an engagement party next Saturday, and that you had better show to that instead," Kingsley said, a trace of a smile on his face. "I can't say I'm surprised. It will be a lot less interesting without you."

"Everything is, Royal," George said matter-of-factly. "Just send the wizard over to talk about the flying quills sometime this week."

George walked Kingsley out of his store, shook his hand and wished him the best. Face impassive as always, he wandered through the grinning children to his backroom. Just as he was about to entire the stocking area, he heard the hushed voices of two of his employees from the shelves to his right. He heard his name and stopped for a moment.

"... sure, he's attractive. I'm always trying to get him to come have a drink up at the Leaky Caldron with me, to be honest. But he can be so ... stone-like. He never even laughs, you know?" He recognized the voice of Stacey, one of his new hirings.

"Shows what you know. If you'd been through what he had, you'd as stony as him." That was Brenda. She had working at the store nearly since it's opening. She was a mothering type with three children of her own, and she was using her parental tone just then.

"Really?" Now Stacey sounded interested. "What happened?"

A sharp crack came as something was put down quickly. "That's none of your business, is it? He's seen war, that's all I'll say. That boy has seen to much death for his age. You leave him alone, you hear?"

George decided he'd heard enough as well. He opened the door further and slipped through silently. He was hardly surprised. A blind person could see that he wasn't who had once been. Stacey could hardly be blamed for noticing that he was missing more than an ear. He forgot about the conversation as he searched for the Pygmy Puff's food.

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Music was booming in the background. Around him, people were laughing, talking, and drinking. The drinking bothered him much more than the noise. He hadn't had alcohol in nearly three years, and the smell of it was giving him a headache. If he hadn't promised Lee, he wouldn't have at all. As it was, he was already hoping to cut out so he could work on making his hot pink potion in to tablets. He leaned against a wall, looking around. As soon as Harry, Ginny, Lee and Katie were all distracted, he could Disapperate without being heckled about leaving the party early.

"If I give you a Knut, will you tell me your thoughts?"

George blinked stupidly, then turned to his right. Standing next to him was a girl about his age. Her hair was a faded sort of blue that was turning back to mouse brown at the roots; her eyes were hazel, round and intelligent. She only came up to his shoulder and was somewhat chubby. She apparently thought no less of herself for this, if the way she was looking at him gave any indication. She had an aura of complete confidence.

"If I give you a Knut, will you tell me your thoughts?" she asked again, her voice lower than he would have expected, with a slight accent he couldn't put his finger on.

"My thoughts are worth a Galleon, at least." George had no idea why he'd engaged her in conversation. Hadn't he just been about to leave?

The girl crossed her arms skeptically. "I'm not going to pay a Galleon for a thought I don't even know. That's bad business. How about a Sickle now and another if they're any sort of interesting."

"I was thinking that if I squeezed the Kneazle spleens instead of chopping them, they might make my laughing potion easier to make into pills,:" George replied, wondering why he was still talking. "Do I get my Sickles?"

The girl shook her head. "I don't have any Sickles. My name is Mia Sparter."

George was surprised by the sudden subject change; he was forcibly reminded of the few conversations he'd had with Luna Lovegood. "George Weasley."

"I know," Mia said, as though stating the obvious. "Come on. We're going to dance now."

"I don't dance," George said firmly. He could see now that he really shouldn't have talked to this girl in the first place. She obviously some sort of insane. "I've got to get home anyway."

Mia shrugged. "Then here's my address." She took her wand out of her jean pocket and waved it in the air. George was suddenly holding what looked like a business card with large green letters. It said

Mia Sparter

1377 Middletree Road

London

George tucked the business card into his own pocket. "Alright, then," he said awkwardly, wondering how to get out of there as fast as possible.

"Send me an owl tomorrow so we can get a drink," she said, ignoring the fact that George was supremely uncomfortable. Without warning, she reached around the back of his head and dragged him down to be kissed. He'd hardly had time to register this before it was over. Mia looked him over. "I like your hair," she informed him, then walked off.

George couldn't move for a few minutes. He was completely paralyzed by shock. Mia, it appeared, was completely and totally mad. And a very good kisser.

Shaking his head and wondering whether Lee was having trouble selecting friends these days, George Disapperated back to his store.