September 26, 2023

Prompt: Mistaken identity: Write a fragment of a story in which the first person narrator is mistaken for someone else by a stranger. For whatever reason, the narrator decides to become the person he has been mistaken for.

I ditched the stranger part. And in most places out of the US, the 'first floor' of a house is the ground floor.

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George sat at the grand, battered old table in The Burrow's kitchen, ignoring a cup of tea. The crickets and frogs could be heard singing in the fields all around, and the moonlight was just bright enough that he didn't bother to cast a Lumos. It was half nine, and his mum had just gone to bed.

Elbows on the table and face in his hands, George couldn't contain the urge to cry anymore. Things were getting considerably worse.

Healer Portenbelly hadn't had anything encouraging to say during her earlier visit. Five years after Arthur's death, Molly had begun to slip into some magical version of what Hermione called All-Zymers. Except it wasn't just her memory that was going, it was her magic, too. It would come and go in fits and starts, like a water pipe with air in, and that meant regular chaos to be sure. The sink was full of broken dishes that had fallen out of the air when the washing-up spell failed, and the cooling cabinet was full of rotting food because it had gone hot and then cold and then monsoon, apparently, if the great puddle on the floor was any indication. Then the charms went off altogether. The family clock hadn't worked in ages and his Mum had had an absolute fit when every single spoon spontaneously switched rapidly between 'home' and 'lost' before falling to the floor all at once. It was what happened when someone died—and she had thought...well.

That was a bad day.

But those were not so worrisome. Irritating, troubling, frightening at times to be sure, but nothing compared to the iffy charm-work that kept The Burrow standing. As long as the Lord and/or Lady of the house was connected to the ward stones, the ley lines powered everything the house needed to remain secure indefinitely. But with Molly's magic failing...a team of builder Goblins had to come and shore the place up once Lordship of the House of Weasley had been transferred to Bill. Just for safety's sake. The beams overhead had begun to buckle and some of the walls had a noticeable bulge as though the first floor were going to be crushed beneath the weight of the house. If Ron hadn't come home for a visit that afternoon, George shuddered to think of what might have happened.

Worse than her failing magic, though, was the way she'd begun to slip away. One by one, she was forgetting them all—the great-grandkids and grandkids first, then the Weasley Spouses—Hermione, Harry, Penelope, Angelina, and Fleur. And now Ginny. At dinner earlier that night, she hadn't known her own daughter. And when Ginny had insisted on who she was, it had gone poorly, indeed.

"You're not my daughter!" she screamed. "You're a liar! Get out! Get out!"

And Ginny had. She had run like her hair was on fire. Heartbroken.

George's tears kept coming. He hadn't cried so much since the war. He missed his mum, the one who always knew what to do, even when you weren't actually asking for help or advice. The one who held his kids when they were babies, the one who held him and his twin when they were young and afraid of lightning storms.

"Fred, whatever is the matter?"

George's back stiffened. This had been happening more too, of late.

He turned to see Molly puttering toward him across the floor, her long nightgown covering swallowing her once stocky frame. She forgot too many meals.

"Mum!" George cried, feeling put on the spot for a moment, as though he were caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. Or playing fire-cracker keep-away with the ghoul in the attic. But then, that had been with Fred during Christmas hols first year. Dad had laughed.

"Hush those tears, now. Would you like some tea? I suppose I ought to make enough for George as well; you two are never apart for long, are you? Now tell me what has you so bothered. "

George sniffled and wiped an errant tear. He shouldn't have had such a breakdown here; his mum was extra sensitive to the emotions of others. This time, it seemed her mothering instinct was triggered, but it had the opposite effect, at times. It was like she became an emotional boggart. Your feelings became hers, only she didn't understand why she felt the way she did. She felt scared or angry or hurt and that was enough to go on with, even if it didn't make any logical sense.

"I'm alright, mum. George and I both have a crush on the same girl, is all. And since I'm obviously the most clever and handsome of the two, my twin is destined to be crushed and jealous. If Hermione goes to the Yule Ball with me, George will be fuming, and how can I be happy then?"

George laughed a bit wetly. He and Fred had been sweet on Hermione, once upon a time, and they'd both been destined for disappointment. Neither would make a move on the girl their other half fancied. And now she was Ron's anyway. A handsome pair.

"Oh, Fred. Never short on confidence, I see."

George laughed and stood to take over the job of putting the kettle on the fire. It wouldn't do to let her set the place ablaze.

"That's me, Mum. Freddie the charmer."

Molly looked up into George's eyes and cupped his face, failing to notice the missing ear he'd lost all those years ago—the one feature that set him apart from his departed twin. She smiled and patted his cheek.

"Now, tell me about this Hermione girl. A muggle born, by the sound of that name."

George turned to the hob, hiding his face as best he could from the woman who used to know him better than almost anyone.