I know this is kinda late and I have had people banging at my door ... and well ... yeah. Um, here it is. And this is our excuse ...
Beta Notes: So, once upon a time there was this fanfic writer who was in the middle of writing a brilliant post-battle Harry/Ginny story. Then the Uni term and the thesis from suck loomed and her beta went through a small life-crisis with her child and both were feeling a bit lazy about posting more story, so an unbetaed chapter sat alone and forlorn, awaiting it’s due time.
Then life shaped up and the writer wrote another chapter and the beta was very excited. She jumped up and down and squeed and made other noises of approval, and in her excitement betaed the second chapter right away and sent it right back.
Kezza: “Dude. You just sent me 49.”
Jen: “Yeah! It was bloody fabulous! Thank you so much for writing that! After these past couple of weeks of major life suckage, I really needed me some Rebuilding Life. You are the greatest, superest, most wonderfulest friend EVAH!”
Kezza: “You still haven’t given back 48.”
Jen: “I can see how that would pose a problem.” (head scratches)
Kezza: “I have readers literally threatening to take my children hostage if I don’t post another chapter soon. This is a bit of a problem.”
Jen: “I’m not worthy! I’m not worthy!” (falls at Kezza’s feet, prostrate and begging)
Much love, K&J (aka. Kezzabear and goingbacktosquareone)
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Rebuilding Life | ||||||
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Category: Post-DH/AB Characters:All Genres: General, Humor, Romance Warnings: None Story is Complete Rating: R Reviews: 1776 Summary: Harry has defeated Voldemort but is going back to his life going to be easy? What will he go back to, the life he once had is meaningless now. It's time to build a new one and to create a new post-Voldemort world. Ginny is there waiting for him, what do they need to do to rebuild their lives? Hitcount: Story Total: 580263; Chapter Total: 12755 Awards: View Trophy Room Author's Notes: |
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Angelina’s sobs echoed around the cramped kitchen. Harry looked around in confusion. A blackened cauldron was sitting on the stovetop and a wooden spoon was spinning drunkenly in a chipped bowl splattered with batter. It looked sort of worn out and wobbly as if the magic had worn off but it couldn’t quite manage to stop. There was a cake tin lying upside down on the floor near the hearth and a thin film of flour on the table. “We’re not sure where George is,” Arthur said quietly. “No one’s seen him since this morning.” “What do you mean?” Ron demanded. “Why wasn’t he at the shop?” “He came here to get me some of Molly’s tea …” Angelina trailed off. “It’s wonderful for pregnant witches,” Molly said absently. “He didn’t come back to the shop,” Bill said. “And you’re just telling me this now?” Ron glared at his family. “I checked the … ah, well the … pubs,” Percy said delicately. “Hannah has not seen him all week.” “Aberforth?” Ron demanded. Percy shook his head and Ron swore. “Beel and I checked ze White Elephant and ze Rockin’ Robin,” Fleur added, “but ‘e ‘as not been zere.” Harry noticed her French accent was getting very pronounced and her eyes were drooping, almost shut, as she leaned against her husband. “What about the Fallow Field?” “Charlie’s gone there,” Arthur said absently, tapping his fingers on the table in an agitated fashion. “So far none of the publicans have seen him.” “Did you check Muggle pubs?” Ron asked, sinking into a chair opposite his father. “Kingsley has had a few of the trainee Aurors out,” Arthur said, nodding. “Oh, the Ministry can spare a few Aurors on searching for one drunk wizard?” Ron asked. He glared at Harry. “Funny no one takes me seriously about Harry.” Harry just glared right back at his best friend, irritated. “Given what George is capable of,” Bill said wryly, “this is more of a Statute of Secrecy matter than anything else.” Ron snorted. “Why?” Ginny asked, sitting next to Ron. “He’s been doing really well. Why has he suddenly gone … off again?” Arthur cleared his throat and Bill shifted uneasily. Percy pushed his glasses further up his nose. “One cake … I was only making one cake,” Molly said absently as she patted Angelina on the shoulder. Ginny let out a soft gasp. “It’s their birthday tomorrow,” Bill said, staring vacantly at the fireplace. “I always make them two cakes,” Molly said, staring at the window. “I … I f-forgot.” “At least you remembered it was their birthday,” Angelina’s voice rasped out. “You’ve got a lot on your mind,” Molly soothed. “You’d think I could remember my own husband’s birthday,” Angelina said angrily, closing her eyes. “Pregnancy can make you forgetful-” “Not just his birthday,” Angelina continued harshly. “Fred’s birthday. It’s no wonder he’s gone! He’s probably realised what a terrible wife I am and that we’ve made the biggest mistake of our lives and I’m the dumbest, stupidest, most idiotic fool for trapping him into this mess!” “Now, now, don’t upset yourself-” “It’s George’s birthday!” Angelina shouted. She pushed at the back of her chair with one hand, shifting slightly in an effort to stand up. “And he’s hurting and missing and I am so fat and ugly I can’t even get out of this chair!” “You’re not fat-” “Not that he’d want me to!” wailed Angelina, rocking forward slightly in an effort to get up. She slumped back, defeated. “He probably never wants to look at me again. I should go home and pack up my things … only it’s not home any more is it … because he’ll want me to leave after this-” She burst into tears again as Molly pulled her into a motherly embrace and rocked her, making shushing noises and crooning nonsense into her ear. “What if he … can’t come home?” Ginny ventured tentatively. Molly looked up sharply. “What do mean, Ginny?” Hermione asked. Ginny shot a glance at Harry before looking back at her friend. “We know that someone wants to … harm Harry-” “What?” Bill asked blankly. Suddenly everyone in the room was looking at Harry and he shifted nervously. “You think someone has … taken George?” Arthur ventured. Ginny hunched one shoulder and shook her head, mumbling something that sounded like ‘maybe’. “I suppose it’s possible ...” Hermione didn’t sound convinced of her own words. “He was the one … with me that day … on the staircase,” Harry ventured, fighting the desperate urge to leave. He fidgeted nervously, shuffling closer to the back door. “Harry …” Arthur fixed him with a look that said more than any words could express: if Harry attempted to flee there would be trouble. Not that he was thinking of leaving. Well, maybe just a little. Harry took a deep breath and nodded to Arthur to let the man know he’d understood. Squaring his shoulders, he took a step forward and pulled out a chair, gesturing for Hermione to sit. “Harry?” questioned Angelina suddenly. Harry looked up at her. She tilted her head and squinted before continuing. “Are you … purple?” “It’s just temporary,” Harry muttered. “You hope,” Ron mumbled under his breath. Angelina surprised them all by swearing suddenly. “I’m going to kill him!” “I know you’re upset that he’s … not here, dear,” Molly interjected, patting Angelina’s arm gently, “but-” “No, no, no,” Angelina said impatiently, waving Molly away. “He promised me he wasn’t going to test it on Harry!” “Test what?” Ginny asked. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “He’s been trying to develop a potion that changes the colour of your skin,” Angelina said. “For Quidditch supporters — so they can wear their team colours.” “What sort of Quidditch team is that particular shade of purple?” Bill asked with a smirk. Harry rolled his eyes. “I should never have left him alone with the Venomous Tentacula,” Angelina muttered. “He swore he could make one that would turn Harry back to his original colour.” “Pasty white?” Ron snickered. Harry threw him a dark glare. “So you’re saying this isn’t because of the Dragon Pox cure Madam Pomfrey gave me?” Harry asked. “This is because George was trying to turn me … pink?” “Well not pink, pink-” “Madam Pomfrey gave you the cure?” Molly shrieked, cutting Angelina off. “I’m fine,” Harry said hopelessly as Molly bustled around to him and began feeling his forehead. Harry gave up trying to fend her off and simply let Molly inspect his face and peer into his eyes. “So is it just your face or …” Bill was unable to hide his smirk as he gazed at Harry. “And my chest,” Harry sighed. “Travelling south is it?” Bill smirked. Harry ignored him. “Well, you don’t feel hot,” Molly murmured. She began probing his neck with her fingertips. Harry jerked out of her grasp but Molly just tilted his chin up and began prodding again. Ginny stifled a giggle. Molly shot her daughter an exasperated look. “Just want to see if maybe your glands are up … did Madam Pomfrey check?” Harry squirmed out of her way as Ron and Bill both tried to hide their chuckling behind their hands. “Shouldn’t we be more worried about George?” Harry asked plaintively. “He should be worried, more like it,” Angelina muttered ominously. “Just wait until I get my hands on him.” “We need to find him first,” Percy interjected soberly. He unfurled the parchment he’d been studying and laid it on the table. “You don’t know he did this …” Harry trailed off as Angelina fixed him with a stare and raised her eyebrows. “I’ve divided this map into six sections,” Percy began but was interrupted by a ridiculously loud squawking sound. Pigwidgeon, who had been fluttering around Errol’s head, began flapping madly around the room and Errol fainted, landing with a thump in the sink as a majestic black bird swooped in the kitchen window. It flew in an awkward arc half way around the kitchen before whirling abruptly and landing on the table, with a little jump and a bit of a stagger. “What the bloody hell-” “Ronald! Language!” “That’s a cockatoo!” Ginny exclaimed. “How did it get here?” “Someone sent it with mail by the looks of it,” Bill remarked dryly, pulling on the string that tied the parchment to the bird’s leg. He squinted at it. “It’s addressed to … Harry?” “Letters from Australia appear to circumvent the Minister’s attempts to screen your mail,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “Australia?” Molly asked as Harry broke the seal on the parchment and unrolled it. “The bird,” Hermione said gesturing, “is an Australian cockatoo.” “There’s no way that bird flew all the bloody way here,” Ron said. “They might’ve Portkeyed it partway?” Ginny said. Harry scanned the first few lines of the hastily scrawled missive. “It’s from Jonathon.” “We really should be looking for George,” Percy interrupted. “Now, about my map-” “What’s he want?” Ron asked Harry, ignoring his older brother. “He’s got bloody bad timing.” Percy began to remonstrate but was cut off by his mother. “Ronald, one more word out of you and-” “Listen,” Harry said urgently. He shook the parchment out and began to read. “Dear Harry, sorry to write to you dir … directly, I know you’re a busy bloke and all. We’ve run into a bit of a … snag … His writing’s shocking, then it says something, something George … something bloody shock and then it says scribble, scribble, scribble …can’t get home … something, something … red tape?” Harry broke off, peering at the letter. Ron thrust his illuminated wand tip nearer to the scroll and peered at the letter with him. “I think that says Australia,” Ron muttered. “Portkey Office … It says they’ve run into a snag at the Portkey Office?” “They?” Hermione asked. “As in he and … George?” “This would have been clearer if he’d written it in Ancient Runes!” Ron complained. “Here, let me,” Ginny said impatiently, holding her hand out. “I got pretty good at reading chicken scratch reading year after year of letters from Hogwarts written by you lot.” Ginny took the letter and smoothed it on the table in front of her. “Dear Harry, sorry to write to you directly, I know you must be a busy bloke and all. We’ve run into a bit of a snag. Bert and Ernie picked up George in Darwin today — Bert says it was a bloody shock to see him standing there, half-dead from Apparition. He’s worn himself out mate; he can’t get home like this. The bloody red tape ...” “He’s in Australia?” Angelina asked, dazed. “How did he get there?” “How did that bird get back here?” Ron asked. Ginny cleared her throat pointedly. “I’m not sure how the idiot managed to Apparate himself here in just a couple hours but he muttered something about splinching in Sri Lanka. He managed to emergency hail the Roobus before practically fainting so Ernie brought him straight back to Sydney. The Healers at St Clodus said he’s fine, just bloody tired from all the Apparating which they reckon no bloke with a full set of snags would do. He must’ve had some real important reason for doing it but I don’t know what it is, mate because he’s not talking.” “At least we know where he is,” Arthur murmured. “I’ll keep reading, shall I?” Ginny asked with a rather irritated glance at her father. “Bert tried to get an emergency Portkey but old Gertrude at the office is a bit put out with her because of this one time she sat Little Wally Hoffler next her on the Roobus and he biffed his biscuits all over her new crocodile shoes. You know Bert — she’s not very … subtle and they ended up throwing her out of the Ministry. Anyway, long story short, I got Ernie to get his Uncle Zeke to make one of his vet animal Portkeys and we had the nerd next door configure it to go to London instead of Perth and hopefully Bessie got to you in one piece.” “Is that even possible?” Bill wondered aloud. “Well I am reading the letter,” Ginny said. “At least I am when I am not being interrupted by my rather annoying family. As I was saying — So we’re hoping you can figure out a way at that end to get some Pommy pen-pusher to sign off on something real quick because George is in a bad way. I don’t think he’s drunk but he keeps crying in his sleep and muttering for Fred. I reckon you can grease some wheels other people can’t reach, mate. Look after Bessie until we can figure out a way to get her back. Best, Jonathon.” “Merlin’s Beard!” exclaimed Arthur. “George went to Australia? But why?” “I think he went to find Jonathon,” Ron said, “because Jonathon knows how he feels.” “But he’s been doing really well,” Angelina protested. “He’s been inventing again and we’ve been shopping for the baby and … and we decided to name him … we’re going to call him Fred …” The kitchen was silent for a moment. “What if it’s a girl?” Ginny suddenly asked with a decidedly mischievous lilt to her voice. “It’s a Weasley baby,” Angelina said with a slight smirk. A ripple of laughter went around the table. “How do you get a Portkey to … from? What do we need to get?” Harry asked Arthur. “And how do we get it at nearly midnight?” “Well, I think we should get it from Australian officials,” Arthur mused. “It’s not the middle of the night there. There’s an international Floo at the Ministry. I think this Jonathon fellow is right. If anyone can get Smeggins to open it up at midnight … it’d be you.” Arthur shrugged apologetically. Harry sighed heavily. He would do anything to help George. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, but he hated being reminded of his fame. Being at Hogwarts meant he forgot it for the most part and the students were used to him now. He realised that the reason the letter was addressed to him and not to George’s family was because he was Harry Potter. He could get things done when others could not. “Let’s get in touch with this Smeggins then,” Harry said. More than three hours later, close to half past four in the morning, Harry had signed six photographs for Smeggins’ grandchildren, four legal forms, in triplicate, to get an emergency international Portkey and the Gringotts authorisation to pay for repairs to St Clodus Hospital for Magical Medical Emergencies, although he was still waiting for the full story about that. Harry had Flooed both the Australian Ministry and Bert and Jonathon to set up the Portkey and arrange for George to get home. Now he just wanted to sleep for a week. The Burrow was quiet as Harry and Arthur stumbled through the back door. The scattered mugs on the table were a testament to the late night. The hot chocolate lay congealing in their bottoms and several chocolate rings littered the table top. A pair of dragon hide boots lay in a heap near the hearth and a heavy, black cloak was thrown over the back of a chair. “Charlie must have gotten back then,” Arthur said wearily. He threw the Portkey authorisation on the table and shrugged out of his own robes. “Go up and get some sleep, Harry. The Portkey’s due in a couple of hours and we’ll need to be in London for that.” Harry trudged up the stairs, pausing at Ginny’s door. He stopped for a moment, listening to the low murmur of Arthur reassuring his wife that everything had gone well. He could hear the rumble of Charlie’s snores from Percy’s old room and knew that Bill and Fleur would have stayed too, in Bill and Charlie’s old room. Angelina was probably tucked up in the twins’ old room. Harry would have a bed in Ron’s room again. Harry hesitated, his hand on Ginny’s doorknob. He pushed the door open and peered in. She was lying asleep, the waning moon spilling faint light onto her pillow. Two camp beds had been crammed into her little room and Hermione and Angelina rested comfortably in the tiny room. Harry smiled as Ginny shifted in her sleep and breathed his name before he quietly closed the door and padded slowly to the twins’ old room. The room lay empty while the rest of The Burrow was crammed full of sleeping inhabitants. Harry’s books lined the shelves and a pile of clean socks was perched on the edge of his bed. One of his cloaks, which he had torn last month, was draped over the chair and Harry remembered Molly offering to mend it for him. As Harry sank onto the bed and pulled off his shoes he realised that they’d not used this room because it was Harry’s Room, not just a space they grudgingly made for Harry because he needed somewhere to be, but a place he could really call his own. Harry shucked off his trousers and flung his socks in the vague direction of the laundry basket in the corner. Clad in only his T shirt and boxers, he climbed into his bed and was asleep within minutes. ************************** Harry hunched his shoulders and thanked his lucky stars that Bill had thought to cast a complicated network of spells that made Harry appear, not only not purple, but also not Harry Potter. He was hovering in the corner of the International Portkey Station which was situated next to a rather dilapidated old warehouse on the Thames. The Station was full of witches and wizards greeting their family and friends before taking their Portkeys or the Floo to their final destinations. Unfortunately, due to the Easter long weekend, the trainee left behind in the Australian Portkey Office could only authorise a direct-to-London Portkey and not one with an alternate destination. As the signatory on the paperwork, Harry had to collect George in person. Harry thought that was ridiculous and more than once he’d complained about the fact George was being treated like a parcel. Thus far Harry had signed two copies of the paperwork he’d already signed last night, one waiver of responsibility, sixteen autographs and three versions of the form that would let George back into the country – and George was still stuck in the red tape. Arthur had spent the last half an hour trying to untangle it. As far as Harry knew, George was actually on British soil but they still hadn’t seen him. It was nearly lunch time and Harry’s stomach was rumbling. “I think I have discovered the problem,” Arthur murmured as he rejoined Harry, juggling a sheaf of parchment. He handed half of it to Harry and began thumbing through the sheets he still held. “We should have brought Percy …” “He probably would have had half a clue about all this …” Harry watched helplessly as the parchment in his arms slid to the floor. “Aha!” Arthur cried triumphantly as he waved a particularly long piece of parchment in the air. He dropped the rest of his burden and unfurled the parchment, scanning the document before stabbing at it triumphantly. He thrust it at Harry who took it carefully. Arthur began searching his pockets. “This says …” Harry squinted at the parchment in his hands. “It says transport for one … and something about reimbursement and … penalties.” “Yes, yes,” Arthur said distractedly. “I thought they were pulling my leg, but it’s all there in the fine print.” He pulled a quill out of his left, back pocket with a flourish. Harry looked down at the parchment in his hands it was bent over itself where he held it, both ends trailing on the floor. “This is the fine print? For what?” “The emergency International Portkey fine print,” Arthur said distractedly running the tip of the quill down the page. “Ah, here it is … this paperwork,” Arthur waved at the parchment littered around them, “is for one emergency International Portkey and if we wish to transport more than one witch or wizard we need to fill in form sixty-four b, sections … a, f and j and pay … oooh, a very large number of Galleons.” Harry pinched the bridge of his nose while Arthur bent down and rummaged through the paperwork on the floor. He unearthed three forms and gave them to Harry before flicking his wand and bundling the rest into a pile. “Right, these are the ones we need-” “Why do we need to pay for another person?” “Well, they won’t really say, for privacy reasons they tell me,” Arthur started apologetically. “I think George brought someone with him, but because we haven’t paid for them-” “Right,” Harry said grimly, clutching the forms in his hand so tightly they began to wrinkle in his grasp. “Where are these officials? These forms are a joke. April Fool’s Day is over.” Without waiting for Arthur’s answer, Harry strode off across the Portkey Station towards a line of people standing in front of an officious-looking red sign. “Excuse me,” Harry said politely to the woman at the end of the line. “Where is the inbound section?” “Six steps to your left, duck,” the woman replied. “Take the corridor on the right, twelve steps down and through the green door. Check your wand at the security grille and get on the elevator. Go up two floors and right six doors and then backwards for three. When you get out, there’s a big arrow, you can’t miss it.” “Thanks,” Harry said faintly. Luckily Arthur joined him because Harry forgot the instructions after he checked his wand. Arthur led the way to the International Arrivals section. Soon they were standing in front of a sleepy-looking wizard in drab grey robes who was reading a rather tattered looking Muggle romance novel under a sign that said ‘International Arrivals: Welcome to London’. “Hello,” Harry said pleasantly. “I’m looking for George Weasley. I’m told you’re keeping him captive?” “Harry!” Arthur hissed. “No one’s allowed to see the detainees,” said the wizard, not looking up. “Oh, I think I am allowed to,” Harry said, pulling his Auror medallion out of his pocket and thrusting it under the wizard’s nose. The wizard blinked once and lowered his book, looking up at Harry. “Auror, huh?” he said. “I suppose … ‘ere, you look familiar … not one of them fancy rock wizards are you?” “No,” Harry said through gritted teeth, at his wit’s end and wishing he’d had more than two hours’ sleep. “Well … you’re an Auror by the looks … s’pose you can go in,” the wizard muttered. He waved at a blue door to his left and went back to his book. “Thanks,” Harry said acidly and marched in the direction of the blue door. He pushed it open savagely and gazed around the room. Behind a massive counter filled with whirring bronze machinery churning out parchment sat a little old lady; she was blue-haired and currently being sweet-talked by none other than Jonathon. “Here now,” Jonathon said, “you don’t want us two around here, creating any more havoc than we already done, do you?” “You’ve taken six years off my life,” retorted the witch. “I should ask for compensation.” “The pleasure of our company should be ample compensation,” Jonathon said with a winning smile. “If you’d bought the right Portkey authorisation in the first place, none of this would have happened, young man,” the witch said primly. “I told you, I didn’t organise the Portkey,” Jonathon said. “A friend did.” “Oh yes,” the witch said scornfully. “That story about Harry Potter. I’m not quite so daft as I look, you know! All you have to do is give me the nine thousand Galleons and you can be on your way.” “That’s daylight robbery, that is,” Jonathon muttered. “D’you really think I go around with nine thousand emergency Galleons in my pocket?” “No,” the witch said haughtily. “I don’t expect a wizard like you would have two Galleons to rub together, let alone nine thousand.” “Well, you’d be right there.” Jonathon sighed. Harry cleared his throat and Jonathon looked up. “Yes?” the blue-haired witch asked. “I’ve come to fetch George Weasley,” Harry said tiredly. “Is he here?” “Have you got the forms?” The blue-haired witch had switched to a bored monotone voice which did nothing to keep Harry awake. “Yes, yes,” Arthur said breathlessly, shuffling the parchment in his arms and spilling it all onto the counter. Harry carefully laid his three forms down on the counter and they promptly got lost in the rest of the parchment piles. Arthur sighed, looking harried and a little perplexed. “You must be George’s dad,” Jonathon said, eyeing Harry carefully. “Who’s this bloke then? He regarded Harry a little suspiciously. “Hello, Jonathon,” Harry said, a tired grin on his face. “How much trouble are you in?” Jonathon’s eyes widened and he peered at Harry more closely before he smirked. “Nothing a little signature and nine thousand Galleons won’t fix,” Jonathon replied with a cheeky grin. Harry rolled his eyes. “I need the correct signature on the requisite forms before anyone can go anywhere,” the blue-haired witch droned. She shuffled a few pieces of parchment, muttering ‘Weasley’ over and over. “Says here I need form sixty-four b sections a, f and j and I need form twenty-seven all filled in by one Harry James Potter … are you he?” She peered up at Harry. “Yes,” Harry said shortly. He turned to Arthur. “Have we got form twenty-seven?” “Yes, right here,” Arthur reassured him. “We filled this one in already.” “Fair Dinkum, mate!” Jonathon suddenly exclaimed. “Are you bloody purple then?” The blue-haired witch behind the counter muttered something about the effects of Billywigs and the younger generation before turning back to Harry. “The forms?” she asked pointedly. “Forms sixty-four b … a … f … j …” Arthur muttered, rifling through the parchment. He extracted the forms and thrust a quill at Harry who signed his name rapidly on all three sheets. “You still have to pay the extra fee,” intoned the witch, “if you want to take your friends home.” “Well, I don’t carry nine thousand Galleons in my pocket,” Harry protested. “A Gringotts authorisation will do,” the witch said. “On form a?” Arthur asked tightly, reaching for the parchment. “Just write your vault number in the space provided and sign it,” The witch said with a barely perceptible eye roll. Arthur held out his hand for the quill but Harry shook his head and gently took the parchment from Arthur’s grasp. “Harry …” Arthur started to shake his head. “It goes both ways, Dad,” Harry said. Arthur looked as if he were about to protest but Harry ignored him. He smoothed the parchment on the counter and carefully filled in his vault number. He handed it to the witch and she began stamping the scrolls with a huge rubber stamp, banishing them to a filing cabinet in the corner. Then she opened up a door in the counter and motioned them through. “You can leave from the Floo in Detention Room Six if you like,” she droned. Arthur thanked her quietly and he and Harry followed Jonathon as he led them towards the back of the room, behind a partition and in front of a door marked with a large 6. “Jonathon,” Harry said, “what are you doing here?” “I couldn’t leave him,” Jonathon said, his hand on the doorknob. He paused and shrugged. “He … he’s in a bad way and … he wouldn’t have gotten on the Portkey by himself.” Jonathon looked helplessly at Arthur. “Thank you,” Arthur said. “Well … he’s just though here.” Jonathon opened the door slowly. George was sitting, curled up on a tiny window seat, his arms hugging his knees. Outside rain was sheeting down the window and it looked grey and dreary. Harry imagined that the weather fit George’s mood perfectly. His skin had a sickly pallor and his hair hung limply in his face. His freckles looked washed out and his knuckles white as they clutched his elbows. “He actually looks loads better than he did when we took him to St Clodus’,” Jonathon said quietly as they approached. “George?” Arthur said quietly. George turned to look at his father and shrugged but didn’t say anything. “Hasn’t said much,” Jonathon commented. Arthur reached over and put a hand on George’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Let’s get you home, son.” “I wrecked the hospital,” George said dully. “It doesn’t matter,” Arthur said. “Wasn’t the whole hospital,” Jonathon said with false cheer, “was just that one room and half the nurses’ station.” “I didn’t mean to,” George said, closing his eyes and turning to the window again. “Accidental magic,” Jonathon whispered. “Blew the place up when he came to and they asked him what day it was.” “It doesn’t matter,” Arthur repeated. “Angelina’s very worried.” George clutched the sleeves around his elbows tighter and shook his head frantically. “She … I didn’t mean … she’s going to hate me …” “She’s just worried,” Arthur reassured his son. “So is your mother.” “She only made one cake,” was all George said as he stared out of the window. “That’s what had you on me doorstep?” Jonathon asked, a puzzled frown on his face. “Come on, let’s go home,” Arthur said. He glanced at George nervously. George remained steadfastly staring out of the window. The fire in the Floo grate popped and crackled in the silent room. “Look, I don’t mind bringing you home, mate,” Jonathon said, “but I wouldn’t mind knowing why you’ve flipped your gourd and Apparated halfway around the world.” “I’m twenty-one,” George said tonelessly. Jonathon looked at Harry helplessly. Harry didn’t know what to say. He could sense that George was close to breaking point and didn’t want to be the one to set him off. “Let’s go home,” Arthur urged his son again, grasping his shoulder. George moved this time. Slowly. Mechanically. There was a pot of Floo powder on the mantelpiece and Harry held it out to Arthur who guided George into the massive stone fireplace. “The Burrow!” Arthur called as he threw down a handful of Floo powder. The two of them disappeared in a whirl of green flames. “It’s so weird,” Jonathon commented. “No little white box …” Harry just grinned and held out the Floo powder. The two of them quickly followed George and Arthur and Harry tumbled out into the kitchen at The Burrow, nearly tripping over both the grate and Jonathon as he exited. Harry stared around at the kitchen of The Burrow. The room was eerily quiet although it was filled with Weasleys. The back door was swinging on its hinges and the sweet scent of early spring flowers drifted through. Arthur was staring hopelessly at the door and the rest of the family were sitting around the table — except for George. Harry surmised that he’d gone out the back door. An angry shout from outside and the sound of something smashing made everybody wince. “George seems … unhappy,” Jonathon observed dryly. “Anyone care to fill me in?” No one had a chance to because the door flew open again and George stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. “I’m twenty-one,” he said quietly. “I’m older than Fred.” “Oh,” Jonathon said into the stillness. ”It’s your birthday.” George’s knuckles were white as he clutched the doorhandle and nodded jerkily. “George, I-” Angelina stopped talking when George closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. “Well, that explains a lot,” Jonathon continued. He continued on blithely as George’s grip on the doorknob got tighter. “Next time, get Harry to organise you an authorised Portkey before you go so he’s not spending all night signing emergency paperwork.” George’s eyes snapped open and he stared hard at Jonathon who stood idly inspecting his fingernails. “I — what?” George said blankly. “I hope you didn’t break anything important,” Jonathon continued as if he were talking about something as mundane as the weather. “I sent six cricket balls through the neighbour’s windows. It wasn’t pretty. Of course, I was trying to get Mum to cancel my birthday party.” George just stared stonily at Jonathon. “The windows weren’t important though,” Jonathon said gently. “It was supposed to be our seventeenth, and Mum’s a Muggle but … me older brother told her about the watches. I… figured out which box it was in and I destroyed it.” “Why?” George asked with a growl. “Why do you think?” Jonathon countered. George didn’t answer for a moment and turned away, his hand loosening on the doorknob. “That’s not an answer,” George muttered. He started to let the door close behind him. “Why do you think I did it?” Jonathon said again, more forcefully this time. “Tell me!” “Because there were supposed to be two watches!” George shouted, turning around. “Because when you wish for a birthday to yourself it’s not supposed to happen and when there’s only one cake it’s a lie!” The curtains in the window began fluttering as if a strong breeze was sweeping through the room. Ron started towards George as he threw the door fully open and it banged against the wall with a loud crash. “BECAUSE I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO GET OLDER THAN FRED!” One of the panes in the window shattered spectacularly and sprayed out into the afternoon sunshine, sparkling as the shards twisted in the air like shimmering diamonds. Arthur flinched and Charlie swore. “This is like being half a person,” George said brokenly. “I know,” Jonathon said simply. “It didn’t mean anything until yesterday,” George admitted, running a hand through his hair. “It didn’t bother me — because I refused to think about it — until … until … you made one cake.” He turned to his mother helplessly. “Oh Georgie …” “I just … I couldn’t think and I didn’t …” George took a deep breath. “I just started Apparating. I didn’t even think about it. I … I forgot the tea.” George sought Angelina’s gaze. “That’s okay,” she said. “I’m really sorry,” George said. Silent tears began to roll down his cheeks. Angelina struggled out of her chair and made her way to her husband, pulling him into her embrace. Arthur flicked his wand, muttering an incantation to repair the window. The atmosphere was tense and strained. Harry wasn’t quite sure where to look or what to say. He looked at Ginny helplessly. She only returned his helpless look. “We’ve not met,” Charlie said to Jonathon, extending his hand. The low murmur of their introductions directed everyone’s attentions away from George and Angelina as she led him outside. The door swung softly shut behind them. “Real sorry to barge in unannounced like this,” Jonathon announced to the room at large. “Never mind that,” Arthur said. “Thank you, for looking after him — for bringing him home.” “I didn’t do much,” Jonathon shrugged. He jerked a thumb out the window at George and Angelina, who were walking hand in hand across the garden, going in the direction of Fred’s grave. “Who’s the bird?” Bill and Ron snorted as Ginny and Hermione turned to Jonathon as one and raised their eyebrows. Jonathon just grinned rakishly and chuckled. “Hasn’t he written?” Harry asked then. Jonathon shook his head. “Not since Christmas.” “Too busy with his wife I expect,” Charlie said with a soft chuckle. “That’s his wife?” Jonathon asked, incredulous. “Well, I’ll be …” “She’s a lovely girl, they used to play Quidditch together,” Molly said. “Can I offer you a drink?” “Sure,” Jonathon said easily, “whatever’s going.” Arthur urged him to sit down and Molly put out cups of tea and plates of scones. The conversation became more animated as the group talked, avoiding the subject of George and his birthday. Charlie filled everyone in on his job and Hermione explained enthusiastically about her Ancient Runes project for NEWTs. Harry sat quietly, breaking a scone into tiny pieces, littering his plate with the debris. “So, Harry,” Jonathon said suddenly, leaving Bill and Hermione to argue about Ancient Runes and Charlie showing off his latest scars while his mother tutted over them, “still don’t know why you’re purple. You look like old Astrid Wintergarden after she’s finished at the hairdressers.” “Oh, Ron,” Molly interjected. “Did you figure out a cure for that yet?” “No,” Ron said plaintively. “I don’t know how to do that. I just sell things!” “I think you look fetching,” Charlie said with a sly wink at Harry. “Very … pretty.” “I don’t want to look pretty,” Harry grumbled. “No,” Charlie said. “You want to look rugged … and manly … and … suave.” He winked exaggeratedly and Harry rolled his eyes. “Well as soon as George comes back we’ll have him reverse it,” Molly said, standing abruptly. “Honestly, I don’t know what you lot are thinking half the time — probably not thinking more like it.” She kept muttering as she began to clear the table. “D’you think George will be all right?” Ginny asked Jonathon in a tiny voice under cover of her mother’s activity. “Sure he will,” Jonathon said bracingly. “He’ll get there. Not surprising he had a bit of a moment really. Birthdays are hard and this one … coming on top of a holiday-” Ginny cut him off with a gasp. “Oh no,” she moaned, “the tryouts.” “Harpies tryouts?” Ron asked through a mouthful of scone. “I thought they were at Easter.” “Easter is tomorrow Ron!” Ginny said. “I forgot! I’m supposed to be in Wales by tomorrow at lunch time!” Ginny dropped her head into her hands and sighed. “How’d you forget something like that, Squirt?” Charlie asked. “I didn’t forget about the tryouts,” Ginny snapped. “I forgot that Easter was coming up so soon. It’s been a … distracting week. I mean you’ve been swanning around in Romania-” “Second degree burns are not swanning around,” Charlie retorted. “- while Harry’s been sick and Neville’s been on some sort of bender about Crockwell,” Ginny continued as if Charlie had not interrupted. “And some kid called Mavis Tavistock asked if I was about to marry Stubby Boardman!” “I haven’t been sick,” Harry muttered. “You’re still purple,” Charlie smirked. “I was going to pack last night and then McGonagall called me to her office …” Ginny trailed off helplessly. “I thought Easter was next week,” Ron said. “Well, it’s not!” snapped Ginny. “You have until tomorrow,” Harry said, laying a hand on her arm. “It’ll be fine.” “I was supposed to catch a train tomorrow morning,” Ginny sighed. “I was just going to catch it from Hogsmeade. Now I’m stuck in Devon, nowhere near a train station, and without my broomstick or Quidditch gear. It’ll take all day to get an Owl to Professor McGonagall to get a Floo cleared. I’ll have to catch the Knight Bus.” She groaned. “You should really get your Apparition licence,” Hermione mused. Ginny glared at her but Hermione continued eating her scone unperturbed. “Perhaps if there had been any lessons last year I might have been able to take the test this summer,” Ginny replied through gritted teeth. “Come on,” Harry said, standing up. “I’ll take you Side-Along to Hogwarts to get your things and we’ll head to Wales tomorrow after lunch.” “But George …” “Will understand,” Harry said. “No,” Ginny said with a slight smile. “I mean, shouldn’t we wait for George to do something about your face?” ****************** It was, perhaps, the most agonising weekend of Harry’s life, he reflected on Tuesday morning as the Hogwarts Express pulled out of King’s Cross. He had spent the weekend avoiding Hermione and Ron who were alternately bickering viciously or staring into each others eyes like lovesick fools or at the shop with George while he tried to turn him back to his original colouring. “I’m really sorry, Harry,” George said late on Sunday afternoon after another failed attempt that rendered Harry’s hands and feet Puddlemere Blue and his face stubbornly Cannons Orange. “It wasn’t supposed to be … well … permanent.” “It doesn’t look permanent,” said Jonathon idly from his perch on George’s workbench. “You’re changing his colour with alarming regularity.” It was true; Harry had spent the majority of Saturday morning a delightful shade of puce that George assured him was actually the colour for the Vrasta Vultures. “I bet they win because the other team is vomiting too much over their uniforms,” Harry grumbled. Later that afternoon, after several more colour changes, Harry ended up dark green with a gold nose. George wanted to leave Harry in the Harpies colours, but when Harry threatened to make him repay the nine thousand Galleon fee for Jonathon’s impromptu holiday, George turned all his efforts back to fixing what he called ‘Harry’s Complexion Difficulties’. After a brief stint in a rather unbecoming shade of shocking-pink and a couple of hours in black and white stripes, Harry was finally returned to his original shade. If it hadn’t taken all weekend he might have hugged George in relief. As it was, he scowled at him and stomped out when George thanked him for testing all the Quidditch colours. Charlie stayed for Easter and delighted in trying to trick Harry into saying something he’d regret. “So, what will you do if Ginny doesn’t make the team?” Charlie asked Monday night at the tea table. Harry eyed him warily, knowing that no matter what he answered Charlie would find some way to make it sound perverted. “Commiserate?” Harry ventured. “Well that’s one way …” Charlie said vaguely. Harry glared at him. “Ginny will make it,” Ron said confidently. “But I’m not changing my team. She can be a Harpy all she wants. I’m still supporting the Cannons!” “Yes, because that works out so well for you now,” Charlie said dryly. Harry stared idly out of the window as the city gave way to rolling fields. He missed Ginny. He’d seen so little of her during his confinement to various sick beds. Then he’d had to fetch George and after that take Ginny to Hogwarts to pack and on to Wales for the Harpies tryouts. Apart from one absolutely glorious, but all too short snog late on Thursday, and wishing her good luck outside the Harpies stadium Harry hadn’t been alone with Ginny in over a week. She would be meeting them back at Hogwarts and the train couldn’t go fast enough for Harry. He listened with half an ear as Hermione handed out new patrol schedules and reminded the Prefects of their duties now that the exams were coming up. He wasn’t really listening though. He was planning how he was going to explain what had happened last night to Ginny — and not have her hex him. Harry sat curled in an armchair in the sitting room of The Burrow while Ron and Hermione squabbled over the Easter eggs. “Take the blue one back to Hogwarts for Ginny,” Ron said. “She won’t ever know the yellow one was bigger.” “They are all hers Ron!” “Hermione … its chocolate and it’s mocking me, sitting there like that in its little foil wrapper …” “Have a chocolate frog if you are so desperate!” “But Easter Eggs taste better,” Ron whined. “It’s just chocolate!” Hermione exclaimed. “It doesn’t matter!” “No,” Ron said with a shake of his head. “It tastes better when it’s an Easter egg.” “I’m not giving you one of mine and I’m not letting you eat Ginny’s!” “Fine,” Ron said. “I’ll have a stupid chocolate frog then, since my girlfriend is such an egg hog.” “I am not an egg hog!” Harry threw a chocolate frog at Ron’s head. Ron glared at him, rubbing his head. “What’d you do that for?” demanded Ron. “You were annoying me,” Harry said easily. “Maybe you’re annoying me,” Ron muttered as he tore the chocolate frog open. He savagely bit the head off as he flipped the card over. “Stupid Myron Wagtail … who wants Wagtail anymore? Bloody ponce.” “What’s wrong with you, Ron?” Harry asked. “You’re in a right foul mood.” “Nothing,” replied Ron sullenly. “Yeah, if anyone’s got reason to be in a foul mood, its Harry,” Charlie said with a smirk. “And you don’t see him biting everyone’s head off.” “Why would Harry be in a foul mood?” Hermione asked. “Blokes get that way when they don’t … you know …” “Shut up, Charlie,” Harry said. “I don’t want to hear about Harry shagging my sister!” Ron cried. “Oh Merlin, Ron!” Harry groaned. “Shut up!” “Blame him!” Ron said, stabbing a finger in Charlie’s direction. “He’s the one who’s been bringing it up all weekend!” “Oh, don’t pretend you haven’t been thinking about it, too,” Charlie said with a smirk. “I have not!” protested Ron. “The last thing I think about is Harry … and Ginny and … that!” “I meant you thinking about you doing it, you big oaf!” “Oi! That’s private!” Ron protested. “It is?” Harry muttered sarcastically. “Potter?” Charlie asked idly. Harry glared at hm. “What?” “You’re just lucky I don’t beat people up at Easter.” Harry gestured rudely at Charlie and Ron snorted. “Honestly!” said Hermione. She didn’t get to expand further on what Harry was sure would have been a lengthy discourse on appropriate behaviour or something as equally annoying. Molly chose that moment to enter the sitting room and enquire if they needed any laundry done before they left in the morning. Ron and Charlie continued to gesture and make faces at each other while Harry and Hermione politely assured her that they were fine. She turned to leave. “Stay out of my sex life,” Harry heard Ron hiss as Molly got to the doorway. “If you even have one,” Charlie sniggered back in the same low tone. “Really Charlie,” Molly said suddenly, “perhaps you should worry more about your own marital status and less about your brothers’ activities.” She left the room and Ron sat on the hearth rug, smirking. “What’s my marital status got to do with anything?” Charlie muttered belligerently. “She’s probably concerned that you’ll shack up with a dragon,” Ron said viciously as he snatched at another chocolate frog. “I don’t know why she’s not more concerned you’ll shack up with Hermione,” Charlie shot back. “Why shouldn’t I?” Ron responded angrily to his brother, the tips of his ears going red. “Ron-” Hermione’s warning was cut off by Charlie’s delighted cackle. “Because Mum’s old-fashioned, she’s looking for a wedding.” “She doesn’t care!” Ron said hotly. “She, unlike some other people in this family, care about people being happy, not married!” “Know that for a fact, do you?” Charlie wore an evil smirk that Harry knew could lead nowhere good. “Yes!” Ron practically shouted. “You don’t see her banning Harry from the house and giving Ginny a chaperone!” “So … not from personal experience then?” Charlie asked. Harry wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. “Listen,” Harry said in a strained tone, “could we leave me out of this-” “No,” Ron said shortly, “since you’re the only one in this room even getting any-” “Oh ho!” Charlie laughed raucously. “Well, that certainly explains your foul mood then!” “Shut up!” bellowed Ron. “Oh, stop it, all of you!” Hermione huffed. “Me?” Harry squawked indignantly. “It’s no one else’s business what we do,” Hermione said loftily, “including Molly’s.” “Yeah, but you’re not doing anything are you?” Charlie smirked. It was no easy feat to pull Charlie and Ron apart. They were both bigger than Harry for a start. Harry ended up winded and with a black eye when he accidentally got elbowed in the stomach and fell onto the side table. Hermione stunned them both and Arthur and Molly had to come in and drag them into the kitchen before sorting out their injuries. “Where is that bruise paste,” Molly muttered as she rummaged through the kitchen drawers. “Aha … got you … don’t know why I thought I’d need this less as you boys got older. And dragging poor Harry into it too …” She began dabbing it on the eye that had swollen shut in mere seconds. “Dragging him into it?” Charlie said thickly through his cut lip. “He started it.” “I did not!” “You’re the one who admitted to having sex,” Charlie said, with a wide grin. Harry shut his other eye in mortification. “He’s right,” Ron said gruffly to Charlie, gesturing at Harry with the arm that his father wasn’t bandaging. “He didn’t start it! You’re the one who’s been at him all weekend! You brought it up when you decided to rib him about it!” “He admitted it,” Charlie said. “He was drunk!” “Really?” Molly’s hand stilled on Harry’s eye. “I really don’t want to talk about this,” Harry muttered. He could feel his face heating up. “I still think you’re just jealous,” Ron said, ignoring Harry. “Because the only females you ever see are dragon ones and you’ve got no chance of a good shag.” “I’m not jealous of you at any rate, am I Ronnie?” “Stop it!” Ron shouted. “Stop talking about … us like that!” “Stop it, both of you,” Molly said firmly, pressing a little too hard on Harry’s eye with the bruise paste. Harry winced. “Sorry, dear.” “But, Mum-” “Charlie,” Arthur interrupted as Molly tilted Harry’s face up and twisted it left and right to inspect the bruise, “leave Harry alone and don’t start on Ron. Their … intimate moments are none of your business.” “You know about that, Dad?” Charlie asked. “You know about Harry and … Ginny?” “I knew about it before you did,” Arthur replied. Molly let go of Harry’s face. “There might be a slight bruise still there tomorrow, Harry dear,” Molly said. Harry heard her screw the lid back on the bruise paste and opened his eyes hesitantly. Molly looked at him critically for a moment. “I’ll cast a charm for you in the morning. Last thing we need, now you’re finally the right colour, is rumours about a black eye.” “I can’t believe you know about this …” Charlie stared at his father in astonishment. “And Harry’s still breathing …” “He’s the one that gave Harry The Talk,” Ron muttered. “And here I was thinking we were keeping a secret,” Charlie muttered. “You’ve done a rotten job of it if you thought it was a secret,” Ron retorted. “It’s bad enough I know about it. I don’t need you reminding me about it all weekend!” “Can we please drop it?” Harry asked desperately. “I’m surprised you haven’t dropped him in it,” Charlie said. “Harry and Ginny are adults,” Arthur said evenly, “and entitled to privacy. You would do well to respect it in future.” “Future … a future where Ginny …” Charlie’s face twisted as he scrunched up his face in disgust. Harry ran his hands through his hair, frustrated, embarrassed and entirely unable to make a graceful exit. “It was going to happen, Charlie,” Ron said. “At least we can trust this one.” He smirked at Harry who grimaced in return. “Yeah, but can we trust him to make an honest woman of her?” Charlie said, grinning widely. “I heard he was marrying the Cellist from the Weird Sisters.” “But … he’s a bloke!” Harry cried, exasperated. Charlie just shrugged, still wearing his feral grin. “That’s a new one,” Ron said thoughtfully. “I heard about the lead singer from The Lone Witches and that Quidditch player-” “Quidditch player?” Harry asked, horrified. “Next they have me married off to … to … Greta Catchlove!” “Who?” Ron wrinkled his nose. Harry waved at the shelf of books above Molly’s kitchen dresser. “Author of Charm Your Own Cheese,” he said. “Why would you want to marry a mouldy old book writer?” “I wouldn’t!” Harry groaned. Hermione started muttering that there was nothing wrong with writing books. “Well, they didn’t say her anyway,” Ron said doggedly. “They said you were marrying Geralyn Hughes, the retiring Harpies Chaser.” “I’m not marrying anyone!” Harry said, utterly exasperated. “Especially not the Harpies Chaser!” “You might have to take that back,” Ron said slyly, “if Ginny gets on the team.” “Of course I’ll take it back if Ginny gets on the team,” Harry snapped. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration and exhaled. “I am actually going to marry her!” It was a few moments before Harry realised that the kitchen had grown utterly silent. He dropped his hand and looked up. Ron was staring at him and Charlie suddenly looked deadly serious. Arthur was smiling and Molly looked like she was about to cry. Harry looked at Hermione who was beaming. “Oh!” Molly said eventually. “I didn’t know you’d asked!” “What?” Harry asked blankly. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell me, but, well with George and the tryouts and — oh!” Molly burst into tears and threw her arms around his neck. “Tell you what?” Harry tried again. “Now, that’s how you keep a secret,” Ron said to Charlie. “What secret?” Harry asked desperately. “It’s understandable why you didn’t announce it this weekend,” Arthur said, “with George’s birthday and everything. But you do have our blessing, son.” “Blessing for what?” Harry asked. “What did I say?” “We won’t say anything dear,” Molly said as she pulled away from Harry. “We’ll keep as quiet as the grave until you make the announcement. This is such wonderful news!” “Announce what?” Harry tried again. He went back over everything he’d just said. He wasn’t marrying a bloke, the lead singer of a band, a mouldy old author or a retiring Quidditch player … but he was going to marry … Ginny. “But I didn’t mean-” “It will have to be a formal announcement,” Molly went on, cutting him off. “We could have an engagement party when school finishes — just close family and friends of course — I wonder if we can manage it before Angelina has the baby or it’d be best to wait until afterwards in any case?” “I haven’t exactly-” “We could combine it with your birthday celebrations,” Molly mused, “but I don’t know what the Harpies schedule will be — if Ginny makes the team, of course. I still don’t know about this Quidditch business, it’s not very safe. Maybe getting married will change her mind in any case …” “But we-” “What do you think about a chocolate cake? I could make a big one, in the shape of a love heart. I’ve never done that before … I’m sure there’s a charm in Tilda Tollbooth’s Cookery for Occasions …” Molly started flicking her wand at the cookbooks and they floated down to surround her at the table. Harry sighed heavily as the Express wound its way slowly north. He definitely had some explaining to do to Ginny. He’d given up trying to explain himself to her family. It would be easier to Owl, or if that didn’t work, they could always send a Howler. |
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