Fred was losing his fucking mind. Okay, no, too dramatic when there was more than enough actual, genuine drama going on; DMLE peons playing out childhood power fantasies, Peter fucking Pettigrew, the ongoing effects of the new laws as Fred did his level best to keep roofs over people's heads and food in bellies. Public information campaigns had fallen by the wayside as he spent most of his day fielding enquiries on the Aloysius journal, using whatever means he could (thank you so much for that cloak, Harry) to distribute aid to those who needed it.
There weren't really breaks, except to pop downstairs from time to time and be a Presence for George and say hi to Fig and make up an excuse for why he couldn't eat whatever monstrosity Ange had 'cooked' that day. Otherwise, Fred was working, because if he wasn't working, there were still second lifers suffering. He could have a break when he was dead again or when the Ministry relented, and he had a creeping suspicion about which would happen first.
Hey, remember when he ran a joke shop? Ha. Hahaha.
The surveillance board flickered, drawing Fred's attention away from the journals and papers spread all over his desk and fighting for his attention. He made a point of popping out whenever someone came up into the clubhouse, a habit with combined benefits socially and security wise. Tonks bumped her way past him into the office, but Fred's greeting was brief as he spotted the other newcomer wandering around and looking a little overwhelmed.
"Hullo, stranger! Long time, no see," he shouted across the room, waving as he made his way over to Trinity. A cheeky grin on his face, once he got closer he gestured broadly at the space. "Pretty great, isn't it? My post-post-mortem labour of love."