Détente

Chapter 64: Détente

October 31, 2005

Mole Hill was abuzz with activity. Weasleys by birth, marriage, or acclamation were scattered throughout the house and environs, chatting and laughing. Fully two dozen people had arrived just after lunch to celebrate the Weasley twins' seventh birthday.

A collection of happy, chattering children flitted into, out of, through, and around the house like a flock of noisy sparrows. Toys were scattered across the garden lawn and paved portion of the driveway nearest the house like a minefield: scooters, tricycles, bicycles, toy brooms, Quaffles, and a soccer ball were casually discarded and then picked up again by children at random.

But by far the most eagerly anticipated, the most popular items of the day were Arthur and Fred's new wands. Every other child now gathered around the boys, clamoring to get a peek at them.

"What's it made of, Art?" whispered his awestruck cousin, Victoire.

"Hazel with core of unicorn tail hair," he announced proudly.

His audience nodded in appreciation. A couple of ahhs escaped from the youngest children, who could not contain their envy more appropriately.

"What about yours, Fred?" asked Roxy Jordan.

"Hazel as well, but with phoenix feather core instead," he explained in an awfully professional tone of voice for a seven-year-old.

"Ooh! Can I hold it?" asked his cousin, Dominique, with bated breath.

Both boys looked up, scanning for sign of a parent nearby, tempted by the opportunity to show off a bit. They noted with disappointment that their father was currently staring straight at them from across the lawn. "Sorry, but Dad and Mum say we aren't allowed to let anyone else touch them," they explained in unison, with loud, clear voices for their father's benefit.

"Come on, Ted. Let's get some Muggle soda," said Art, carefully sheathing his wand back into its pocket. His brother followed suit, and the three boys dashed away into the house.

"Hello, boys," their mother greeted them as the twins and their best friend careened into the kitchen, nearly crashing into her. Annie, Molly, and Winky were busy setting out snacks, drinks, and trick sweets (a special treat at Mole Hill, for George rarely brought these particular Wheezes home with him anymore, per Winky's request). "Remember to only eat the Fainting Fancies on the lawn – I'm not taking any of you to the emergency room tonight!" she shouted after them as they tore back outside with soda cans and fists full of candies.

"Okay, Mum," they replied, voices fading fast as they ran off into the distance.

Ginny and Fleur were seated on the chairs in front of the fireplace, keeping an eye on the youngest members of the clan. Little James Potter, only a few months older than Joey, sat next to her on a blanket on the floor. They cooed and giggled at each other, smiling and drooling.

"He has such lovely eyes," gushed Fleur.

"Yeah, they're just like Harry's," said Ginny with a pleased smile.

"Hopefully, they will not be hidden behind horrible glasses, no?" Fleur added.

Ginny looked at her sister-in-law with consternation. "What's the matter with Harry's glasses?" she asked defensively.

"Oh, nothing, nothing, of course," backpedaled Fleur. "Oh! I think I hear Louis crying outside.... Do you mind watching them both, Ginny?"

"Of course not, Fleur," Ginny replied testily. As soon as Fleur was out of earshot, Ginny sighed deeply and sank low in the chair. "Ugh," she muttered, pretending it was for her own benefit.

Annie giggled. She could admit that Fleur was not the easiest person to get along with, but Ginny barely contained her dislike for her sister-in-law. "I will never understand what Bill sees in her," Ginny would mutter to anyone who would listen whenever the subject came up.

"Don't you start," warned Molly, setting out a large plate of various cheeses.

"She started it!" whined Ginny.

"You could give her a chance, you know," scolded her mother. "She's not so bad."

Ginny snorted. "Only because you've brainwashed everyone else," she mumbled. After a few moments passed, Ginny spoke again, grimacing. "What's that revolting smell?"

"I don't smell anything," Molly replied. "Is it the Stilton, d'you think?" she asked, sniffing the cheese plate.

"Does Joey need changing?" asked Annie, starting to make her way toward the babies.

"No, it's not that," answered Ginny quietly, swallowing hard.

Annie looked carefully at her sister-in-law. "You don't look so well, Ginny," she said worriedly.

"I don't feel so well... all the sudden," whispered Ginny. "D'you mind?" she said, waving her hand toward the babies on the blanket.

"Go ahead," Annie urged.

Ginny walked quickly into the downstairs bathroom. While she was gone, Molly walked over to where Annie was seated on the floor and took a seat on the sofa. Annie gave her a questioning look, wondering if Molly was thinking the same thing. Molly returned her gaze with a suspicious smirk.

"Hope it's not catching, whatever's making her ill," said Annie with a smile, confident they'd arrived at similar conclusions.

"Let's just say I don't think it's anything she ate, at any rate," Molly replied with a laugh.

About half an hour after Ginny returned from her suspicious visit to the loo, Ron poked his head into the house to announce, "We're all heading out to the orchard for a match."

"Okay, thanks, Ron. Tell George I'll follow out once I get the breadsticks out of the oven," she called back.

"Hang on, Ron. I'm coming," Ginny said, hopping up out of the chair eagerly. "Would you mind bringing Jamie with you, Mum?" she asked.

"Of course not, dear," replied Molly, delighted with the prospect of more time spent cuddling with a grandbaby.

"You're feeling that much better, then?" asked Annie wickedly, winking at Molly.

"Must have been a passing thing," Ginny replied nonchalantly, fooling no one.

A few minutes later, Winky offered to stay at the Hill to finish baking the next batch of breadsticks so Annie and Molly could go see the match.

"Are you sure, Winky?" asked Annie. I hate to think of you doing all the work here by yourself,"

"Oh, yes, Miss. Erm... Winky is rathering not to watch..." she stammered.

Annie nodded, understanding what Winky meant. The little elf harbored a great dislike for Quidditch, and for good reason. Her previously happy life had been destroyed by it, according to her. Annie could empathize, being somewhat on the fence about the sport, herself.

"All right then, Winky. We'll see you back here in a little while," Annie said with a sympathetic smile. She gathered up little Joey, loading her into the ever-present sling, and headed out toward the makeshift Quidditch pitch with her nephew and mother-in-law, chatting amiably.

Annie halted as she approached the open paddock area surrounded by apple trees and forest. What she saw in the sky sucked the breath out of her body, made her heart race, and every muscle in her body tensed for battle.

"That son of a bitch," she whispered under her breath. "No offense, Molly."

"None taken, dear," her mother-in-law assured her, just as furiously shocked as Annie was by the sight above them.

*

George was standing in the grassy paddock, surrounded by his brothers, Bill and Ron, his brother-in-law, Harry, and his best mate, Lee. He was beaming with pride as he watched his sons and oldest daughter zipping around on brooms in the air above him. He couldn't help it: whenever he felt this happy, he simply had to share it. And the only way he knew how to share it was to take the mickey out of somebody else.

George had nobly picked up the slack throughout the post-war years since the role of Weasley Court Jester had fallen squarely upon his solo shoulders. No one was exempt, almost no topic off-limits. He pondered for a moment, weighing his options. Which of his companions would be his target du jour?

Ron was too easy – the entire family teased him for being clueless, uncoordinated, and whingy – and he seldom mounted any sort of counter-offensive worth the definition. And Harry was no fun anymore since he'd learned to stop reacting to all the "world's greatest hero" jabs soon after he'd married Ginny. George couldn't think of anything to tease Lee about at the moment, so that left the old standby: Bill.

Not long after Bill had been attacked by the werewolf, once it seemed clear that he wasn't going to become one himself, Fred and George had begun ribbing him about being a dog. At first, it had nearly driven their mother into conniption fits. But over the years, the furor had died down a bit – Thankfully, not to the point of the joke not being funny anymore, George thought with relief. Consequently, Bill had endured countless jibes about flea collars, leashes, dog bowls full of his food being served on the floor, chew toys wrapped up as gifts, getting swatted with rolled-up newspapers, and the like. George even spent a year refusing to call his elder brother by his name, instead referring to him as "Fetch." And he considered his elder brother a sporting target because Bill usually gave as good as he got.

"So, I'm dying to know," George said with a glint in his eye and a smile in his voice as he sidled up next to his brother. "What does it feel like to lick your own balls?"

"You're about to find out," snarled Bill, lashing out at George, who ducked out of reach just in time. The rest of the group exploded in howls of laughter.

"What is that?" a furious voice cried out from the far side of the paddock, near the forest line.

"Ah, shit," George muttered under his breath, recognizing the voice as well as the tone. "Thought you said she wasn't coming," George snarled, shooting a glare at his brother Ron.

Ron shrugged with his patented befuddled-incompetence. "Thought she said she wasn't."

George spun around to see his wife marching toward him, building quickly into a towering rage. Joey was peeking out from behind the sling, bouncing roughly with her mother's brisk pace.

"Now you get yours, little prick," muttered Bill, a satisfied smirk on his face.

A moment later, Annie was standing toe to toe with George, her eyes glaring up at him with violet fury. "What is our four-year-old daughter doing on YOUR OLD BROOM?" she said angrily through her clenched teeth, futilely trying to avoid making even more of a scene than she had already done.

The other adults in the clearing were averting their gazes and ducking their heads slightly, as if attempting to shrink out of sight. Luckily, George and Annie's children hadn't noticed their parents having yet another row. They were oblivious, having too much fun in the air or playing with cousins on the ground. Joey was giggling at the spectacle above her.

"Nearly five," he said defensively. "And she's flying, obviously. Isn't she great?" he asked with exaggeratedly cheerful positivity. It was true: Merrie was a born flyer, already better at it than her older brothers. George had been sneaking behind Annie's back for most of the summer, giving their three oldest kids flying lessons – anticipating just this sort of reaction from her.

"I thought we'd agreed that seven was the minimum age for flying?" she snapped, setting her hands on her hips. That had been the whole point of giving the twins their first brooms as birthday gifts earlier that morning, after all. And it had taken loads of convincing just to get her to agree to that much.

"Did we?" he asked with the sort of mock innocence he habitually slipped into when finding himself in situations such as these.

He glanced around at his brothers and sister, all looking distinctly uncomfortable at having to witness yet another argument between what used to be the idyllic couple of the family. Things had been a bit hairy around Mole Hill for the better part of a year now, and everyone was hoping the argumentative phase he and Annie had entered would be over soon. And it was, for the most part.... This was just a minor scuffle, compared to earlier in the year.

Still, Annie was well in the midst of a proper wobbly-pitch, and while it didn't quite reach the gale-force furies his mother had been capable of in her prime, his wife's temper was nothing to trifle with. Her chest was heaving with the deep breaths she was pulling in, and her fists and jaw were clenched, desperately trying to regain control of her anger.

"Don't peddle that shit with me, George!" she barked. "What were you thinking? Never mind – don't answer that. It is painfully clear you weren't thinking at all."

"Annie, will you stop your tantrum long enough to really watch her? She's brilliant – the best I've ever seen," he said softly in a conciliatory voice. His tone told her he didn't want another fight any more than she did.

"And that matters how?" she retorted, but he could hear her voice was softening.

"You know, I've been made to understand that being overprotective and overbearing isn't a good thing," he said with a smile.

Annie now worked hard to disguise her smile as a smirk. Throwing her own words back at her from a months-old argument had the desired effect, and George silently congratulated himself for diffusing the situation so quickly.

"Have you forgotten how dangerous it is on one of those things?" she said, unwilling to give in quite so easily.

George rolled his eyes. "It's hardly that dangerous."

"I fell off, remember?" she cried – but without anger now – and flapped her arms in exasperation.

George noted that several members of the gallery now had looks of surprise on their faces as they leaped to the obvious conclusion: he had taken Annie flying before. Bill and Ron failed to smother their knowing smiles, eyes sparkling with the anticipation of making George pay for the revelation.

"Actually, you jumped off in midair, if you'll recall..." he replied loudly, so everyone could hear. Let them make of that what they will, he thought with a smile.

"Which is exactly my point! I've been known to make a few stupid decisions," she yelled, waving the finger wearing her wedding band under his nose and barely avoiding giggling as she did it. They both recognized they were putting on a show now for the benefit of his family.

"Yeah, well, Merrie's a lot smarter than you are, love," he teased her.

"She's smarter than the two of us put together, darling," she countered, playing along.

"I couldn't agree more! Now, will you calm down and just watch her before you embarrass yourself any further?" he said, laughing and putting his arm around her, patting Joey on the head.

The entire family breathed an almost audible sigh of relief.

"George – I still don't like it. This game is bloody dangerous!" Annie said anxiously a few moments later, watching her daughter and twin sons zooming through the air as their Aunt Ginny and Uncle Harry kicked off the ground to join them. George noticed she was absentmindedly rubbing her right forearm, like she always did for some unknown reason whenever she watched a Quidditch match.

"Hmm... I wouldn't know how that feels: living with a compromise," he murmured softly into her ear.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" she grumbled.

"Hardly. If I was at all clever I wouldn't have just gotten caught," he quipped, sliding his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close.

"Promise me she won't get hurt! Make sure she only does it with you around," she pleaded, serious for a moment.

"I've already made her swear," he assured her. "And you know Merrie – she'd eat slugs rather than break a promise."

Just then, Janie bounded up to her parents. "I want to fly too, Daddy!" she cried with a toddler's lisp.

George gathered his little daughter in one arm, his wife in the other. "Sorry, honey. No flying for you. Mummy would viciously remove an important part of Daddy's body if he let you on a broom," he said for Annie's benefit. Then he whispered into Janie's ear, "Maybe next year," and kissed her on the cheek.

"All right, everyone – mount your brooms!" Arthur cried, holding a Quaffle in one hand.

George set his daughter back down as his father walked to the center of the makeshift pitch. Merrie dutifully landed and passed the broom back to George as a group of adults took off into the sky. She watched her father launch into the air, then ran back to stand by her mother's side, beaming with self-satisfied pride. "Did you see me fly, Mummy?" she cried.

"Let's have a clean match this time, shall we?" Arthur announced. "This means you, George and Ron! All right, then... ready? Steady? GO!" He tossed the ball high into the air and released the Snitch.

Annie spent most of the match explaining the basics of Quidditch to her friends, Jane and Alec, who had never heard of the popular wizarding sport before and predictably stood gobsmacked, watching nine people flying around on brooms. It was a highly modified version, of course – played with the Quaffle and Snitch only, and taking into account that seven-year-olds were attempting to compete with adults.

George and Angelina played the Chaser positions with the twins and Teddy, gently tossing the ball to the boys, flying slowly alongside them, while Bill and Ron were particularly inept Keepers, truly defending the goals only when an adult made an attempt to score. The rest of the crowd cheered wildly at the children's efforts, both at flying and at scoring.

Harry and Ginny, as the Seekers, were the only ones taking the match at all seriously, flying at blinding speeds and daring heights in pursuit of the Snitch. The match concluded when Ginny landed, beaming, with the golden ball held aloft in her hand.

"I let you win," Harry cried, smiling as he landed beside her.

"Like hell you did," she cried back. "You're rusty, old man," she teased.

Shortly after the match was finished, George discreetly Apparated with Ron and Harry to the family's favorite pizza place in Exeter. He led them down the deserted alley and around the corner to collect the dozen pizzas Annie had just ordered by phone. The twins had been allowed to choose what food was served at their birthday celebration, and pizza was their current favorite.

They had several minutes to spare before the food was ready, so they bought a round of pints and sat at a table, chatting.

"So, not much longer now, eh, Ron?" asked George.

"Fingers crossed, man. Just keeping fingers crossed," his brother responded guardedly.

George squeezed Ron's shoulder, nodding. "I hear you, bro. We're all pulling for you," he said.

Ron nodded, mutely accepting his brother's good wishes. By some stroke of fortune, right after the tragedy of the past spring, Hermione had gotten pregnant once more. She was well into her second trimester now, feeling strong and, by all the doctors' and Healers' opinions, the baby was doing fine.

"Odds are good, though, at this point," offered Harry, hoping to cheer his friend.

"Yeah. Good odds," Ron agreed, sighing deeply. "Joey's doing well now, isn't she?" he said, hoping to lead the subject away from the pending birth of his own first child.

"Brilliant, yeah. You'd never know, would you?" George replied, smiling slightly and shaking his head slowly. There had been far too much baby-trauma to go around this year, in his opinion.

"And James – he's enormous!" laughed Ron. "No one would've ever predicted your son would be so big, Harry," he teased.

"Shut up, Ron," retorted Harry, irritated that his brothers-in-law never seemed to tire of making fun of his only very slightly shorter stature.

"Must be the Weasley genes," added George, piling on the abuse.

"Sod off, the both of you," Harry said, grinning.

"Touchy," laughed George.

"Ginny sure bounced back quick," commented Ron. "She was back on the team in what, six weeks? Talk about superior Weasley genes!"

Harry chuckled. "More like eight weeks, but yeah, she did recover really quickly." He was unable to quash a bashful smile, and a faint blush spread across his face.

"What's that all about?" teased Ron with a laugh, noticing his friend's strange reaction.

"Nothing," protested Harry, yet strangely giggling in his odd, nervous manner whenever the subject of sex arose in the company of his wife's brothers.

"No way!" George's eyes grew large as he instantly guessed the source of Harry's discomfort. "You must be having a laugh!"

"What?" cried Ron, still clueless.

George shook his head in disbelief. "Remind me someday to share a little Muggle secret about that with you," he taunted, as if faulty birth control methods were responsible. Eleven months! he mouthed silently, astounded by the math. James is only eleven months old!

"Please just drop it, will you?" begged Harry, yet smiling somewhat proudly all the same.

"What are you lot on about?" Ron whined, frowning petulantly at the two of them. "Will one of you explain what's so funny?"

"Go on, Harry. Explain it to your massively thick best friend," laughed George, leaning back in his chair, preparing to be entertained by watching Harry squirm.

Harry's sigh was closer to a groan, and he predictably shifted about uncomfortably in the chair. "Erm...Ginny said she wanted to try for another one right away," he explained in a mumble, keeping his eyes glued to the fascinating bubbles in his beer.

Ron punched his friend in the arm as understanding dawned. "I don't believe you! And we joked about George and Annie being like rabbits!" Ron cried.

"Ow," moaned Harry, rubbing his arm.

"Like rabbits!?" cried George, punching his brother in the arm.

"Ow," complained Ron, rubbing his arm.

Harry laughed. "You've still got everyone beat in quantity, George," he teased, kicking him lightly under the table since he couldn't quite reach across to punch him.

"Too right," George laughed, nodding once. "Still the stud of the family, me," he added with a wink, daring them to argue.

"Which is easy when you produce children by the litter," mumbled Ron.

"Come again, Ron?" asked George, brandishing his fist for another jab.

"Nothing, George. Cheers!" Ron said with a smile, raising his glass.

"Cheers!" echoed George and Harry, clinking their glasses with Ron's.

Author's Note: Just a little warning... from here on out (only 16 more installments to go), larger chunks of (fictional) time will be passing by between chapters. New chapters will still be posted each Friday, however.