A Life Well Lived

Chapter 79: A Life Well Lived

Fall 2078

100 years old

Annie opened her eyes. She knew she was awake and alive because of the pain. Sleep offered a temporary, partial respite. Death promised relief. But she wasn't quite ready for that just yet.

It was only a week ago now that she had been strolling on the beach, hand in hand with George. She'd felt the strangest yearning to go back there, which had grown in strength and urgency for several days beforehand. She'd been unable to explain it at the time – unclear as to why it felt so important for her to go. But the feeling had persisted, nagging her, disturbing her peace of mind. She simply had to go. It was imperative for her to see the water, feel the sand, and breathe in the breeze once again. When she had finally given in to the ridiculous compulsion and asked George to take her to the shore where they had spent so many summers – every August for so many decades – he'd looked at her with amusement.

"Of course, love. Sounds delightful," he'd replied. Then he'd taken her hand, cast the Disillusionment Charm about them both, and they had Apparated unseen to the beach. It had been miraculously empty, and without attracting any unwanted attention, they had become visible once more.

Annie had filled her lungs with the scent of it. Her ancient but not entirely decrepit body had soaked up the warming sun through her nearly translucent skin. She'd looked down at her spotty, gnarled hand, cupped tenderly as it was within his equally spotty, yet still warm and strong one. She'd lifted her husband's hand to her lips, as she had done millions of times over their years together, and kissed it.

"Have a seat," he'd offered as he conjured a pair of camp chairs.

She'd accepted his considerate offer with a smile, braced herself against his strength, and eased her body down into the chair. He'd knelt before her, gently removing her shoes and setting her pale, bony feet in the warm, soft sand.

"Just like old times, eh?" he'd asked her with a smile as he eased himself into the chair beside her.

Annie had nodded silently. A lifetime ago, they had been twelve-year-old children here together, frolicking in the sand and sea. Teenagers caught in the throes of hormonal infatuation. New parents with babies of their own, then grandparents, and finally great-grandparents. And now, even those babies were having babies. A century had flown by.

They'd sat together for nearly an hour, watching the sea birds circle above them. Annie had contemplated the seeming infinities about her: the expanse of the ocean, the grains of sand on the beach, the miles of sky above them. The eons of time that had come before her and all that would follow after.

"Chudley looks to have a decent chance again this year," George had mused aloud. "Joey's got some good talent on the team again."

Quidditch! Annie had giggled. She had never been able to escape it. Admittedly, she had grown to enjoy the sport after watching so many of her descendants play countless matches. But it was a grudging sort of enjoyment, almost as if despite her better judgment.

"I think I'd like to walk a bit, George, if you don't mind," she'd said.

"Excellent idea, love," he'd agreed. George had knelt before her once more and rolled up the cuffs of her trousers a few inches so they wouldn't get wet, then rose and lifted her from the seat. The chairs had faded into the ether behind them as they walked away toward the water.

George's arm had been firmly around her, offering support, relieving any fear she might stumble. Annie had shuffled through the soft and forgiving sand, her bare feet reveling in the sensations of the wet sand and the cool, tickling waves as they'd washed over them. They'd walked for a short distance – a few hundred yards at most – before she grew too tired to continue. The ancient couple had then stood alone on the empty shore, embracing each other, gazing out at the sea.

That evening, lying in bed, was when the pain had begun.

Annie now turned her head, and her eyes rested on the recumbent form of her husband. He was awake and silently watching her, like usual. He never left her side now. Loyal and determined, despite everything it cost him. One more heroic thing about him for her to love and admire.

She was grateful to him for allowing her to stay here, in their house, in their bed, rather than a hospital somewhere. She knew it wasn't easy for him to simply let her be. To watch her accept what was coming. Not to fight against it tooth and nail. She could see he desperately wanted to do precisely that.

At least he wasn't bearing it all alone. Their children and grandchildren were hovering about her constantly. Two of the grandchildren – one of Merrie's and one of Janie's – were Healers now and never seemed to leave. She was thankful they were here to take on the more arduous tasks, the more humiliating ones, sparing George the torture of helping her to bathe and use the toilet.

It wouldn't be much longer now. She could see it on everyone's faces. She felt it in her bones, knew it with every fiber of her being. The end was near.

She found it surprising – fascinating, actually – that for the past two days, her soul had begun taking test flights, practicing leaving her body for longer and longer periods of time. Into the Other. That's what it felt like, anyway. The experiences were far too real, too vivid, to be mere dreams.

The first trip her soul had taken, she'd discovered the anteroom of heaven looked exactly like the woods from her childhood. She'd walked laboriously through the thick undergrowth, listening to the birds singing adieu to the day as the sun set. It had been difficult going without George's arm to lean on, but she'd managed. In the distance, she 'd seen a bright, gleaming light ahead, the brilliant shine drawing her forward. As she'd approached a stream, the light dimmed slightly as it coalesced into a bodily form on the near bank.

It was Gran. She was glorious and beautiful, just like she had been before she'd caught pneumonia when Annie was seventeen: healthy, hale, and glowing.

"Is this heaven?" Annie had asked her, weeping with the joy of seeing her again, afraid to try to touch her and discover none of this was real.

Gran had smiled an angelic smile. "Almost," she'd answered.

Another glowing body had joined them then. At first, the glare had been too strong for Annie to discern what, or who, it was. Then Gran had spoken again. Her voice was like a symphony in Annie's ears.

"This is my Llewellyn, Angharad. Your grandfather."

Annie had watched as the bright light transformed itself into a handsome, middle-aged man. He didn't speak but smiled warmly at her, as if excited to meet her at last. There seemed to be no need for words. Anything she could have said would have been either superfluous or woefully insufficient. She'd stood silently in their presence, basking in their smiles, their light and warmth, taking it within her by osmosis.

George took her hand and brought it to his lips. He shifted gingerly in bed, trying hard not to disturb her, afraid his every movement brought her pain. It did, but she didn't mind. His presence beside her was far more soothing than any of the potions her granddaughters had been plying her with.

On the second foray her soul had taken, she had walked again in the woods. But this time, the going had been much easier. Annie had glanced down and, to her surprise, found her body had grown younger. She could feel the confident power in her muscles and bones once more. Coursing through her veins was the strength of sturdy adulthood that had been missing for two decades now. She'd begun to jog along a sunny trail – something she hadn't done in more than forty years.

Just ahead, she'd heard a childish giggle. She'd jogged toward it, eager to meet whoever would be greeting her this time. As she'd approached, she heard happy sounds of a mother and child, laughing and talking with each other. They'd been seated on an old quilt spread out beside a stream in a sunlit spot.

Somehow, without knowing exactly why, she'd known it was Meredith again. But this was a version of her grandmother she had never seen in anything but black and white photographs before now. Her blonde hair was styled in a short, curly bob, and her dress was practical yet smart. She was young and beautiful. Sitting next to her on the blanket had been a lovely little girl, also with blue eyes and blonde hair.

Meredith had called Annie over like a friend, then introduced her to the darling child. "Angharad! Come see! I want you to meet my daughter. This is Carys."

The little girl had crept over to Annie and looked up at her with curiosity. "Are you my Annie?" she'd asked.

Annie had fallen to her knees and nodded mutely. The little girl before her was a sweet and golden child, innocent and angelic. Unable to hold it within any longer, Annie had sobbed then, clutching the baby girl to her breast, rocking her as she wept. The little one had stroked her cheek in a soothing, motherly way and patiently submitted to Annie's emotional embrace.

As she'd cried, Annie had at last mourned the tragedy that had happened to her mother from a point of view other than the victim she had been, finally understood now that all was forgiven between them. She'd opened her heart to her mother, and the damage that had scarred her for a lifetime had healed seamlessly and instantaneously.

"Thank you," Annie had managed to croak, grateful beyond words for the miracle of grace.

"Don't cry, Annie. It doesn't hurt anymore, here," the little girl had assured her.

When Annie's soul had returned from this adventure, she had asked to see her children, ready to say her goodbyes to them. Each of her five now elderly children, for all of them were in their seventies now, had come into the bedroom one at a time. She'd made a point of retelling each of them the story of their birth, in order to illustrate for their benefit that she was sane and lucid. She'd told them how much she would always love them and how proud she had always been of the people they had become, their accomplishments, their families. The differences they had each made in the world. They had nodded and accepted her words, said their loving goodbyes in turn.

It really was impressive: the life she and George had built together. The Wheezes business, the schools – those were the least of their accomplishments. Their five children had lived glorious lives, in Annie's eyes, and were her crowning achievement. Her numerous grandchildren, all middle-aged now and with children and grandchildren of their own, were prosperous and prominent wizards and witches in their own right and, more importantly, good and decent people she was proud to claim as her own. If she had had the opportunity, she would have said a personal goodbye to each of them as well. But she knew better than to even ask: George would never have tolerated such a drain on her energy. He was always encouraging her to rest, to save her strength. As if it mattered.

That night, as a full moon rose over the forest, Annie lay awake and listened to George's breathing. She felt something outside of her tugging at her being, felt something within her lift in eager response. It was time for another expedition.

Annie began to walk silently through the brightly lit woods on this warm night. It felt like soaring, requiring no more effort than breathing or thinking. She was startled by how the trees towered over her, how even the undergrowth seemed tall. She glanced down at her body and was shocked to discover her thin, boyish frame held no sign of maturity, no telltale evidence of childbearing, no swell or curve of womanhood.

She was a little girl once more.

She skipped with the unfettered, energetic joy of it. She thrilled at the marvelous power and stamina that had returned to her. She relished the gift of it: vivacious youth that had been taken for granted at the time now felt magical beyond belief. She spun and danced along the trail, leaping over fallen logs and small streams. She whooped with raucous laughter. She felt like she could fly.

Suddenly, she was no longer alone. Two other girls had caught up to her and were running by her side. They were similarly pretty, both with blue eyes and long, blonde pigtails that bounced in the air as they ran with Annie. Meredith took one of her hands, Carys took the other, and they ran together, perfectly in step.

They ran and played together in the woods for hours. Annie showed her little friends the fairies and imps, the warrens and salamanders she had discovered as a child in the woods. They played in the streams and puddles, barefoot and dirty. They laughed and giggled and climbed trees together in the moonlight.

Annie brought her friends to the treehouse in the willow tree. "Come and see!" Annie called out.

The little girls came to stand at her side and held her hands. "Who is that?" Carys asked, pointing into the woods.

Annie turned to see a red-haired young man walking toward them. He was tall and handsome, grinning at her with brown eyes glinting above freckled, rosy cheeks. He was carrying a little red-headed toddler boy in his arms, who was laughing with him.

"Fred? Ben?"

The toddler squealed and clapped in response to his name.

"It's time now, Annie. Time to say goodbye and come with me," the handsome man said gently.

She knew he wasn't talking about saying goodbye to him, or her new little friends. He meant the Real world, which had become Other to her now.

Annie awoke for the last time on earth. George was by her side, as he had been the entire time. She knew she was awake and alive because of the pain, which now made it difficult to catch a full breath. Sleep offered a temporary, partial respite. Death promised relief. And she was ready.

"George?" she said softly.

"Yes," he answered. "I'm here, love."

"It's time," she said, repeating Fred's words.

"Don't," he pleaded, his face crumpling.

She could see he was struggling with whether or not to beg her to stay. He understood she was in pain and felt she deserved release from it, but could not bear to let death deliver her.

"I understand. It will be all right. Gran told me. And mother."

Tears began to course down his cheeks as he shook his head, determined to deny it.

Her heart hurt worse than her belly. It was cruel of her to do this to him. But it was out of her hands, now. Because they had come here this time – all of them – followed her right here into her bedroom, rather than calling her out into the woods. Fred, Carys, Gran, Jane, Ben: she could see them, hear them whispering encouraging words to her.

"He's here now," she whispered. "Come to collect me." She smiled at George, tried to ease his pain by showing him she was not afraid.

"Tell him to go away," he begged. "It's not his turn yet."

Was she surprised he'd understood what she had meant? Could George see him as well? The light now in the room was making her squint. It was getting crowded.

She put her hand to his tear-streaked cheek. "We promise not to have any fun until you get there, too," she offered.

George laughed in spite of himself. "That doesn't sound like the Fred I grew up with," he said.

Annie giggled. "Yes, well, he's arguing with me right now, actually. Says I have no right to make promises on his behalf he has no intention of keeping."

"That's a bit more believable," George agreed.

They lay together for another minute.

"Let me go, George," she said.

"Never."

George gingerly picked Annie up – for she weighed next to nothing now – and gathered her into his lap. She was frail and old, her golden skin wrinkled and speckled, her curly hair a snowy, gleaming white. She gazed up at him with her still sparkling violet eyes, then she rested her head against his chest, her arms draped around his shoulders.

He silently held her in his arms.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you, too," he answered, kissing her forehead.

George felt the instant her heart stopped beating. An inhuman howl ripped through Mole Hill, startling the rest of the family gathered downstairs.

30 August, 2078 – The Daily Prophet

Angharad "Annie" Weasley, nee Jones, wife of prominent wizard, businessman and philanthropist George D. Weasley, died yesterday at her home after a short illness. Mrs. Weasley, a Muggle, was born 29 February, 1978 in London and was raised in Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, by her grandmother, the late Mrs. Meredith Griffin Jones.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were married in secret during the unrest of the Second War, in direct violation of the laws of that troubled time. Mrs. Weasley was 100 years old at the time of her passing and had been wed to Mr. Weasley for nearly eighty-one years.

In 2000, Mrs. Weasley founded a daycare and infant school for magical children at her home, which continues in operation to this day. It currently serves as a model for several similar programs across Britain.

Mrs. Weasley is survived by her husband, Mr. George D. Weasley; her five children and their spouses: twin sons Professor Arthur L. Weasley and Mr. Fred R. Weasley, both renowned for their independent achievements in magical theoretical research; Mrs. Molly (Merrie) Murphy, director of the Molly Prewitt Weasley Magical Infant Schools in Devon, London, Hogsmeade and Godric's Hollow; Mrs. Harriet Weasley-Baldwin, distinguished member of the Wizengamot, and Mrs. Georgeanna Wood, former Seeker and current manager of the Chudley Cannons and six-time captain of the All-England team; her fifteen grandchildren, thirty-seven great-grandchildren, and six great-great-grandchildren.

A private family service is planned for two days hence. In lieu of flowers, the Weasley family has asked that memorial donations be made to any charity of choice.

George gazed into the mirror, debating whether or not to bother with shaving. Who was this bald, one-eared old codger staring back at him, anyway? When had he become so ancient? It had crept up on him, this curse of old age.

He briefly considered his father, who had died just a couple years ago at the preposterous age of 127 years old. How he had become a hollow shell of a man during that last decade of his life after George's mother had died. Hell on earth, George had thought at the time. Ten bloody years alone.

The thought of it chilled him to the bone. Because now he knew it for certain: he was in that very same hell. For his Annie was gone.

It had been brutal, those last few days of her life, watching her endure the pain. It was a sort of blessing when she'd finally escaped it. Their daughter, Merrie, had explained to him that to reach a hundred years of age was unusual, extraordinary even, for a Muggle. As if that had been any comfort.

She was gone, and nothing would ever be the same.

That first week after he'd buried her under their willow tree still remained mostly a blur for him. He remembered railing at her for leaving him behind to drown in this ocean of agony. How could she have done this to him? She knew he wasn't strong enough. He couldn't take it. He should have been the one to go first.

Then he took the idea to its logical conclusion and immediately regretted ever having thought it. After eighty years of marriage, there was no doubt left how they felt about one another. And to even consider hurting his precious Annie in the way he was hurting now – well, it was truly unbearable. He thanked God once again for sparing her that.

Now, if only she could have been spared the physical pain at the end. He really should have done something – he berated himself for failing her that, even though she'd never asked him to end it. But he simply hadn't had the courage to offer. It would have been too much to ask of him – maybe she'd known that, too. He hoped she could forgive him that weakness.

By the end of that week after the funeral (Talk about hell on earth!), he had made his decision. He did not share it with anyone else; that would have been utterly foolish. No sense in getting his children and grandchildren and the rest of them all riled up, waste time arguing about it. But it was the only reasonable solution, even if they wouldn't have agreed with him.

George had spent the last two and a half weeks in a never-ending round of meetings, signing reams of legal documents, quietly dispersing the wealth he and Annie had amassed over their near-century together. It was no small sum. He had been taken slightly by surprise with the final tally of it, actually. And it had taken a bit of creative accounting on his part, some smoke and mirrors to disguise the fact that he was keeping nothing in reserve to see him through the rest of his old age.

There would be no point to it. He was as old as he was ever going to get.

Together, he and his wife had already broached the subject of money years ago with their children, who were all perfectly well-off and had no need of any inheritance bullshit. George and Annie both had abhorred the idea of creating a family legacy of spoiled heirs, insisting instead on raising self-sufficient members of society. They had always lived modestly and taught their children to do the same. Their one extravagance had been travel: they had made a point of taking their children all over the globe to discover everything the world had to offer. And besides, there were plenty of worthy causes and needy folks who deserved the money far more. He and Annie had spent most of their adult lives supporting, even founding a few of the many charities and foundations that had now reaped their final benefits from him.

He stood alone in the large, open living room of the house he had built with his own hands – for his Annie and their newborn twins – that summer and fall following the final battle of the war. Astoundingly, the twins were going to be eighty years old themselves next month. George listened with his eyes closed, heard nothing but silence in this house that had once been full of children's voices. His eyesight and hearing and general health were still quite keen, blast it. If he didn't take matters into his own hands, he might even be cursed with decades of this morbid remembering. Or even worse: forgetting it all, bit by bit, like his mother had done.

Heaven forbid.

He walked slowly upstairs and shuffled into the bedroom he had shared with his beloved. Sitting on the edge of their bed, he gazed at the crowded army of framed photos on his bedside table. His children. And his Annie.

Here she was, young and beautiful, standing on the porch of the cabin on Tenerife, leaning against the corner of the wall, smiling shyly at the camera, at him. He vividly remembered taking that snap, could even now smell the ocean. Remembered the days and nights darling Molly Meredith had been conceived. Merrie – the baby who laughed at birth and never stopped. Annie's golden skin glowed in the photo, barely covered by the bikini and sarong that fluttered open in the breeze. Even now, his body stirred faintly with the sight of her.

Ugh. It was depressingly weak – an insult to the far more powerful response he used to be able to summon, the desire he'd had for her and she'd had for him. Their relationship had not been sexual for quite a while now, as was to be expected for a couple their age, but even so, the memory of their earlier days – the majority of their marriage, in fact – brought a sly, smug smile to his wrinkled face.

He placed the earbuds into his ears and turned on the ancient music device. He laid down on the bed, listening to music that was even older than the player. The music he and Annie had lived and loved to. The memories came unbidden now, quick flashes of moments, not unlike photographs themselves. It was just like the cliché: the significant parts of his life relived during the final moments.

He thought of those nights in the Burrow during the war, so very long ago now, when the twins were conceived. How he and Annie had clung to each other with the ridiculous optimism and idealism of new love. How it had never left them.

And the business trip to Kauai, where spunky, firebrand Harriet Jane was created. Yes, if Merrie had inherited Annie's sunny disposition, Janie had gotten her volcanic temper and wicked sense of humor. And Tahiti – Georgeanna Muriel had come after that magical week in paradise. Acrobatic, tiny yet preposterously strong Joey, who was physically her mother's twin except for the red hair and brown eyes. Perhaps the fact that all their daughters had been conceived in all those exotic locations were the reason his girls were so beautiful?

No – that was ludicrous.... It was all due to Annie, of course.

Now came to mind the births of his children: the nervous excitement of the unknown the night the Arthur and Fred were born, the delightful anticipation when Merrie and Janie each came into the world. The nerve-wracking anxiety when Joey was delivered: such a tiny little thing who'd had such a struggle to get here. He remembered with a wince the toll both the pregnancy and the birth had taken on Annie, and how devastated she had been when the doctors told her she should have no more.

But she got over it, pillar of strength that she was. Nothing could ever break her. It was always like that, time and again. She would bend just as much as she had to, only to rebound stronger to meet the next challenge.

Their family had been perfect just as it was, even if they hadn't realized it at the time. He saw now one of the myriad summer afternoons they'd spent outside in the garden, five half-naked children running around in the lawn sprinkler. He'd pulled Annie up out of her seat and waltzed her, giggling, through the spray. He could still feel her body in his arms, see the sparkling smile in her eyes.

He recalled the Hogwarts Quidditch matches they had watched as their daughters had darted expertly around the pitch, commanding everyone's attention and cheers. Despite her tentative beginnings, baby Joey had been the best, the fastest, the strongest of them all. Not unlike his Annie, he mused.

Trips to the zoo. Family vacations at the beach. The innumerable holidays, birthdays, and celebrations at Mole Hill. And later, when the children were grown, the precious time alone with Annie, just the two of them. They had traveled the globe on business and pleasure trips, visiting their Fred in exotic locations, cheering at Joey's international matches. The last fifty years of their marriage, just the two of them, had been everything he had hoped for during the first thirty. And the first thirty had been – well – nothing short of magical. They had indeed lived a fairy tale, just as old Meredith had predicted.

A series of visions swam before him: of tiny, seven-year-old Annie in the oak tree that very first day they had met, her violet eyes full of curiosity. Annie on a surfboard. Annie running through the fields and trees. Annie in the fort. Annie holding their first grandchildren: Merrie's little twin boys. Young or old, always beautiful.

Such a long life together. So many wonderful memories. It was selfish of him to want more.

And yet he did. With all his being, he wanted more time with Annie.

George closed his eyes. He would be the first of his siblings to go... except for Fred, of course. He doubted seriously if he could have survived it – the death of his twin brother – if he hadn't had Annie then. No question about it, in his mind: her love had rescued him from that dark place Fred's loss had left him in. Would he have ever gotten over the pain of it, moved on and had a life without Fred, if not for Annie? It was impossible to know for sure, but he didn't think the odds were good.

He took a deep breath – one for the road, so to speak. He had left a note downstairs in the kitchen, explaining to his granddaughter, who always took it upon herself to check in on him since Annie's death, that none of this was anyone's fault in any way. How it was his choice. That he was tired. He was ready. He wanted to go. He apologized that she would be the one who had to deal with it first.

George turned up the volume of the music and willed his heart to stop beating. It wasn't all that hard, after all. His soul had already left four weeks ago.

1 October, 2078 – The Daily Prophet

George Darius Weasley, Order of Merlin, Second Class, prominent inventor, businessman and philanthropist, died yesterday in his home. Mr. Weasley was born 1 April, 1978 to Mr. and Mrs. Arthur S. Weasley and raised near Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon.

Mr. Weasley attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry from 1989 to 1996. He and his twin brother, Fred C. Weasley, left Hogwarts in spectacular fashion before completing their studies in protest of the firing of the great Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore, then Headmaster of the school. The story is now legendary and well known to all those who have passed through the halls of Hogwarts, thanks in large part to the resident poltergeist, Peeves, who memorializes the occasion each April first. It was at this time that the Misters Weasley established Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, currently one of the most successful enterprises in Britain with locations in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, now owned and operated by his grandsons, Mr. Ruari and Mr. Liam Murphy.

Mr. Weasey married his late wife, Angharad Jones (a Muggle), in secret during the unrest of the Second War, in direct violation of the laws of that troubled time. He was a member of the illustrious Order of the Phoenix, was injured by a curse during the Battle over Little Whinging, and a decorated veteran of the Battle of Hogwarts. It was during this campaign that his twin brother, Fred, died heroically fighting against the forces of Voldemort.

Mr. Weasley is credited with several important inventions and innovations in magic and wizardry, including clothing items bewitched with various patented Shield Charms which were immensely popular during the War, as well as automated production processes that revolutionized the magical manufacturing business.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley both were renowned for their idealism and dedication to many charitable and philanthropic causes. Their primary goal was to promote not only tolerance of, but further equality for Muggles, Muggle-born wizards, and non-wizard magicalkind. They most recently endowed the Arthur S. Weasley Chair for Muggle Studies at Hogwarts upon Mr. Weasley's father's death in 2075. Mr. George Weasley, along with his longtime friend, Mr. Lee Jordan, secretly co-hosted the long-running and immensely popular radio program River and Wrackspurt, which contributed greatly to the current popularity of non-magical musical groups with the youth of today. He also founded the Argus Filch Center for the Study of Squibs and Remedial Magic and was a major contributor to the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare as well as the BellaLuna Project, which provides free Wolfsbane Potion and other rehabilitation services to those afflicted with lycanthropy.

Mr. Weasley was 100 years old at the time of his passing and had been wed to Mrs. Weasley for nearly eighty-one years.

He is preceded in death by his father, Mr. Arthur S. Weasley; his mother, Molly (Prewitt) Weasley; his aforementioned twin brother, Fred; and his wife, Annie, who died only thirty-two days ago.

Mr. Weasley's surviving siblings read like a Who's Who of wizarding Britain. His oldest brother, Mr. William A. Weasley, is currently a high-ranking executive for Gringotts Bank; Mr. Charles S. Weasley, a well-known and well-respected dragon researcher; Mr. Percival I. Weasley, Deputy Director of International Magical Law for the Ministry of Magic; Mr. Ronald B. Weasley, distinguished Auror for the Ministry of Magic; and Ginevra Potter, wife of Harry Potter, former Seeker for the Holyhead Harpies and currently senior Quidditch editor for this publication.

Mr. Weasley is also survived by his five children and their spouses: Professor Arthur L. Weasley and Mr. Fred R. Weasley, both renowned for their achievements in magical theoretical research; Mrs. Molly (Merrie) Murphy, director of the Molly Prewitt Weasley Magical Infant Schools in Devon, London, Hogsmeade and Godric's Hollow; Mrs. Harriet Weasley-Baldwin, distinguished member of the Wizengamot; and Mrs. Georgeanna Wood, former star flyer and current manager of the Chudley Cannons and six-time captain of the All-England team; his fifteen grandchildren, thirty-seven great-grandchildren, and eight great-great-grandchildren. The further achievements of Mr. Weasley's ten nieces and nephews are too extensive to recount in this article.

A memorial service is planned for 6 October, 2078, and will be held in Devonshire at the family home.

Author's Note: Firstly, props to Rose of the West who inspired the change in this chapter title with a comment of hers about a year ago – thanks!

Next, I found these songs eerily appropriate as well as deeply inspirational. So just in case you need a good cry, give them a listen.

For Annie's portion: Home by Foo Fighters.

For George's portion: Beloved Wife by Natalie Merchant.

The final installment of this interminable story – an epilogue – will post tomorrow.