It could have been ten years, it could have been yesterday. The pain in George Weasley's heart never went away. It constricted tighter on some days, loosened its hold on others. Today was a loose day. In fact, staring down at his newborn son, his soft hair still damp from his first bath, he might even have felt the ache ease a little. A little bit of it chipped away to be replaced be something warm and soft, something good. His wife, Angelina, gently ran the towel over the baby's head, singing quietly to the infant.
"Ang," George said, interrupting her song. She looked up at him, waiting for him to continue. "I want to call him Fred."
