Home

Chapter 43: Home

Winter 1998 – 1999

The Burrow was filled to bursting. Six Weasley siblings with spouses and significant others in tow, a set of nearly two-month-old twins, and a pair of beaming patriarchs had crammed themselves into the living room around a Christmas tree that morning. Inspired by the spirit of the holiday, they had even invited Aunt Muriel to join them for dinner, but she had thankfully declined to "join the herd at the trough," as she'd so eloquently put it in her reply.

Molly's knitting needles had been flying for months now, clicking away all day long in a corner in order to produce the quantity of jumpers needed for the holiday, including two very tiny ones. All morning long, people had been tripping over the avalanche of wrapped presents that spilled out from under the tree, the majority of which were toys for the two people in the family least likely to care and most likely to sleep through the entire thing.

Molly and Annie had been preparing for days and cooking since the early morning: two enormous turkeys, bushels of roasted and sauced vegetables, puddings, relishes, and half a dozen pies were racked and stacked all around the kitchen. Ginny, Hermione, and Fleur – who was even more beautifully radiant now that she was pregnant herself – had played with the twins, calling on Annie only when they needed to be fed so she could help Molly in the kitchen.

George and Ron had been conspicuously absent for a good portion of the morning – Annie wondered if they had perhaps planned another surprise fireworks display since the one for Molly's birthday had been preempted by Annie's labor. No one she'd asked would admit to knowing anything about it, though.

Finally, the two brothers reappeared just as dinner was ready. How convenient... and typical, she thought with amusement as her husband sidled up behind her, bestowing a distracting peck on her cheek while nicking a chunk of turkey from the platter she was carrying. Annie mused that George was very much like an ant that way, never failing to sniff out a food source and help himself to it.

The dining table was now crowded and cramped, groaning with food. The family sat with elbows and shoulders touching but smiling and laughing comfortably all the same. Annie smiled, suddenly struck by the idea that a claustrophobic person would be driven utterly mad in the Weasley home.

Then Arthur stood and made a moving toast about how love and family had supported them through dark times, how life goes on, and how new life would bring them joy. Glasses clinked, and rounds of cheers echoed throughout the room.

Annie smiled sympathetically at George when he set a plate of Canary Creams on the table, understanding the effort it took him to do so. Not that the spell was at all difficult for him; the hard part would have been how much it must've brought Fred to mind as he did so. They were the biggest hit of the table, though, and anyone who was distracted for even a moment during dinner found a few crumbs of one in their next bite. Everyone, including Molly, transformed into a large yellow bird at least once. Annie got canary-ed about six times; people began to suspect she enjoyed it and was doing it on purpose.

After the meal, presents were opened. Annie laughingly handed Molly her gift: a sweater she had attempted to knit herself, Muggle-fashion. It was a wretched failure with more dropped stitches and loose strings than not, but Molly was gracious and honestly touched by the effort. She claimed to love it.

Annie's present for George – an MP3 player – met with more realistic appreciation, even though he would be unable to use it while they still lived in the Burrow. He had long been quite interested in "Muggle" music and, for the most part, shared her taste – or at least claimed to enjoy whatever she had playing in the truck or in her room at the time. He looked genuinely eager to play with his present once he could safely get away from all the interference of so much magic. Though Annie figured she could have given him a pocket calculator, and he would have been thrilled with the non-magical, battery-operated gadget.

Annie gazed around at the cheerful scene and thought about how she would miss this happy chaos once her own house was finished in the spring. Not so much, of course, that she was willing to stay here any longer than necessary. For as wonderful as the Burrow was, she knew there was no long-term future for them staying there. Better to get started on a life of their own. She looked forward to it with excitement; George had predicted Mole Hill would be finished by the end of March at the latest.

Once the twins were fed and down for a late afternoon nap, along with a good deal of the rest of the family, George asked Annie to go for a walk with him.

"Let's wander by the house, and I'll find a proper place for this in the garden," she suggested with a smile. On their way out of the room, she grabbed the plaster garden gnome he had given her that day. Harry had laughed aloud when she'd opened the gift, and the rest of the family had looked bemused when Annie had been forced to explain yet another Muggle-magic misunderstanding. Molly and Ginny had berated George for what they deemed a woefully substandard and unromantic gift until Annie assured them she loved the little statue far more than she would have enjoyed something fancy or expensive.

Arm in arm, they strolled slowly across the frozen meadow that separated George's childhood home from their new house. From the outside, it looked completely finished, as it had done for a couple of months now. Annie loved the huge rectangular windows that filled the northern, southern, and western faces of their house which reflected the surrounding countryside like mirrors. She would often gaze at it in the afternoons from the Burrow's kitchen window, imagining how dramatic it would look when she planted a trailing rosebush at the top of the hill, how it would eventually cascade like a floral waterfall down the hill, washing over the corner of house before spilling finally to the ground below.

"Fancy a look inside?" he asked her as they approached the back door.

"Absolutely!" she cried excitedly. "You haven't let me in for ages!"

He had been dodging her lately, always complaining about being too tired to take her for a tour after he'd gotten home to the Burrow for the day. His reluctance, compounded by the fact she was now subject to the chaotically unscheduled demands of infant twins, had worked in concert so that she had not seen the interior of the house since long before the babies had been born.

"Happy anniversary," George said softly as he slowly opened the door for her. "Welcome home."

Annie stepped inside to find a fully finished, completely furnished living room. Her mouth dropped open in shock. She was stunned into speechlessness as he took her hand and led her further inside.

The silent living room felt enormous, especially compared to the overcrowded one they had just spent the afternoon in. A large collection of warm brown leather sofas and chairs were arranged to face a huge fireplace that was tall enough for a man to stand inside. The stone hearth of the floor spread upward along the entire eastern wall of the room, reaching all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. Two framed photos rested on the mantle, dwarfed by the dimensions of the rest of the room: one she had taken of George holding Art, the two of them gazing into each other's eyes, and the other was one he had taken of her cuddling with little Fred.

Behind the leather furniture were a large dining table and chairs, then a tall kitchen island with stools arranged along one side of it. She recognized all the furniture from catalogs they had looked at together – they had already agreed on everything that was now in the room – but he must have purchased all of it in secret, she reckoned. And had it delivered. And assembled it. And arranged it.

Annie tore her eyes away from her new furnishings to stare at George's smugly smiling face. He watched the realization dawn upon her and nodded victoriously: she had just been pranked.

And not just some average, everyday, run-of-the-mill practical joke, either. This was the prank to end all pranks. The mother of all practical jokes. It was the stuff of legend: his eternal ace in the hole, a get-out-of-jail-free-forever pass. No retaliation would ever be commensurate, no repayment possibly sufficient, no thanks adequate – and he knew it. He would always be able to play the "But I Gave You A House For Christmas" trump card.

You bloody, stupid, beautiful git, she marveled. You got me.

He led her past it all to the staircase. She only had a brief opportunity to glance at her kitchen, but she glimpsed through the glass cabinet doors that all her Gran's dishes and the many antique mechanical kitchen gadgets they had been collecting at fairs over the summer were already neatly arranged there.

He pulled her up the stairs. A balcony of sorts, the solid wall of which came up to George's hip, spanned the length of the second level, open to and overlooking the living room. He directed her past the first doorway and led her inside the second.

There she found two identical cribs made up with the baby blankets Gran had saved for her. It was warm and cozy in this room – the nursery where their children would sleep from now on. The far wall was a large window which faced north, open to a vista of forest and hilly pasture now glowing golden in the late afternoon light. Movement above her caught her eye – to her further amazement, George had enchanted the ceiling in this room to look like a night sky, complete with twinkling stars and an occasional meteor shower.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.

"Not nearly as good as the original," he muttered cryptically, then smiled at her. "You haven't seen the best part, yet." He led her back into the balcony/hallway, back toward the stairway to the first door they had passed.

Inside was the bedroom of her dreams. The walls of the room were a lovely, fragrant wood paneling except for the floor-to-ceiling window wall that faced north. The most ornate thing in the entire house she'd seen so far was the modern, simple curve of the wrought-iron bed frame that stood in the center of the room. George had draped her old blue patchwork quilt over the foot of it; the rest of the linens were a crisp, clean white.

Two large but plain dressers stood side by side to her right. She pulled open one of the drawers and found it filled with neatly folded clothes. "Is this what you were up to this morning?" she asked, the realization dawning upon her. "Moving us in?"

George nodded. "It's finished. At least, enough for us to live in now. Still a bit of work left to do in the unused rooms yet. Do you like it?"

"Do you really have to ask?" she wondered aloud.

He shrugged, a slight smile on his face. "It's nice to hear it, anyway."

"Of course I love it! It's everything I've ever dreamed of!" Annie exclaimed.

Annie paused for another minute, looking around, taking it all in. She was feeling overwhelmed and increasingly small and insignificant in the face of her husband's latest accomplishment. "George... you built a house... with your bare hands!" she exclaimed. "And it's utterly amazing, as usual."

George snorted, thinking she was exaggerating for effect. "Hardly bare hands. A wand eliminates a good bit of the manual labor. And Lee and Angelina helped loads. Lots of people did, you know."

She turned to face him, attempting to make him understand. "Once again, you are a shining example of supernatural superiority," she said, trying to compliment him. She held her hands out, indicating the house as proof.

"Oh, shut up," he chided her.

"I'm serious!" she cried. "Have you ever tried to do something and failed at it?" He opened his mouth to answer, but Annie quickly added a caveat: "Not on purpose?" She anticipated he would bring up his OWLs, which didn't count. That made him pause for a moment, and Annie knew her argument was won.

Then George shook his head. "Loads of times, obviously."

She knew he was lying to make her feel better. "Name one."

"You're being ridiculous." He smirked dismissively. "I'll admit I come damned close, but nobody's perfect."

Annie wasn't ready to give up. She began ticking off all George's impressive qualifications that supported her argument. "You're a very talented wizard.... Don't roll your eyes – plenty of people have told me so! You're clever, and brave, and determined. You're an incredible father...."

"Don't forget fantastic lover," he interrupted her, being facetious. He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked skeptically at her, eyebrows cocked askew.

"That goes without saying, of course," she agreed, far more serious than joking, but smiling at his attempt at humor anyway.

"This is quite a flattery fest. Happy Christmas to me," he said sarcastically.

"Why am I here? Why me?" she asked him, honestly curious. Out of everyone in the world, how was it she was the one standing here with him?

"Isn't it obvious?" he replied, reaching out for her and drawing her closer.

"Not in the least," she protested.

"You're just incredibly lucky, I suppose," he said, resting his chin on her chest and looking up at her, smiling impishly.

Annie laughed in agreement. It was pretty much what she had been thinking herself at the moment. She bent down to kiss him as a reward for his smart-arse comment.

"I confess it might also have something to do with the fact that I have trouble breathing... and my heart resists beating... without you," he added as he leaned back onto the bed, pulling her along with him.

"Did I forget to mention poet and world-class bullshitter in your list of stellar qualities?" she teased, lying atop him.

"Takes one to know one," he argued.

He gently rolled to the side, kissing her as he gently laid her next to him on the bed. He slowly began to lift the hem of her sweater as his hand caressed its way along her waist toward her ribcage. "Did I forget to mention you're a really brilliant... mother?" He ended with an exaggeratedly disappointed sigh as Annie halted the upward motion of her sweater.

He kissed her on the neck as she giggled. Then he propped himself up on one elbow and smiled wickedly at her. "I shall beget many excellent sons upon you, woman!" he proclaimed theatrically.

"Ack! You troll!" she laughed, weakly pushing away from him.

They lay on the bed for several minutes longer, kissing and holding each other, until Annie broke the silence. "Speaking of your many excellent sons.... They're likely going to wake up soon."

"Meet you back here tonight?" he offered.

"It's a date," she agreed, smiling.

*

"Um... George? I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but you have a little... erm... mess... on your shirt."

It was January, and a driving, icy rain was pelting the giant windows of Mole Hill. Annie and George had been sitting on the sofa in front of a roaring fire, feeding the twins their mid-morning meal. Art was draped over Annie's shoulder, gurgling and cooing while she gently patted his back, trying to coax a burp from him.

George sighed. "I've been shat upon once again, haven't I?"

"Fred seems to have it out for you, for some reason," Annie giggled sympathetically.

He carefully stood up, trying to prevent the mess from spreading further. "I swear you're part seagull, son," he muttered as he headed toward the stairs.

The little baby in his arms giggled in response.

"I'll be up in a minute," Annie called after him. She took advantage of Art's alertness to play with him a bit, drawing out several smiles from him as her reward before they were rudely interrupted.

"OH MY GOD! That is DISGUSTING! It's absolutely EVERYWHERE!" George howled.

"George! Calm down!" she yelled up to him. "You're Daddy's overreacting, as usual," she muttered to the babbling infant in her arms. She carried him up the stairs and into the nursery, following the sounds of his brother squealing in delight and her husband dramatically gasping in revulsion.

"You're going to give him a complex, George. Stop freaking out about it. It's only a little poo," she scolded him.

"Only a little?" he cried incredulously. "I honestly don't know how a body that small can produce a volume of...." He quickly edited himself in the face of Annie's warning look. "Of poo... like that!"

Fred responded by screeching and kicking out his legs repeatedly. He had an enormous, toothless grin on his face.

"Look at him! He's bloody proud of it!" George exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at his son.

"Do you need my help?" Annie asked him pointedly, struggling to quell an amused smile that was beginning to spread anyway. Like father, like son, she thought, remembering how, as boys, George and Fred both used to be exceedingly boastful about all their bodily functions.

"No," George muttered, chastened but still indignant. "I can handle it."

Annie set Art gently down on the other changing table and began to undress him. He was squirming uncooperatively, making the task challenging, to say the least. He never seemed to like this part: the changing of the diaper. She reached down to the shelf below, feeling around for a clean one.

"Where did they all go?" she mumbled to herself. She was positive she had seen a large stack there earlier that morning.

"Need something?" George asked her.

"Toss me a nappy, will you?"

"Where did the other stack go?" he asked, tossing a cloth diaper from the stack on his changing table toward her.

"Good question. You're sure you don't know anything about it?" Annie said, beginning to feel suspicious.

"About what?"

"The mysterious disappearance of the stack of nappies, idiot," she said testily.

"Why would I know anything about it?" he cried defensively.

"Revenge for being the one shat upon, I suppose?" she sighed accusatorially.

George snorted. "That's the story of my life though, isn't it? The universe craps on me, then I get blamed for everyone else's problems."

"Oh, you poor, pitiful thing," Annie said in a mockingly sympathetic voice. "Forgive me for thinking your innocence is unlikely, love," she giggled.

"I will if you give me back the bottle of powder."

"I didn't take it."

"Then why is it on your table?"

Annie paused – for there it was, right in front of her. It hadn't been there a moment ago, had it? She was so flummoxed by it that she re-opened Art's diaper to check if she had used it unconsciously. Just as she thought: she hadn't. Still puzzled, she lobbed the little bottle to George.

Annie finished dressing Art and set him gently on his tummy on the floor. George did the same with Fred, then scattered half a dozen baby toys on the floor about them for their entertainment. Annie sat on the floor, her back leaning against one crib as he left the room, she presumed to change his shirt.

She leaned her head back against the slats and closed her eyes. She was exhausted and clearly beginning to crack up. Her imagination had been getting the better of her lately – she was seeing things that weren't there, apparently. And missing things that actually were.

She heard George return a moment later and sit down next to her. Then she felt him lay his head in her lap, lacing his fingers together around her thigh which he used as a pillow. He yawned loudly.

Annie opened her eyes and smiled. This must be what paradise feels like, she thought as she stroked George's hair, listening to the excited and contented noises of their children as they scooted and rolled themselves about the floor, snatching up a toy and eagerly shoving it into their mouths.

Delicately, she traced the outline of the scar left behind from George's missing ear with the tip of her finger. "I'm going to miss this... when you go back to work," she said softly.

It was time to broach the subject, she admitted reluctantly. As wonderful as the past month had been, together with him and the twins here in their new home – and she would treasure it forever – George didn't belong here with her. He was wonderful with the babies, but he was not meant to be a stay-at-home father, all day, every day. He was meant for something... not better, exactly, but... different.

George rolled his head backward to look up at her. "You're trying to get rid of me?" he asked, pretending to be offended.

She shook her head, refusing to make it a game. "It's pure selfishness that's kept me from saying it sooner," she replied. "I'm very jealous of my domestic bliss, you see."

"I don't want to go," he said. "I want to stay here with you lot." He reached up and touched her cheek with a finger.

"You have to face it some day, love," she said gently, combing his fringe back with her fingers. "It's what you were meant to do."

"We were supposed to do it together," he muttered in protest, pressing his palms into his eyes.

"I know," she said, tenderly pulling his hands away from his face so she could look into his eyes. "And it's not fair that you have to do it without him. But you do."

"Time for me to be a man about it, you mean," George sighed.

Annie shook her head once more. "No... just time to take another step forward."

He looked deeply into her eyes, as if he was able to pull something from them. "You're right, I know. Soon. I promise."

"Monday, I think," she suggested.

He winced slightly. "Monday," he echoed grudgingly.