Tantrum

Chapter 72: Tantrum

2011

Age 33

George arrived home from work that evening to a silent house. He stepped out of the fireplace to find Merrie and Joey sitting at the dining table, quietly doing their homework rather than running up to him for hugs. They looked up briefly and said, "Hello, Daddy," in solemn unison – not their usual effusive greeting. Winky and Doozy were uncharacteristically working alone in the kitchen, presumably preparing dinner.

All of which told him something was very wrong.

"Where's Janie?" he asked, although he was pretty sure he knew the answer already.

"Upstairs in our room," Merrie answered as predicted, keeping her eyes on the table in front of her. Her lips pursed, as if she was angry with her sister.

Perhaps they had a fight, thought George. That in itself would not be out of the ordinary, considering Janie's penchant for pissing people off with her sarcastic comments or pathological streak of uncooperativeness. The fact that either girl would still be pouting about it was unusual, though.

"Where's your mother?" he asked.

Merrie bit her lip and would not answer. Instead, she stared at the page in front of her, twirling her pencil nervously.

"Upstairs in your room," said Joey softly, anxious and upset.

George climbed the stairs and stepped inside his bedroom to find Annie sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window. "What happened?" he asked from the doorway.

Annie shook her head without looking at him. "Nothing, really. I know it's just her temper. God knows I can empathize with her about that. Just give me another minute, and I'll be down to help with dinner."

George was unsatisfied with her evasive answer. Something had happened to send his household into turmoil, and no one would look him in the eye. He had been made to understand from Bill and Lee that a house full of females could be like this, but he had never experienced it himself before today.

"Please tell me what happened," he repeated, sitting next to her on the bed.

Annie spoke in a soft, carefully controlled voice. "She didn't mean it to be as hurtful as it was, I know that. I really do. I'm the one that's being oversensitive. But the part that kills me, George... is that she did mean what she said. She does wish it. They all do at one time or another. Janie's just the only one who's ever said it out loud to my face."

George was alarmed to see tears beginning to well up in his wife's eyes. Aside from tears of joy at the births of their children, he had not seen her so emotional since.... "What did she say?" he asked, as patiently as he could.

"Isn't it obvious? Our daughter wishes I was a witch."

A few minutes later, he stood in the doorway of the girls' room. "Janie, come with me," said George.

His daughter rose from her bed, head hanging. George could see by the set of her jaw that she was not the slightest bit remorseful, though, but rather smoldering at the perceived injustice of her life.

He tossed her a jumper. "Put this on. We're going for a walk."

Janie looked up at him then in surprise. She had apparently been expecting some other form punishment.

George led the way. As they passed by his room, he paused to speak to Annie. "Don't wait for us for dinner. We might be gone awhile," he explained. Then he turned back to Janie and held out his hand.

His daughter was utterly perplexed, but she trustingly placed her little hand in his and followed him down the stairs and out the back door. They strolled through the garden, toward the woods to the east. After several minutes of silence, George began to speak.

"You know, you really hurt her feelings."

"I said I was sorry," Janie snapped defensively.

"Did you mean it?" he asked calmly, refusing to rise to her disrespectful tone.

Janie looked at him in confusion.

"Did you mean you were sorry she was angry with you, or sorry that you hurt her? Or were you sorry you lost control of your temper? Or did you just say it because that's what you're supposed to say when you're in trouble, regardless of what you really feel?"

"I... I...." Janie was at a loss, unsure of what to say.

"I know you're young, Janie.... Maybe too young to understand what I'm trying to talk to you about. But you're also a very clever girl, so I'm willing to bet you do. Tell me – why are you sorry? You can be honest – I promise I won't get angry."

"I guess... mostly sorry she got angry. And I didn't mean to hurt her feelings, either."

George nodded. "Thank you for being truthful. And I believe you that you didn't mean to hurt your mum. But the fact is you did. Do you know why?"

"Because I wouldn't clean the loo when it was my turn?" she replied, sounding resentful.

George looked his daughter in the eye and shook his head slowly. "That's why she was angry, not why she was hurt."

"But it's not fair!" she cried. "Louis says his mum never makes them clean up after themselves. Aunt Fleur just waves her wand and everything's spic and span. Roxy says the same thing! Why do we have to do all the work ourselves? We're the only ones!" she ranted, yelling and stomping her feet and thrashing her arms in an attempt to physically diffuse her anger.

George sighed deeply and waited patiently for the tantrum to pass. He had seen them before and was usually amused by the fact that two little girls, separated by twenty-four years, could throw exactly the same fit. He wondered absentmindedly how many fellow Hogwarts students would be pummeled for their sins by his daughter in the future. After all, Annie had certainly flattened a wide swath of Ottery children in her day.

"Are you finished?" he asked her.

Janie took a deep breath, then nodded.

"First of all, you are not the only ones," George countered. "I happen to know for a fact that Roxy has chores to do at her house. Second, what works in other people's houses doesn't work in ours. We have our own rules, and you are expected to follow them regardless of whether you agree with them or not. One of those rules is that everyone helps out with chores. And third, just because you can do something by magic doesn't mean that's the way it should be done."

"Okay," muttered Janie, sounding unconvinced. Or unimpressed. After all, she'd heard that last bit a million times before, likely.

"Do you really mean that? Or is it what you think I want to hear?"

"A little of both," she confessed.

George chuckled. "All right. I'll accept that," he replied.

They walked a little further through the woods, holding hands once more, as the sun was slowly setting. The trees were brightly lit with the reddish light. A few leaves were just starting to turn autumn colors.

"Do you know why I call you 'Annie II?'" he asked her.

"Because of my temper," she said, smirking ruefully.

George laughed. "That's part of it, true. Your mother has a ferocious temper as well. And the same struggle to control it. But you also have the same sense of humor. The same gift with sarcasm. The same sense of righteous indignation when you see something that's wrong with the world."

"What's 'righteous indignation?'" she asked, carefully pronouncing the words.

"That's when you get angry for a good reason and want to use your anger to help make something right."

Janie nodded, thoughtfully pondering the idea that anger could serve a positive purpose, not just a destructive one. "Like when you and the rest of the Order of the Phoenix fought against Voldemort?"

George slightly winced to hear his daughter utter the name, even after all these years. Old habits, he figured. "I suppose so," he replied. "Many people, not just the Order, realized it was silly to think that there was anything wrong with having a non-magical parent or grandparent. That it was wrong to make anyone live in fear because of it. It wasn't fair, and they got angry about it. What kind of person you are depends on the choices you make, nothing else."

Janie nodded – such was a popular refrain amongst the extended Weasley family. "And because of you, half-blood people like me are safe. Mum says you and all my uncles and aunts and even Granny and Grandpa were very brave fighters and heroes for standing up to fight against Voldemort."

George gave his daughter a half-smile. Of course Annie would have indoctrinated their children with that side of the story, the one that revolved around and glorified him and his family. "Has your mother ever told you about when she was little?"

After thinking for a moment, Janie shook her head.

They had reached the edge of the forest on Weasley land, just where it ran up to the field surrounding the first little house of the village of Ottery St. Catchpole. A rosebush had grown to nearly engulf the side of the fence facing them. The once white house had been painted slate blue with black trim at some point in the last decade.

"Do you see that house there, across the field?" he asked.

Janie nodded.

"That was where your mother grew up," he said, smiling as Janie's eyes grew wide with surprise. "She lived there with her grandmother, who loved her very much. You see, your mum's mum made some bad choices about her life. She made herself sick, in a way – sick in her mind, and her heart, and her soul."

"You mean crazy?" asked his daughter, struggling to understand.

"Not exactly, but sort of. She was too sick to feel love anymore. She ran away from her family. And when your mum was born, her mother ran away from her as well. That's why your mum lived with her Gran – your great-grandmother, Meredith."

"That's really sad, Daddy," his daughter said, her brow furrowed with empathy.

George nodded, pleased his daughter was properly moved by the tale, as was his intent. "When she was growing up, your mum felt different from the other children in the village, who all lived with their parents. They would tease her about it, and it hurt her feelings. It made her angry as well."

Janie nodded, a furious look beginning to darken her face. "That's mean," she muttered. "Not fair."

"You're feeling righteous indignation right now, Janie," he explained. "And you're right. It's mean to tease someone about something they have no control over."

"Oh," she said, beginning to see the direction the lesson was going.

"You know, it's very hard on your mum to live in our world. She feels like everyone else is better than she is because they can do magic, and she can't."

"But that's not true!" exclaimed Janie. "Magic doesn't make you better," she added, repeating the mantra of their household.

"You're right, it's not true. But imagine how you would feel if everyone around you, even your own little babies, could do something special that you couldn't."

Janie grimaced with the unfairness of it, recognizing now exactly how she had hurt her mother's feelings.

But George pressed the point in order to drive the lesson home. "And imagine how it would feel if someone you loved very much told you that you weren't good enough for them because of it; that they wished you could do magic when that's the one thing in the world you never could do?" he added, gently.

"Daddy, I didn't mean it!" she cried, throwing herself at him, clinging to his leg.

"I want you to remember this the next time you wish for magic to get you out of doing something you know you should."

"I promise!" she wailed through her sobs.

"All right, calm down now," he said, bending down on his knee to hug and comfort his distraught daughter. "I know you didn't mean it, and your mother knows it, too. Just try to be a bit more careful of other people's feelings the next time you throw a tantrum," he said.

"It's just too hard to think about anything else when I'm mad like that," she blubbered, wiping her eyes and nose onto her sleeve.

"You're right again. See, I told you how clever you were. Maybe that's a good reason for working a bit harder to control that temper, hmm?"

Janie nodded, sniffling. "I'll try."

They turned together and walked back into the woods. George found himself following his daughter's lead, and after a few minutes, they drew near to the old tree fort. He'd known his children had discovered the fort for themselves years ago, refurbished it even, and played here frequently, ignorant of its provenance. The early autumn sky was aglow with a glorious sunset, lighting up the ancient, majestic willow that had been his childhood haunt. Thousands of memories now floated to the surface of his consciousness, ready to be accessed in an instant. He and Fred – precious and eternally youthful Fred, too glorious and magnificent for this world – and Annie.

Janie clambered up the tree into the fort exactly like her mother had done countless times over the years. George felt warring feelings within him as he watched her play. In one sense it was perfectly right, almost like destiny fulfilled, that his and Annie's daughter would play here just as they had. In another sense, it was almost unbearably painful; how had they come so far from that point themselves? Had it really been so long ago that they were children together, innocent and carefree? Had they ever really been innocent and carefree, or was that just a trick of memory?

He ran his fingers over "Cannons Rule!" carved about halfway up the tree's trunk. He could clearly remember gouging it into the bark to distract himself from the murderous rage he had felt that day while Fred had been explaining to Annie the horror that had happened to Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets. He had said the words of the Unforgivable Curse over and over in his head while he'd worked, picturing Lucius Malfoy crumpling and falling before him. Avada Kedavra... Avada Kedavra. He shuddered to think how impulsive, how ready he had been to commit murder at age fourteen.

His eyes were drawn then to a happier memory – the blast mark his wand had made near the base of the trunk. He kicked it lightly with the toe of his shoe, smiling as he recalled the look on Annie's face when his brand new wand had shot off in her hands. He thought again with mild amusement how that was the first night they'd ever spent together – at age eleven.

His eyes roved around the canopy, reckoning the three of them had spent upwards of fifty nights sleeping on the ground under this lovely, protective shelter. Every one of those nights he'd lain innocently dreaming next to the girl who would become his wife, bear his children. The love of his life had been within arm's reach the whole time....

He traced the outline of the heart he had carved with their initials as Annie had waded in the neighboring stream the summer they were eighteen. They had both just confessed they were in love, using the actual words for the first time.

"I love you."

Those words echoed across all the intervening years like they were nothing but a short hallway. How many millions of times had they said it since?

"Who are they, Daddy?"

"Hmm?" He hadn't caught what his daughter had said – being off somewhere else entirely.

"Who are G.W. and A.J.?" Her legs were dangling from the trap door entrance, and she was leaning forward a bit in order to see him.

"Who do you think they are?" he asked, curious.

"Merrie says they were a Muggle prince and princess, but there's no castle anywhere around here, so I don't think that's right. I think it's you and Mum. G.W. is for George Weasley, and A.J. is mum's name."

"Angharad Jones. You are a clever girl, Janie," he praised her, thinking to himself that Merrie was partly right as well. For all their struggles and hardships, for all the pain and sadness they had endured, Meredith's prediction of a happily ever after had come true. He and Annie's life together had been a sort of fairy tale. He chuckled to himself then, thinking of how the habitual Muggle misuse of words had rubbed off on him. Fairies can't tell tales....

"Was this place here when you were a boy, Daddy?"

"Not until your mum and I built it with your Uncle Fred. We were younger than you are now when we did it."

"So this is your tree house?" she said, her voice full of wonder.

George nodded. "I met your mum right here in these woods when we were seven. We were best friends, the three of us, like Merrie and Roxy and Domi. We used to play together almost every day. When my brother and I left to go to Hogwarts, we were all of us a little sad. We missed each other. We wrote letters to each other, you know, and would see each other in the summers, but it was still very hard to be apart."

"But she's a Muggle, Daddy! Didn't you get in trouble?" she asked, incredulous, as she climbed back down out of the fort to stand on a lower branch.

He smiled. "We kept it a secret. Nobody ever found out until we told them a long time later."

Janie nodded, eyes wide, enthralled by the story she had never heard before.

"Then when we were older, your mum and I realized we loved each other even more than friends, but also still as friends. And I began to understand that there is nothing in the world more important than love – that it's worth any risk, any sacrifice," he explained.

"And that's when you joined the Order of the Phoenix and fought against the Death Eaters and beat them at the Battle of Hogwarts. And you rescued Uncle Harry from the house he grew up in, and that's how you lost your ear. And Mum says how you are her hero and her knight in shining armor and you rescued her loads of times. And I think you are absolutely the bravest man ever," she exclaimed, nearly breathless.

George smirked at his daughter's recitation of the exaggerated, overblown list of his accomplishments. He could hear Annie in every word Janie said. He held out his arms, silently offering to catch her if she jumped to him. His daughter sat herself down on the branch she'd been standing on, then bounced off into his arms. He set her on the ground, then knelt before her so he would be at her eye level for what he wanted to say next.

"You probably don't know this part of the story, but your mum was every bit as brave as I ever was. She knew it would put her in danger – as much if not more than any of us – but she chose to love me anyway. She would have been killed if they'd ever found out about her and me, and she knew it, but she chose to be a part of our family just the same. And then somebody did find out. Did you know that one night, your mum was attacked by a Death Eater?"

"Did you save her?" Janie asked, eager for a new tale of derring-do starring her heroic father.

George shook his head. "I didn't. I tried to, but I didn't get there in time. Your mum saved herself. She took on a bad wizard and won. Like I said, she's a very brave person."

"All by herself?" Janie gasped, astonished at this revelation. "Without magic?"

George nodded. The memory of that night brought back a slightly queasy feeling.

"I've never heard this story before!" she cried.

"Your mum doesn't like to remember it. It was very scary for her, and she was sad about killing someone. It's a difficult thing to live with, no matter how necessary it was at the time," he explained solemnly. That was yet another internal struggle he shared with his wife. Only, for some stupid reason, the deaths on his hands had resulted in medals of honor from the Ministry.

"And after my brother, your Uncle Fred, died, we were all very sad. Sometimes I forget how sad she was about it... how he was her very good friend, and she missed him terribly. Back then, I thought I would be sad forever. But she was strong for me. She helped me remember how to be happy again. She rescued me."

"Why didn't she ever tell me?" she asked with childlike innocence.

"Talking about yourself is just not something most grownups do. But it's important for you to know how amazing your mum is, regardless of whether she can do magic or not. Will you promise me to remember that the next time you get mad at her or wish she was something she isn't? Will you remember that she's a hero, too?"

George and Annie's daughter nodded. "I promise, Daddy," she said.

*

Annie looked up to see George in the doorway. His dark silhouette swam a bit before her damned teary eyes.

"Don't wait for us for dinner. We might be gone awhile," he said softly, then turned to go down the stairs, pulling a confused Janie along behind him.

Annie continued to sit on the edge of her bed, staring out the window at the forest beyond, furious with herself for still being so upset. It was beyond ridiculous that Janie's comment had affected her so deeply. It was inexcusably immature for her to sit up here in her bedroom, pouting about it.

And yet... she could not deny it had cut her to the quick to hear her own daughter utter the words to her face. The careless remark had taken her breath away, leaving her speechless.

The whole thing had started as a typical argument between them, the two hotheads of the house. As usual, Janie resisted doing her chores without the aid of magic. It never mattered to her the rule against underage magic was a Ministry one, not merely a household one. She didn't even have her own wand yet, for crying out loud. But she was always one for pushing boundaries, testing her limits. And as usual, Annie had refused to budge an inch.

"I wish you could do magic!" Janie had shouted in her fit of temper. "Then you'd understand how stupid it is for us to have to do any of this without it!"

Joey had poked her head out of the girls' room she'd been straightening. Merrie had gasped from her spot at the table where she'd been folding a load of laundry. "Janie! Shut up!" she'd cried a moment later.

Janie had stunned herself as well. She'd stood there, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as if she couldn't believe she had said it out loud, either.

"The rules apply to everyone, Janie," Annie had mumbled, still reeling from the blow. "Go to your room, and we will discuss this later when we both are calmer."

Annie had then taken her own advice. Moments after her daughter had stomped up the stairs and marched into her room, evicting Joey and slamming the door behind her, Annie had taken refuge in her own room, unwilling to demonstrably illustrate for her other daughters how hurt she had been by the comment.

And here I sit, making it worse for them by hiding out up here, she chided herself. Why had she let Janie's comment get under her skin so? If only she could stop the angry tears from rolling down....

She shook her head vigorously and stood up. Enough! she cried silently. No more self-pity. Time for you to act like the adult you presumably are, Annie.

She went to the doorway and peeked downstairs. Winky and Doozy were in the kitchen, busy making supper. Merrie and Joey were still sitting at the table, whispering to each other, anxious looks on their faces.

"D'you think Mum's okay? Should we go up there and see?" Joey asked.

Merrie shook her head sadly. "We'd better leave her alone. Janie really hurt her feelings. She'll come out when she's ready."

Annie nearly choked to hear them talk about her so. She hadn't fooled them for an instant. And just as she'd predicted, she'd made things worse by hiding here in her room like a child. She had to prove to the girls that she was fine before this whole stupid thing got blown even further out of proportion.

So why was she crying again?

Damn it! she screamed in her head, angrily pressing her fists against her eyeballs. Fake it if you have to! Show them it doesn't matter! Show them some shred of self-respect! Keep it together until... until.... An idea suddenly lit into her head. Until you can go for a run.

Annie splashed cold water on her face. She quickly changed into her running clothes and trainers, in order to be ready to dash out the door the moment an opportunity presented itself. Now that she had an outlet to look forward to, it was easier to fake a veneer of composure. She took a deep breath, then stepped out from the shadows of her bedroom.

"Can I do anything to help, Winky?" she asked as she trotted down the stairs.

Four pairs of concerned eyes immediately locked themselves on her.

"Oh, no, Miss. Winky is got this in hand, Miss. Be ready in just a few moments, it will."

Annie bit her tongue to distract herself from the irritatingly pitying tone of the elf's voice. "All right, then. Girls, let's set the table for dinner, shall we? It'll just be us tonight, I expect."

Annie's eldest and youngest daughters cleared away their school things and carried them up to their room. By the time they'd returned, Annie had distributed the place settings and Winky had brought the food to the table. As the five of them took their seats, Annie was determined to make light conversation.

"This is delicious, Winky. Isn't it, girls?"

Annie's daughters nodded and murmured their appreciation for the meal. Winky's smile looked a bit forced as she accepted their compliments. Doozy stared silently at her with his enormous eyes.

"I apologize for not helping you with dinner this evening, Winky," Annie said. "I don't know what came over me this afternoon. I suppose I was more tired than I realized. I haven't napped like that in ages," she lied.

Three dubious pairs of eyes looked at her. Annie yawned noisily in an attempt to sell it.

It was no great surprise that the rest of the meal passed quickly and in silence. Annie, the elves, and the girls had spent all day together at the school – there was no news to share between them. Dinner conversation usually revolved around George anyway, as the girls would report to him each night what they had learned, or he would share some funny story with them from work.

Plates were emptied in record time. The girls did the dishes without being asked. Meanwhile, Annie set the rest of the food in the oven to keep warm, waiting for George and Janie to return. Winky bid them goodnight and headed to her room with Doozy in tow.

"Are you going for a run tonight, Mum?" Joey asked.

Annie saw Merrie shoot her sister a warning look.

"Yes, love, I think I might," Annie replied softly.

"All right," she said, then Joey threw her arms around her and hugged her tightly.

Annie bit her tongue until it bled and hugged her daughter gently in return.

"I'll put her to bed tonight, Mum," Merrie said, tugging her sister away from the embrace.

Joey cast an annoyed smirk at her older sister's presumption. "I can do it myself," she grumbled.

Annie watched them walk up the stairs together. Once they were safely in their room, she dashed out the back door. She didn't even bother stretching, just tore out of the garden and into the woods, away from civilization. The last thing she wanted to do was run into anything human.

After ten minutes of sobbing out loud as she ran, she at last succeeded in accomplishing what the hour spent in her room had failed to do: she had finally tapped the tears out, to her relief. Now she could begin the real work. Her mind was sharp and clear as she began to analyze the roiling emotions within.

She was not angry with Janie; that much was certain. Her daughter's thoughtless comment had done nothing at all to lessen the ferocious love Annie felt for every one of her children, the overwhelming pride she took in their every accomplishment, be it magical or mundane. She knew in her heart every one of them was bound for greatness in their own way, and nothing gave her more pleasure than to see them all blossoming before her eyes.

She understood as well that her children faced unique challenges, considering the parents they had been born to. On the one hand, they were Weasleys: the latest generation in an ages-long line of talented, respected wizards, not to mention the direct descendents of several recently decorated war heroes. Great expectations were placed upon them by both their family and the magical world at large, and Annie's children had much to live up to.

On the other hand, unlike many of their peers, they were forced for the most part to grow up on the fringes of that magical world, if not completely outside of it. And they did so because of the limitations of their mother, pure and simple. While Annie could not independently make her way day to day in the magical world, her children knew they belonged to it. For all intents and purposes, they lived every day as if they were in the Muggle one, all the while in full knowledge and view of the one they were destined for.

It wasn't easy for them. But her children handled living with one foot in each world – both the Muggle and the magical ones – with grace and aplomb. Rarely did they ever stumble, forgetting which world they were in at any given moment. Almost never did they complain about the extra burdens upon them, through no fault of their own, that they carried for Annie's sake.

And while they were in no direct danger from the dark, malevolent bigotry that had haunted her and George in the early years of their relationship, it was no secret that pockets of discrimination against children like hers still existed. Already, they'd felt pressure to prove they were just as good as any pureblood wizard child, regardless of how often Annie and George assured them how unnecessary such actions were.

She could never be angry at any of her children. Five more wonderful people with greater potential for success couldn't exist anywhere else. Her heart swelled with love and pride whenever she thought of them. And yet....

She was jealous of them. It was her horrible, shameful secret.

Annie had felt an envious longing for ages now – ever since that moment in the treehouse decades ago when she'd realized her future had already been determined by a fate that had denied her a gift no one else even knew existed. She'd been only seven years old when she'd learned the crushing truth.

"You have to be born with it," George had told her.

As much as she'd adored her magical twin friends, it had been a struggle sometimes to keep the jealousy at bay. To keep it from poisoning their friendship. And for the most part, she reckoned she had been successful. She suspected it was perhaps largely due to the boys themselves. They had always been so careful not to make her feel inferior because of her limitations. Quite the opposite, in fact: George especially had always gone to great lengths to point out her special qualities, the unique advantages she enjoyed by growing up in a world of technology.

Like her children, Annie had grown up in the Muggle world, all the while knowing full well the existence of something different hidden alongside, something secret and special just beyond. But, unlike Annie, her children knew it was only a matter of time before they entered into the magical realm to participate in it fully. Not as an outsider, a passive observer, like herself, but as fully capable wizards and witches.

She knew she was not the first, nor would she be the last person to be in this situation. Wizards had been marrying Muggles and having families for ages, just like she and George had done. Her situation was far from unique. Even now, she was not the only person she knew struggling with the challenges of parenting such exceptional children. Dean Thomas' wife, Sarah, was a lovely, sweet woman who, like Annie herself, lacked any scrap of magical talent. Jeremy Litton had married a witch who had been a year ahead of George at Hogwarts and had a sharp sense of humor about the whole thing. There were a few other men and women, fellow Muggles wed to witches and wizards, with whom she had become acquainted over the years. George had gone out of his way to get together with them, providing Annie opportunities to socialize with people with whom she had such a bizarre thing in common.

And it had helped... a little. But none of the others had known about the secret, magical world as a child like she had – back when youthful naiveté had instantly accepted the reality of magic. Nor had they struggled to understand, like she had, why she had been denied the gifts her friends took for granted. At most, the other Muggle spouses seemed to feel a little resentful toward their significant others at not having been told the secret a little sooner – at an imagined lack of trust – but that was apparently as far as it went. They did not appear to harbor the envious feelings she did.

Added to this, Annie's children were the oldest of the bunch. The rest of the Muggle parents usually asked her for advice, rather than being in a position to offer any. As a result, Annie felt pressure to put on her bravest face whenever she was with them, offering encouragement and reassurance whenever possible.

She could always turn to the stack of books in their library on the subject: A Muggle Mother's Guide to a Magical Childhood; Discipline Without Wands; and What to Expect: the Toddler Years – Magical Milestones from Birth to Age Three. She had dutifully read them all and committed them to memory. She knew how to deal with accidental spell mishaps (wait calmly and patiently for the effect to wear off, and/or call for help), how to cope with levitating infants (tether child firmly, call for help), or the inevitable yet thankfully temporarily pyromaniacal toddler stage (Muggle mothers always kept fire extinguishers near at hand... oh, and remember to call for help when and if the opportunity presents itself – just not the local Muggle fire brigade, dear).

None of them contained a chapter, not even a measly paragraph, about dealing with feelings of jealousy. About how to stop wishing you were a witch. Especially when you had done it for the majority of your life.

Annie agonized for the millionth time over her secret shame. Surely she couldn't be the only person in the world who had ever felt this way! Surely someone else longed to be something she could never be.

She came to the edge of the woods and stopped running, breathing hard from exertion. The small meadow that lay between her and her house was lit up by a bright, almost-full moon. To her right, lazy curls of smoke floated out from one of the many mismatched Burrow chimneys. Directly in front of her, Mole Hill itself quietly gleamed in the chilly silvery light, the rosebush cascading down one side like verdant tresses. She stood for several minutes, taking in the spellbinding beauty of her home.

Who the bloody hell was she to wish for more than this?

Surely such a whingy, pathetic idiot as herself deserved a slap in the face for complaining about her idyllic life! Surely such an ungrateful prat as herself was entitled to a firm boot up the arse for failing to appreciate how wonderful things were! A devoted husband. Five healthy, intelligent, talented children. A supportive, active extended family around her always willing to help. A beautiful home. A fulfilling career. She had to be the stupidest cow to ever come down the pike, she reckoned, to bitch about such a peaceful, blessed existence.

I am not a witch, she scolded herself, and yet my life is more magical than I have any right to expect.

Annie closed her eyes. In her mind, she envisioned surgically removing the slimy, greenish-black rot of jealousy that threatened to spread like a cancer through her soul. She placed it on an imaginary pyre and held her breath as the toxic smoke from its ritual incineration blew away.

She knew it was not a permanent fix. This was not the sort of malady that had a once-and-for-all cure. But as long as she monitored it carefully, she could perhaps prevent it from consuming her or tainting her relationships with her family.

As Annie approached the Hill from the moonlit meadow, she could see George's silhouette against the large window, searching as he waited for her. Of course he would be concerned for her – probably even expected she would have needed a run to clear her head after the events of the evening. Thankfully, the physical exertion had reliably helped to straighten out her thoughts, and she was in a far better frame of mind when she reached the back door.

He was there, just inside, ready to greet her. "Feeling better now?" he asked softly.

Annie nodded. She was grateful that he appreciated how running was her way of dealing with emotional issues. How it was her time to think. He had gotten used to it over the years.

"Ready to call it a night, then?" he asked, handing her a large glass of water.

She took it from him and nodded once more. She gulped the water until the glass was empty, then set it in the sink to be dealt with tomorrow morning.

He took her hand, and they walked upstairs together. Once inside their room, George began to undress for bed.

"I think I'll have a quick shower," Annie said softly, kicking off her trainers and tossing them into the closet.

George smiled slightly, thoughtfully, and nodded.

Annie rapidly washed the sweat from her body, letting the lukewarm water cool her heated muscles. The last of the tumultuous anxiety in her mind drained away with the water. She toweled off her body and hair and took several deep, cleansing breaths.

She debated for a brief moment as she brushed her teeth, then decided not to bother with dressing in pajamas, anticipating George's likely intention. Whenever they had important discussions about their lives, they had developed a strange habit of making love first. Initially, she thought it odd – usually, one hears of make-up sex after an argument, rather than before. Over the years, however, Annie realized it made a sort of sense for them. As if to remind them of what always remained the most important consideration: their love for one another.

Annie shut the light in the bathroom and crept into their bedroom. She found him as she'd predicted – illuminated by moonlight and clad in nothing but the sheet across his lap, George was seated on the bed with his back against the headboard. And while she wasn't in the most romantic of moods at the moment, she knew it was important to him to make her feel loved, and it would help them both feel better. She climbed into his open and waiting arms and turned her face up to receive his kiss.

*

George held Annie in his arms. Now that his mind was clear and heart was calm once more, he found could better deal with the issue at hand. He knew that she was still hurting, though. And would be for a while, regardless of what he said or did. Still, he couldn't just not do anything about it, could he?

"We were so jealous of you, you know," he said softly.

"George, stop it. I'm... I'll be fine. You don't have to do this," Annie replied, sighing patiently. Her body was draped along his, her head resting on his chest as he stroked her curls absently.

He knew she didn't believe him. She never did whenever he tried to explain to her the reasons why he and his brother had been so devoted to her as children. He wasn't sure if it was due to her astonishing stubbornness in refusing to realize how incredibly wonderful she was, or simply the fact that she always thought he was teasing her about nearly everything – the latter an understandable reaction, to be sure, considering the mountain of historical evidence.

"I'm serious!" he protested. "We used to imagine what it would be like to have someone else's undivided attention, like you did with your Gran. To not get shoved around by everyone in the house bigger than we were. To not get stuck watching over everyone smaller. To consistently be addressed by your actual given name instead of someone else's, or a collective Fredandgeorge."

Annie giggled, and he took it as an encouraging sign.

"You could go anywhere you liked without worrying someone might discover what you were. You never had to hide out every bloody day – at least, until I forced you to."

"George..." she said warningly. "That's not precisely true. And anyway, you know I have no regrets about that." She sighed. "Despite all the evidence to the contrary, this is where I belong."

He kissed the top of her head.

"It was heaven, for us – the tree fort. Spending time with you there kept us sane, I reckon. We didn't have to hide anything from you. And you lived with all that amazing stuff in your house, yet you still managed to seem impressed by our tatty old hocus-pocus crap.

"And you knew our bloody names! We would have followed you anywhere for that reason alone!"

"It was heaven for me, too," Annie agreed. She laughed quietly, as if she thought he was having a laugh.

But nothing could be further from the truth. He gave her a little squeeze for emphasis.

"We missed you so much when we were gone at school. D'you know, we used to talk about trying to sneak you into Hogwarts somehow. We had it all planned out: how we'd steal food from the kitchen and uniform robes from the laundry for you. How we'd show you all the cool things we'd found."

Annie lifted her head and smiled at him. She pulled his head closer and kissed him. "What a very typically sweet and stupidly reckless thing for you to think of, love."

He held her in place by the chin. "Your letters kept me going while I was there. The knowledge that you still thought about us... that we were special in your eyes. All those long months away from home."

"Me, too," she whispered. "More than you'll ever know."

George sighed expansively. "Then, by some bloody miracle, I was the lucky git that caught your heart. And how did I thank you for it? Only in the most selfish way I could manage! I dragged you through an absolute shitstorm. Took away every safe and reasonable thing you grew up with and plunged you into a fucking war. Painted a pretty target on your head while I was at it. All because I couldn't bear to be without you."

Annie pressed her finger against his lips to hush him.

He kissed her fingertip, then gently pulled it away, determined for her to hear this. "Without me, you would have gone to university, like Jane. Been brilliant at it, no question. Had your pick of every Muggle bloke you met. You'd be married to some surgeon or solicitor or young lord by now, the world at your feet, if it wasn't for my idiotic selfishness."

Annie shook her head. "All I can say is, thank God for your idiotic selfishness, then. I wouldn't wish that other misery on my worst enemy. I am exactly where I'm supposed to be, George. This is where I want to be."

George clutched her tightly, clinging to his wife and pressing himself against her. "That's a relief. Because I can't live without you, Annie. Don't ever make me prove it."