"George, go away.
I'm sleeping," I muttered, squirming uncomfortably in the chair. George drew back and stood above me, arms
crossed. It was creepy when he did
that, because he looked like he was upset with me. I saw a smile twitch on his lips and relaxed.
"The store closed an hour ago," I yawned in reply. I stretched my arms out an unimpressive
distance and looked up at him sleepily.
His dark red hair fell over his pale blue eyes and he brushed it away,
irritated.
"You need a haircut," I told him as I stretched out my legs
and used the arms of the chair to push myself to my feet. I felt dizzy from standing too quickly and
fell over again. Luckily, I landed
right into a pile of Plush Parrot Pillows.
They squawked in protest and I stuck my tongue out at them. Perhaps I'd picked up just a bit too much of
the twin's disposition.
George looked down at me with one raised red eyebrow, and an
amused smile touching the corners of his lips.
He shook his head as he picked up his eagle feather quill and dipped it
in the green inkwell.
"Remind me to add 'coordination' onto the list of things we
need to order," he said, marking something on a piece of parchment. He signed the bottom and set his quill down
so he could roll it up.
"You're really cute," I said sarcastically, picking myself
up and brushing bright red and yellow feathers off my robes. "Do you want me to close up tonight?"
"No but thanks, Anya.
I'll do it." I had noticed he
was acting odd recently, even for George.
He absently put his quill behind his ear and opened a parchment envelope
that had been resting on the counter.
"Oh, that came this morning, but you and Fred were in your
laboratory buggering about or experimenting – I don't know which – and I
completely forgot about it until now."
He gave a half nod and skimmed the first few lines of the
parchment. His eyebrows furrowed in
confusion.
"What is it?" I asked, sidling up to him. He didn't answer, so I bent slightly in
front of him to read the letter he was holding.
Parker Jackalope
President of Parker
Jackalope Practical Joke Enterprises
I paused a few moments before I dared to look up at
George. Canary Creams were what started
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and they had been a classic (and quick-selling) item
ever since.
"This is Fred's doing; I know it," I said, hoping the lie
might comfort him. "He probably though
it'd be so bloody hilarious for you to panic over it and think it was
real. Oh, honestly, the two of you will
never grow up, will you?" I took the
letter from him and crumpled it up in a little ball. I took out my wand to incinerate it, but George snatched it out
of my hand before I could.
I watched silently as he placed the parchment on the counter
and smoothed it out slowly. I could
tell he was searching the notice for any sign of forgery. Finally, he drew in a deep breath and folded
it in half.
"Time for you to go home," he said softly, tucking the
parchment into his pocket. He finally
looked up at me. "It's late."
"George—" I began in protest.
"I want you to open tomorrow; I've got some appointments in
the morning. Seven o'clock, all right?"
he said as though I hadn't even spoken.
It drove me insane when he did that.
"Yes, sir," I replied.
I knew calling him "sir" or addressing him formally in any manner really
got his goat, but I really didn't care much at that point.
"Please don't do this," he said, closing his eyes and
sitting heavily in the chair in which I had been sleeping. "I don't need this extra stress," he said,
his voice muffled by his hands. He
pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed; even his freckles looked drained.
George had taken care of me when I was younger. I like to think I became a stronger person
because of him. I didn't need him the
same way I did when I had my rough patch at Hogwarts. But he needed me now. I knelt at his side and he opened his eyes, looking at me. His face was weary and he looked a lot older
than his twenty-five years.
"Anya,
this is just too much," he said, in a strained voice. "I can't talk to my sister-in-law without her referring to my
brother as 'oh, him,' in the same tone a Death Eater might say
'Muggle-born.' Dervish and Banges
and Third Time's A Charm are beginning to monopolize the practical joke
industry and I'm about this close to getting sued." He held his thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart to better
illustrate. He ran a hand through his
fiery hair and let it fall limply on the arm of the chair, which grunted its
indignation. His head fell back against
the top of the chair with a dull thud and he closed his eyes. I chewed my lower lip for a moment, trying
to think of something horribly profound to cheer him up, but my mind was a
complete blank. The only thing I could
think of doing was setting my hand on top of his, which I did.
"3W
has had hard times before and we've always pulled through. And Fred and Angelina will settle their
differences… as bull-headed as they can both be, they love each other deep down
and will find a way to fix things. Come
on, you know I'm not good with all this philosophy rubbish. It'll work.
Life's not perfect… nothing is always paradise."
He
cracked open an eye and turned his head towards me.
"You
really believe that, don't you?" he asked, completely and utterly serious with
me. I nodded. "So things will work out, then?"
I nodded again and he pulled his hand out from under mine. He used his fingertips to brush my light brown
hair out of my face and tuck it gently behind my ear. "If you say so." He
sighed heavily and offered me a half smile.
His eyes were still troubled and I knew I hadn't really helped him at
all; I could easily tell he was humoring me.
I really didn't appreciate when he did that, but starting a row with him
over his insincerity wouldn't solve anything.
"Go on home and get some sleep.
I'll see you in the morning." He
stood up from the chair and reached out a hand to help me stand.
"Good
night, George," I said, just before Apparating home.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I awoke the next morning with a sharp pain in the side of my
head. I groaned and turned over. To my surprise the pain disappeared for a
moment. I felt a light tapping across
my head, then the sharp, pulsing pain again.
I forced my eyes open and swatted out at the air. I gasped sharply when I hit something
feathery.
Yawning, I sat up and rubbed my eyes with my fists. I looked down into my lap to see a little
brown owl hopping excitedly across my lap.
It cocked its head to one side and stuck its talon out proudly.
"Mmm, why's the mail coming this early?" I muttered to no
one in particular, as I took off the piece of parchment tied to the tiny bird's
leg. Once I'd relieved the owl of its
burden, it hopped excitedly across my bedspread, looking to get into trouble.
"Don't you touch anything," I warned it as I swung my legs
over the side of the bed. It hooted at
me, irritated, and then became mesmerized with the flying Quidditch players on
my covers. I unrolled the small piece
of parchment and read quickly. I
identified the handwriting as George's scrawl:
Anya-
Get the envelope off the
counter at the shop and meet me at Paracelsus Hospital. Please hurry.
-George
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I rushed through the front entryway of Paracelsus Hospital,
hopping on one foot and trying to tie my shoe.
I had stopped at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to pick up the envelope with a
piece of folded parchment in it. It was
the one from Jackalope Parker Practical Joke Enterprises; I considered jotting
down the return address and sending back a Howler, but decided against it at
the last moment.
The hell with my shoe, I decided, as I dashed up to
the reception desk.
A plump, red-haired witch sat behind the desk, scrawling a
note on a scrap of parchment. Her dark
blue-framed glasses bobbed up and down on her nose as she wrote.
"Weasley?" I asked hopefully, my words coming out rushed
together. I paused to breathe as she
answered.
"Room 317 on the seventh floor," she said pleasantly. It must have driven her almost insane to be
so calm and collected when panicking relatives and friends rushed to find out
how their ailing loved ones were doing.
"Would you like a Mouse?"
I nodded quickly and a tiny girl appeared in front of
me. To those who didn't know what a
Mouse was, it would be absurd to think a child of eight or nine could possibly
guide visitors through a large facility such as Paracelsus. The Mouse, however, was no child. Rumors had flown through the wizarding world
from the possibility of them being the late Albus Dumbledore's perpetually
youthful granddaughters' to their ages being in the thousands. I suppose no one would ever know.
In
any case, she raced ahead of me through zigzagging hallways and up trick
staircases and even through what appeared to be solid walls of stone. Finally, we entered a long hallway lined
with doorways and nervous witches and wizards sitting in chairs. She pointed one pale hand down the hallway
and jabbed a finger sharply to the right.
I squinted down the corridor, hoping to see something obvious – like a
gigantic sign with "317" on it – but I had no such luck. I turned to ask the Mouse where to go, but
she was gone. My heart nearly pounded
out of my chest as my mind flew a hundred kilometers a minute. Was George sick? No, that couldn't be it.
He wouldn't have sent me for something at 3W if he was ill. But why did he need me to meet him at the
hospital? I got a sick feeling in my
stomach; something had to be wrong.
I
began to run again and was only able to get halfway down the hallway when an
all-too-familiar sharp pain tore through my chest. Crying out, I fell to my knees.
Within ten seconds, I was surrounded by mediwizards. One pushed to the front and asked, panicked,
"Again?" I was only able to nod; the
pain was much too great. I felt a wand
touch my shoulder and the same voice say, "Antiasthmatico." The pain faded gradually and was replaced
with a dull ache. I felt strong arms
heave me to my feet and I saw that it was indeed George who had spoken to me.
"Thank
you," I breathed gratefully, collapsing forward into his arms. I leaned against him heavily as I slowly
caught my breath and fought of the last shards of pain out my chest. He guided me carefully to a chair, sat me
down and knelt in front of me.
"Are
you all right?" he asked softly. I
nodded and handed him the envelope. He
took it from me and glanced at it briefly before putting it in his pocket.
"Why
did you need to meet me here?"
"Angelina's sick," he said softly. My heart jumped into my throat and the sick
feeling was back in my stomach.
"What
happened?" I asked numbly, my hand placed over my heart. George stood stiffly and then seated himself
beside me in a chair.
"Fred
says that one moment she was folding laundry and the next, she was leaning
against the wall, crying with her arms wrapped around her abdomen. She's… she's not good," he replied, his
voice trembling.
"The
baby!" I gasped.
"Dr.
Branford says the baby's still alive… but its – we just found out 'it' is a
'she' – heartbeat is weak. Angelina's
got a high fever and she's hardly coherent.
The mediwizards still don't know if whatever's she's got is Muggle or
magical or… something else." He fell
silent and I saw the small muscles in his jaw moving furiously as he stared at
a spot across the hallway. I heard
footsteps at the far end of the hallway and looked up in time to see Ron
Weasley and his wife, Hermione Granger-Weasley rushing towards us. I stood quickly and hugged them both, filling
them in on as much as I got from George.
"Maybe
I should go in and take a look…" Hermione began, already taking a step towards
the door. Ron caught her shoulder and
shook his head.
"Conflict
of personal interest. Let them do their
jobs, 'Mione," he said gently. She
turned and looked up at him, looking as though she was about to protest. She snapped her mouth closed and leaned
slightly against his chest.
"I'm
going to find a mediwizard somewhere and find out what's going on," Hermione
declared.
"I'll
catch up with you in a minute," Ron said.
For a moment, they paused, and then exchanged a quick kiss before
Hermione started down the hall. Ron nodded
politely at me and then stepped in front of his brother's chair. George looked up and stood. The brother's embraced slowly. When they pulled apart, they each seemed to
read each other's minds.
"How's
he doing?" Ron asked. George shook his
head.
"He's
falling apart… You know Fred,
though. He's trying not to show it, but
he's hurting. Bad," George answered. He briefly rubbed his face with his hands,
as though trying to stay awake. "He
knows he was being a lousy git with the way he was treating Angelina – she
wasn't being much better – but I can't believe this is what it took for them to
be in a room together for more than ten minutes without shouting."
"Who
did this?" Ron asked, with a clenched jaw.
I tried to shrink in my seat. I
knew that Ron's Weasley temper was second only to Fred's, something I dared not
witness a second time.
"They
don't even know what caused it." George
glanced past Ron and down the hallway.
"Looks like Hermione found someone with answers." I turned and saw Hermione speaking with a
mediwitch. I winced when I recognized
the defensive-Hermione stance; hands planted on hips, weight on left foot, head
tilted slightly to one side.
"I'd
better go save the poor bloke," Ron said with a wince. "Let me know if there's a change." The brothers embraced again and Ron headed
down the hallway towards his wife.
George settled heavily beside me again.
He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, making me wonder what was in his
head. I looked down and slowly slid my
hand beneath his. He startled a little,
but then wrapped his fingers around mine.
"I
don't know what I'd do if I was in his shoes," he murmured, his fingers holding
mine tightly. "I don't know how I could
live with myself." He fell silent again
and I leaned my head softly against his shoulder, my eyes closing. If I kept them open any longer, I might've
started crying. I don't break an
eight-year streak without crying if I can prevent it. From where I sat, I could just barely make out Fred's voice
through the door:
"Angel, you must pull through this. You've got to pull
through, love... I can't live without
you."
I didn't expect anything to follow, but I heard Angelina's very weak
rasp, "You have George… You'll do
just fine."
"George is my twin, my flesh and blood. True enough.
But you're in my blood, aren't you? Angel, I... I'm not like some blokes
that can just say all sorts of flowery things off the top of their heads.
Blowing a lot of hot air... that's not me and you know it. But you've got to
know that you're my heart..." Here, he broke off and I suspected he was trying
to compose himself. "And a man can't
live without his heart, now can he? So get well." The pain in his voice threatened to bring
tears to my eyes.
"It could have been her in there," George murmured in a
barely audible tone. I'm not even sure
he realized that he'd spoken aloud.
"Who?" I asked him quietly.
He jerked suddenly and I pulled away from him, looking shocked. He was staring back at me with large blue
eyes.
"Nothing… It's no one.
Don't worry about it." His voice
was clipped and the message was clear: no further discussion on the issue. He pulled his hand away from mine and
dropped it into his lap. I looked at
him, surprised, but he was lost in his own world.
To be continued…
