Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1068305.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, Other
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Angelina_Johnson/Fred_Weasley, Angelina_Johnson/Fred_Weasley/George
      Weasley, Angelina_Johnson/George_Weasley, Lee_Jordan_&_Angelina_Johnson
  Character:
      Angelina_Johnson, Fred_Weasley, George_Weasley, Lee_Jordan, Original
      Female_Character(s)
  Additional Tags:
      canon_complaint, Adolescent_Sexuality, Voyeurism, Female_Character_of
      Color, Canon_Character_of_Color, Male_Character_of_Color, Weasleys'
      Wizard_Wheezes, Second_War_with_Voldemort, Canonical_Character_Death,
      Character_Death, Grief/Mourning, Guerilla_Warfare, pirate_radio,
      Resistance, Hogwarts, Codependency, Twins, Dumbledore's_Army, Order_of
      the_Phoenix_(Harry_Potter), Police_state, Fake_Pregnancy, Fake
      Miscarriage, Miscarriage, Battle_of_Hogwarts, Book_7:_Harry_Potter_and
      the_Deathly_Hallows, Post_-_Deathly_Hallows, Book_6:_Harry_Potter_and_the
      Half-Blood_Prince, Book_5:_Harry_Potter_and_the_Order_of_the_Phoenix,
      Book_4:_Harry_Potter_and_the_Goblet_of_Fire, Canon_Het_Relationship, HP:
      Epilogue_Compliant, JKR_Extra_Canon_Compliant, Gift_Fic, Community:
      weasley_fest, Implied_Threesome_Dynamic
  Stats:
      Published: 2008-08-09 Words: 5343
****** The Inevitable Hour ******
by IamShadow21
Summary
     Quite simply; love, in a time of war. Canon compliant, from 1994
     through to 1998.
Notes
     Written for reallycorking for weasley_fest '08.
     Some dialogue has been taken directly from Chapter Twenty-Two of
     Goblet of Fire and Chapter Thirty of Deathly Hallows.
     The title is taken from a line of Thomas Gray's Elegy Written in a
     Country Church-Yard.

       [http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v510/shadnred/iamshadow2.jpg]
                       Art by seviet. Banner by jo_ron.
In your list of wants, you mentioned humour four times and angst once. When I
chose this pairing to work with, though, I knew it was going to be bittersweet,
since your other preference was canon compliance. So, though it does have
moments of levity, it's a fairly melancholy piece. I hope that's okay.
Thank you to the people who beta read for me! You know who you are.
"It's going to be you," Fred said, with uncharacteristic sincerity. "I know it
will be. Diggory doesn't stand a chance."
She looked for the catch, the trace of a joke, but there was none.
"Thank you," she replied. "I'm sorry you couldn't enter, Fred."
He grinned and shrugged casually, then turned to walk back to George and Lee.
It was only thinking back on it later that she realised she'd known it was Fred
automatically, before he'd said a word, because George never quite looked at
her the same way.
~*~
Without Quidditch, her main outlet for stress and excess energy was gone. She
ended up flying a lot; sometimes just around the castle, other times practicing
manoeuvres on the Pitch to keep up her fitness.
One day, she nearly fell off her broom head-first when she braked to avoid two
speeding streaks that flashed across her path. She let fly with a volley of
swearing, but heard nothing but laughter in response as the twins flew rings
around, over and under her, leaving her no choice but to sit still.
Fred performed one final, lazy loop-the-loop, blew her a kiss, then sped off
after his twin. After a second's hesitation, she leaned forward and shot after
them in pursuit, her newer broom slowly, but inexorably, chasing them down.
~*~
"Oi! Angelina!" Fred bellowed across the crowded Common Room.
"What?" she called back, over the din.
"Want to come to the ball with me?" he asked.
It wasn't romantic, and it wasn't private. It was brash and loud and rude, but
the grin on his face and the glint in his eyes made it clear that he knew what
her answer would be.
She looked him up and down, making him wait just that little bit longer. "All
right, then," she said at last.
"You're braver than me," Alicia Spinnet said, ruefully. "I'd be too worried
about them turning my corsage into spiders."
~*~
Fred made her a ridiculously courtly bow and kissed her hand when she appeared
in her dress robes.
"Simply enchanting," he declared, his other hand over his heart.
She was flattered, but didn't believe him. She'd never felt more awkward in her
life.
"You look good, too," she said, to cover her distress.
She meant it. Though they were obviously second hand, his robes fitted him
well, and the colour suited him. She thought she saw a flash of relief and
pleasure in his eyes at her compliment, and it made her realise that though he
didn't show it, he was just as nervous as she was.
He danced well; very well, in fact. He was charming, and her flowers remained
floral. Before they parted ways in the Common Room, he had pulled her close and
kissed her deeply. She didn't for a moment think to push him off. Rather, she
held him tightly and kissed him back for several long, hot minutes, not even
caring that George was standing only a few feet away.
~*~
"So, where do you want to go in Hogsmeade this weekend?"
"Hogsmeade?" she said, blinking at Fred, who had plonked himself down opposite
her without warning.
"See, I was thinking Honeyduke's, then maybe the Three Broomsticks. But if
you'd rather that frilly place the other girls are always nattering about, I
suppose I can bear it," he continued.
"The Three Broomsticks is fine," she said rather faintly, her brain still
trying to change gears from writing her Transfiguration essay to Fred asking
her out without actually asking.
"Oh, good," Fred said, seeming quite relieved. "Because I think Madame
Puddifoot still remembers me from Third Year."
She raised an eyebrow. Fred just grinned cheekily and didn't elaborate.
~*~
They walked down to Hogsmeade with George and Lee, but when they came to
Zonko's, George gave his twin an unreadable look, deep with meaning, before
pulling Lee towards the door. Fred cleared his throat, and smiled at her. His
cheeks were a little pinker than usual, but the cold was biting.
"So, Honeydukes?" he said, taking her gloved hand in his without preamble and
leading her down the street.
They browsed the shop, hungrily eying the newest creations. When she lingered
over the Turkish Delight Roses, he promptly took the largest bloom of the bunch
up to the counter, and she pretended not to notice when he paid for it with a
battered Sickle and a collection of Knuts that were clearly all he had to his
name.
She offered him a petal, but he just grinned and shook his head. "Don't like
them," he confessed. "Besides, I bought it for you."
"Then I'm shouting you a Butterbeer," she said firmly pulling him towards the
Three Broomsticks. When he began a token argument and patted his pocket, she
said sharply, "What? A girl can't buy a bloke a drink in this day and age?"
Fred cowered comically, miming servility. "Of course, my love, my dear, my
darling. Anything for you, anything you want," he babbled, loudly, causing
other people to glance their way. "Just don't hurt me again, please. I've still
got the spur marks from the last time on my –"
She cuffed him hard around the back of the head, and he groaned obscenely,
licking his lips.
She bought the Butterbeer, but she didn't complain when he held the door open
for her.
~*~
They had started out studying in front of the Common Room fireplace. Now it was
ridiculously late, and they were just talking in hushed voices about everything
and nothing, trying not to wake George, who was dozing down the other end of
the couch.
She'd only heard from Fred twice over the summer. Both letters had been short,
and mainly full of talk about things like Quidditch, exam results and his
successful Apparition test.
Every time she asked about what else he'd gotten up to, he was extremely vague
or deftly changed the subject, so in the end, she gave up. She assumed, knowing
him, that it was something at least mildly illegal.
His fingers reached over and lightly brushed the pin affixed to her robes.
"So," he teased, "does this mean I have to call you Captain?"
His hand was so close to her breast that she could feel her nipples peaking
just from thinking about him touching her.
"If you like," she said. Her hand was on his knee, no, his thigh, now, and she
could feel the firm cords of his muscle through the fabric.
"I like," he murmured, against her lips.
She couldn't have said for sure how long they kissed; their touches becoming
bolder, the temperature rising by degrees. They broke apart for a few moments
to remove each other's outer robes, and with a brazenness that surprised even
her, she straddled his lap to kiss him harder. Fred made a soft humming sound
of approval, his hands sliding up under her shirt to caress the skin of her
back. His palms were hot and damp, pressing her in closer. She wriggled
forwards, her fingers tangling in his hair, and felt an electric jolt as her
crotch nudged up against the bulge in his pants.
Fred froze and his eyes flew open, his expression a mixture of alarm, fear and
hunger. She was aware that she must have looked very similar. His pupils were
dilated wide, and she could barely see the ring of colour. She rocked her
pelvis again, and his breath caught in his throat. His hips gave a little
involuntary jerk, pressing his erection firmly against her clit. Both of them
moaned desperately, the sound echoing loudly in the empty room.
Their lips mashed together, a mess of teeth and lips and tongue. She had to get
closer, needed to be closer, and apparently Fred's thoughts were the same,
because he lifted her surprisingly easily and shuffled forward so that she
could wrap her legs around his waist.
It started out slowly, but within a minute some primal rhythm took over, and
she found herself surrendering to it and just holding on. Fred's lips were on
her neck and his hands were on her hips, holding her in place as he rubbed
against her. Even through the layers of fabric, the friction was unbearably
good, and she could feel the wetness from her body soaking the cloth. Despite
their best efforts to be silent, she could hear little whimpers escaping with
her panting breath, and Fred's soft grunts of exertion. The pace was
quickening, and she was tilting her pelvis to meet every thrust.
Her muscles were beginning to tense in anticipation even as Fred slammed up
against her erratically, a strangled cry breaking from his lips. So close she
could taste it, vinegary and electric at the back of her tongue, she ground
down hard, circling her hips, and her orgasm crashed over her.
Kissing gently through the afterglow, she thought that Fred looked more serious
and vulnerable than she'd ever seen him before. Realising the extreme lateness
of the hour, they reluctantly said goodnight, and she walked, a little
unsteadily, to the staircase leading to the Girl's Dormitories, grimacing at
her moist underwear.
She was two steps up, when she heard Fred say something softly that she
couldn't make out, and George immediately reply. She wondered suddenly if he'd
really been asleep at all.
~*~
Something had happened that summer. She was more certain of it with every day
that passed. Though both the twins still laughed and joked, and their products
were selling better than ever, there was an edge to their smiles that she
didn't remember from before. The incident after the game against Slytherin was
a jarring exclamation point in what was already shaping up to be an alarming
year.
Malfoy's taunts had been nasty, yes, but juvenile. The twins had turned as one
to face him, their faces like thunder. She'd grabbed Fred's arm, shouted at him
to calm down, but her words went unheard. He fought against her violently,
trying desperately to get free, jarring her shoulder, jabbing Katie in the ribs
with an elbow. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a snarl, and she
barely recognised him. When George got punched in the face, Fred flinched as
though he'd taken the hit himself.
In the Common Room, after the fallout with Umbridge, the twins sat side by
side, their bodies in contact from knee to shoulder, their postures and
expressions unconscious but flawless mirrors of each other. They had closed
ranks, and she'd never felt more like an outsider. When she got up to go to
bed, Fred didn't even watch her leave the room.
~*~
The year went on, and the twins' eyes no longer sparkled with mischief. They
were hard and flashed like shards of jagged glass. The sense of humour that
used to be so appealing in them was subtly turning to bitter cynicism.
In public, Fred was... remote. He wasn't cruel to her, or even unkind. And not
reserved; never that. But she felt as though emotionally, he had retreated from
her.
At the DA meetings, they duelled and teased as though it was some kind of
foreplay.
In hidden corners, in stolen moments, they kissed and touched and rubbed as
though they were fighting.
~*~
The morning after Dumbledore fled the castle, Fred took her by the hand as they
left Charms and pulled her into a neatly concealed room she'd never noticed
before. He didn't speak. He just kissed her hard and long, pressed her up
against the wall, slid his hands inside her robes, up her blouse and down into
her underwear.
"You should stay away from me," he said, before he'd even finished gasping and
trembling.
It was so sudden, she couldn't think of anything to say in reply. She just
unwrapped her fingers from around his softening cock, and moved back a little.
A drop of his semen glistened like a pearl against the dark skin on the back of
her hand.
"You're clever," he explained, straightening his robes. "If you keep your head
down, you'll get excellent marks on your NEWTs, get a job you like, despite the
mess with the DA. You shouldn't be seen with me."
"Dumbledore took the blame," she protested.
Fred flapped a hand, brushing her words aside. "This isn't about that. It's
never been about that. We've always been targets because Dad's well known for
his sentiments."
Though he says the word we, she knows he's not talking about her. She's on the
outside, again.
"Just trust me, you don't want to be close to us," he continued. "Not with
what's coming. We've told Lee to back off, too. You'd do well to listen."
She knew from the grim tone, from the expression on his face, that whatever
they had planned, it wasn't just a simple prank.
"But what about your NEWTs?" she asked.
Fred gave a bark of laughter with no humour in it. "But the time the NEWTs roll
around, we'll be well shot of this place. There's nothing here for us,
anymore."
Too stunned to do anything else, she just nodded dumbly, pushing the last
button on her blouse through the hole.
The afternoon was filled with absolute chaos and mayhem as Fred and George's
fireworks filled the castle with sparks and smoke. The Gryffindor Common Room
was a scene of wild celebration as the twins were hailed as the heroes of the
hour. They wore identical showman's smiles as everyone clamoured around them,
adding their names to the order list.
Every now and then she thought Fred's eyes lingered on her, but at a subtle
touch or nudge from George, his gaze would slide away as though she were
Concealed. Once she was in bed, she put up a Privacy Charm and let herself cry.
The ache in her chest was so sharp she had trouble catching her breath, and the
next morning she felt hollow and numb, as if she'd wept out every emotion she
had.
Three weeks later they were gone.
~*~
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was a lurid blemish on the grim landscape that was
Diagon Alley.
"Are you trying to get yourselves killed?"
"Oh, give us some credit!" was Fred's scathing reply.
She'd achieved top marks in all the subjects that mattered, just as he'd
predicted. The Quidditch Injuries and Physical Rehabilitation Department at St
Mungo's had snapped her up. The long, gruelling hours and a short lived affair
with a Healer in Artefact Accidents had meant that she hadn't visited the shop
until now. Last week, she'd moved into a small flat of her own to be closer to
work, and this evening, she'd rushed to Diagon Alley intending to buy a gift
for a friend. Instead, she'd ended up walking into Wheezes five minutes before
closing time, and promptly got into a blazing row with Fred.
"Have you read the papers? Have you looked down the street for Merlin's sake?
Do you think you're somehow special enough to get away with it? Do you think
those silly Shield hats of yours will protect you when they come to kill you?"
It was just like every fight she'd ever witnessed between her parents, which
were legion. She could hear her own voice, shrill and disapproving, his voice,
harsh and scornful. They were only inches apart, shouting in each other's
faces, while nearby, George counted the money in the till with skill and
efficiency, not even looking up from his ledger and neat stacks of coins.
"Two hundred and thirty-five Galleons, nine Sickles, two Knuts," he announced
eventually, to no one in particular.
It was enough to distract them from their fight. By that point, she and Fred
had run out of things to scream at each other, and had begun repeating
themselves.
"Good, that's good," Fred said in response, glancing at George, who met the
eyes of his flustered twin coolly. When Fred looked back at her, there was an
awkward silence.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, at length.
Upstairs, the flat was tiny. The living area was cluttered with boxes and
crates stacked in orderly piles; surplus stock, she deduced. There was a
kitchen which was little more than a sink, a cooker and a pantry, and a
miniscule bathroom. One small adjoining chamber appeared to be some kind of
workshop, from what she could see through the open door.
"Here," Fred said, setting two full plates of roast dinner down on a side table
which obligingly grew large enough to accommodate them both. "We eat out, most
nights, but Mum keeps sending us food from home. It's useful if we finish
late." At a tap of his wand, the two armchairs Transfigured into slightly
battered, if serviceable, dining chairs with elegantly turned legs.
They talked while they ate, but they may as well have sat there in silence.
They spoke of mundane things; of her work, his work, Hogwarts. They didn't
mention the war, the disappearances, the murders, or Katie Bell, lying in St
Mungo's. The climate of fear they had to survive in. The tension between them,
thick and palpable.
The bedroom was just as small as the rest of the place; two single beds, side
by side, with barely enough room to squeeze between them.
We're still fighting, she realised, as they nipped at each others lips and he
pinched her nipples just a little too firmly.
"Have you...?" he asked, uncertainly.
"Yes," she answered. "You?"
He nodded, cast a Protective Charm, and settled between her thighs.
He pushed roughly inside her, too hastily and without finesse. His eyes were
intense with anger or lust or both, and an element of disbelief and awe. She
idly suspected that he'd lied, and he was a virgin, after all.
Though it was far from perfect, she could feel something pent up being
released, like lancing a wound. When she could tell he was close, felt his
thrusts speed up and heard his moaning getting louder, she clenched around him
hard and scratched her nails across his back, deep. It was enough. He came with
a shout, pounding forcefully into her, setting off her own climax.
Less than a minute later, George tapped politely on the door, entered, and
changed into his pyjamas unselfconsciously. He slid beneath the sheets on his
own bed, turned over, and sighed, "Goodnight, Fred."
"Goodnight, George," answered Fred, lazily, from where he lay on her chest.
"Goodnight, Angie," George said.
After a moment's hesitation, she replied, "Goodnight, George."
She wondered, as she drifted off to sleep, how long George had sat outside the
room, waiting politely for them to finish.
Two weeks or so later, George started coming to bed whenever he liked, whether
they were in the middle of shagging or not. He still bade his routine
"goodnight" to both of them, which they responded to with sleepy murmurs or
breathy groans, depending on the circumstance.
After two and a half months, she was surprised to realise that she had ceased
to mind, even to the point of feeling a little odd if she and Fred were fucking
and the bed beside them was empty.
~*~
It was very obvious in many ways that Fred and George weren't used to having
money. The shop brought in as much every day (minus expenses) as she earned in
a week, but the twins still lived thriftily for the most part. They bought a
couple of fancy outfits ("Good impressions, you see." "Men of business, we
are.") but under their uniform robes at the shop, and after hours in the flat,
they wandered about in the same threadbare clothes they'd owned for years.
Occasionally they'd find a new "toy" and splash out, but usually it was
something they'd bought to strip down to discover how it worked and whether the
charms and techniques used could be useful for one of their current or future
projects.
Their flat was an amalgam of warehouse, dormitory and bachelor pad, with ninety
percent of the living space related in some way to the business and only about
ten to actual living; namely, the bedroom, the bathroom and some of the
kitchen.
She only asked Fred once why he didn't move out, find a nice place. He looked
at her blankly as though the thought had never occurred to him. "Why?"
"Well, George might want his own space," she suggested.
"What for?" Fred looked confused.
"He might want some privacy, some independence," she said patiently. "You've
both got plenty of money. You could buy this building, if you wanted to, and
Diagon shop-front isn't cheap!"
"Hey, that's a point," Fred said, his eyes flashing eagerly. "Hey! Georgie!" he
bellowed.
"What?" George asked, peering through the doorway of their workshop.
"Angelina's just had a brilliant idea!" Fred enthused. "Let's buy the
building!"
"That wasn't exactly what I me –" she began, futilely.
"No rent," George said, a grin spreading across his freckled face.
"We'd be receiving rent," Fred said. "That shop next door, that's part of it."
"- all the internal renovations we like -"
"- expand the shop up another floor, at least -"
"- and the flat -"
"- proper workshop in the basement, warded and reinforced."
The grins on their faces were incandescent. "Brilliant," they murmured in eerie
synchronism.
George ducked back into the workshop, muttering something about drawing up a
letter of offer to send in the morning. Fred kissed her soundly on the lips and
called her a genius.
She resigned herself to a future that now included extensive redecorating, and
could only hope that the twins didn't bring the building down on themselves.
~*~
"He's not here."
It was a sentence she'd grown used to hearing with increasing frequency since
spring began, and her patience was wearing thin. She was turning to leave, when
George stopped her.
"Wait," he said, urgently. "It's not what you think."
"Where is he, then?" she asked, knowing that she wouldn't get a satisfactory
answer.
"I can't tell you. But it's not that. Please believe me."
She was about to retort with something cutting when she saw something that gave
her pause. George was gripping the doorframe so tightly his knuckles were
white, as though he needed something in his hands. She realised suddenly that
the whiff of alcohol she could smell wasn't coming from residue on her robes as
she had assumed, but was on George's breath.
"Are you okay?" she asked tentatively.
"I don't know where he is," George said, managing to sound both calm and lost
at the same time. "And it's very dangerous."
They sat together, drinking slowly without talking, until Fred arrived home at
last and mocked them good-naturedly for fretting over him. His smile never
reached his eyes, and his hand trembled slightly as he poured himself a glass
and silently toasted them.
~*~
The war ate up their lives in little bites until there was nothing left but a
monotonous, ever-present, gut-wrenching fear. Though her Blood Status wasn't a
problem (her grandfather, her only Muggle relative, lived in Jamaica) she knew
that her name on the list of members of Dumbledore's Army was. She kept her
head down and worked double shifts, even helping out the Emergency team when
they got overwhelmed. She only visited Fred at irregular times, without
warning, Apparating directly outside the door rather than walking or using the
Floo.
It was early in September when things changed; absolutely, irreparably. She
knew, the moment he looked up at her when she walked in. He was sitting in one
of the armchairs, his body unusually still in a way that didn't suggest
calmness, more a deep weariness and resignation.
"You're going to ask me to stay away from you again, aren't you?" she asked,
without rancour.
"Not enough," Fred said. "They're watching us; watching all of us. Watching
you."
"We could be more careful," she offered, knowing as she said it that he would
reject it. After all, what more could they do?
He shook his head with a grim finality, staring down at his own hands as though
summoning strength. "We need to end this," he said firmly. "Brutally,
irrevocably, and as publically as we can. No grey areas. No possibility of
reconciliation."
"You've got an idea," she said, her heart sinking.
He looked back up at her, his expression a mixture of misery and regret. "I
need to know if it's possible to fake a miscarriage," he said softly. "Well
enough that a Healer would be fooled."
A half a dozen herbs and spells scrolled through her mind instantly. This for
the cramping and pain, that for the bleeding...
"Yes," she answered, her throat as dry as dust, "and I can do it."
~*~
It was more savage and vicious than even they could have hoped for, and it was
every bit as public. As planned, she accosted Fred just as he was leaving the
shop to buy lunch. Though they knew the intent of what they had to say, they'd
left the dialogue unscripted. It had to appear as unrehearsed as possible.
"It's a duel," he said, that night beforehand. "No punches pulled, no
concessions. We fight dirty. You hit me with everything you've got, and I'll do
the same to you."
She'd agreed. She'd thought that because they were putting on a show that it
would be easy. The reality was indescribably painful.
"But it's yours!" she insisted.
"And I'm supposed to believe that?" Fred sneered. "When I caught you shagging
my brother last week?"
"How do I know you haven't been switching on me from the start?" she asked.
"Passing me back and forth whenever you feel like it?"
Their row was drawing attention. The few people walking the streets and owners
of the handful of shops still open were peering at them in morbid curiosity.
"What's going on?" George asked, stepping outside. "You're bothering the
customers."
"Nothing," Fred said disdainfully. "Just getting rid of this old broom." George
sniggered unpleasantly.
A couple of middle ages witches nearby gasped and tutted. "You should be
ashamed of yourself!" one of them berated the twins, "talking to a young lady
like that! And a Healer, too!" she said, gesturing at the spring green robes
that marked her Apprentice status.
"Aw, sod off, you old bat," George drawled. "What would you know? He's had her,
I've had her, everybody's had her. The brat could come out half-Goblin, for all
we know. It's her mess to clean up."
It was no effort to burst into tears. In fact, it was a welcome relief. She
turned and ran, the sounds of the twins fighting with the witch fading behind
her as she opened the wall to the Leaky Cauldron. She hid in the toilets,
downed the potion she'd prepared and cried herself hoarse.
By the time Tom's worried kitchen hand Flooed her to St Mungo's, it was obvious
that word had gotten around. Through the agonising cramps, dizziness and
disorientation, she could hear the nurses chattering nearby.
"- called her a slut in front of the whole Alley."
"I heard. It's hardly surprising she's lost it, the poor love."
"Nothing but trouble, those two. Nasty pieces of work. Wouldn't surprise me if
they had been taking turns. How would she know, after all, with them like a
pair of mirrors?"
"She's a nice girl. She didn't deserve it. Blythe speaks very highly of her,
and you know he hates the younger ones, as a rule."
Their voices faded as the Sleeping Draught she'd been given took effect.
She woke late that night to feel long fingered hands clasping hers.
"Fred?" she said groggily, struggling to open her eyes.
"No, it's me," said a soft, melodic voice.
"Lee?" She looked up into his gentle face. "What are you doing here?"
"I told them you were my cousin," he explained, "that your parents were
overseas."
It was true; well, the part about her parents, anyway. A month ago, they'd left
England to escape the war and care for her grandfather, whose health was not
good.
"They sent me to check on you, to make sure you were okay," he continued.
She knew that he wasn't talking about her parents any more, but to any
eavesdroppers or magical spies, it would appear that he was. She opened her
mouth to assure him that she was fine, but nothing came out save a sob. Lee
gathered her up, held her close and rocked her, murmuring soothing nonsense
words and smoothing her braided hair, planting kisses on her cheek that she was
certain he had been asked to pass on.
Her flat felt empty as a tomb when Lee took her home.
"There's a project we've been working on for a while, now," Lee told her, after
setting Muffliato to confound any bugs that may have been hidden in the flat in
her absence. "We're launching it next Thursday. Do you have a Wireless?"
~*~
She never went anywhere now, save work. It wasn't safe. She Flooed directly
there and back, and ate in the Tearoom on the Fifth Floor. Her clothes were
hanging baggy and loose, and her eyes were hollowed.
"He's not worth it, you know, dear," a tea lady said to her one day, eyeing her
firmly and slipping an extra slice of bacon onto her plate. "Blood traitors and
Muggle lovers, the lot of them. Why else would they run away in the middle of
the night? You need to get yourself a nice Pureblooded boy from a good family
that'll take care of you."
She gave the woman a watery smile and paid for her meal. That was how she found
out the Weasleys had gone into hiding.
She spent evening after evening tuning in to Potterwatch and turning the fake
Galleon from the DA over and over in her fingers. Fred had urged her to keep it
with her at all times, months ago.
And then the night came when it glowed hot, and after spending so long waiting,
they were doing something.
They were standing in the Room of Requirement, and she was looking up at Fred's
face, which was manic and gleeful as though this was the greatest prank he and
George had ever pulled. He was brushing aside Harry's concern aside with
characteristic nonchalance. "You couldn't expect everyone to miss the fun,
Harry!" he said cheerily, only moments before the dust and horror and blood of
battle swallowed them all.
~*~
She had given up and was about to walk away when she heard the muffled sounds
of movement, the rattle and clunk of the lock.
His face was wan and pale, his eyes tired and empty. He didn't ask her why she
was there, or even say hello. He just stepped aside, holding the door open so
that she could slip past him.
The flat was the same, but different. There were still the familiar stacks of
boxes, but the busy clutter had an air of stagnation about it and a visible
coating of dust. He gestured to one of the armchairs and she sat, then he
disappeared into the kitchen and she heard the familiar clatters, clunks and
gurgles as he prepared tea. The other chair had a blanket draped across it and
a pillow on the seat, as though he had been sleeping there.
She sipped from her cup politely. The tea was weak and had a slightly odd
taste, as though the milk he'd used to make it had begun to sour. He didn't
appear to notice, drinking his own, mechanically, until there was nothing left
but the dregs.
"I'm not him," George said at last.
You never were, she thought. You never could be.
"I know you're not," she answered. "I don't want you to be."
He looked up, finally. Looked at her with a hint of the old sharpness,
shrewdness, somewhere deep beneath the grief, like a copper Knut winking at the
bottom of a pond. Apparently what he saw in her face satisfied him, because he
nodded and gave her the ghost of a smile, crooked and melancholy, and she felt
herself return it.
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