17 July 2004
Diagon Alley

When Harry Potter arrived at Diagon Alley, the fires were still burning.

Aurors were keeping the curious away from the scene, even as curse breakers were busily working to contain the blaze. The problem was not that fiendfyre had been used, as the Prophet had speculated - for at this point, five years after the second wizarding war and the fall of Voldemort, most of the Auror Corps knew how to manage the cursed fire. No, the problem was that the shop next to the target was filled with all manner of unusual substances, most of which reacted rather poorly to the uncontrolled fire next door.

When Verdant Portraiture was burned, it quickly consumed Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes as well.

Harry saw his target sitting at Fortescue and Sons, sipping a cup of tea. The auror was recently off-duty, if the soot on his red robes was any indication. But for this man, the case was personal.

"Hello, Ron," Harry said as he sat down next to his first friend. "No change?"

Ron Weasley shook his head. "None." He looked over at Harry. "Did you…?"

"Yeah," Harry replied. "He won't let go of her hand. Your mum had to transfigure the chair so he could get some rest where he sat."

Ron nodded at that. "I can't believe he got to her in time."

"Oh, I can." answered Harry. "I think he knew something was going to happen. He bought one of her first portraits, and had her make an extra frame so they could communicate." Harry's eyes went to the burning shop front, the tasteful green facade a blackened ruin. "I think he was expecting something like this, even if he didn't realize it."

"Old habits," said Ron, thoughtfully.

"Yep," Harry agreed.

The pair sat quietly, watching the inferno. It was a sight neither had expected to see again, not since the Room of Requirements that day five years ago. From this distance, with the knowledge that they were both safe behind barriers and shields and the like? The sight was oddly beautiful.

Harry looked from the joke shop to the portrait shop. Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes held little that couldn't be replaced, apart from memories. Harry had already told Molly that he would cover any costs, citing his part ownership as a reason. George was safe, and as long as he was willing, the business would rebuild.

The portrait shop, on the other hand? He wasn't sure what would happen there. Most of its business was in repair, taking old damaged portraits and restoring them to life, refreshing the enchantments that made them work and updating them with new charms. Some of those charms were groundbreaking enough to earn an International Mastery for the owner, despite her age. No, it was the inventory that worried Harry, for some of the portraits in that shop had undoubtedly been priceless pieces, utterly irreplaceable.

He knew Astoria Greengrass was skilled, and had a passion for the work. In the short years since she had opened for business, her reputation had grown by leaps and bounds, to the point where ICW diplomats visiting London frequently brought paintings for her to evaluate and repair.

The painting of James and Lily Potter that hung in the study at Potter Manor was Astoria's work, and captured their likenesses so well that Harry frequently found himself staring at his parents, lost in thought. It was not a perfect portrait, being completed so long after the subjects had died, but Astoria had gone all out to come as close as she could. She had even viewed his memories of the graveyard, the forbidden forest, and his mother's death - all in an attempt to give the painting every ounce of realism that she could. It was, simply put, a masterwork.

Right now, however, that passion would do little. Astoria Greengrass, owner and proprietor of Verdant Portraiture, was laying in a bed at Saint Mungo's. She was burned over sixty percent of her body by cursed fire, which made her cruciatus exposure a footnote at best. If she walked again, it would be with a cane or a staff, and even then it was uncertain.

She had to wake up first.

George Weasley had been alerted by that old portrait he had bought from his new neighbor, and apparated down to the Alley without a moment's pause. He shouted for help instantly, even as he transfigured his shirt and shorts into the heaviest robes he could manage. Then, wand in hand, he ran into the burning shop.

Witnesses later reported that he was in the portrait shop for twenty-two seconds. When he emerged, carrying the badly burned witch, he cried out for help. By then, aurors were beginning to arrive, and two of them took Astoria from his arms. A third led George away, only to stop when he fell to his knees on the cobblestone. The adrenaline draining from him, he cried out in anger at what had happened, before passing out.

The auror laid him down on the street, gasping when he saw the burns on George's hands. Shortly, he was following Astoria to Saint Mungo's.

Ron's voice brought Harry out of his thoughts.

"He's going to kill them all, isn't he?" Ron said, quietly.

Harry could only nod. "They have absolutely no idea what they've done."

oOoOoOoOo

1 September 1998
London, UK

George Weasley had not slept properly since the end of the war.

The funerals had barely registered, filled with nameless faces offering soothing words and little comfort. Always the same faces, too. It got to the point where you could leave a funeral and shake the wizard's hand next to you, as if to say "See you back here tomorrow."

Fred's funeral was more tolerable, if only because of the feast that followed after. Molly Weasley had thrown herself into cooking the meal, knowing that she would fall to pieces without a task. Ginny, Hermione, and Audrey did all they could to help, and ended up carrying the load when everything became too much for the Weasley matriarch.

Audrey, thought George, as he walked down the street in Muggle London. I wish I had known you better.

Percy's fiance had dragged him to the funeral, nearly forcing him at wandpoint to reconcile with his family. It was not that he had not wanted to attend, but rather that he expected not to be welcome.

His place in post war Britain was an unusual one, and he had earned it. Percy had spurned the light, publicly and often, supporting the Fudge administration and its failures with zeal. After the ministry fell, he fed information to the order when he could, even sabotaging the camps where possible. Twice, a team of aurors transporting convicted muggleborn found their portkeys directed into the English Channel, while their "prisoners" went into hiding.

It was a rare skill, George mused to himself - his older brother had managed to piss off just about everybody. He was good at that, had been all his life. George could imagine his brother huffing at the slight, and chuckled. Can't do anything about it now, can you, Perce old boy?

An old woman was waiting for him at the apartment building where Percy had kept his flat. That he had lived muggle was a surprise, but it fit the pragmatic man Percy had always been. The flat was only a short walk to the Ministry, and around the corner from a small coffee shop. Exactly the sort of convenient location for an arse-kissing ministry up-and-comer looking to impress his boss.

The landlady clearly recognized George as her tenant's brother, for she nodded to him and opened the door without a word. They walked up the stairs to the flat, and its simple wooden door. The whole building was plain, ordinary, nondescript - a perfect fit for the Percy that most people saw.

Once the door was open, George stepped into the flat, taking in the layout. He did not hear the landlady follow him in until she spoke.

"Percival was a good lad," she said, the sort of comment one says when they don't know how else to break the silence.

George could only nod. "He was a stuck-up git, madam," then he turned and smiled kindly at her. "But he was our stuck-up git, and we loved him."

Her face softened as the insult was explained, and she gave George a smile. "That's the way of things, isn't it just?"

Another nod. "Always is."

After the silence stretched out again, the landlady decided that George would want time alone to pack up his brother's belongings. Leaving some cardboard boxes and a piece of paper with her number, she withdrew.

George stood in the living room, looking around at his dead brother's worldly possessions. None of his siblings had been willing to come with, though he did not bother to ask them. He had already done this once with Fred, and again with Alicia. Putting someone's life in boxes, reducing them and placing them in a trunk? He was getting quite good at it.

With a sigh, he took out his wand and got to work.

oOoOoOoOo

3 September 1998
Potter Manor
Wales

Harry Potter was worried about George.

After Fred had died, he had seemed numb to the world - and who wouldn't, in that position? The man had felt like his other half had been torn away, that he would never be truly complete. He would start a sentence, and then sit quietly as he waited for his brother to finish it. Had his friends and family not intervened, he probably would have been waiting even now, months later.

Percy, of all people, had taken it on himself to drag George back to reality. And now Percy was dead, executed with his fiance and dumped in the street entrance of the Ministry. The word "TRAITOR" was painted across the interior of the phone booth in Weasley blood. The notice-me-not charms on the booth worked all too well that day, for it was several hours before the early workers of the Ministry found the bodies.

Harry sat in his study, drinking an Irish coffee - for it seemed proper to drink something after a Weasley funeral, if the drunk he and Ron had endured after Fred's was any indication. The following morning, Molly had assured him that she had done much the same after burying her brothers. At her suggestion, George and Ron had both chosen to stay at Potter Manor, neither wanting to drink alone. Both had long since gone to bed, or so Harry thought.

At the back of his mind, Harry felt the tingle of his magic - a signal from the manor's wards. Even now, a month after moving into the restored manor house, he was still getting used to having control of a ward scheme as complex as this one. This particular signal told him of repeated spellfire.

With none of the wards indicating an intruder, that left only one option.

Harry found George in the basement training room, casting stunner after stunner at one of the dummies that served as targets. George had a bottle of muggle whiskey in his off hand, and Harry saw that the bottle was much emptier than it had been earlier in the evening.

"Hello, ickle Harrikins," said George, without looking back at the door. It was an auror move, one Ron had mentioned - to take your eyes off of an enemy was to invite a counter attack. And it took just one spell to end a battle the wrong way, after all.

"George," answered Harry. He took a seat against the back wall of the training room, watching as George continued to cast. Trying to lighten the mood, he remarked on the scene before him. "I think you got him, mate."

George scoffed at that, but kept on casting. The spells changed from the red of a stunner to the brownish yellow of a stinging hex. Harry frowned at that, for it meant that George was shifting to a spell that used less magic, hoping to conserve his strength.

"George," Harry began, only to stop when the whiskey bottle came flying at him. Seeker reflexes and a quick spell help him catch the bottle, which was fortunate - George had aimed it well, and it would have struck Harry right in the forehead had it hit its target.

When Harry looked back at George, he saw that the target downrange now wore a black robe and a silver mask. Unlike the usual Death Eater masks, however, this one was the laughing half of the traditional comedy and tragedy masks that adorned theatres worldwide.

"How long, Harry?" asked George, his wand still aimed at the target. "Or is it My Lord Potter, if you please?" There was no bitterness in the man's words, only a barely restrained anger blended with drink.

"I don't know what you mean, George," Harry said, cautiously.

With a wordless spell, George sent a blast of magic at the dummy. The spell struck true, and the wooden target was obliterated, mask and all. George continued to stare down range, his wand at the ready. Without turning, he spoke in a quiet voice.

"How long do we let the bad guys win, Harry?"

In the years to come, Harry would blame himself for what followed. He would try as hard as he could to come up with some level of guilt for which he could atone. He would debate the issue at length with the portraits of the manor, old and new. But in the end, he would regret absolutely nothing about his response. And while he might claim to hate himself for it, for the idea that his words may have started that terrible hunt, the reality is that Harry Potter would only regret one thing - that it was not him who did what was necessary.

With a sigh, Harry looked at the man who was the closest thing to an older brother he'd ever known.

"I don't know, George."

oOoOoOoOo

5 September 1998
London, UK

For the last time, George Weasley stood on the street in front of Percy's flat.

The landlady had walked through the apartment, complimenting how thoroughly George had cleaned every surface. She confessed that she would have given him back the deposit on the flat even if it hadn't been perfect, but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

"You and your family have so much to worry about," she had said. "And you still took the time to do this for me. Thank you." Then the muggle woman had given him a hug and her best wishes, before leaving him to his thoughts.

At that moment, George Weasley had but one thought. Where could he get a drink on a Saturday afternoon in Muggle London?

He walked aimlessly for close to an hour, gathering his thoughts. His feet took him to one of those small parks that seemed to dot the landscape, with small benches for sitting and statues of muggle war heroes.

In years past, George might have enjoyed seeing the sights of the great city. But then he looked up at a soldier atop a horse, pointing his sword toward some imagined enemy, and felt the urge to comment on it to Fred. He even turned to his right, looking for his twin.

Alas, Fred was not there.

What he did see, however, was a dark-haired man standing between two buildings, looking through a telescope of some sort. The scope was mounted on a pipe, something George had not seen before. Turning to his left, George saw an older man sitting on one of the park benches, speaking into a small muggle device. His back was facing George, and so he would not have seen the telescope.

Two years of open war, and more battles than he could remember, combined in that moment. George knew that there was a threat, and that it came from the man hiding between the buildings. He did not need to understand the threat to know that something was coming. Turning to his right, his shield was springing to life even before he saw the muzzle flash of the rifle.

The round made an echoing sound as it struck the shield, drawing the attention of the man on the bench. The assassin (and even now, George had labelled the man as an assassin in his mind) looked on in shock, frozen as he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. It was that momentary pause that allowed George to send a stunner his way.

George was kicking the rifle away from the man when he heard footsteps behind him.

"If you see William, have him send a team to my location." The muggle was still speaking to someone on his phone, George saw. "It would appear that someone got ideas above their station."

With a push of a button, the man closed the device and put it into his pocket. By this point, he was standing next to George, regarding the Japanese man laying on the pavement at their feet. George heard the man sigh, as if in disappointment.

"Ah, Mister Takahashi," the man said in his deep voice. "What have you done?" George could tell that the man was used to giving orders, and expecting them to be carried out. He was an important man, or so he seemed.

"You know him?" asked George, trying to get an idea of what he had walked into.

"Oh, Mister Takahashi has done a few odd jobs for me, here and there," answered the man. "It seems that he found another employer, however, more's the pity." The man shook his head, his eyes still on the fallen assassin. "He was good at what he did, one of the best."

Now the man looked up at George, as if to take his measure.

"And you stopped him with a simple stunning spell," continued the man, amusement plain on his features. Off the look of surprise on George's face, the man grinned. "Relax, you don't break the statute when the witness already knows about magic."

George could not think of a good response to that. "Oh?" was the best he came up with, which only amused the man that much more.

"Indeed," he replied. "In my line of work, we are forbidden from hiring witches and wizards, of course. If we did, then others would do the same, and before long you'd have teams of wizard assassins roaming the streets." He shook his head. "It would be bad for business, as I'm sure you can imagine."

George nodded in agreement, not sure how else to react. "What sort of business, exactly?"

"Oh, I'm sure you've figured that out by now, my friend." The man nudged the rifle with his foot. "One of my former employees decided to freelance, and of course his first job would be to kill his old boss." He looked George in the eye, and again George got the feeling that he was being evaluated. The man's gaze was intense - more so than even the closest scrutiny he had ever gotten under Professor McGonagall's watchful eye.

After a moment, the man seemed to relax, holding out his hand. "My name is Winston. Come, let me buy you a drink."

oOoOoOoOo

George followed the man through the streets of London, down several blocks and across an alleyway. It did not escape his notice that there always seemed to be a passerby watching them. He might not have seen it, except for the slight nod that Winston gave to a homeless man sitting in the shadow of an office building.

Few homeless men had a shave that clean.

Why are you following this man? George asked himself. It wasn't just the offer of a drink, though it was growing harder for George to say no to that these days. Nor was it some feeling of obligation, for if anything the debt ran the other way.

Part of him worried about spending time with a man who clearly was either a killer or someone who had killers in his employ. Muggle criminals did not worry him, really, and even the occasional wizard thief was easily dealt with - especially in his shop. But this, clearly, was something else entirely.

Deep down, George knew why he was doing this. The simple fact was that he did not want to sit in his flat and stare at the boxes that contained Percy's life. All he would have there would be time to think and a bottle to empty, as he waited to join his brothers.

It occurred to him then that he had very nearly died that day. From the shield impact he had seen, George knew how powerful the assassin's shot had been - it would have gone straight through him and struck Winston in the back of the head. He could have died, and had his reflexes been any slower (or his mind been any less sober) that would have been the tale of him.

His mind went to a vision of his own funeral - an easy thing to visualize, with Percy's having been held days before. Like Percy, George pictured his funeral being held in the muggle style, with a casket and the deceased in formal wizarding robes, the whole deal. When he pictured the casket itself, and what he might wear as a final prank, he gasped. The face in his mind's eye, the vision of his own funeral, was him - just as he was at that moment, to the last detail, clothes and all.

If I don't do something, George thought, That's what I have waiting for me. He almost stumbled on a curb as the thought hit him. Is that what Fred would want?

The thought crossed his mind, almost in response. Not just yet.

Before he knew it, they had arrived at an old hotel near the financial district. George looked up, and saw the ornate letters worked into the metal that framed the revolving doors of the entrance.

"Welcome," Winston said, "to the Continental."

Winston had led George through the back office of the hotel, and into one of the service areas in the lower levels of the building. A nondescript steel door at the end of the hallways was their destination, it seemed.

After a knock, a grate opened and looked them over. When the eyes behind the steel saw the shorter man, the door opened immediately.

Off a quizzical look at George, Winston inclined his head. "He's with me." That, apparently, was good enough for the door man, and he stepped aside to allow them entry into what seemed to be a high-class muggle bar. A stage was set up for musicians to perform, and George could see this sort of space filling up rapidly in the evenings. Now, in the early afternoon, there were only a few patrons, mostly sitting near the bar.

Winston led him to a corner booth, clearly his regular seat. George saw that this particular booth had clear lines of sight with nearly every part of the room, allowing Winston to see what was happening without being obvious about it.

They had not been sitting for more than a minute before two drinks came out. The clear liquid had what looked like an lemon peel, and was served in a wide glass.

Winston took his drink and raised it. "I have to thank you again for saving my life today, Mister…?"

George took his own drink and returned the toast. "Weasley. George Weasley." Taking a sip, George decided that he liked whatever this drink was - and found himself wondering if the Leaky served it.

"Ah," said Winston, knowingly. "That would explain your reflexes, I take it. And your quite impressive situational awareness."

George set his drink down, his expression hardening. Clearly, this man knew something about him - something that came to mind with his name, but not his face. Then he remembered the earlier comment about the statute.

"Would it?" he said, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

"Oh, yes. Magical Britain recently had something of a civil war, I understand. Quite an unfortunate state of affairs." Winston kept his eyes on George as he spoke. "Had it continued, I fear there would have been a great deal of upheaval on the more mundane side of things."

"You're very well informed," said George.

Winston chuckled. "Mister Weasley, I have to be well informed if I want to do my job properly. You see, just as we cannot use the services of magicals in our work, we are in turn forbidden from working on behalf of magicals." He leaned forward, emphasizing his words. "Picture how your world would react to a team of assassins killing wizards with guns and knives and so forth. They would tear this establishment down around us, and my superiors with it."

Taking another sip of his drink, George nodded. "Your superiors couldn't let that go, could they?"

"No, Mister Weasley, they could not. It would be war, and while our resources are formidable, I worry that it would not be a war we could win." Winston gestured at the bar, including both the staff and the few patrons. "I have maintained stability and order in our industry for more than thirty years, through the Continental. We exercise a measure of control over the business of death for hire, because it is necessary. Killers running wild, unchecked, would only draw attention to our affairs." He raised his glass once more. "As you well know, Mister Weasley, there are some things best left out of the view of the public."

George had to concede the point. "Sometimes I think the magical world could use that sort of control."

Winston glanced down at his phone, which had lit up as they spoke. "Perhaps. If that were so, would Percival and Frederick still be with us?"

The shock of the statement kept George from reacting further, despite the impulse to draw his wand. Now that he knew more about this man, and this place, he knew such a move would be his last. That thought did little to calm his anger, however.

Before he could respond, Winston slid his phone over, so that George could read the display. There, in small text, was his name and the names of his friends and family. What struck him was that every name listed belonged to the dead. Percy, Audrey, Fred, even Alicia.

"Even as my guest, you must understand that I have to know who comes and goes in my own establishment, yes?" Winston's voice was apologetic, and George understood his reasoning. He didn't like it, of course, but he had little choice in the matter.

Winston continued, taking the phone back. "If this list is right, and your reaction tells me that it is, then the war's end has not stopped the killing." He looked thoughtful, as he looked at George. "What is it that you want, exactly?"

George took another drink, and failed to notice that his glass had been refilled.

"I don't know, Winston," he answered.

Winston scoffed. "You're not much of a liar, Mister Weasley." He was goading his guest, just a little, wanting to see what reaction he would get. Just as Winston was a mystery to George, George was a mystery to Winston. The High Table enforced the rule against hiring or being hired within the magical world, and it was one of the few inviolate rules there were in this industry. Winston, of course, knew that the rule was only inviolate because the High Table was unwilling to break it - one of the few of its rules to be taken so seriously.

George bristled at the accusation, mild though it was. "Sometimes I want to die, is that what you want to hear?"

Winston shook his head. "If that were the truth, then you would be dead already."

"You don't think I tried?!" The angry hiss from George drew the attention of three nearby patrons, all of whom stood as if in unison. A waved hand from Winston had them back in their seats just as quickly, but their presence had been revealed. It gave George a moment to calm himself, as the reality of his surroundings caused him to refocus on the topic.

Winston regarded him, only a raised eyebrow inviting him to continue.

George nearly whispered as he leaned forward. "We won the war, we defeated the dork lord, and when the bad guys were supposed to be rounded up and caged, they walked free. Oh, not all of them, but enough." He took another drink. "They kill whomever they want - traitors, families of their enemies, you name it. And no one will do anything." George looked up, his expression almost hopeful.

Ah, there it is, thought Winston. Part of him wanted to grant the unspoken request, just to see what would happen - the past few years had been dull, in comparison to the ones that came before. He could think of several young colleagues who might enjoy the challenge. But no, that was not possible. "We cannot solve this problem on your behalf, Mister Weasley."

George almost growled in anger. "Someone has to."

Winston sat back and smiled. "Indeed."

The moment stretched, and George stared openly at the man. "You're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting, are you?" The idea of dealing with the Death Eaters was one he had thought about quite a lot over the past few months, but he was no Harry Potter. He was no auror. He was just half of a duo. What could he do?

"Not exactly," answered Winston, letting amusement creep into his voice. "You see, we are in an interesting position. I owe you a boon, in recognition of your services to me this morning. But I cannot act on your behalf." He leaned forward again, lowering his voice. "There is something I can offer you, however."

"What would that be?" asked George.

"Training."

oOoOoOoOo

7 November 1998
The Continental
London, UK

Winston's young assistant, a man named Charon, was the one who coined George's new name. They had taken to jogging in the mornings, and their conversations ranged widely across all manner of topics.

One morning in early November, George and Charon were eating breakfast at the Continental. George had never pried into Charon's personal history, getting the impression (correctly) that the topic was a painful one.

It made sense to George, which was part of why he left the topic alone. What normal, well adjusted person would choose to become an assassin? George wondered. I mean, look at me.

George's history did come up, as so much of his life was intertwined with that of his brother. After telling the story of his and Fred's glorious exit from Hogwarts, Charon sat back and nodded.

"So, you are Pollux, then. I see it now." His deep voice and exotic accent added certainty to the statement, as if saying the thing made it so.

"Pollux?" asked George.

Charon nodded. "The name I chose for myself is Greek. In their mythology, Charon was the ferryman who took the dead on his boat and guided them to the underworld." He smiled at George. "Fitting, wouldn't you say, for one who welcomes killers into the Continental?"

George had to agree that it was a well chosen name. Charon had no desire to kill, despite his exceptional skill at it. No, his goal was to learn from Winston, perhaps someday to become his apprentice and replace him. He valued the stability that the Continental provided, and saw no need to take part in the killing that resulted.

"Castor and Pollux were twins," Charon continued. "They had adventures and wrote their own legends, as one might expect. And then, Castor died." His level gaze focused on George as he told the tale. "Pollux remained behind, but found that he could not live half a life. In some accounts, he gave up his immortality to join his brother. In others, he merely gave up his life."

"Half of a whole," George said, quietly.

"Yes," said Charon. "It is a fitting name. An honourable one, I believe."

George found himself nodding. Yes, he thought to himself. That name would do.

oOoOoOoOo

25 February 1999
Ministry Atrium
British Ministry of Magic

Kingsley Shacklebolt did not know what to think, when his assistant told him that he was needed in the atrium. Then he got off of the elevator, and understood.

Thirteen left arms were arrayed around the fountain in the atrium. Each had the dark mark prominently displayed. In the dead hands of each, there was a wand.

"How?" was all that the Minister had to say, before one of his assistants brought him the note that had been found with the… remains.

Thirteen murderers, thirteen wands.
How many lives did these wands take?
How many more death eaters still live free?
Do your job, Minister, or I will do mine.

Every death eater will pay the ferryman's fee. I swear it.

Pollux

Kingsley could hear the growing crowd behind him, even as he heard the aurors struggling to keep order. Someone had brutally murdered thirteen witches and wizards, and he couldn't even identify who had been killed.

One of the investigators got the idea to check the wands, in hopes of identifying the owner. Kingsley watched the charm and saw the spells that the wand had performed - and knew that his day had just gotten more complicated. The oldest spell on the wand was the Avada Kadavra. As they went around the circle, they learned that every single wand had the killing curse, and most had the Cruciatus as well. That put paid to the idea that these were innocent victims.

"Sir," said another auror. The young man handed Kingsley a coin. "Each hand was holding these, sir."

The coin appeared to be silver and gold. The silver inset showed a woman's face - the muggle Queen Elizabeth II. Around the outer edge of the coin, the text said Two Pounds.

"Baker?" said Kingsley, drawing the attention of one of the aurors. He held up the coin, catching the man's eye. "How many of these to the galleon?"

"At today's rates?" The auror thought for a moment. "Just about thirteen, sir."

"The ferryman's fee," said Kingsley, more to himself. "What the hell is going on?"

And who in Merlin's name was Pollux?

oOoOoOoOo

1 April 1999
Diagon Alley

When George Weasley opened the back door to his flat that morning, he found Harry Potter waiting for him.

"Hello, Harry," he said cautiously. They had not spoken since christmas, and George had been busy.

"Hello, George," replied Harry. His tone told George exactly why he was sitting on a bin in the alleyway, waiting for him.

They stood there, looking at each other, for more than a minute. Harry's expression was a study in contrasts - clear relief at George's condition (awake and intact), mixed with uncertainty. But about what, George could not tell. Does he know?

He decided to break the silence. "You want to come in, mate? I haven't had much chance to clean, but…" George trailed off at a gesture from Harry.

"Not today, I'm probably just as busy as you are." Harry's reply did little to ease George's worry. Standing, Harry produced a small package from his robes. "I was in the alley, and figured I'd drop off your birthday present."

George stared at the package, and then at his friend. The blank look in his eyes told Harry everything - George had not even known the date.

With a polite smile, George took the package. It was heavier than it looked, but small enough to tuck under one arm. "Thanks, Harry."

Harry nodded, acknowledging the comment. The uncertainty remained on his face, and the silence began to stretch out once more. George said nothing, not trusting himself to keep the secret of his activities of late.

Again, it was Harry who broke the silence. "Right, well, I'd best be going, then." He held out his hand to George. "Take care of yourself, George."

Taking the hand, George smiled back. "You too, Lord Potter." Then he chuckled at Harry's reaction, and the rolled eyes that usually followed the use of his title.

Once Harry had left, George made his way back up the stairs. He began opening the package on his kitchen table, not sure what he'd find.

Inside the box was a large bottle of amber liquid. The label told him that it was scotch from a place called…. Ah, that explains it. "Potter Distillery," read George. Apparently, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes was not the only business that the Potters invested in these days.

When he set the bottle back in the box, he heard the crunch of what sounded like parchment. Eyes narrowed, he removed the bottle and the packaging that held it in place. Underneath, he found several sheets of muggle paper, each with a neat list of names and locations printed on it. The letters were precise and even, telling George that it had come from one of the muggle devices like those he had seen at the Continental.

The names began to register with George, at that point, and he realized that he recognized them. Merlin, he recognized most of them. Each and every one was a Death Eater, or believed to be one.

There was a small card inserted into the stack. Lifting it up, George let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

George,

Good Hunting.

HJP

A/N: This story will be three chapters in response to a prompt from Reddit and the DP&SW Discord. "Years after the war, George Weasley has become the John Wick of the Potterverse. One day, someone kills his dog." No, Astoria is not the dog. Neither is Percy. Let it stand that George isn't borderline alcoholic and catatonic because of one tragedy, but because of the sum of many. I considered calling this "How a murder spree helped George Weasley get his groove back," but decided against it. There are quite a few "George has the sads after the war" stories out there, but very few of them take a look at the "George is a drunk and becomes an assassin to sober up" angle.

Originally, this wasn't a full crossover with the John Wick universe, but Winston and Charon are too good of characters to ignore. If they say they are in the story, you'd best believe they're in the story. Who am I to argue?

I want to post this partially to motivate me, and partially to keep me from tinkering it into oblivion. It also means that I can shift over to one of the chapters I have in progress for my other stories without feeling like I'm abandoning this one.

Next time: Adventures in structural engineering, as well as the enchanting Enchantress Astoria Greengrass.

Feedback, as always, is welcome.