Precocious

Chapter 61: Precocious

May 2005

Annie glanced up from the uncomfortable position of being bent over the sink when she heard flames flaring in the fireplace. Her husband's arrival at home was now imminent, which meant her time was up. "Thanks anyway, Winky," she said with a sigh.

"Sorry, Miss. I is not knowing anything else to try," the little elf replied, clearly disappointed that she was unable to solve the problem.

Annie began speaking as soon as George emerged from the unnatural green fire. "Now don't get upset, George," she called out.

"What the bloody hell happened to you?!" he cried out, eyes growing large as he strode rapidly across the room. He flung his work robe onto the sofa instead of hanging it up in his haste to reach her.

"Let me repeat: do not get upset. They didn't mean any harm."

"Arthur! Fred!" he shouted angrily up the stairs, knowing exactly whom she meant by "they."

"I've already dealt with them," she told him but was ignored.

"NOW!" he roared toward the ceiling.

The tops of two curly ginger heads were just visible over the balcony wall as they slowly made their way toward the staircase. Their dejected and remorseful faces worked to help cool their father's wrath somewhat as they slunk guiltily down the steps.

"Explain yourselves," George asked in a calmer voice once they stood before him.

"Well, we were just reading one of your old spell books, Dad," offered Art.

"Which will now be off limits to the both of you," George interrupted snappishly. "Continue."

The boys looked at each other.

"And we saw one that gave us an idea," Fred admitted only after being nudged roughly by his brother.

"So, you were inspired to turn your mother's hair orange?" George cried in disbelief, his anger flaring again.

"Not orange, exactly. We thought it would look more like ours," explained Fred.

"See, Merrie was saying..." Art began.

"You're trying to blame your little sister for this now?" George interrupted again, incredulous.

"Let them explain, love," Annie said, taking George's hand, helping to rein him in. There was a time not long ago when he would have been laughing hysterically at her predicament. The recent stress of the past few months was getting to him, impacting even his sense of humor. She hoped it wasn't a permanent change.

"Fine. Go on," he said, looking sternly at his sons.

"Merrie was saying how she thought maybe Mum might be sad sometimes," Art began once more.

"Feeling a bit left out," added Fred.

"Since she's the only one without ginger hair like all of us," Art finished.

"You expect me to believe you did this out of the kindness of your hearts?" George asked them, shaking his head.

"That's exactly what happened, love," Annie said. She squeezed his hand. "Merrie already confirmed it."

George closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Annie nearly giggled out loud – he looked so much like his father Arthur must have done when preparing to punish him and his twin for any multitude of infractions.

"Go get the book and show me the spell," he said softly.

He watched his sons as they trudged back up the stairs to fetch the book. Then he turned to the house-elf timidly peeking around the corner of the kitchen island. "Thank you for trying to help, Winky. What have you tried so far?"

"It won't wash out," Annie said glumly.

"Not even with Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, sir," Winky added tremulously.

George sighed. "That doesn't bode well, I'm afraid," he said, looking sympathetically at his wife.

Annie cracked a smile. "You have to admit, it is pretty funny."

George smiled grudgingly in response. "You do look ridiculous, yes," he said, pulling her into a hug. "Not to mention reek," he added, his eyes beginning to water from the smell now that her head was directly under his nose.

"That's the bleach, I'm afraid," Annie replied, stepping away from him and helping Winky with their dinner preparations. "Don't be too hard on them, George. They really thought they were doing something nice for me," she urged again.

"I know they didn't mean any harm," he replied. "But that's not really the issue. Every one of us has to learn this lesson at some point."

Just then the twins returned, Merrie trailing them guiltily as well. Fred handed him the book opened to the correct page. It was worse than he thought – the spell book was his from third year. George shuddered to think what they might be capable of with wands.

"Do you see this swirly symbol?" he asked, pointing to it on the page.

All three of the children nodded.

"Do you know what it means?"

They all shook their heads.

"It means no effective counter-spell has yet been discovered. Do you understand?"

The boys hung their heads and nodded. George looked up at his wife and silently mouthed, Sorry.

Turning back to his children, he began to address them calmly, for all his anger had dissipated now. "Look at me, boys. You as well, Merrie," he said, looking down at his oldest daughter who had crawled up onto his lap.

George spoke gravely. "You all know that you are not allowed to do magic on purpose. Now, I blame myself for letting you get away with too much for too long. Clearly you haven't been taking the rule seriously enough. But no more. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Dad," the three of them mumbled contritely.

"Good. But the most important thing for you to understand is this: you must never cast a spell on someone without their permission."

"What about in an emergency, Dad?" asked Art.

"Yes, well – seeing that you're six years old, let's leave the emergencies to the adults, shall we?"

"Or if we're attacked? You can use spells to defend yourself, right, Dad?" asked Fred.

Annie was biting her lips to keep from laughing. George was trying so hard at this. After all the time he'd spent in life on the other side of these conversations, she knew it was quite galling to him to be the heavy now.

George sighed. "Are you anticipating any such thing, Fred?" Then he rushed to add, "No, I don't imagine you are," before the little boy could answer to the contrary.

"Well, you shouldn't have said 'never,' then," muttered Art anyway.

"The point I'm trying to make, Arthur and Fred," he said sternly, looking both of them in the eyes in turn, "is this: do not... cast spells... on anyone... in this house. Especially if you don't know how to reverse them. Understood?"

"Yes, Dad," they said in unison once more.

"Now off with you – wash up for dinner."

Dinnertime helped to lighten the mood considerably. Two-year-old Janie wouldn't stop laughing at "funny Mummy," and eventually her giggles spread throughout the table. By the end of the meal the twins were spouting off silly carrot-themed knock-knock jokes, making Merrie laugh so hard she got hiccups.

Later that night, after the children were in bed, George did what he could to try to help Annie. Several color-changing transfiguration attempts and a few generic reversal charms later, nothing had changed.

"It is rather impressive," Annie said, trying to cheer him as he flipped through a potions manual for ideas next.

"That's what worries me most," he replied without looking up from the book. "It's too impressive. They're six-year-old wandless children – they have no business managing a spell like this. It'll soon be too dangerous around here... if it isn't already."

"How can you say that?" she cried quietly. "They're sweet boys – they'd never do anything to hurt anyone," she argued.

"Not on purpose," he agreed. "Damn," he sighed, shutting the book noisily. "Nothing in here either."

"Oh, well. It's only hair. It'll grow back – won't it?"

"Hmm. That's not a bad idea, actually. I think I remember seeing some sort of hair-growing spell," he mumbled, flipping through yet another book. "Yes!" he cried in triumph when he reached the remembered page. "Here it is! Shall we give it a go?"

Annie nodded. "Ready," she answered.

She grunted in pain as it suddenly felt like she was hanging in midair suspended only by her hair, every strand being pulled out of her scalp at once. Even clutching the sink for support, she sank to the floor as her knees buckled, biting back a shriek. She closed her eyes, afraid to see what a gory mess she must look like.

George snarled a swear word and quickly halted the spell. "I swear I didn't know it would hurt you!" he cried, lifting her up off the bathroom floor and carrying her to the bed in the next room. "The bloody book didn't mention it!"

"It's okay," she gasped, gingerly reaching up to touch her scalp. It felt normal – still attached to her skull, at any rate – and the burning pain was receding quickly. "Probably just my stupid, tender head. Did it work?"

"A little," he said ruefully. "You've got about an inch of your normal hair now, maybe two," he said, gently wiping the tears from her cheeks.

Annie smiled to reassure him there was no lasting harm. "That'll have to do, then. Go get the scissors and take the rest of it off," she said with a sigh.

George asked her several more times if this is what she really wanted, nervously holding the scissors. Each time Annie confirmed her decision, eager for the horrible hair to go.

"Are you going to help me or do I have to do it myself?" she finally said, getting aggravated with him and impatient to have it gone.

George took his time, careful to snip only what was necessary, and tenderly avoided pulling any of her curls. Eyes downcast to avoid looking in the mirror, Annie watched as the pile of garishly orange hair grew on the bathroom floor in front of her.

"Done," he announced after nearly fifteen minutes. "Want to see?"

"Not really. I'm sure you did the best you could," she said nervously, gathering up the clown-like hair and throwing it in the bin.

George gave her a hug and kissed her forehead. He stroked her head gently, running his fingers through her cropped hair. "It's actually quite... cute. It sort of sticks out in all directions now. I like it," he declared, only a slight amount of surprise in his voice.

"Don't patronize me – I don't need your pity," she half-teased him. She was touched that he would put out so much of an effort to make her feel better, though.

"You haven't got my pity. I'm serious," he protested, holding her chin and pulling her face up to him for a kiss. "More than cute... sexy even," he whispered, leading her into their bedroom.

"You're only desperate," she teased, following him.

"You might be right. We do have five months of doing without to make up for," he said before he kissed her once more.

*

George strolled across the familiar grounds. The day was surprisingly warm, and he squinted when the sun popped out from behind a cloud. In his mind, he had always associated Hogwarts with bitter cold, and the midsummer heat was disconcerting.

Smoke curled from a small hut near the woods – he considered perhaps stopping by to see if Hagrid was around, just to pay his respects, before he left. Thankfully, that bloody memorial is around the other side of the castle, out of view, he thought. That's the last thing I need to deal with this morning.

Professor McGonagall was standing in front of the massive entrance doors, waiting for him. He nervously glanced at his watch, checking that he was on time for their meeting. Five minutes to ten, it said. He was, in fact, early.

Minerva McGonagall greeted him pleasantly enough – she had never been what he would've considered a warm woman. Not like Sprout or Burbage, certainly, he mused, recalling his classes with the comparatively affectionate witches. At her instruction, he followed the ancient witch through the castle.

As they silently wound their way up the staircases and down the hallways to the Headmistress's office, memories of George's school days began to creep back to mind, unbidden. They passed by the charred and still-blackened alcove which served as a memento of the time Fred had dropped the jar housing their swarm of illegal Sonoran Fire Ants (resulting in a sweaty week's worth of detention spent scrubbing ovens in the kitchen, if memory serves). And here was the tapestry behind which they had discovered a secret passageway into Flitwick's office, granting them illicit access to the professor's private library – the contents of which were now kept under far stricter security. George wondered if anyone else knew Flitwick had such an extensive collection of African Charms texts, or harbored such a predilection for magical erotica involving sphinxes?

Soon he was ushered into what had been Dumbledore's office when he was in school, now McGonagall's. The large fireplace was blessedly empty of a fire, and all the windows were open to catch any and all breezes. The portrait of Dumbledore smiled down at him in a grandfatherly way and winked. Next to it, the one of Snape scowled, wrinkling his gargantuan nose in distaste. George returned the expression, glaring at the man he couldn't help but think had been a cold-blooded traitor, even though Harry swore he wasn't.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Weasley?" McGonagall asked in her prim brogue.

George's attention was snapped back to the real world. "I've come today to discuss the education of my sons, Professor," he began awkwardly.

"Yes, you mentioned that much in your letter. Of course your children will be welcome to attend Hogwarts when they reach eleven years of age," she assured him. Her forced smile failed to belie how little she was looking forward to the daunting prospect of another set of Weasley twins roaming the halls. "And how old are they now?" she asked with morbid curiosity.

"They'll be seven this Halloween," he replied.

"Seven years old! My stars, George, are you certain?" she exclaimed in shock, grasping the edge of her desk to steady herself.

George chuckled. "I left Hogwarts nine years ago, Professor. We've got five altogether now," he informed her.

"Merciful heavens," McGonagall muttered, digesting that particular bit of news: five more upcoming Weasley children – George Weasley's, no less – on their way to Hogwarts. She wondered if the new construction would be sturdy enough to withstand that particular onslaught.

"Yes, well," he said, redirecting her attention. "You see, the boys are... well, not quite what you'd expect from typical six-year-olds. We discovered they had prodigious... erm... talents, for lack of a better word, quite early on."

McGonagall raised one eyebrow in dubious curiosity. Every parent liked to think their little darlings were particularly intelligent or magically gifted in some way, and she'd long ago learned to take such declarations with a healthy dose of salt. Still, she'd heard a few vague rumors about these particular boys herself already, even from no less a personage than Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had met the twins a year ago when Arthur Weasley had brought his grandsons with him to work at the Ministry one day.

"Can you be a bit more specific, Mr. Weasley? Or perhaps I should call Professor Trelawney to help us divinate what it is you're trying to say?" she said impatiently.

"Right. Well, for starters, they were levitating multiple objects – in concert – at four months."

"Four months of age? Infants!? Oh, come now, Mr. Weasley," she tsked incredulously. She'd been on the lumpy end of a Weasley-spun tale too many times to count. Would the boy never tire of such childish pranks?

"I saw it myself – my wife as well. But that's not all. Far from it. Annie – that's my wife – taught them to read just after they turned three years old, and it's been off to the races ever since. Built a Muggle car from a kit with my father last year. Dad swears they did most of it, too."

"This is all very interesting, but I fail to see...."

"They can perform any spell you care to name from the Standard Book of Spells – Grade Three, mind you – without having had any direct instruction. Not sure how they got ahold of the book, actually," he added the last bit in a mutter, mostly to himself.

"Grade Three?" McGonagall sputtered. "At six years old?" she cried. "And you were stupid enough to give them wands?!"

George shook his head. "No wands," he corrected McGonagall.

She stared at him, open-mouthed, for several seconds. "You expect me to believe this... this... unbelievable bit of...?"

George shrugged. He had anticipated this reaction. It was completely unbelievable, even for him, and he lived with it each and every day. "Don't take my word for it, then. There are plenty of witnesses: ask anyone in my family. Better yet, meet them yourself."

"And what purpose would that serve?" she asked.

"My wife and I want them to start Hogwarts... this fall."

"Preposterous. Not possible," she argued, shaking her head.

"Professor... we're worried," he spoke with quiet urgency. "My sons are rapidly progressing to the point where no one in my family will be capable of counteracting anything they happen to do. Don't get me wrong: they're good boys. Not a malicious bone in their bodies. But what if there's an accident? My wife... my wife is a Muggle, for Merlin's sake! She can't be expected to handle them for much longer, and frankly, I'm worried for her. Myself as well – I don't have much beyond them at this point."

He paused to note Professor McGonagall's eyes roll at what she must've presumed was either exaggeration or false modesty on his part. "They need to be somewhere where they can be properly directed, taught by real teachers, and I'm bright enough to know I'm not the man for the job," he pleaded.

"All right, Mr. Weasley," she said reluctantly after a long pause, perhaps moved by his sincerity. "Bring them 'round. I will meet with...?"

"Arthur and Fred, ma'am," he informed her.

"Of course." She smiled, slightly sadly, upon learning their names. "I will meet with Arthur and Fred. I'm making no promises, you understand, Mr. Weasley."

George nodded eagerly. Now that McGonagall had agreed to meet the boys, he considered the battle already won, confident that no one who met with his sons could deny their gifts. "Thank you, Professor! When can we bring them by?"

McGonagall pondered for a moment. Best to get this nonsense over with as soon as possible, she reckoned. "Next week? Same time?"

"Of course. Next Tuesday it is." He stood to shake her hand. "Thanks again, Professor. I know you'll come to the same conclusion we have," he added.

Minerva McGonagall cast a doubtful smirk his way, and he chuckled.

"We're in!" George cried as he burst through the door of his home. He had Apparated as soon as he'd reached the edge of Hogsmeade, so excited was he to share the news.

"What? Just like that?" The answering cry came from his wife, somewhere above him in the vicinity of the stairway. Four little bodies came running from all directions, all clamoring for his attention at once. He grabbed the nearest one, tossing it into the air and catching it with a triumphant roar before setting it back down upon its little feet.

"Well... nearly, anyway. She agreed to meet them next Tuesday morning," he explained as he met Annie's anxious gaze, tickling another someone. He glanced down and identified Merrie as the squirming, squealing victim of the moment.

"Tuesday?! That's so... so soon!"

Things were beginning to move awfully fast for Annie's taste. She had agreed with George that the twins definitely needed formal instruction in magic, but was far from convinced they were ready to be shipped off to a Scottish boarding school. They were only six, her little darling boys, after all.

Her little darlings, however, were of the quite opposite mind. They began to parade around the room upon the furniture, leaping from sofa to chair and back again, singing that blasted Hoggy-Warty song. Fred and Art had been begging to go all year long, ever since last Christmas when their Aunt Hermione had given them that bloody Hogwarts: a History book. Annie was looking forward to getting her revenge on her sister-in-law for that one.

All the noise woke Joey, who had been sleeping peacefully in her little sling, nestled against Annie's body. Now she was peering out around the edge of it, attempting to identify the source of the ruckus. Two red-haired, pig-tailed girls were each perched on strong, broad shoulders, and two curly carrot-tops had now wrapped themselves around long, sturdy legs, each one screeching as they were dragged slowly across the floor back toward the door.

"Ten a.m. Tuesday morning. I'll arrange for Mum to take the Munchkins for the day and cover for you at the school, and you and I will escort the Perps with us to the castle," he explained, using the family vernacular in reference to their children.

Annie wondered sometimes why they had bothered with naming their offspring in the first place. Actual given names were only used in situations requiring the implementation of dire consequences.

"We'll be back in a bit!" her husband called out, draped in a cloak of giggling toddler girls, as he headed off to visit the Burrow, update his own parents with the news, and make the necessary arrangements for next week. The boys were delightedly whooping in distance, already far ahead of their father.

Peaceful silence descended on the now nearly empty house as Annie stood in the large living room and got a foreshadowing taste of the future. "Never grow up, Joey," she admonished the infant in her arms, who was gazing up at her in curiosity.