Moving

Chapter 41: Moving

Summer – Fall 1998

Summer continued to pass. Two Muggles called surveyors came with fascinating gadgets to measure out and mark exactly where the house would go. The fellows seemed surprised by George and his father's enthusiasm to learn about what they were doing. Annie, too, had smiled and giggled at the two of them, rather entertained herself by the two wizards gleefully fiddling with the surveying instruments.

Next, George began the task of excavating. A good bit of the hill would need to be dug out for the house, as well as his mostly subterranean workshop. He had been practicing the spells for days and, with his father's help once again, spent a hot summer day removing and either relocating or Vanishing the necessary tons of soil.

Even though the work was done by magic, rather than by hand, it was still physically exhausting as well as mentally draining. But George discovered in the process that the mental focus required for the work helped to keep the darker thoughts at bay. He returned to the Burrow that night far more cheerful than he had been in months, having finally spent a day thinking of something other than the battle or the loss.

Vast amounts of cement for the foundation were required next. He and Annie spent an evening discussing the best way to obtain it. To his very great disappointment, they ruled out having it delivered wet by cement truck, convinced that there was no way to hide the use of magic in front of the Muggle driver who would be delivering it. Rather than hire a construction crew of local men, risking exposure even further, George became determined to do it all himself.

"How are you going to get all that out there?" Annie asked him. "You're going to need tons!"

"The only trick will be getting it from the supply yard. Once it's as far as the Burrow's lane, it'll be easy," he explained. "I figured I'd just haul it in your truck, if that's all right with you," he added, not wanting her to feel taken for granted.

"Our truck," she corrected him. "And no, you won't. The poor thing can't handle it, especially not all at once."

"It could with a bit of help," he assured her with a knowing wink.

"And you won't look at all conspicuous hauling a house-worth of cement in a rickety old pickup, will you?" she argued sarcastically.

George smirked, conceding the point. "All right, maybe a few trips...."

"More like fifty! George, just rent a lorry," she suggested.

"Can you do that?" he asked, surprised and excited at the possibility of playing with a new bit of Muggle machinery.

"Darling, everything in the Muggle world is for sale or hire," she replied.

A few days later, Annie accompanied George and his father to the supply yard, the better to keep their eager excitement in check as they watched the materials being loaded by machine onto the flatbed truck. Arthur's eyes were like saucers, watching the forklifts load and unload their pallets.

Once back at the Burrow, George bewitched each pallet to levitate off the truck and led them to the construction site. Annie watched him with an amazed smile as the raw ingredients of their home followed him like an invisible-camel caravan across the meadow toward the large hole dug into a hill in the distance.

The next morning – a Saturday – an army of young wizards reported for duty. George had recruited his entire family and their friends to help mix and pour the cement for the foundation. He and Annie both were touched by the outpouring of support their willing helpers demonstrated.

Of course, if it hadn't been for the heat of the day, not a single one of them would have even broken a sweat. George was by far the most physically active of the group, scrambling about with the blueprints in hand, ensuring drainage and plumbing pipes and support beams were magically held in their proper locations until the cement set, and directing the work crew.

Annie had spent most of the morning helping his mother prepare lunch for the crowd, but still came over to see the activity before it was finished. He could tell by the look on her face that it was a spectacular sight to her: wands waving all about, wheelbarrows of cement being mixed by unmanned shovels and hoes, then floating in midair over to the proper spot where they were unceremoniously dumped. Everyone was laughing and enjoying themselves, all of them genially teasing George at every turn that he was working them too hard.

Steadily, over the weeks of the summer, the house came together. After the foundation came the walls, then roof, then doors and windows. George was careful to use magic only in the process of building, rather than upon the materials themselves, thereby ensuring that Annie would be able to operate a few necessary electrical appliances in their home without any lingering interference.

There were days when he was unable to work at the site, forced to halt temporarily due to weather or a delay in obtaining a critical supply. In that case, Annie would usually find him somewhere in the Burrow's living room or kitchen, nose in a book about construction or pouring over the blueprints spread out on the table.

"Aren't you the bookworm now?" she would say whenever she found him thus, sidling up next to him.

"Somebody has to put a roof over our heads," he would tease her. "You're not lifting a finger, are you?"

"You won't let me!" she would argue. In fact, she frequently protested the entire Weasley family was coddling her due to her "delicate" state.

"No excuse," he'd reply, kissing her on the top of the head or patting her burgeoning stomach, then returning to his studies.

George managed to get the house completely enclosed before the wet autumn weather could set in. By mid-September, the distance between the Burrow and the new house was too difficult for Annie to manage with any frequency. So, while George spent every day at the work site, Annie had to be content with his descriptions of when something significant was completed, like the fireplace, the kitchen cabinetry, or the hardwood floors.

Annie was especially encouraged when George's old school friend, Lee, began spending more and more time helping him. She didn't think it was good for her husband to be spending so much time alone – he needed to talk, not become a recluse, she'd argued. As the days went by, George and Lee grew closer together as friends: a thought which cheered him as much as it did Annie. It did feel good to have the company while he worked, he realized, even though they were usually very careful to avoid any discussion of Fred.

*

George directed the roller to dip itself in the pale green paint once more, then drove it along the wall with a flick of his fingers. The color perfectly complemented the honey-colored wood floor and the forest view out the window. Annie really has an eye for this decorating business, he mused, pleased with how their house was shaping up. She had picked out nearly everything for their house, from the fixtures to the furniture, and he continued to be impressed with her taste as each item he'd secretly ordered arrived and was put in its place.

The décor was exactly right, in his opinion: a collection of quality, well-constructed materials that would last them for ages partnered with a who-cares sense of style where comfort and practicality were prized above any other consideration. As much as he had told himself over the years that it never really mattered to him, he had to admit that all these new things about him made him feel... well, good. Almost optimistic, even. It would be nice to be the first person to sit in a chair or sleep in a bed, for once.

He smiled to himself in anticipation of his latest secret plan: revealing a completed house to his unsuspecting wife by their first anniversary at the latest. Annie was so big with the twins now that she could barely walk up the stairs to their room in the Burrow and hadn't been by the construction site to see the progress for several weeks. He had been feeding her false information all the while, leading her to believe the house wouldn't be ready to move into until spring.

It was ambitious, as far as pranks went, but he had every confidence he'd manage to pull it off to extremely entertaining effect. The big unveiling promised to be epic. And it was so nice to have something distracting to think about. He was sick to death of all his otherwise gloomy thoughts and was desperate to have something fun to look forward to.

Other than the babies, that is, he thought with an even bigger, satisfied smile. Thoughts of his and Annie's children to come never failed to cheer him, either.

"What the hell is this thing?" Lee asked him.

George looked up to see him holding up a small L-shaped piece of metal with a perplexed look on his face. "It's called an allen wrench," he replied and knelt beside his friend. Two cribs lay in forty pieces spread about on the floor.

Lee's expression was dubious. "And how the hell am I supposed to use this useless-looking thing to put these stupid bits together?"

George chuckled as he took the allen wrench from his friend's hand and tossed it theatrically over his shoulder. "You don't, git." He pulled out his wand and used it to summon the assembly instruction booklet. "Only a nutter like my dad would attempt anything so ridiculous."

"That's a relief," Lee sighed.

"Keep the paint roller going, will you?" he requested. Then George directed him to hold two large crib pieces together while he fed the fasteners into their proper holes. "Turbonis," he said with a roll of his wrist, and the bolts spun themselves in.

Lee lazily waved his hand toward the wall. "I'm takin' off early today, mate," he said softly, tentatively. As if testing George's reaction.

"Oh, yeah?" George replied absently, squinting at the directions which suddenly made no sense. Had he missed a step?

"Got a date, see," Lee said, trying desperately to sound casual about it.

George looked up from the instructions. "Do tell," he said, a smile beginning to spread across his face in anticipation of taking the mickey out of his friend. What a kind, generous soul Lee was to lay such a gift at his feet, he thought.

Lee was grinning broadly, unable to help himself. "Angelina finally agreed to let me take her out for dinner," he said.

George felt guilty that his jaw dropped in shock. "That's great news!" he cried enthusiastically in an attempt to make up for it.

Lee wasn't fooled. "Thanks," he said with a snort. "I knew I could count on you for support," he snapped sarcastically.

"I'm serious!" George cried. "Just goes to show how persistence pays off when it comes to women. It's rather inspirational, really. You're living proof that a fellow can blatantly pine for a girl for a decade before finding enough spine to tell her so and still meet with success. Or was she the one who asked you?"

"I asked her, thank you very much," Lee protested. "I knew I shouldn't have told you."

"Don't peddle that rubbish with me," George chided him. "I could see you've been dying to tell me something all morning. You've been scratching about like an old biddy sitting on a juicy piece of gossip the whole time."

Lee chuckled, then fell silent again. He redirected the paint roller while George wrestled with the drop-side of the crib, muttering futile threats against it under his breath, warning it to cooperate or suffer the consequences.

"You're not pissed off?" Lee asked softly.

"Why the hell would I be pissed off?" George demanded, then barked a swear when his thumb got smashed as the precariously rigged thing fell apart before he'd gotten the bolts threaded in place.

"I dunno," Lee mumbled, squirming a bit. "She and... Fred... well... you know."

George sighed. "Lee, that was over ages ago." He was careful not to let on that the brief fling with Angelina after the Yule Ball had meant next to nothing to Fred, remembering how upset about it Lee had been at the time. "Help me figure this bloody thing out, will you?"

Lee knelt beside him. Together, they managed to fit the guide pegs into the proper grooves, and the drop-side finally clicked into place. The two of them turned the entire thing right-side up, then pushed it out of the way against the window wall.

"I cannot bloody believe you're gonna be a dad! How in hell did that happen?" Lee asked, a mockingly incredulous smile on his face.

George sat on the floor, leaned against the crib, and chuckled, deciding to take a break before trying to put the second crib together. "Are you asking me to explain the fairies and the flowers to you, Lee? Poor Angelina...."

"Sod off," Lee snapped, punching him in the arm as he took a seat beside George.

"You see, when a boy really fancies a girl, and she really fancies him as well...."

"You're a right prick, you know that?" Lee grumbled. "I pity your offspring, I truly do."

"Save your pity for your own, should you ever figure out the mechanics required to make one," George retorted.

"How does she put up with you? Have you got Annie under a Confundus or something?"

"You might say that," George agreed, grinning wickedly. "Let's just say she loves me for a good bit more than my sparkling wit," he said with a smug wink and a leer.

"I'm telling Annie you said that, you bloody pig," Lee threatened.

"You wouldn't dare," said George with a stricken look.

"Ooh, look who's scared of the little wife! I reckon it's clear who wears the pants in your family, mate," Lee said with delight.

"Shut it," George growled as he shoved his friend forcefully to the floor.

Lee laughed raucously. "You're in an utter panic! How delicious! I haven't seen you scared this shitless of anyone besides your mother," Lee taunted, arms braced to fend off the pending attack.

"Shut it or go home, I'm warning you," George said, looming over his friend menacingly, aiming his wand at Lee's nose.

Lee grinned from ear to ear. "Oh, this is rich, indeed! Christmas has come early to Lee Jordan! Thank you, George. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you," he cried, rubbing his hands together with relish.

"You will shut up now or I will shut you up," George threatened, then blew it by bursting out laughing himself.

Lee laughed as well. "Relax, mate. I'm only joking. Still, it is lovely to have something to lord over you."

"You fail to recall the song, I see."

Lee's smile was wiped from his face. "Song? What song?"

"Oh, Angelina, my angel on a broom... without you life is full of gloom..." George crooned, purposefully sounding like a decrepit set of bagpipes, with a dreamy look on his face, batting his eyelashes exaggeratedly.

Lee gasped in mortified shock. "You bloody bastard!"

"Your face is lovelier than a rose's bloom," George pressed on, undaunted. "Or was it her arse that was lovelier than the moon? Pity, I seem to have forgotten the next line...."

"All right. You win, you son of a bitch," Lee snarled, scrambling upright.

"It's not my fault you're a bloody wretched poet, mate," George laughed.

"You're a horrid excuse for a mate," Lee grumbled. "I don't know why I bother."

"The saddest part of it is I'm the best you've got," George needled him.

"That is a fucking tragedy," Lee muttered.

He snorted and turned back to painting the walls while George began working on the second crib. Progress was made more quickly this time, now that he understood how the pieces fit together. The two young men worked quietly for several minutes.

"I'd like to bring her 'round here, if you don't mind," Lee said. Again, his voice was tentative, as if testing the waters.

"Anytime," George replied, although he wasn't exactly sure how he felt about the prospect of having so much company. Lee was almost as much as he could force himself to take.

Not that Lee was any trouble; the opposite was true, in fact. He was a great help around the new house and good companionship to boot. It was just hard to be around much of anyone for any great length of time. Annie being the exception to that rule, of course.

"I think it would be good for her," Lee said. His voice dripped with tender concern for Angelina.

"How is she?" George asked with genuine worry. He had always considered Angelina to be a good friend and hated to hear she was having a difficult time of it.

"She's taking it hard. Ken, Patty, Siobhan... Fred," Lee spoke just above a whisper. "Nearly half of us gone. She dwells on the ones who didn't make it. I think it would help her to spend more time with those of us still here, you know?"

George took a deep breath, feeling the familiar crushing ache begin pressing against his chest, and bent over the pieces of the crib. Their dorm-mate, Kenneth Towler, had been killed just before Christmas for refusing to be recruited into the Snatcher Corps. Patricia Stimpson had been tortured in an attempt to gain information because of her position in the Ministry – a junior member of the Invisibility Task Force – just before the coup. Siobhan Follyfoote had simply disappeared into thin air two weeks after her name appeared on that horrid list published in the Prophet last fall. And Fred....

"Ah, Christ..." he muttered, gripping the rail of the crib. The pieces began to swim before his eyes. George screwed his eyes shut and sniffed in an attempt to bring all the rogue moisture back within him where it belonged.

"Shit, George. I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean...."

"S'all right, Lee. Not your fault," George stammered. Growing angry with himself, he took a deep breath and roared, startling his friend. He'd recently discovered that, for some strange reason, making a really loud noise helped dispel the darkness when it began to close around his mind.

George sighed more calmly now, confident the depression was beaten back into its corner for the moment. "It happens all the time, mate," he explained, not wanting Lee to feel badly.

"George...."

"Just... give me a minute." George tried to surreptitiously wipe his damp face on his sleeve. He concentrated intently on the task at hand. Cribs... twins... house... Annie....

"It'll be nice to see Ange again," he said after several minutes, his voice forcefully composed and managing to sound only slightly strained. "Bring her by tomorrow, if you like. I'll put you both to work on the kitchen plumbing."

Lee chuckled, determined, like George, to return to lighthearted banter. "Is that all your mates are to you? A source of cheap labor?"

"Cheap? I thought you were free!" George teased back.

"Au contraire, git. I'm only here for your mother's treacle tart."

"Wait 'til you try Annie's redcurrant cheesecake," George said.

"She puts up with your nonsense, and she's a good cook?" Lee asked, feigning incredulity.

"Why d'you think I married her? I'm not a complete idiot, you know," George retorted. "A bloke's got to eat, after all."

*

The first time Angelina accompanied Lee to the construction site, George was made to feel a bit uncomfortable with the way he often caught her looking at him. There was a haunted look on her face, almost as if she had seen a ghost. He could tell Annie noticed it, too, as they all ate lunch together at the Burrow. Angelina's stare was a strange mix of sadness and longing, which left his wife feeling confused.

That night, in bed, Annie asked him about Angelina. He told her the basic details: Angelina had been in his same year at school, same house as well, and a chaser on their Quidditch team. Suspicion began to cloud Annie's expression.

"Did you ever...? I mean, did you and she ever...?" she asked, having trouble putting her question into words.

"What?" he asked, honestly baffled.

"Were you ever a couple?" she said, uncomfortably spitting it out.

"Me?" he spluttered. "No, that was Fred," he assured her. "He took her to the Yule Ball, I remember. They had a bit of a thing afterward.... Didn't end so well, now that I think about it," he mused aloud for her benefit.

He could tell Annie was relieved by his answer but saw she was also upset with herself for having brought Fred to mind for him. Despite all his efforts to hide it, she could see how much it still hurt him, and Annie usually went to great lengths to avoid inflicting the pain. An effort which he appreciated, even as he felt ashamed for the necessity of it.

"I suppose that's likely the case for just about any female you went to school with, isn't it?" she said with a sigh.

George chuckled without thinking. It took him by surprise: laughing at a memory of Fred. He hadn't realized he was capable of it yet – taking pleasure in remembering his brother.

"Honestly, yes. He was a bit of a hound dog, wasn't he? I remember when you used to call him Casanova," he replied, pulling her closer to him. Her physical presence acted almost like an anesthetic, taking the edge off the aching loss.

Annie smiled with just a little bit of sadness, wrapping her arms securely around him like a bandage, her big belly wedged between them. "Just as long as I can continue to pretend you were saving yourself for me, I don't care how many of Fred's old conquests I have to face. Do me a favor and don't burst my bubble, all right?"

"It's a promise," he assured her as she kissed him, omitting how completely unnecessary the promise was.

*

Annie stood amidst a sea of cardboard boxes. Ron had brought a dozen of them down from the attic that morning before he'd left to join George at the construction site, and she was sorting through them in the bright light of the living room of the house she had grown up in.

"That enough for you?" Ron had asked her as the final box came to rest on the floor at her feet.

Annie had nodded. "Thanks, Ron. How many do you think are left up there?" she'd asked.

"Not much more. Maybe six or seven. Well, if you're all right, then I'll be off. Oh, and George said to remind you...."

"Not to lift anything," she'd interrupted. "Right. For the hundredth time, I've got it. And please tell him to kiss my arse for me," she'd added, smiling sarcastically.

"With pleasure," Ron had chuckled, smiling as he disappeared.

Her Gran's house had only been on the market for a month before it sold, and now Annie had a mere fortnight left to empty it out before the new family moved in. Before the flurry of work this week, she hadn't been inside it since she'd moved into the Burrow with the Weasleys. It was a little disconcerting to be in it again: almost as if it was home, but not quite Home anymore.

Annie took a seat on a small stool and began poking through the first box of the morning. Her Gran had not been much of a packrat, and neither of them had ever set much store on the concept of heirlooms. "Knowledge and love are the only important things that must be passed on from one generation to the next," her Gran had often told her, growing up. Therefore, if something had not been immediately needed anymore or used often enough, it had been gotten rid of already. Their frugal lifestyle had made this part of the grieving process a bit easier.

But it was still grief to be waded through, even though it was a completely different sort of sadness than the one she felt for Fred's loss. Her Gran had meant everything to her, but her death had not been unexpected. Both of them had always known, on some level, that it would happen eventually. They'd had time to say goodbye to one another, and for that Annie was immeasurably thankful.

It was the way of things, after all: the older generation passed away, and the younger ones left behind made their way without them. The idea that Gran's passing made sense in the larger overall purpose of the world made the sadness a bit softer, a bit easier to take.

Unlike the other: the gut-wrenching, senseless rip in the fabric of her world that had once, but no longer, included Fred.

She shook her head to clear away that thought and threw herself into the work of the morning with new determination, keeping the other grief at bay, quieting the rattling cage within her. The box she had just opened contained old photo albums and loose pictures. Rather than sort through them singly, she decided to transfer the contents of the box in its entirety to a plastic tub and marked it with its destination in her new home: OLD PHOTOS – ATTIC.

Annie spent the morning thus occupied, weeding through the old boxes. Most of the useable stuff was destined for a charity shop in Exeter; she had no need for the superfluous kitchen items, clothing, and knick-knacks. The rest of it – mostly reams of old files – would be thrown away.

But she was touched to discover that Gran had saved a few boxes of things especially for her that she had never known about. One contained a stack of carefully folded baby blankets: some were crocheted, some quilted, but all promised to come in very handy in the winter to come. She was also pleased to find a box of her favorite childhood story books, which had been her mother's before her, and included full sets of Beatrix Potter and Winnie the Pooh books, among others. She wondered if George would have ever heard of any of them.

Molly popped over just as Annie had finished moving the books one by one out of their beat-up cardboard box into a safer, sturdier plastic tub. It had been years since someone had made lunch for her, she reckoned, and Annie was touched by Molly's concern. They sat together at the kitchen table – which Ron had already called dibs on, anticipating being in a position to move out of the Burrow soon himself. He and Harry had been working on a scheme to get jobs at the Ministry and a flat together in London.

Annie and her mother-in-law chatted for a short while about the likelihood of the boys' plans while Molly warily eyed the half-dozen electrical kitchen appliances lined up on the counter. She knew they were destined for her husband's workshop and was worried about how they might be troublesomely enchanted in the near future.

"Sorry about that, Molly," Annie said, waving toward the collection of blenders and toasters and such. "But I couldn't say no. He was so excited about them...."

"I know, dear. It's not your fault," Molly said with a rueful smile. "They do have an oddly determined, almost obsessive streak, don't they?" she said, referring to the one-track mind-set her husband had passed on to several of her children.

Annie smiled in agreement. "Almost like a bulldog, once they set their teeth into something." Like bloody Quidditch, she grumbled to herself.

Molly chuckled. "You know, I was admiring your garden today," she said, changing the subject. "It looks to be in remarkable shape, considering it's been abandoned for more than half a year. Mind if I take a closer gander? I thought I might help out when you're ready to take some cuttings or dig up some transplants, if you like."

"That would be wonderful!" Annie said, eagerly accepting her offer. She heaved herself up out of the chair and led Molly out the back door and down the steps.

"I especially want to bring some of the hawthorn with me. Gran always told me it's a tradition in our family to have a hawthorn in the garden. Said she brought this one with her from Wales," Annie added, pointing out the shrubby tree in question.

"Ah, I see there are definitely some things here that mustn't be left behind," Molly chuckled. "I had a feeling, you know, that there might be something like this here," she added, indicating a few of the more mundane-looking magical plants the twins had smuggled out of their mother's garden and into Annie's over the years.

Annie smiled sheepishly. "Nothing too terribly noticeable. We were careful because of Gran," she argued.

"Careful, were you?" Molly said with a laugh as Spud, the garden gnome, came scurrying over to Annie, barking swear words in greeting. "The plants I can understand... but a gnome?"

"He's sort of a pet, actually," Annie giggled as she bent awkwardly down to tug out a dead tulip from amongst the overgrown weeds, offering him the dormant bulb. "We will most assuredly be relocating you, Spud," she called out as he headed back to his den.

"It really is a miracle we weren't run in on charges a hundred times over," Molly mused while shaking her head. "Between Arthur and his ridiculous hobbies and you lot, I have no idea how we've avoided it as long as we have!" she cried.

"Just lucky, I suppose," laughed Annie.

"Yes, we were so lucky our very reckless sons made friends with a Muggle child who knew how to hold her tongue and kept our secret for.... How long has it been now, dear?" Molly asked as she put her arm around Annie's shoulders.

"Thirteen years," Annie mumbled, wincing at the thought and bracing herself for a tirade.

"Thirteen!" Molly spluttered. "Merlin's.... Well, his bleedin' unmentionables, that's what," she said, editing herself in front of her daughter-in-law. "I'll come back tomorrow for this nonsense, dear," she added, waving absently at the garden. "Don't work yourself too hard. Ginny will be over in a bit to help you move the boxes," Molly said with a hug and peck on the cheek for the mother of her imminent grandchildren, then Disapparated.

It was late in the afternoon when Annie heard a knock at the front door. It was so unexpected that it startled her, making her jump. Her heart raced with the unwarranted adrenaline as she heard Ginny call out from the front room.

"I'll get it, Annie." A few seconds later, she heard her speak again. "Oh, very funny, Harry. You're hilarious," Ginny said sarcastically.

"Erm – no, it's Stephen, actually. Have we met? I'm sure I would remember someone as beautiful as you, love."

Annie dashed down the hallway as quickly as she could manage. "Ginny! I'm coming! That's for me!" she called, desperate to rescue her sister-in-law from the idiot she couldn't believe had the nerve to show up at her door.

"That you, Annie?" she heard him call out in curious surprise.

"Stephen!" she barked scoldingly as she shoved him out the door in front of her and onto the porch. She poked her head back inside the door for a second, bidding Ginny to wait to start loading the truck, just before closing the door behind her. Then she turned to face Stephen.

She was prepared to launch into a tirade of her own, berating Stephen for daring to show his face again after their discussion nearly a year ago, last October. But the look on his face made her laugh out loud instead. His eyes were nearly popping out of his head, and his jaw was slack with shock.

"You're..." he started to speak but was seemingly unable to complete a sentence.

"Pregnant. Yes. Brilliant observation skills, as usual. You should've been cop instead of a fireman, Stephen." She folded her hands on the top of her large belly, unconsciously displaying her wedding ring on her finger.

Stephen noticed it; his eyes focused on it like a laser. "So you really...?"

"Got married? Yes. George and I are married now. You're on a roll, mate: two for two."

A slightly trembling finger pointed at her distended stomach. "Is that why...?"

"Don't!" she interrupted fiercely, her hands clenching into angry fists. "Do not utter the offensive thing you were about to say. If you were clever enough to do the math, you would understand how stupid you sound right now."

"Right. You're right. Sorry – I seem to settle into some bad old habits around you," he admitted with a wry half-smile. "So, you're married, kid on the way.... Is that why you're selling the house?" he asked with a nod toward the sign in the front yard.

"For the most part, yes. Now that Gran is gone," she said, softly. She was sad to think how, from his point of view, his one careless sentence summed up the past ten months since her Gran's passing, but in reality, failed to scratch the surface.

"Yeah, um... sorry about that. I heard, but I couldn't get off work to come," he stammered.

"It's all right. I understand, really," she assured him, managing to sound only slightly sarcastic. Her Gran's funeral would have been the last place she would've wanted to see him, anyway. Not that she could have imagined such a selfless act on his part.

"So... he's taking you away from here," Stephen said, disappointment in his voice.

Annie considered arguing the point: that George wasn't taking her anywhere she didn't already want to go. But it would be a useless effort. Stephen would believe whatever he wanted to, regardless of what she told him.

"Yes. We're leaving Ottery."

"Are you going far?"

Annie paused. Physically, of course, the answer was no. She would spend her life on the other side of the small patch of woods Stephen could see beyond her shoulders, if he cared to look. But she was going where Stephen would never be admitted, could never follow. She was leaving his world behind.

"Yes. Pretty far."

"Where?" he asked.

Annie silently shook her head. She had no intention of answering. He had no right to ask.

"Well, I guess this is goodbye, then," he said with a sad smile, standing up to leave.

"For the last time, yes. Goodbye, Stephen."

To his credit, he did not attempt a hug or kiss this time. Annie watched him walk down the steps of the porch to the street. He climbed into his car, sitting and watching her on the porch from inside. She turned to go back into the house and face the third degree likely waiting her from Ginny.

It began before Annie got the door closed behind her.

"What was that?" Ginny demanded.

Annie looked into Ginny's eyes. They sparkled with indignant anger on behalf of her brother. Behind her, outside, she could hear a car engine fire up, then drive away.

"Yes, that's the bloke we stole a hair from for Harry's potion at Bill's wedding," she replied, deliberately misunderstanding Ginny and praying she'd drop the inquisition.

No dice. "Obviously. That's not what I'm talking about and you know it," Ginny growled.

Annie sighed. "It's not what you're thinking, I swear. And it's a long story, but I'll tell you if you really want to know."

They sat together in the front room while Annie told Ginny the whole story. How when she'd met Stephen as a young girl, she had been desperate for distraction, missing George and Fred so terribly. How she'd put up with his belittling treatment for so long, always afraid that her magical friends would tire of her some day, leaving her with nothing else. How her relationship with Stephen had led to so many of her problems at school, her false reputation in town.

"He lied about that, and you let him live?" Ginny exclaimed in disbelief.

Annie smiled ruefully, wincing slightly at Ginny's choice of words. Neither George nor Annie ever spoke lightly of death anymore, even joking with family. "Believe me, it was very hard to resist beating the shit out of him. But I swear to you, Ginny, George is the only man that I have ever loved."

"Enough," Ginny interrupted her, holding up her hands to prevent her from continuing. "I don't need to hear it. I know it's true."

Annie took Ginny's hands and squeezed them in thanks. "You're the only one I've ever told the entire story to, you know. George even met Stephen once, believe it or not, but thinks he's nothing more than another obnoxious old schoolmate of mine. He doesn't know the whole truth... and I don't want him to. Ever. I'm just afraid it would drive him mad, and he might do something stupid and macho and unnecessary. Can you understand that?"

Ginny nodded. "You're right. He can't ever find out. He would murder that idiot, if he knew."

"So you'll keep your mouth shut?" begged Annie.

Ginny nodded once more. "Your secret's safe with me." After a pause of several moments, she added teasingly, "What a sordid past you have, Annie!"

"Everybody here in this stupid town seems to think so, and that's been my problem my whole life," she replied, rolling her eyes.

*

It was early October when four young Weasleys sat around the fire one rainy Sunday afternoon in the Burrow, discussing what to name Annie and George's new house.

"But isn't it a bit pretentious: naming a house?" Annie asked, curiously. Her round belly visibly moved every once in a while, to George's utter entertainment. He sat on the floor at her feet, head leaning onto the armrest of her chair, occasionally prodding her stomach in hopes of eliciting more movement.

"You think 'the Burrow' is pretentious?" Ginny teased her.

Annie laughed. "Good point," she said, gently brushing George's poking hand away.

He ignored her and immediately went back to manually communicating with his unborn offspring.

"You have to give it a name. How else will you get your post?" Ron chimed in.

"We expect you to hand deliver it to us every morning," said George, batting his younger brother on the knee and only partially avoiding being kicked in the arm in retaliation.

"Let's not give Ron an excuse to drop in uninvited, shall we?" offered his wife, the barest blush beginning to break over her face.

"Excellent point, love," George agreed. Ron had stumbled onto them kissing several times. Thankfully he hadn't seen anything more, but so far that was only a matter of lucky timing.

"It should be something compatible with the Burrow, anyway," said Ginny, trying to bring the conversation back to the topic at hand. "Maybe... the Den?"

"The Warren, more like," said Ron, giving George a pointed look.

George smiled at what he recognized was frustrated jealousy on his brother's part. He and Hermione were only just beginning to acknowledge their relationship, and it was apparently moving forward very slowly. "Poor Ronnikins! Getting tired of all those cold showers, are you?" he teased his brother.

"Sick of hearin' all that bloody thumpin'!" spat Ron under his breath, getting riled.

"George!" cried Annie, interrupting Ron and swatting George's head simultaneously.

"He's lying. He can't hear anything but the ghoul bangin' around up there," muttered George, glaring at his troublemaking brother. Ron's bedroom was separated from theirs by three floors; George was confident he couldn't actually hear what he was referring to. Annie was already leery enough about having sex, due to the number of people in the house nowadays, and he would personally be making Ron's existence a living hell if she became any more reluctant because of his stupid comment.

"Let's see.... What about the Nest? Or the Roost?" cried Ginny, desperate to prevent an argument between her brothers about sex noises from occurring in front of her.

"The Hole?" added Ron unhelpfully, still smarting.

"Is it really that important? I think we're making a mountain out of a molehill with this business," argued Annie.

"That's perfect!" Ginny squealed with delight. "Mole Hill! Your house even looks like it's tunneling out of a little hill."

George pondered her suggestion for a moment. "I like it," he admitted, looking up at his wife with a half-smile.

Annie answered him with a half-smile of her own, amused by the idea. "Mole Hill it is, then."