October 29. 1998

Author's note: I solemnly swear I am not intentionally being a pretentious prat by citing my own previous work here and in the coming chapters. I'm merely trying to set Charlie's story within a framework of my other story (like I did with canon up to this point) for the convenience of those who've read it. This is technically a spin-off, remember.

Chapter 17

October 29, 1998

* * *

"For the first time in ages – so long ago no one could actually remember when it happened last – the entire Weasley family would be assembled under the roof of the Burrow to celebrate Molly's birthday. Everyone, that is, except for the one they had lost, who would never again join them for any reason." – George & Annie: An Unofficial Biography, Chapter 42

* * *

Charlie arrived in London Central Portkey Authority Station at midday on the day before his mother's birthday. The façade of the building – at least, ever since the Secrecy Statute came into force in 1692 – was enchanted to look like a rundown, abandoned factory of sorts. Every half-century or so, its appearance would be surreptitiously tweaked so as to resemble whatever design aesthetic was regarded as nondescriptly tasteless by the non-magical neighbors. Not that it was terribly necessary – the Muggle-Repelling Charms associated with the building were so strong that no one who worked at the LCPA could remember the last time a Muggle pedestrian had wandered by. Behind the dilapidated mask, however, was hidden one of Christopher Wren's final – and some argued most masterful – Baroque works. Gracefully soaring arches swept alongside a vaulted central dome featuring a rather boisterous fresco depiction of a particularly pitched battle between Goblin rebels and heroic (perhaps exaggeratedly so) wizards in The Defense of Hogsmeade, 1612.

As other travelers were met by their British escorts, many clad in Ministry robes, on their way to points beyond, Charlie strode purposefully along the highly polished black-and-white checkerboard marble tiles on the floor toward the Apparition Departure Lounge, his bag slung over his shoulder, passing in and out of dramatically illuminated patches of sunlit floor. Before he'd taken the job in Romania, he'd never set foot inside the LCPA. But ever since, like virtually every other international visitor to Wizarding Britain, he'd passed through it on all but one of his ventures back to England – the last one being something of an emergency visit and serving as the exception to the rule. But Charlie mentally shook his head to clear away any further thoughts about that depressing memory, determined not to arrive at the Burrow with any pre-assumed gloominess.

This time, unlike the previous ones, he planned to stay only two nights, promptly returning to Romania on Halloween. His boss, Ghenadie, was being more than accommodating by allowing him this extra time away in the first place, considering he'd unexpectedly begged off a full week after the battle. He'd stayed long enough then to convince himself there wasn't a damn thing more he could do to help the situation any further. Charging Ron and Percy to keep a proper eye on the situation and notify him or Bill immediately should anything take a turn for the worse, he left his superficially-functional-yet-emotional-wreck of a family in the hands of time or whatever Supreme Being might give a shit.

But here he was back again, ostensibly to celebrate his mother's forty-eighth birthday on the morrow. This particular anniversary held no special significance other than the fact that his family seemed to be really counting on his participation – as well as at Christmas to come (Percy'd dropped that lovely little Dungbomb of a mandatory invitation in his most recent letter, the sanctimonious twit). He supposed these forced attempts at family celebrations were one of those "stages of grief" he'd overheard Ginny's friend, Hermione, yammering about last time he was home.

The LCPA Departure Lounge was a long, slender room whose walls were lined with what some Muggles might mistake for roofless confessionals, or possibly very ornate voting booths. At the furthest end of the hall, a large and, in Charlie's opinion, singularly ugly bust of Mumpsimus Pettifogger (some old arsehole of a Minister who'd managed to avoid a conviction of embezzlement by the skin of his teeth, if memory served) sneered condescendingly at them from atop his pedestal. The statue seemed out of place in such an otherwise beautiful building. Charlie entered an empty Apparition stall, adjusted the balance of his pack, fixed the back garden of the Burrow in his mind, and vanished.

The late October day in Devon was chilly and damp when he arrived, albeit a good bit warmer than the Romanian mountaintop he'd left behind. Unwilling to get any wetter than absolutely necessary, Charlie jogged the few yards separating him from the rear kitchen door. He stomped and scraped his boots on the welcome mat for a moment, then pushed on through the door, calling out a hello.

But instead of his mother's welcome of a firm hug and peck on the cheek, a garbled shriek startled him. He jerked to find a wide-eyed, enormously pregnant woman standing alone in the kitchen, brandishing a knife in his direction. Taking an instant to glance around and confirm he was indeed in his childhood home – it wouldn't be the first time he'd bollixed up an Apparition destination – he reflexively palmed his wand, going over his options. Disarm, Obliviate, then Apparate the hell out of here.

Less than a moment later, the stranger dropped the knife to her side and clutched at her heart. "Oh, God, sorry!" she stammered, breathing a little quickly in her fright. "You must be Charlie."

Understanding dawned on him. "And you're Annie?" he said, sheathing his wand up his sleeve once more. He marveled at the difference in George's wife since he'd last glimpsed her nearly six months ago: she looked miles more cheery, thank Merlin – though perhaps with just a hint of a lingering sadness haunting her otherwise remarkable violet eyes – and her body was swollen like an Engorgio gone amok. A diminutive person to begin with, Charlie wondered how she managed to remain upright and not pitch forward.

She noticed him staring and smirked. "I'm not usually this fat."

Charlie felt a blush creep up his neck into his cheeks, and he lifted his eyes from her unnaturally distended belly to meet her gaze. "And I'm not usually this rude. Sorry, you're just... so..." He cringed then, baffled as to why his foot was so intent on shoving itself into his mouth at the moment.

"Whale-ish? Yeah, I've noticed," she giggled – and what a warm, reassuring sound it was. "I keep telling George I'm now the second woman he's made miserable via pregnancy. First, your mum had the dubious distinction of gestating the git, and now me, stuffed to bursting with his progeny. How your poor mother went through this with three young boys on the loose already, then went on to have two more children, I'll never know."

Charlie chuckled along with her. "Are you saying she's a bit touched, our Mum?" he asked, feigning indignation.

"My working theory is she's masochistic," Annie whispered conspiratorially. "A real glutton for punishment."

"How d'you figure?" Charlie asked, smiling. "In my experience, Mum was usually the one doling out the punishment rather than being on the receiving end."

Annie snorted. "And living at the mercy of you lot – a great platoon of willfully uncivilized ginger boys – wasn't punishment enough? Your mother has a get-into-heaven-free card, in my opinion."

Charlie laughed out loud, deciding the rest of the family was right: Annie was a pisser. "Saint Molly of Devon, patron of nagging and hovering. Sounds about right."

"Or maybe she's working through some serious karma from a past life," Annie offered, grimacing theatrically. "Like she wore the pelts of baby animals for clothing or invented pantyhose or something."

"Me and my siblings are divine retribution for sins against mankind?" Charlie quipped, warming to the banter. "Interesting theory and yet profoundly insulting at the same time. Well done, you."

Just then, Annie winced and gasped, clutching her belly. "Oof – this one's a ninja already."

"Sorry I gave you a fright," he said, suddenly realizing such a thing was probably not beneficial to her condition. He lobbed his pack toward the staircase, whereupon he sent it zooming upward toward his usual room, and gave her the once-over, checking for any signs of real distress.

Annie's eyes widened slightly at the sight, then she turned around to resume her sandwich assembly he'd interrupted. "No apology necessary. This is your home – I'm the stranger here," she insisted.

Charlie took a seat at the table, a little confused by her reaction. Fred had told him she was a Muggle, but surely she'd seen loads of magic since living in the Burrow these past months? I mean, her own husband's a wizard! It can't be that rare an occurrence, can it?

Right on cue – by which Charlie meant several minutes too late – Ron came thundering down the stairs, calling out, "Everything all right, Annie? Did I hear you scream just now?"

"Just fine, Ron," she hollered back, a fond smile on her lips. "Don't bother on my account!"

Striding into the kitchen anyway on alarmingly long legs, Ron gushed with relief. "Ah, good. Didn't fancy having my stuffing rearranged by everyone if anything happened on my watch."

Annie rolled her eyes at the implication she needed minding. Or maybe it was the insinuation that Ron was the man for the job that miffed her.

"Well, seeing as I'm all the way down here, might as well top off the old tank," Ron hinted, patting his stomach and eyeing the sandwich makings with delight.

"Your watch, eh?" Charlie scolded him, causing Ron to spin around in astonishment. "Which you were sleeping through, no doubt."

"Charlie!" he exclaimed in happy surprise, greeting him warmly with a sideways hug and enthusiastic clap on the back. Now several inches taller than his older brother, he looked down into Charlie's face wearing an irritatingly smug smile.

"Have a seat, you two. These are just about finished."

Annie waddled over to the cupboard and stretched up on her toes to reach some plates. Just as Charlie was about to offer to fetch them for her, a stack of three began levitating off the shelf, then floated down to the counter next to the sandwiches. Annie watched the moving plates with a carefully blank expression, her arms folded across her chest. Then, glancing over her shoulder in the general direction of the table, she muttered, "Thanks."

Interesting, Charlie mused. She didn't ask for help, and when Ron did it anyway, it irked her. He wondered if it was a matter of pride or jealousy on her part and continued to ponder this aspect of wizard-Muggle relations while the three of them fell to eating the sandwiches. He and Ron sat at the table, but Annie stood leaning against the counter, insisting sitting was more uncomfortable on her back.

"Is there any tea?" Ron asked. Or, at least, this is what Charlie assumed he'd said around a mouthful of food. The utterance admittedly sounded more like, "Fiss-air n-nee dee?" and was accompanied by a rain of crumbs.

Annie's mouth wore a little quirk of resignation. "There will be once you hocus on the cooker for me."

Charlie kicked his monumentally insensitive little brother under the table. "Make it yourself, you lazy little shit!" he chided him, scandalized. Before that moment, he hadn't quite realized how helpless Annie might feel in the house, unable to operate any of the magical appliances. Merlin, how does she stand it? Forced to rely on others to do absolutely everything...

To his credit, Ron slunk shamefacedly off the bench. "Sorry, Annie. Didn't mean to imply you ought to make it for us. Thought maybe Mum left a cold pot around somewhere."

But Annie only chuckled, waving Ron off and bestowing the same patient smile upon him their mother often did. "No, really, I'll do it." Then, to Charlie, she said, "You must not've ever sampled the muck Ron attempts to pass off as tea."

Ron laughed jovially. "I can at least sort out the hot water," he said as he filled the kettle from the tap, then turned on the stove. Once the kettle was ensconced upon the heat, Ron began assembling another sandwich for himself. "Oh, Charlie," he said over his shoulder, "remind me to give you your medal before you leave. It's up in my room."

"Never mind," Charlie grumbled. If I'd wanted the damn Order of Merlin, I'd've come back for the ceremony. What the hell use did he have for a bloody medal that would only serve to remind him of the worst day of his life? "You keep it."

Ron snorted, sharing a similar disdain for such pomp. "Got one of my own, thanks," he said. "Still, there's one good thing about it: Percy's sore that he's the only one in the family now without one," he added with a malicious snicker.

Charlie couldn't help but join him, knowing Percy had his Head Boy and prefect badges framed and hanging on his office wall at work. It was a sublime bit of poetic justice that Little Mister Rule Minder had no Order of Merlin (any class) to display in pride of place next to them, while his habitually misbehaving brothers and baby sister each had one shut up tight in a drawer, most likely buried beneath underpants and holey socks.

"I suppose I should probably head over to the Hill, then," Ron sighed, putting the finishing touches on his second – or was that third? – sandwich. "The Taskmaster'll have my hide for being this late as it is."

Annie giggled. "Hang on – let me make you some sandwiches to take to him," she offered.

Ron stood by thoughtfully, watching her work. A moment later, he said, "How about I send him back here to you instead? The two of you can enjoy a romantic lunch alone for once." He grinned rather proudly, thinking he'd cleverly disguised switching chaperones as sensitivity.

"I can handle an afternoon on my own, Ron," Annie sighed, seeing right through it. "And anyway, he'll want to stay there, considering he's been waiting two days for those doors to arrive." After a meaningful pause, she added very softly, "You know how he gets."

"I'll come with you, Ron," Charlie offered. As friendly as she seemed, Charlie didn't fancy spending the afternoon with what amounted to a pregnant stranger. And she clearly preferred to be alone.

After taking their leave of Annie, Charlie and Ron set off walking across the meadow toward the subject most often mentioned lately in owls from home. In the middle distance ahead of them, the new house George had spent the past four months constructing rose up out of a low hill. A post-modern assemblage of concrete and glass window walls, it did bring to mind the idea of a mole tunneling out of the ground, just like Ginny'd described in her letter – she'd been very pleased they'd chosen the name she'd suggested for it: Mole Hill. It didn't look like any wizard's residence he'd ever seen, but perhaps that was down to the fact he'd not seen one built in this century. Or constructed to accommodate a Muggle.

Charlie speculated on what had inspired George to build a house barely a stone's throw from the Burrow. While he could certainly understand the motivation to move out of his parents' house – he'd done the same thing as soon as he was able – why on earth had George chosen to remain so close at hand? Was it a sense of duty to their parents? Had the loss of his twin damaged his confidence? War wounds sapped his ambition? Was it instead a sadistic craving to stay in close contact with what had to be terribly painful recollections? Could his Muggle wife be behind the decision somehow?

"What did she mean, 'You know how he gets?'" Charlie asked.

Ron set his jaw. "George's better days are those spent keeping busy."

This, he could understand. Poor fellow. "Where's Mum?"

"Visiting Andromeda Tonks, checking in on baby Teddy, I suppose."

The reminder of Tonks' death brought a fresh wave of sadness, and he wondered how her little baby was doing. It was never far from the surface, back here: all the loss and grief. Fred, Tonks, Remus: so many neighbors and friends and family now gone. At least in Romania, he didn't have to face it every day – the worst anyone there had brought back from the battle were a few scars. But Charlie was resigned to dive into it now, letting his family vent their feelings if necessary.

"How are you faring, mate?" he asked, resting his hand lightly on the young man's shoulders, steeling himself to commiserate.

But Ron leaped at the opportunity to switch topics. "Excellent! Really bang-on excellent, man. Remember how I wrote you about me and Harry's plans to become Aurors? Well, Kingsley's agreed to waive the NEWT requirements for us. Which means we'll get to start the training next summer!"

"Isn't there still a separate entrance evaluation?" Charlie asked.

"Just a formality, according to Kingsley," Ron said, waving off his concern. "But Hermione's insisting we study for it properly. Merlin, it's just like fifth year all over again with her."

Charlie grinned with wicked glee. "Ah, yes, about that... Ginny tells me things between you and Miss Granger have gotten quite cozy."

To his delight, Ron proceeded to blush furiously. "Ginny ought to keep her mouth shut if she knows what's good for her. People in glass houses and all that."

"That doesn't sound like a denial, bro. In fact, it sounds suspiciously like a confirmation," Charlie needled him.

Ron smiled despite himself. "Yeah, well... Hermione's really... something, isn't she?"

Poor fumbling, tongue-tied Ron, Charlie thought with no small amount of sympathy. His appellation of "something" given to the young woman he'd heard others refer to as "the brightest witch of her age" left a bit to be desired. Or maybe it's more accurate to award my pity to Hermione for putting up with him. He clucked his tongue scoldingly. "So this is what's come of all that gallivanting about hither and yon last year... with no supervision whatsoever...?"

"It wasn't like that!" Ron protested surprisingly vociferously. "We thought we'd be killed at any moment!" he spluttered.

"Some people would've recognized that as a perfectly opportune moment to make a move, git," Charlie chided him. "Capitalized on the tension, you know. 'This could be our last moment together, my darling...'"

"Yeah, well, I'm not like that," Ron snapped.

"Not observant, you mean? Or completely lacking in the balls to risk it?"

"I wouldn't take advantage of a situation like that!" Ron blustered, his face tomato-red with fury. "And the next arsehole that implies it–"

"I know you wouldn't," Charlie cried, chuckling to convey he was backing down. "You're a very decent fellow, Ron. I'm only winding you up. Relax."

After the proper amount of bristling indignation, a slightly guilty smile broke over Ron's expression. "I'm not saying I didn't wish it sometimes," he confessed softly. "That something would've happened between me and her then. Might've made all that stress a little easier to bear."

"More likely it would've made the situation ten times more stressful," Charlie argued. "You were much cleverer to wait. Both of you. Now you know whatever it is you've got between you isn't borne out of desperation."

Ron's agreeing smile was more than a tad rueful. "Funny how all that time, I was alone with my best mate and the girl I wanted more than anything for every hour of the day and night, but I don't think I ever felt more lonely and depressed." He looked up from the ground and out in the distance, squinting slightly in the drizzle. "It was really bloody awful, Charlie," he said so quietly it was practically a whisper. "Sometimes... at night... I dream I'm back there in that wretched tent with that fucking Horcrux around my neck, and I can't breathe. I really think it was trying to kill us. Or maybe just me. It nearly did, I reckon."

Charlie was let off the hook to come up with something to say because they stepped up to the new house's door. It didn't seem to matter to Ron, however, who barged right in without knocking and called out, "Oi, George, I've brought Charlie with me!"

"Welcome to Mole Hill, Charlie!" George called out from upstairs, his voice echoing in the mostly empty great room. He was maneuvering a door onto its hinges – a tricky job even when employing magic. "Now wipe your damn feet, both of you," he tossed off over his shoulder.

Charlie looked around, taking in the house. The majority of the interior consisted of the vaulted-ceilinged great room he and Ron were standing in. At the farthest end was a half-finished kitchen lacking fixtures, appliances, or doors for the cupboards. To his right, a row of door-less rooms supported a balcony with a waist-high wall above them, from behind which another row of rooms boasting newly hung doors branched off. At his back, an enormous stone hearth took up the entire wall from floor to ceiling. To his left, the wall consisted of windows that looked out upon the meadow, the Burrow, and the woods beyond. A rich-looking hardwood floor gleamed below.

Charlie was amazed at the quality of materials and level of taste on display. Nothing was ornate or pretentious, but the appointments conveyed a sense of style and class he'd never suspected of his jokester younger brother. Natural stone, wood, glass, and concrete came together to blend into the surrounding Devonshire countryside seamlessly, welcoming a person into the clean, uncluttered comfort of the house. Unlike the lovingly worn and oft-repaired Burrow, there was nothing in George's new place that was patched or recycled or held together with a spell and a prayer. In fact, Charlie sensed no magical fields within the construction whatsoever. How odd...

"Where did the money for all this come from?" Charlie hissed under his breath in Ron's direction.

"The Wheezes, bro," Ron replied equally softly. "George is fuckin' loaded."

"There it is!" George cried, a pleased smile on his face as he swung the properly hung door several times. Finally finished with his task, he jogged down the spiral staircase that deposited him on the ground floor near the kitchen.

"Annie sent food," Ron informed him, tossing a trussed-up tea towel full of sandwiches and biscuits at him.

"I'm starving," George groaned. He caught the bundle and immediately tore into it. "Good to see you, Charlie, mate."

"I'm afraid I gave your wife a bit of a fright when I arrived a little while ago," Charlie admitted, accepting a brisk clap on the shoulder from George and offering him one in return.

"I knew I heard something!" Ron laughed.

"This one was supposedly keepin' an eye on her from upstairs in his room," Charlie ratted his little brother out gleefully, pointing an accusing thumb at him.

"No surprises there," George muttered. "He is, quite literally, a complete wanker. Con–stant–ly."

"Shut it," Ron grumbled.

"I'm talking all hours of the day and night," George pressed. "I'm amazed his poor little prick hasn't fallen off yet from all the abuse."

"I said shut it!" Ron growled, punching George in the arm.

"Have a look at his palms, Charlie," George chuckled, fending Ron off with a well-directed shove. "The only reason the right one's not completely furry is because all the hair's been worn off."

"You can build your bloody house all by yourself, then," Ron yelled. "I'm not helpin' you any more, you bastard!"

"Oh, no, not that!" George whined dramatically. "Whatever will I do if you stop showing up after noon, once most of the day's work is finished already?"

Ron stomped off in a fit of pique, knocking George with his shoulder as he passed.

"Where are you off to now, Princess?" George called out after him.

"The loo, if it's any of your business," Ron snapped.

"See what I mean?" George laughed, elbowing Charlie and wiggling his eyebrows. "Constantly!"

Ron gave a frustrated growl and slammed the door to the bathroom behind him.

"I suppose I ought to go a little easier on him," George reluctantly admitted once Ron couldn't hear. "He has been a help, really." He set the lunch bundle on the kitchen's quartz countertop and took another bite of his sandwich. Summoning two bottles from a small ice chest nearby, he popped the tops off, then offered one to Charlie, who was more than pleased to accept. "But it's just so hard to resist," George added once he'd washed the bite down with a slug of ale. "He practically begs for it. Almost more than Percy, even."

Charlie snorted his disbelief.

"I said, 'Almost,'" George laughed.

"It's really good to find you smiling and laughing again, bro," Charlie said with a smile, cheered beyond measure to see a little of the old George he remembered. He instantly regretted it, though, as George's smile became pained. An awkward silence fell between them, and Charlie wanted to kick himself for reminding him of Fred's absence.

He tried a different tack. "So, you're gonna be a dad soon."

"Why does everyone find this fact so alarming?" George complained, but good-naturedly so. "I'm a good-looking, hard-working, respectable bloke. Married a nice girl and started a family. Nothing outlandish about that. Biological imperative, pure and simple."

"But... it's you," Charlie teased lightly. "Not only is it bloody near miraculous you've found a woman who'd have you – not that I'm completely convinced she's not Confunded – but the fact that you've managed to reproduce is... well, it's a little terrifying, to put it bluntly."

"'Terrifying' is a bit harsh," George chuckled.

"Believe me, I'm not the only one who finds the prospect of miniature George Weasleys more than a little daunting," Charlie goaded him gently. "Male or female versions. And unleashing two of them onto an unsuspecting world at once? That's nothing less than diabolical."

"I'll second that notion," Ron agreed, rejoining them. "What's the job this afternoon, Boss?"

Looking a little skittish at the prospect of hours spent in the company of two brothers, George hemmed and hawed a bit, scratched his head, then directed Charlie and Ron to proceed hanging the downstairs doors whilst he drove into town – yes, drove, Muggle-fashion in an old rattletrap of a farm truck so rusty it simply had to be held together with magic – to check the status of a few more furnishings on order.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Charlie grumbled, "Damn. That's my fault. I said something stupid while you were in the loo, and now I've run him off."

"What did you say?" Ron asked.

"Just that it was nice to see him smile and laugh again," Charlie lamented. "Which of course made him think of when he wasn't, and why he hadn't, and I'm a complete arsehole for bringing it up."

"Don't beat yourself up about it," Ron insisted. "Truth is, George doesn't deal well with people yet. Aside from Annie and Lee Jordan, he can't tolerate any other company for very long."

"Why do you think that is?" Charlie asked, worried such anti-social tendencies didn't bode well at all.

"It's the twin thing. That's what Ginny and I reckon, anyway," Ron suggested.

"You mean, it hit him harder because he was so close to Fred, being his twin?" Charlie asked, not quite following.

"There's that, sure," Ron agreed. "But... we think it goes a bit further than that." When Charlie shot him a completely baffled look, he explained, "Don't you ever catch yourself, for just a fleeting instant once in a while, looking at George but thinking, Oi, it's Fred!?"

"Fucking hell," Charlie mumbled, astonished by Ron and Ginny's perceptiveness. I never thought of that.

"Must be, tryin' to move on and live your life, all the while lookin' exactly like a dead man," Ron agreed. "Gin and me figured it out when Angelina Johnson came to visit a month or so ago. Dunno if Fred ever mentioned her to you, but they had a bit of a thing in school for a bit. Anyway, she just kept staring at George like he was a ghost or something. Gave us all the willies for a while after that."

"No wonder he doesn't like company," Charlie marveled. Poor George, he thought yet again.

"Yeah," Ron said. "He's sloggin' through it – and it's understandably harder on him than the rest of us. I think if he didn't have Annie... and the twins to come... to keep him going..." He shrugged.

His conclusion coincided with Charlie's impressions as well. "And Mum and Dad?"

"They're doing really well, considering," he said after a thoughtful pause. "Mum keeps herself busy watchin' over us all." Then he rolled his eyes. "She cannot bloody wait for those babies to get themselves born," he grumbled. "And the rest of us can't wait, either. We're counting on 'em to take up all her attention," he added with a wistful sigh of anticipated relief.

Charlie chuckled. "And Dad?"

"Spends a lot of time at the Ministry," Ron answered. "Kingsley's really relying on him lately. He comes home tired, and I think he'd honestly rather be back in his little Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office, but he's pleased to help wherever he can."

"How are your friends doing?" Charlie asked. "Harry still hiding out from the world? Anybody track him down yet?"

"It's no secret to any of us he's holing up at Grimmauld Place," Ron replied casually. When Charlie shot him a look of surprise, he laughed, "Oh, well, I guess it was a secret from someone."

"Why the hell would anyone voluntarily live there?" Charlie marveled aloud. He'd only been to the former headquarters of the Order a few times and remembered it a foreboding, gloomy place.

"Well, I suppose because it's his, and it's free."

"It's his?"

"Yep. Sirius left it to him in his will. There was a while this summer when Harry spent a lot of time in Sirius' old room. I'll admit I was pretty worried about him then. But it was just a phase, thank Merlin, and he shifted out of it after a couple of weeks."

"I never knew," Charlie mused. How had Harry bonded so closely with his erstwhile godfather? When had they found the time to get to know one another so well?

"Anyway, we're keeping an eye on him," Ron continued. "Hermione's studying for NEWTs, keen to prove she's not riding on Harry's coattails. And Harry's not taking the exams but studying right along with her just to have something else to think about, I reckon."

"And you?"

"I keep myself occupied. I help George here, building the house. Oh, that reminds me – don't tell Annie it's nearly done. He wants to surprise her."

"Got it," he chuckled. That certainly sounds like the George I grew up with. Any opportunity to pull a prank...

"I've gone into work with Dad some, too," Ron offered. Charlie quirked a surprised eyebrow, and Ron smirked. "He lets me help sort through the piles of damages claims and restitution requests. I'm getting pretty good at sussing out who's honestly been wronged and who's padding or fudging the claims. I figure it's good practice for Auror training."

"But mostly you're just lazing about, enjoying some supposedly well-deserved time off," Charlie needled him. "Still sponging off your parents at home."

"Not for much longer," Ron insisted. "Harry and I plan to get a flat in London after the first of the year."

"I thought you just said he's already got a place."

"Yeah, but that's hardly homey, is it?" Ron retorted. "Not exactly a place you'd want to bring a bird back to, if you get my drift."

"Meaning your little sister?" Charlie exclaimed scathingly. "The two of you are on the make for a bachelor pad, to which you'll be luring Ginny and Hermione?"

Looking mildly uncomfortable, Ron winced a bit. "I think the window of opportunity for objecting to that closed a while ago. Not that Ginny wouldn't've hexed everyone's bollocks well off if we'd tried. And Harry's a decent bloke."

"Still sounds pretty squicky to me," Charlie said, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"It's just a flat!" Ron protested. "Not some den of iniquity!"

Charlie harrumphed, a rather unpleasant Egyptian memory suddenly brought to mind.

"And this is Ginny and Hermione we're talking about. Clever, self-respecting women intent on making something of themselves beyond being the tart of the moment featured in the gossip columns on Harry's or my arm."

Charlie was rendered a little gobsmacked. Tarts? Gossip columns? He began to reconsider re-subscribing to the Prophet – just to keep tabs on his younger siblings' comings and goings.

"And yeah, there've been offers," Ron snapped, apparently thinking he was heading off the inevitable derogatory comment. "Harry gets more, of course, but I get a couple of owls a week from sluts and other daft bints keen on hooking up with a famous war hero. And Harry and I are unanimous about them: no thanks!"

"What does Hermione think of all these offers?" Charlie asked, still more stunned than anything else.

Ron's face darkened. "It took some work, but I've finally convinced her she's got nothing to worry about."

"Good for you, Ron," Charlie said earnestly.

At first, he shot an irritated, skeptical sneer back, but once he realized Charlie's seriousness, grinned a little bashfully.

"So, you and Harry are set on becoming Aurors. What about our Miss Granger?"

Ron shrugged and shook his head. "She can't see anything beyond her NEWTs," he sighed, exasperated. "She doesn't know what she wants to do with her life yet – she only knows she wants to prove herself on these bloody exams. That she's the best, and she got there on her own merits. That what we fought for – the idea that pedigree matters for shite – was unequivocally proven true by a Mudblood." He hissed the epithet in a hoarse voice, despite being rather worked up.

"I can see her logic there," Charlie counseled carefully. There might even be two or three wizards in existence swayed by her example – though it's doubtful.

"Thing is, anyone who knows Hermione – at least, everyone with half a brain who'll be working with her wherever she ends up – will realize how clever and talented she is in about two seconds," Ron argued. "But pureblooded, bigoted gits the likes of Malfoy will never accept it, no matter how well she does! They'll just claim it proves the tests are worthless or that she cheated. And I hate to see her set herself up for that!"

"That's a good point, too," Charlie conceded, considering it echoed his own opinion. "She'll have a rude awakening if she's banking on people's hearts being turned by some exam scores. But when it comes down to it, her achievements will still stand whether or not idiots like the Malfoys recognize them. And if she doesn't realize that now, she will eventually. I guess I'm saying your best bet is to be supportive now... and sympathetic later."

"I suppose," Ron sighed.

"And in the meantime, it wouldn't hurt you to apply yourself to studying like Hermione and Harry are doing," he suggested. "It won't reflect greatly on you if you can't pull your own weight through the Auror entrance exam or training program... Don't set yourself up to look like Harry's pet project."

"Look, I'm not idiot enough to think Kingsley's waiving the requirements on my account, and neither is anyone else," Ron argued. "Of course it's for Harry – but why shouldn't I take advantage of it? Wouldn't it look stupider to say no? Or insist on enduring the agony of taking NEWTs when I don't have to? I don't see the point in wasting my time proving I can recite Gamp's Law or the eleven uses of dragon's blood–"

"Twelve," Charlie interrupted him reflexively. "Everybody forgets oven cleaner."

Ron rolled his eyes, then continued, "My point is, that shite means fuck all when it comes to being a field agent. I want to start Auror training as soon as possible, and I'll throw everything I have into it, make no mistake. And the sooner I start, the sooner I get to hunt down the bastards that persecuted me and my friends, that forced my family into hiding, that killed my brother and tortured my schoolmates. Some of them are still out there, and I want to bring them to justice!"

For the second time that afternoon, Charlie was somewhat gobsmacked. "That's why you want to be an Auror?" Not because it sounds cool? Or because Harry wanted it?

"Course it is," Ron retorted. "Why else?"

Why else, indeed? He clapped his little brother on the back, sizing up the kid he mostly remembered being a scrawny, whinging pain in his arse. Ron was still quite slim – lanky, even – but tall and solid now: a man, he confessed. With apparently a clever head on his shoulders and a true Weasley heart beating in his chest.

"Good on you, Ron."

Author's note the second: The International Statute of Secrecy and Goblin War dates and info are per JKR, not my imagination. Christopher Wren, however, was a real Brit architect/polymath/genius (and presumably Muggle) whose own career happened to coincide with them in the most convenient manner.