The Summer of Love

Chapter 46: The Summer of Love

Summer 1999

George was awakened this morning by Annie's gentle kisses on the back of his neck and shoulder, her fingers stroking his chest. He smiled without opening his eyes, relishing the arousing sensations. But all too quickly the stressful demands of the day to come returned, crashing back to mind and scattering all other, more pleasant thoughts. There was far too much to do and too little time to do it in. Deadlines were looming, and his professional arse was on the line.

"What time is it?" he asked through a yawn.

"Don't ask," Annie moaned, propping herself up on her elbow.

"That late? I've got to get moving. Sam and Verity will be in early this morning." He threw off the sheet and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"The two of them can surely handle it for an hour or so," she argued, tugging gently on his arm.

"That's not very fair to them," he chuckled as he stood up and stretched. "Sam's still new, and they both look to me to set an example, you know," he teased with a wink.

"Come back here right now," she ordered.

George smiled at her frustrated face but shook his head. "This should be the last week of it. We ought to have the big order finished then. Don't roll your eyes..." he said as he headed into the bathroom.

"You'll get this order done just in time to accept the next one which will overstretch you further," she argued with a sigh, flopping back onto the pillow in exasperation.

"I seem to recall you were far more supportive of this a few months ago," he called back from the shower. "'You should open up the shop again, George,' you said. Couldn't wait to get me out of the house, in fact," he needled her.

"That doesn't give you license to ignore me," she whined, raising her voice to be heard over the rush of water. "You've got to do something! Either hire more people or automate the process."

George thought about what she'd said for a moment as he brushed his teeth in the shower. "Automate the process?" he asked, mumbling around the toothbrush in his mouth.

"Use that brilliant mind of yours to invent a machine to make this stuff without so much hands-on involvement. Surely that would be a better use of your time than cooking up little batches of sweets by the cauldron," she argued from the vicinity of the sink.

"Maybe... maybe I'll have a chance to think about it this summer. Things are just too busy right now. Interesting idea, though," he offered.

Annie was already downstairs by the time he got out of the shower. He could smell coffee brewing as he dressed and heard the twins begin to wake up. George walked into the nursery, looking forward to greeting his boys. He always got a kick out of their smiling, happy faces every morning.

George had discovered soon after their birth that the more time he spent with them, the easier it was to feel cheerful. It was even more reliable an antidote for the sadness than working on the house had been, he thought to himself as he dressed them for the day. His sons' innocent, eager faces always looked so thrilled to see him, and their happiness worked like a charm to dispel any lingering depressive thoughts.

After several minutes of tickling and playfully tossing them in the air, he scooped them both up in his arms and carried the giggling infants down to their mother.

"What's this?" he asked as he set each squirming boy into a high chair. There was a small vase with a few sprigs of blooming hawthorn sitting next to his place and the morning paper. Even though Annie had only planted the cutting from her grandmother's tree this past fall, it had already grown to a respectable size, largely due to a generous dose of mooncalf dung fertilizer. Thanks to the same treatment, the rosebush at the top of the hill had already begun draping itself over the roof of the house, just as Annie had envisioned.

"Take them in to Verity. She deserves a little something for putting up with you," Annie said with a smile.

"So what does that entitle you to?" he teased.

Annie stuck out her tongue at him. "I could do with an hour of your undivided attention," she complained.

George smirked at her comment but inwardly conceded the point: he had been neglecting Annie lately. In the past year, the mood of the wizarding world had turned from one of fear and distrust to an atmosphere more conducive to celebration and fun, and he was reaping the benefits. He and his employees, and a few family members to boot, had all been working like house-elves for the past several months, trying to keep up with demand.

But while he'd been working long hours at the shop, Annie'd been left home alone with the twins, bearing the brunt of the parenting duties. Lately, by the time he got home – often after the twins were down for the night – they were both too exhausted to do much more than collapse in bed. Maybe he would put an advertisement in the paper next week to try to bring in some more full-time help, like she'd suggested.

Annie sat down in front of the two boys and began feeding them their breakfast, cooing and coaxing them in her sweet mum voice. The little babies beamed up at her with their toothless grins, gobbling their oatmeal and mushy bits of fruit as she praised them.

George loved watching this scene repeated every morning; it was one more cheering thing to help him face the day. He marveled as he was forced to admit she was astonishingly good at it – being with their children. Motherhood had found Annie tapping into previously unknown and unexpected depths of patience, especially remarkable considering he'd never had personal experience of such patience on her part before. He smiled, taking a moment's enjoyment of the irony.

Annie was just... good, he reflected, cereal crunching noisily in his head as he chewed. There was no other word for it, really. His mother positively doted on her, thrilled to have another female within her domestic domain; his father delighted in having a Muggle in the family on hand to explain the function and purpose of all the mysterious gadgets he'd collected over a lifetime. His brothers and sister appreciated her down-to-earth manner and good-natured sense of humor.

And she was good for him – miraculously so – and he knew it. She deserved better, and he resolved on the spot to be that for her. He would definitely hire more help, the sooner the better. In his head, he began writing the want ad on the spot, planning to owl it over to the Prophet this very morning... if he found a spare minute.

"Right. I'm off," he announced as he walked round the table, doling out kisses on each forehead.

"The flowers, George," Annie reminded him.

"Mmm. They do smell nice. Thanks." He smiled as he collected them and headed toward the fireplace.

George arrived at the shop a few minutes later. Good old ninety-three, Diagon Alley – it had taken quite a bit of elbow grease to get it back in shape to open for business just a few months earlier. Bloody ruined mess, it was. But now, it was bright and well-stocked – for the moment, anyway.

He predicted the shop would be quiet for a couple of hours yet until they opened the door for the business day. He checked the clock; Verity would probably be here in half an hour or so, Sam shortly thereafter. He set the vase of flowers on the worktable next to his desk, then sat down to begin writing out the want ad, taking advantage of the temporarily peaceful atmosphere.

He turned on the little music device Annie had gotten him for Christmas that year. Each morning, she would queue up one or two songs for him to listen to, either a tune from her own collection or perhaps something she herself had recently discovered. It was her way of helping him to do research for the Muggle-music-themed radio show he and Lee were considering doing together (as if he wasn't spread too thin already). Still, it was fun, and he and his friend rationalized that the time and effort they spent on it served a higher purpose if it helped the wizarding world better relate to the Muggles they were all surrounded by – perhaps even encouraging a more fellow-feeling, if possible. He envisioned it would become a sort of Muggle appreciation society for wizards. Excellent with music, those Muggles, in his opinion.

As he listened to the song she had prepared for him this morning, it didn't take him long to decide that while he enjoyed it, this one would likely never hit the airwaves of their show. The rhythm was slow and the bass line very deep; the melody was haunting. A woman's voice, sounding like a mythical siren, softly crooned increasingly suggestive lyrics. Quite conducive to trouble.

Message received, Annie, he thought, smiling to himself.

George took a deep breath as he pressed the button to replay the song. The pleasant scent of the flowers had now permeated the work room. He considered perhaps knocking off early tonight and getting home before the sun had set, for once.

"Those are for you from Annie." George nodded toward the vase on Verity's desk as she arrived for work shortly after.

"Oh, how lovely! Please thank her for me," she answered with a smile as she leaned close to the sprigs and inhaled their fragrance.

They began to work together on the latest Ministry order for shield cloaks. George found it deeply ironic that the defensive products he and Fred had developed as a prank were just as popular, if not more so, than the rest of the Wheezes. Never in their wildest dreams had they ever intended to produce anything sensible or practical. Galleons were galleons, however, he had to admit.

The thought of Fred only caused him a moment's pause this morning. It had been a real struggle to daily face this place again when he'd first begun reestablishing the shop. There were so many memories of his brother – they seemed to have soaked into everything here. It had been almost as bad as their shared bedroom at the Burrow. But the sadness of it had been slowly dissipating as he and his family had all worked together to resurrect the joke shop. Now it stood almost as a tribute, of a sort, to laying the dead to rest and moving on with the living. The bustle and busy-ness of each day helped make the memories easier to tolerate, if not enjoy. Perhaps enjoyment would come in time as well, he reasoned hopefully.

Too soon, it was time to open their doors for the day. As Verity donned her uniform robe, George took another deep breath. His nose filled with the perfume of the flowers. They really are potent, he thought with mild surprise.

"Why don't you take those out to the front with you so you can enjoy them," he recommended. The scent was actually becoming distracting. Not to mention that suggestive song that was replaying itself in his brain. He shook his head for clarity, then continued with the job at hand.

About an hour later, George had made excellent progress in filling the latest order. He looked up at the clock, wondering where Sam had gotten off to; he had stepped out to the front fifteen minutes ago to ask Verity a question. George was just about to call out to ask Verity if she had seen him, when he heard... a giggle? From behind the stockroom curtain? He took a few steps closer to the curtain, intending to check.

"You look exceptionally lovely today, Verity," he heard a hushed male voice say.

Sam?

There was a quiet pause, followed by Verity scolding, "Sam, stop it...." She very obviously didn't mean a word of it.

George cleared his throat loudly, and Verity immediately dashed out from behind the curtain into the showroom, face ablaze. Sam followed a few moments later, a completely unconvincing expression of innocence plastered on his features.

George gave him a stern look. "Sam, let's focus today and get this done, all right?"

"Right," he agreed. Sam took a deep breath, filling his lungs. "This place smells great today! What is it?"

"Annie sent Verity some flowers...." George's answer trailed off. His brow furrowed as a thought occurred to him. He was beginning to smell a rat. A very pleasantly-scented, attractive little rat, but a rat all the same.

He ambled over to his desk, above which was a shelf with some old reference books on it. He pulled out a Herbology text, flipped through it until he reached the entry for hawthorn, and read to himself, "The stale, sweet fragrance of the trimethylamine the flowers produce makes them suggestive of sex, especially to men."*

A slow smile spread across George's face as he shook his head, marveling at his wife's cunning. He was ninety-five percent sure that Annie sending him off with those flowers that morning was not a coincidence. He didn't know how Annie knew, but was willing to bet that she did. Maybe she had read it in one of his books at home? Regardless, he no longer believed that the vase of hawthorn was a casual, spur-of-the-moment present for his overworked employee; rather, it was a deliberate sabotage of the work day.

He glanced back at his randy-eyed new employee, Sam Spellman, who was currently staring lustily at the curtain that led to the showroom, chewing on his lower lip. Neither does she seem much concerned about collateral damage. Poor Sam... or maybe I should say lucky Sam? he mused. Verity certainly hadn't seemed averse to his attentions a moment ago.

George considered asking Verity to get rid of the flowers but was unable to conjure a decent excuse for doing so. The truth – that his wife was so sexually frustrated she was resorting to manipulative torture tactics – was too profoundly embarrassing to be confessed. The situation was made all the more galling by the realization that Annie would have counted on that, too.

He tried breathing through his mouth or alternately taking shallow breaths instead. Neither strategy helped.

He forced himself to hold out against the hawthorn and the maddening song in his head until almost eleven a.m. "Sam, I... I promised Annie I would take an early lunch at home today," he began to explain, conceding defeat.

The eager, calculating look on Sam's face in response to this news was disheartening. Feeling increasingly helpless himself, George made Sam swear that he would continue the work they had begun this morning. Hoping for the best – that the fellow would leave Verity alone while he was gone – but resigned to a more realistic sense of futility, George promised to be back at the shop in an hour, ninety minutes at the most, after lunch.

Ahem. Lunch. That's right.

As George stepped out of the fireplace into his living room, he noted the house was quiet. The twins were sleeping, just as he'd predicted. As he scanned the room, he counted no less than four vases filled with hawthorn scattered about. The house was rife with their perfume. He realized then he had never stood a prayer against his wife's onslaught. Resistance was not only futile but was also rapidly becoming physically uncomfortable.

Annie was perched on a stool, leaning onto the counter, reading something. She blew a small bubble of gum which popped as she sucked it back into her mouth. It was a warm, late spring day, and she was wearing her ubiquitous jeans; these had the cuffs rolled up to mid-calf, revealing her delicate ankles and bare feet. Her lightweight plum-colored sweater, his favorite for the way it set off her eyes, was zipped barely past halfway up, the sleeves pushed back to her elbows.

Pulling out all the stops, aren't you, love? he laughed inwardly.

"About time you got here," she said without looking up at him. She continued reading, instead. Or at least pretending to do so.

He strode purposefully across the broad, open room. "You're almost a subtle as a Hungarian Horntail," he said with a smirk. He tossed his work robe onto the stool beside her. As he stood next to her, he caught a glimpse of something black and lacy peeking from beneath the sweater in the vicinity of her cleavage. George reflexively took another deep breath to steady himself, only to fill his nostrils with more of the seductive perfume. Fucking hell.

"Clearly not obvious enough. Took you all of four hours, didn't it?" she retorted, still staring at the book but smiling slyly now. "Must be the hole in your head," she mumbled under her breath and blew another bubble with her gum.

George lifted her off the stool, threw her over his shoulder, and carried her quietly giggling upstairs to their bed.

*

"It truly pains me to say this, due to the already colossal size of your fat, swollen head, but this was a brilliant idea," Annie confessed aloud.

"How could you doubt it? You've known me for how long? Fourteen years? And yet you continue with the perverse notion that I could ever be wrong." George looked down at the small figure sitting next to him on the sand. "Your mum is silly," he explained to his miniature companion.

A small clump of sand hit him on the chest. He made an exaggerated, you-got-me face, then flopped to the ground. The distance wasn't far – he had been reclining on his elbows, after all. All the same, a squeal of delight erupted next to him.

Annie wiggled her fingers, and the small mound of sand covering them collapsed, eliciting an enchanting giggle. She held out her hand to receive a small shovelful of sand being offered to her. "Thank you, my darling," she purred.

"Mum... Mum," cooed a tiny voice.

"Silly Mum," encouraged a much deeper one.

"See-yee Mum."

"That's excellent, Fred! Your Uncle Fred would be very proud!" George cheered.

Annie smiled, happy to hear George mention his late brother in a casual, lighthearted way. And he was right: the elder Fred would have been very pleased indeed to hear Annie's infant son insulting her.

"Now your turn, Art. Say, 'Silly Mum.' Go on...."

"See-wee."

"Silly Mum...."

"See-wee... Dad!"

Annie burst out laughing. "Good boy, Art! My little hero!"

"Oh, Art, how could you?" moaned George. Still reclining on the sand, he lifted the little body into the air and held him suspended there. Art giggled with glee as his father swooped him from side to side.

"Dad! Dad!" cried little Fred, arms raised, pleading for his turn as he clambered up onto George's chest.

George set Art down on his stomach next to Fred and addressed his troops. "We must stick together, men! Resist the maternal menace! And don't forget, Daddy's always right." The twin boys collapsed in giggles onto the sand as George tickled them.

Annie dusted the sand off of their bodies, out of their dark red curls, laughing herself. "Time for lunch, you lot."

"Yunts! Yunts!" they echoed her as best they could as they were each scooped up by a parent and carried off toward the small group of tents pitched where the sand ended and grass began. Only two of the tents were real; the rest were magical mirages serving as decoys to prevent any nosy Muggles from being curious as to how fourteen people could fit inside only two small tents. Not that there was any great threat of that happening; the repelling charms had worked perfectly to keep everyone else off this part of the beach for the past week.

"This has been really good for your Mum and Dad, vacationing with the lot of us," Annie said, picking up their previous conversation. "And I'm so glad Bill brought Fleur and the baby, even if it's just for the weekend."

"I got the distinct impression our dear sister-in-law is not pleased about being forced to rough it," chuckled George, always relishing what he deemed was the unwarranted discomfort of others. Fleur had not been here a full day yet but had already made several disparaging comments about the lodging arrangements.

"She doesn't seem the outdoorsy type, to be honest," Annie agreed. "Though how anyone could consider this to be roughing it is beyond me," she added, still boggled by the luxurious interior of the five-bedroom tents, each fully furnished with bathrooms and a kitchen.

"Not much like the old days when we came here as kids," he commented.

"No, I suppose not," she agreed.

Annie changed the subject before their reminiscing had a chance to darken the happy mood. Too much thinking about his brother was never a good thing for either of them. "And what about Percy? Bringing yet another new girl along? I didn't happen to catch this one's name.... He seems to be cutting a wide swath through the Ministry's female population," she wondered aloud.

"Which doesn't say much for them," George replied with a slightly disgusted smirk.

"Oh, I don't know.... Still waters run deep, they say," she giggled, baiting him.

"Yech! I think I'm gonna spew," George said, repulsed. He pursed his lips together, theatrically fake-heaved, then ballooned his cheeks with air. In his arms, Little Fred began to try to poke his fingers into his father's mouth to see. "Only joking, Fred," George explained. Not really, though, he then thought silently to himself. Gah!

They had reached the tents. Molly and Arthur were seated on lounging chairs in the doorway, enjoying the view and the air, watching their other children cavorting with their friends nearby in the waves. They rose to greet the returning family.

"Come and see Granny now, dearies!" Molly exclaimed, beaming with joy at her twin grandsons who nearly jumped from their parents into her outstretched arms.

"Leave them with us while you get everything ready," instructed Arthur, smiling and gathering his namesake from Molly to bounce on his lap. "Now, boys, tell us everything. Did you see the great bird swooping by? That was a seagull," Annie heard him explain as she and George headed into the kitchen to prepare the boys' meals.

Bill, Fleur, and baby Vickie (a name they never used in front of Fleur out of fear of being hexed for their trouble) were the first to join them inside for lunch. They had mostly been keeping to the tent since Victoire was still practically a newborn. The rest of the family straggled in as small groups of two or four at a time, scrounging food for themselves and grabbing whatever seating they could find. Meanwhile Annie, having nothing else to do since Molly and George were feeding the twins, offered to hold the baby while Fleur ate.

Annie marveled at the world of difference between this tiny, stunningly beautiful infant girl and her own boisterous boys. Little more than half a year separated them in age, but lovely and cuddly as she was, Victoire did... well, nothing really but sleep and eat. In contrast, Annie's own boys were engines of discovery. Just this morning, they had pulled themselves into standing position and cruised along the benches everyone was currently seated at or standing around.

"They'll be walking in no time, Annie," Molly had said, her tone a combination of pride and sympathy. "Not even a year old..." she had marveled, shaking her head in amazement.

Annie's focus snapped back to the present, and she watched her boys for a moment. Molly was trying to coax Art to eat the last few bites of his lunch. He was having none of it, screwing his mouth shut and turning his head away from her. Molly tapped the spoon gently to his lips, and suddenly, the food vanished from both the spoon and plate instantaneously. Molly huffed in shock.

"Aw dun," Art announced to her with a smile.

Annie observed George and little Fred next. Fred had made a typical mess of himself and his surroundings – or was it George who had made a typical mess of Fred? she wondered. The little boy watched intently as his father summoned a flannel and began cleaning him up. A moment later, a tin of cookies resting on the table began noisily lurching toward Fred in fits and starts. The event remained unnoticed in the bustle of the table – at least, by everyone but George and Annie.

George paused in his cleaning efforts and smiled proudly at his precocious son. "That's it! Concentrate," he whispered encouragingly.

Annie gazed back down at the sleeping infant in her arms and tried to recall the twins at the same age. She was troubled by the difficulty she had of it. They had already been older than this by the night of her own birthday earlier that year. She smiled slightly to herself with the memory.

The night of her birthday, Molly and Arthur had just left Mole Hill to head home after an evening of babysitting when Annie'd heard noises from the nursery. She'd crept upstairs and opened the door to a shocking sight: the twins had been cooing with delight, making those sweet, happy-baby sounds that were impossible not to smile along with, while every toy in the room spun around in midair as if on an invisible carousel.

"George, stop it!" she had called softly to her husband, smiling to herself at the charming sight. "They should be sleeping."

"Stop what?" His voice had answered her from further away than she'd expected. He'd still been downstairs, by the sound of it.

"The spinning toys – and put them away where they belong. Don't just leave them where they drop," Annie had scolded him.

George had bounded up to her then, taking the stairs two or three at a time to reach her. His face had registered curious concern, which then morphed into open-mouthed shock as he took in the spectacle in the room.

"It's not me! I swear!"

That hadn't been the first incident, either – just the most memorable one. Odd little things had been happening for weeks, at that point. Annie had been blaming her own sleep-starved brain and faulty senses, making excuses, unwilling to consider an alternative explanation so early in their infancy. Usually around a few years old, Molly had explained, the magic would surface if it was there. But there was no denying it now: George and Annie's twin sons were definitely born wizards.

And the Muggle doctor – what a joke! He had warned her not to be overly concerned if the twins were a bit late in reaching developmental milestones, due to their slightly premature birth. "They'll catch up in time – before school at least," he had assured her. And now, her ten-month-old boys were days away from taking their first independent steps, already talking up a storm.

Her reverie was broken by Fleur's hand on her shoulder. "Merci, Annie. I will take her now," she spoke softly.

Annie kissed her niece's tiny, smooth forehead, then handed her off to her mother with a smile. Fleur whisked her off to their room.

It was time for her own little ones to go down for a nap, she reckoned. Annie began to rise from the table, but before she could even speak, George had already collected the boys and headed toward their little temporary nursery in the tent.

"I'll put them down," he called back to her over his shoulder. "What'll it be today, boys: 'Babbitty Rabbitty' or 'Jeremiah Fisher?'"

Meanwhile, Annie and Molly began clearing off the table.

"Wish he'd been half as helpful while he was at home," muttered Molly with a teasing smirk.

"Just goes to show you raised him right, after all!" Annie laughed.

Half an hour later, as Molly and Arthur were seated again in chairs under the tent's awning, Annie and George approached them from inside.

"They should be down for a couple of hours now. Would you mind keeping an ear out for them, Molly?" Annie asked softly.

"Of course, dear. No trouble at all," Molly assured her. "Go have fun for a bit, you two."

"Thanks, Mum," George said and, to Molly's astonishment, gave her a peck on the cheek.

George and Annie strolled toward the surf, hand in hand. Molly watched the couple as they walked down the nearly deserted beach directly in front of her. She wondered absentmindedly whether George had cast the repelling charms, or had it been Arthur? Either way, it was a lovely, peaceful spot, empty but for their family.

"This is so relaxing. Why did we ever stop camping, Arthur?" she asked.

"I think it had something to do with the fact that we were nearly murdered in our beds when our last tent burned down around us," he chuckled. "Officially, of course, we never discovered who was responsible."

"Oh, yes. I remember that now," she replied, thoughtfully. "No wonder I blocked it out," she murmured.

Several minutes later, Molly harrumphed as she saw George and Annie strip down to their swimming suits at the waterline. "Since when did young people stop wearing clothes at the beach?" she muttered.

"What was that, dear?" Arthur asked distractedly. He had been drowsily reading the newspaper.

"The swim costumes these days – or lack thereof, more like," she scolded.

"Oh, my," he agreed, taking in Annie's bikini and George's low-slung trunks which were not out of place with what any of the rest of their children and their companions were wearing, all of them lounging on the sand under umbrellas. "I'm afraid we're showing our age, I suppose."

George and Annie were each waist-deep in the water now. Together, they dove into an oncoming wave. George surfaced a short distance further out from shore than Annie did. They laughed and swam and splashed together for a while as Molly and Arthur gazed out at the sea.

"They'll be sixteen forever, those two," Molly mused.

George, who had risen to stand and face the beach, suddenly buckled and submerged. Annie resurfaced a second before he did, laughing and attempting to dash away. The patriarchs were not the only ones watching the scene, apparently; the group lazing on the sand laughed and heckled him.

George lunged after Annie, splashing as much as an elephant in pursuit. He caught her, lifted her above his head, and threw her body sprawling into the next wave to a smattering of applause and male cheers.

"Lucky them," Arthur chuckled as he reached out and patted his wife's hand.

*

"How did you manage it, George? I mean, these first few months with Victoire have been...." Bill's voice trailed off as he searched for a suitably expressive word.

"Brutal?" George suggested, then chuckled, as did the rest of their companions seated around the table.

Bill shrugged, then nodded reluctantly. "Don't get me wrong, she's absolutely amazing... but every three hours, all day and all night long, she eats! And the nappies! The laundry!"

"Been there, done that. Times two," George boasted as he laughed.

"Right. Like I said, how did you manage?"

"You just... do, I suppose." George shrugged as his older brother nodded appreciatively. "Anyway, I think the boys started sleeping through night around... four months, if I remember right. Happened right around Annie's birthday this year."

"So there's a light at the end of the tunnel, then?" Bill asked hopefully.

"Oh, absolutely. Of course, then come the teeth," George warned half-teasingly.

Bill groaned, theatrically banging his head on the table to the amusement of everyone else gathered around. All seven of them – George's four brothers, Lee Jordan, and Harry – were seated around the large dining table inside the tent, chatting as they kept an ear out for the three sleeping infants in the other rooms. The women of the group had taken themselves elsewhere for the time being.

"You make it all sound so glamorous," Ron said with a sarcastic roll of his eyes. "Why would any intelligent person put themselves through all that rubbish?" he asked, shaking his head.

"I never said it wasn't worth it, twerp," argued Bill, good-naturedly swatting his youngest brother on the back of the head.

"And it does get easier, you know," George laughed.

"And no one would mistake you for an intelligent person, Ron," added Percy. He was rewarded with a hearty round of laughter as Ron pulled a face at him.

"What about you, Percy? When are you gonna settle down?" needled Bill.

Percy shook his head. "No hurry.... I like to keep my options open," he explained with a grin.

Every pair of eyes at the table rolled, and George snorted disdainfully. As unlikely as it would seem, Percy and his late brother Fred shared very similar views when it came to relationships with the opposite sex. The more casual, the better, in their eyes. Only in Percy's case, it wasn't a lust for variety that spurred him on, George guessed. More like holding out for the most socially and professionally advantageous pairing possible. Always looking to move up in the world, our Perce.

Percy redirected the question. "What about you, Charlie? Ever going to spend as much time with a woman as you do a dragon?"

Charlie shook his head with a smile. "Not likely," he laughed. "Dragons have better dispositions, I find." This response elicited more guffaws and a few murmured agreements.

George wadded up a napkin and tossed it at his brother Ron, hitting him in the forehead. "And you, Ron? When are you finally going to make an honest woman out of Hermione?"

"Honest woman, you say?" Ron sighed and rolled his eyes again, slumping in his chair. "She's perfectly honest, believe me."

The table erupted with that confession.

"You're joking! After all this time?" sniggered Percy.

"Good girl!" Bill cheered, feeling his role as his daughter's protector quite keenly at the moment.

"Hermione's got a clever head on her shoulders, after all!" added George with a curt nod.

Ron smirked, rankling at the teasing. He turned to Harry for sympathy, only to find him giggling and staring with disbelief as well. "What are you laughing at?" he snapped as he swiped at his best friend's arm.

Suddenly, the table got very quiet. Harry looked up to see five pairs of glittering eyes trained on him, smiles fading slightly.

"Careful, Harry. You're treading on dangerous territory here," warned Lee in a soft but smiling voice, terribly amused by the predicament.

Harry sat up straighter in his seat, wiped the grin from his face, and cleared his throat. "My mouth is shut. I'm not saying a word," he offered in a level voice.

"Sounds about right," somebody muttered.

Several of the ginger heads nodded slightly. The conversation slowly began to pick up again on a different topic: Charlie mentioned the upcoming Quidditch opener between the Cannons and the Catapults. Ron was the lone optimist at the table who predicted a Cannons victory, claiming not superior talent but the simple mathematical certainty that any given squad had to win sometime.

Lee stood up, chuckling, and walked to the kitchen area. As he neared the doorway, he heard female voices offer up a cheer outside. Curious, he stuck his head out of the tent flap and looked around for the source. Once he found it, he stood transfixed.

Perhaps a minute later, George noticed he hadn't returned to the table. "What is it, Lee?" he asked once he located his friend in the doorway.

"Bloody brilliant, that's what," he answered.

That comment got everyone's attention, and they rose as a group to join Lee at the entrance. Several murmurs of appreciation echoed Lee's sentiment as they took in the scene: their wives and girlfriends were playing a friendly game of volleyball on the sand, each in some various state of near-nakedness that served as acceptable attire at a beach. The men began to file out of the tent to get a better view, jostling each other's shoulders in the attempt.

George was standing between Bill and Ron, all of them just outside the tent, still keeping an ear out for any noise from the babies. "Let's have some fun, shall we?" he muttered devilishly, reaching purposefully into his pocket. After a moment or two, the mischievous smile faded to a look of consternation. "Blast!" he grumbled. "Someone's shielding the court...."

Ron and Harry both looked at him. "That'll be Hermione," they said in unison.

"Don't bother trying to break it, either," Harry added knowingly.

"All right, then, since it's apparently going to be a fair game.... Anyone care to make it interesting? A galleon says Annie's team'll win," George offered.

The group all shook their heads, chuckling.

"No one's stupid enough to bet against Annie, git. She's cutthroat, she is!" Charlie cried.

"I'd hate to see her on a broom, that's for sure," agreed Bill.

"Wish somebody would've warned me before I played poker with her," growled Ron, glaring accusatorially at his brothers.

"Ah, come on! Lee?" George cajoled his friend.

"Angelina's on the same team, mate!" Lee cried. "I'm not a bloody idiot, you know. Can't we just watch in peace?"

"Fine," George huffed in frustration. "Bunch of gits, the lot of you," he muttered and took a seat in the doorway next to Bill.

As the game proceeded, however, sides were, in fact, taken, with each fellow cheering enthusiastically for his favorite player's team, groaning in frustration with any points lost. The women acknowledged the attention with occasional waves and smiles, sometimes laughing at the spectators making a spectacle of themselves.

It was at last time for the final point to be played. Annie served, and Fleur returned it. Hermione moved into place to hit the ball, but got the angle wrong. Instead of heading back across the net, the ball soared in a broad arc backwards.

"Sorry!" cried Hermione, cringing.

Annie, who had been playing the baseline, turned her back to the net and flew after the ball, face skyward, elbows and knees pumping, sand flying. Angelina jogged after her, keeping herself about half the distance between Annie and the net, calling out, "Relay it! Relay it!" to her teammate.

"Get it, get it, get it, get it!" George murmured in quiet encouragement, clenching his fists in the tension of the moment.

"Come on, come on," urged Lee, leaning forward in his seat.

Annie went onto her knees just in time, sliding several feet, and hit the ball, sending it back over her shoulder toward the net.

"YEAH!" the whole audience roared appreciatively in unison.

Annie remained kneeling on the sand, some distance now from the game, but twisted to watch the ball's course over her shoulder. Angelina, keeping her eyes on the ball, ran back toward the court. By some miracle, the ball just barely cleared the net and dropped to the sand inbounds as Fleur, Ginny, and Percy's latest girlfriend lunged futilely toward it.

Once she confirmed both the point and match had been won, Annie collapsed in a heap and lay nearly motionless on the sand as celebratory cheers and commiserating groans rang out again from the audience. Angelina jogged back over to her friend, bent over her, and said something unheard by the audience. Annie lifted up one hand, and Angelina high-fived it, then hauled her up off the sand.

The rest of the women had closed the distance to Annie by then. Arm in arm, the group trudged off into the sea for a cooling swim.

*

Annie couldn't believe her wretched luck. A rare night out of the house away from the twins wasted with this?

The table was crowded with empty pint glasses, including hers. She had been sitting in the pub for over an hour now without saying a word. How could she? What did she know about the British and Irish Quidditch League? And why would she care?

She nudged Angelina under the table with her foot. When Angelina snapped out of her own boredom-induced daydream, she looked over at Annie with a question on her face.

"I'm sick of this," Annie mouthed silently.

Angelina nodded in agreement.

Annie jerked her head toward the jukebox. It was partly hidden behind an elderly couple dancing with each other to an oldies tune.

Angelina smiled and nodded again. Subtly, she got Hermione's attention. Hermione wore an equally miserable look on her face until she got the message to follow them. She nodded eagerly as well.

Annie tried to get Ginny's attention, but she was at the far end of the table and was the only one of them paying the slightest bit of attention to the current conversation. Unsuccessful, Annie gave up for the moment. The three of them rose and made their way to the jukebox.

"I hate Quidditch, I swear," sighed Annie.

"It's not so bad as long as you're actually playing it," Angelina joked. She was scanning the song titles.

"What are we doing?" Hermione asked.

"Either of you got any money? I'm skint," said Annie.

"Bullshit! You and George are rich as Croesus," Angelina teased.

"Empty pockets, I mean," Annie laughed.

"Me, too," moaned Hermione.

Annie looked back at the table. Ginny had finally noticed they'd left and was watching them with curiosity. Annie waved her over.

Ginny stood up. She stared for several moments at Harry, who hadn't noticed her sudden exit. She poked his shoulder, and he batted her hand away distractedly without skipping a word of the argument. Ginny rolled her eyes and stomped toward the women. The four guys remained completely engrossed in the conversation about some idiotic Quidditch match, or team, or championship – what did it matter which?

"Got any money? We don't."

"For what?" Ginny asked as she pulled a note out of her pocket.

"Perfect!" Annie waved at the bartender, asked him for change. He smiled warmly at her as he handed over the coins. "See anything promising, Ange?" she asked when she returned.

"Excellent! They've got the one we want and some other good ones as well. Give me the money," Angelina demanded. She fed the machine some coins and selected several songs, pressing the necessary buttons.

"Would someone please tell me what we're doing?" asked Ginny.

"Who cares? As long as it's not about Quidditch..." Hermione laughed.

"Us old married ladies are about to teach you girls a handy trick," assured Angelina.

"Ha! You're still a newlywed," Ginny argued. It was true: Angelina and Lee had only been married a little more than four months.

"Time-tested, tried, and true, I promise," Annie assured them and winked. One more oldies song began – the last one before their own set would start.

Angelina took the opportunity to explain themselves further. "First you choose a song. Not too fast, not too slow... but more slow than fast."

"And no ballads allowed; they won't go for that," Annie added.

"Yeah. Some sexy lyrics help, though," Angelina agreed.

"And a good bass beat to carry through the room. That way even if they can't quite hear it, they'll feel it. If you stick with the song a few times, you'll have them trained like Pavlov's dog," Annie explained.

Hermione giggled at the reference which was apparently lost on the others.

"They'll learn to respond to the song every time," Annie clarified for the rest. "Which can be inconvenient at times, like when you hear it on the radio or something," she laughed.

"You see, getting the attention of a man engrossed in a discussion of sport is almost, but not quite, as difficult as distracting him with a household chore when he's got a hard-on. Oh dear, Annie. I think we've shocked them now," Angelina laughed, taking in the looks on the other girls' faces.

Annie grinned. "Better you learn the truth sooner rather than later, girls."

"Now, our song's coming on next. Watch George and Lee at first to see their reaction. This will be your goal, ladies. Do not make eye contact with Ron or Harry in the meantime. It's imperative that, during the initial training phase, they believe you have no ulterior motive for dancing in front of them."

"Dancing?" gasped Ginny, revolted.

"Oh, I don't know about this," Hermione whined nervously.

All four of them looked over at the table where their male companions still sat. They were arguing vociferously amongst themselves, gesticulating for emphasis, laughing loudly. It was glaringly apparent that none of them had even realized the women had left the table.

"Trust me! This is golden," urged Angelina.

Their song began. Annie and Angelina pulled a hesitant but curious Ginny and Hermione to an open area of the floor, not too close but well within sight of their table. Annie and Angelina had their backs to the table, serving as a sort of screen for the other girls to peek around.

"Follow us, and remember to watch Lee and George," Annie reminded them.

They began to sway with the slow, jazzy beat. Annie and Angelina stood close enough to occasionally bump their shoulders and hips together in rhythm with the music. Ginny and Hermione merely stepped from side to side, directing most of their attention to the table rather than into their dance moves.

Before the first phrase of the song had finished, George looked about the table. His eyes then searched the pub until he found Annie.

"Merlin's... ruddy... knob," whispered Ginny, incredulous.

"I can't believe it!" added Hermione, equally surprised.

Moments later, Lee noticed George had suddenly dropped out of the conversation. He glanced at his friend, then followed his stare onto the dance floor, turning around in his chair.

"What did I tell you?" asked Angelina in a smug voice.

"They're staring like idiots!" said Ginny, still awestruck.

"Watch it! That idiot happens to be my husband!" Annie laughed.

Annie and Angelina began to dance a bit more enthusiastically, enjoying themselves. They clapped their hands to the beat over their heads, swaying and bumping their hips together. They casually acknowledged their target audience with sly glances and half-smiles.

George and Lee smiled back and nodded slightly to the beat of the music. Harry and Ron were still oblivious, laughing and talking with each other. They hadn't noticed anything yet.

Annie and Angelina turned back to the younger girls. "Now, really go for it, gals. Here comes your audience. Remember, no direct eye contact."

Out of the corners of their eyes, Ginny and Hermione surreptitiously watched the scene at the table as Annie and Angelina split apart, took their hands and led them in the dancing.

George nudged Ron in the ribs with his elbow.

"Check this," was all he said as nodded toward the dancing floor. He laughed as he watched Ron's face go slack with shock.

"What are you look–..." Harry began to ask, then let the question fall unfinished as he twisted around in his seat and took in the sight of the four women dancing together on the floor nearby. Arms in the air, shoulders and hips swaying, bodies sinuous, their legs almost looked tangled together.

"Hermione, let down your hair and shake it a little," Annie coached, leaning close to her ear, dropping her hands.

Hermione obeyed, reaching back to pull out the rubber band holding her hair in a ponytail and giggling at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. She shook it out with her fingers, then flipped it back away from her face.

Ron visibly gulped. Hermione laughed harder.

"What the bloody hell is that?" squeaked Ron.

George laughed at his brother. "That, lads, is how a woman changes the subject of the conversation." He knew from experience the song was almost half over. "Watch and learn, boys," he instructed as he rose, slowly walked over to his wife, took her hands to spin her around to face him, and began dancing with her.

"Dancing?" Ron looked a bit queasy but couldn't pull his eyes away.

Lee rose to leave as well, but paused before stepping away from the table. "Look around this place, mates," he suggested.

Ron and Harry both took his advice. Either blatantly or furtively, every male in the room was watching the women on the floor with appreciation, to the consternation of several of their female companions.

"Now, you two do what you like. But unless you fancy a cold wind to blow tonight, you'd best get your arses off the seats and dance with these ladies," he recommended.

"Since when did George become Mr. Smooth?" Ron mumbled as Lee left to join Angelina.

"Dunno, but if he can do it, I reckon we can," offered Harry without looking at his friend. He took a deep breath, plucking up his own courage, and rose from his chair.

"You're heartless, unleashing that on the likes of Harry and my poor baby brother," George scolded.

"And you're a bunch of self-centered prats who've ignored us for the last hour," Annie retorted. She turned her back to George, but didn't step away from him or stop dancing.

He rested his hands on her hips and bent his head to speak in her ear. "Just look at them – they're paralyzed! It's cruel, I tell you. They've no idea how to defend themselves against your feminine wiles."

She glanced at the table. The two boys did look like a pair of deer in headlights. "I wish I could feel an ounce of pity for them. Perhaps they'll find some solace playing with balls and broomsticks."

George laughed and spun her back around to face him. He took her hands, then guided them onto his shoulders. Lee had joined Angelina now, and Hermione and Ginny were dancing together, barely staying upright, both laughing hysterically.

"The lads are plucking up their courage now," George murmured. "Here they come.... Oh, well played, Ron! Poor Hermione – she'll likely be limping tomorrow," he commented between laughs for Annie's benefit, since her back was to the group now.

The song wound to a finish, and there was a brief pause before the next one began. When it did, George groaned with recognition. It was one Annie liked to play at home lately when they were.... Well, as a prelude, of sorts.

"Don't you think it a tad irresponsible to be exposing them to this?" he scolded her.

Annie smiled, pulling him down to her level to speak directly into his ear. "It wasn't me. Ange chose the music. Completely coincidence," she explained, brushing her lips against his ear.

They danced for a minute or so longer. Well, not dancing, exactly, she thought to herself. More like full-body-contact swaying to the slow beat.

"We need to leave before I make a spectacle of myself," George said softly. He took her hand and led her off the dance floor to the bar, handed the barman enough to cover the entire table's tab, then they left without saying goodnight to any of the other couples still swaying on the dance floor.

Molly and Arthur were seated in the central area of their tent when they got back to the campsite. "They're sleeping like angels," Molly whispered as Annie peeked into the room that served as the twin's nursery. "Not a bit of trouble."

"Thanks, Molly. We had such a great time. It was nice to get out again," Annie replied.

"See you tomorrow then, dear," Molly said softly as she and Arthur left for their own tent next door.

The tent flap was still swinging when George scooped her up and set her on the table, kissing her passionately. A few moments later, with her halter top at half-mast and the hem of her skirt pushed up to her hips, she managed to get George to pause for a moment.

"While I'd love to partake of this lovely feast right here with you, your brother's family is in the next room, and I suspect Lee and Ange will be back soon as well, so...."

George growled but lifted her off the table and carried her into their room. He set her down just inside the canvas partition and began to finish undressing her.

But Annie had other plans. She took his hands in hers and led him to the bed. "Sit," she ordered.

Once he was on the bed, she undressed herself slowly in front of him. The light of a brilliant quarter moon was reflected by the sea and diffused by the walls of the tent, making it easy to see each other clearly. George was watching her with an anticipatory smile and desire in his eyes.

She pushed his shoulders down onto the bed. Now there was curiosity added to the lusty smile.

Annie stood on the floor between his parted legs. Her hands lightly pushed the hem of his shirt slowly up his body. She began kissing his stomach at his navel and worked her way upward. He moved slightly to assist her removing his shirt over his head while she kissed his chest, throat, and chin.

"You should probably do that Muffliato business now," she suggested, then continued kissing his jaw, neck, and collarbone.

George reached into his pocket and withdrew his wand, made a tiny flourish with it to cast the sound-proofing spell, then tossed it on the bedside table with a clatter.

She retraced the pathway of kisses back the way she had come. Then she stood up straight and, in a very business-like manner, unfastened his belt and trousers. He lifted his hips as she pulled the waist down to his knees, then she pushed them the rest of the way to the floor with her foot.

She arched her hands and, starting at his knees, gently ran her fingernails up the inside of his thigh, then even more gently over the sensitive skin where leg meets torso. It pleased her to hear his sharp intake of breath when she did so. Then, with the back of her nails, she lightly traced her way up his body.

Crawling up onto the bed, straddling his body, she held hers barely above his. She kissed his chest, lightly teasing his nipples with her tongue. She continued up his sternum, neck, and along his sharp jaw line. She began to nibble on his earlobe.

"Are you enjoying my feminine wiles unleashed?" she asked him.

"Yes." No smart-arse answer, no argument, no innuendo. Just a husky monosyllable.

She looked up at him. His eyes were closed, his face an expression of blissful transport. She sat back on her heels, still straddling his waist.

"Open your eyes, George, and look at me."

He obeyed, reaching out his arms for her.

She was not willing to surrender control just yet. She redirected his hands with her own, placing them at her knees. She slowly guided them up along her thighs, over her hips, up her body, feeling his fingers pass over each rib. She held both hands to her breasts for a few moments. Then, she brought one hand to her mouth, kissing first the palm, then every fingertip in turn, ending each kiss with a tiny, gentle pull of a suck.

George's next move was strong and swift. She instantly found herself on the bed on her back, head on pillows, George inside her. His kisses barely muffled her cries of pleasure.

---

Author's Notes:

* This quote was found on the website http://druidry.org and is attributed to Geoffrey Grigson: The Englishman's Flora, Phoenix House, 1956.

The song George listened to at the Wheezes shop is Come to Me by Bjork. I particularly liked the line where she mentions "Break the charm...."

The first song the girls danced to in the bar is Where It's At by Beck, followed by Stir It Up by Bob Marley and The Wailers. Apologies for the audio quality on the last one – I had a hard time finding a decent link. I wonder if Bob had intended it to sound like someone was brewing a potion....