Author: George Weasley's Girlfriend
Title: Singing in the Shower
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimers: Stuff created by Ms. J. K. Rowling
belongs to her. Stuff created by me belongs to me. It's that simple
Author's Notes: This is a totally plotless sequel
to The Real George Weasley. Read that first to understand this
one, but I suppose you can skip it if you get lazy. Any thanks go to my beta
reader, poosh. Thanks, babe! Oh, and ten points to the house of whoever sees
the similarity between the beginning of the second section and a Stephen King
novel. Which novel? To get the "points," you tell me in review/e-mail. The points count for absolutely nothing (like on Whose
Line is it Anyway?), but it's always fun to have bragging rights. And yes,
I'll get back to writing The Boy Who Lived as soon as writer's block dies.
Enjoy!
Singing
in the Shower
My wife loved singing in
the shower. I remember the mornings when I'd stand outside the bathroom door
and listen to her singing just over the sound of the rushing water. I remember
telling her that she had a beautiful voice, but she'd only yell at me for
listening to her. Women are complicated. I learned that quickly enough.
I married her when we were
both twenty-one. I had only been out of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and
Wizardry for two years when we exchanged vows but I knew I needed her to be
Mrs. George Weasley since the moment I met her. And for ten years, until her
death, she was.
"Anastasia,
hurry!" my son, Nicholas, shouted up the stairs. His hair was red like
mine but he had his mother's beautiful blue eyes. A moment later, his identical
twin brother, Michael (named after my own late brother) came down the stairs,
holding his younger sister's hand.
"It's about
time," Nicholas muttered as his two siblings reached the bottom stair.
"Oh, put a sock in
it," Michael said lazily. "We've got plenty of time to get all of our
school things at Diagon Alley." Anastasia held onto her brother's hand
tightly, looking wide-eyed and nervous.
"What is it,
honey?" I asked, crouching down so I was eye level with her.
"Daddy, I'm scared. I
don't wanna go away to school." She flung off her brother's hand and
tossed herself into my arms. She threw her arms around my neck and I lifted her
up. For eleven years old, she was remarkably small for her age and still very
young inside.
"It's okay," I
whispered against her hair as she began to cry softly. "I'm sure you'll be
fine. Your big brothers will watch you," I promised her, casting a
meaningful look over her shoulder at Michael and Nicholas. The two boys were
leaning against the banister, poster children for innocence. Although they were
generally well behaved, I always had the unsettling feeling that the two had
inherited a bit too much of my exuberance.
I pulled her gently away
from me and looked into her tear-filled eyes. "You're going to make a lot
of friends and you're going to learn a lot of fun, new things."
"But there won't be
anybody to tuck me in and kiss me goodnight and tell me stories…" she
sniffled, wiping her nose with her sleeve.
"Whenever you get
lonely, send me an owl. I promise I'll send loads back." She nodded slowly
and then hugged me again. I nodded at her brothers and they ran upstairs to get
their trunks. I stood and offered my hand to my young daughter. "Ready to
go and meet lots of new kids?" I asked. She nodded tearfully and I could
understand her. She didn't want to grow up as much as I didn't want her to grow
up. "Let's go get your trunk."
* * *
Three days later, I sat
silently at the top of the stairs, debating. Was it even worth celebrating?
Finally, with a sigh, I descended. The house was so cold, so dark, so... empty.
I got to the kitchen and pulled the bottle of champagne out of the
refrigerator. Muggles may not be all that aware of what was going on all around
them, but they made good alcohol.
I crossed kitchen to the
cabinets, where I pulled a wine glass off the shelf. I sat down as I read the
inscription: The Two Lovebirds - Always and Forever. The wine glasses had been
a gift from my sister-in-law and my brother on our second anniversary. I
sighed, refusing to let my emotions take hold of me. I popped the cork open on
the bottle and poured my glass half full with the drink.
"This is for you,
honey. I wish you were here. I miss you like hell." I toasted the air,
where my wife's glass should have been, and swallowed a sip of the drink. I set
it back down on the table, pushing it away from me. She should be here. We were
supposed to have forever together. I swallowed hard.
I couldn't believe how
empty the house was. Usually, I had Anastasia running down the stairs with her
latest finger painting or my wife sitting at my side, giggling about all the
free time we had and possible ways to fill it (She made these suggestions with
waggling eyebrows and giggles.). Now my daughter was hundreds of miles away
from school and my wife was dead. Life wasn't fair.
My wife died on September
fourth, three years ago. It had been our tenth anniversary. She'd been so young
and full of life at the time (a lot more wild and free than when she was in her
school days), but I suppose all widowers remember their wives to be full of
life. She always told me that her life started when I first touched her. Ironic
that her life ended in my arms, is it not?
My beautiful girl worked
for the Ministry of Magic, an organization that helps keep Muggles
(non-wizarding people) from finding out about the wizarding world, but Muggles
weren't the main worry of the Ministry at the time. It was Lord Voldemort, a
Dark wizard who had been nearly defeated once before but had been once again
rapidly gaining power and supporters. He and his followers, Death Eaters, used
ancient curses with obscure, unknown and sometimes nonexistent counter spells.
There was only one small glimmer of hope for the Order of the Phoenix, an elite
group of Aurors who sought and fought Death Eaters: Prevention Potions.
A simple Prevention Potion
could block curses like Stunning Spells and Memory Charms, and more advanced
Prevention Potions could even begin to fight the Imperius Curse. My wife was
enlisted to help in the process of creating a potion to fight the two most terrible
curses: Cruciatus Curse, which sent excruciating pain throughout its recipient,
and Avada Kedavra, the Killing Curse. She worked alongside Severus
Snape, her former Potions teacher. I teased her about it often, but she would
only scowl back before bursting into giggles.
The Order of the Phoenix
originally consisted of Remus Lupin, Arabella Figg, Sirius Black, James and
Lily Potter, Albus Dumbledore, and, a later addition, Severus Snape. Snape and
Figg were the only remaining members of the original Order of the Phoenix when
it was reorganized; therefore, the Ministry appointed new members, starting with
my sister-in-law, Hermione Weasley, who was head of the Research and
Development of Magical Warfare Department when she wasn't catering to my
brother, Ron, and their daughter, Charlene. The next additions were Neville
Longbottom, who had improved his magically abilities drastically since I had
last seen him, and Cho Chang, who had always been superb with Charm work. The
final member had been Harry Potter, undoubtedly striving to follow in his
parents' footsteps.
My wife was offered a
position, but turned it down and remained assistant to Snape in the Potions
Department of Defense. She never liked violence and was more than happy to find
her niche in Prevention Potions. She always said it helped her sleep better at
night that she was preventing deaths rather than causing them.
With the aid of the
potions and newly developed counter spells, Voldemort fell. He never really
died, as Rubeus Hagrid, gamekeeper at my alma mater, always insisted he wasn't
human enough to die. I believed him. Voldemort's soul was taken from him by a
dementor, a Dark creature that had, surprisingly, not aided Voldemort's
struggle for power. He was merely a hollow shell left to die within the walls
of a secluded prison, whereabouts unknown.
After his fall, my wife
continued to work with Prevention Potions. I like to think she saved many lives
when finally, single-handedly (Snape had retired a year earlier.), she came up
with a potion that would completely and totally ward off the Cruciatus Curse.
The morning of her death,
we had a horrible row. We had enough money for the two of us to quit working
and still live rather luxuriously, our children's schooling taken care of. I
had resigned from my position as Head of Magical Sporting Equipment (You would
be astounded by the amount of Quidditch Quaffles that had been sabotaged before
the Quidditch World Cups.) and requested to my wife to do the same. She pulled
late hours and went in early mornings; I hardly ever saw her anymore. She said
her work was her life.
It was like being slapped
in the face. Of course, her work wasn't her entire life. We had three children
and I knew she loved me. What she meant was that her work was important to her.
At the time, even knowing that she hadn't said exactly what she meant, I was
hurt deeply. I Apparated sadly away, not looking her in the eye and without our
standard "I love you" and kiss goodbye. It would be an action I would
regret for the rest of my life.
I had Apparated away to a
small rock bluff over a tiny lake, a place that my wife and I referred to as
"our spot." It was the place where I had asked her to marry me. I
wasn't suicidal at the time, not that I hadn't considered it plenty of times
after her death. I had finally decided there was no way I would put my children
through the hell of losing both parents. I sat for several hours (I think),
watching the waves crash against the shore in wild splashes and almost thinking
that maybe if we had been Muggles, then life would have been easier.
After a while, I felt an
intense feeling of guilt sweep over me, the way it did every time I fought with
her. I Apparated to our empty home and quietly walked to our back garden. One
of my wife's most cherished possessions was her garden, which she insisted on
keeping in the ordinary Muggle way. It was a far cry from winning any awards,
but I thought it was beautiful. I picked a rose (already hearing her in my
mind, scolding me for upsetting the balance of color in the garden) and
Apparated to the laboratory where she worked.
Tynen Laboratory was a
large facility with thousands of separate labs to conduct different
experiments. Heavy wards surrounded the place and only those with special
licenses were allowed to Apparate within its walls. I didn't have one, and was
therefore was rerouted into a small room, where visitors were approved or
thrown out.
The Modulator, a person
who chose who entered and who stayed, was a friend of my younger brother,
Ronald. Her name was Parvati Patil and I believe they went to the Yule Ball
together in my sixth year. Or perhaps he went with her twin, Padma. I can't
remember. Parvati knew me by sight, but I had to take the regular series of
tests anyway. It included taking rather foul-tasting Purity Potion and an
examination to make sure I wasn't bringing any Muggle-type weapons within the building.
It was quite tedious, but I wasn't in the mood to argue with her. Finally, my
rose and I were allowed to enter the building.
My wife worked in room
four hundred twenty-seven of Hallway Poe, which was on the third floor every
Wednesday. The rest of the days of the week it was on the eighth floor and on
the weekends, it was at the end of the hall. This reminded me all too much of
my Hogwarts days. Luckily, there weren't any trick steps.
Because of shifting
corridors and strangely shaped doors that only small creatures could hope to go
through, I called upon the Mouse to guide me there. The Mouse was a small
person (not an animal thankfully, for I have a terrible fear of rodents) who
led visitors from the Entrance Hall to their destination. I have to give that
person a lot of credit, for it was no easy feat to guide someone through Tynen
Laboratory.
I got to the end of
Hallway Poe on the third floor (It was Wednesday.) and the Mouse disappeared.
She always does. Holding my rose in one hand and an apology at the tip of my
tongue, I knocked on the door. There was no answer. While that would set off
alarms in a more paranoid person's mind, it did nothing to me. My wife was
usually totally immersed in her work and almost always had the Soundproof Charm
turned on, preventing outside distractions.
I slid my wand out of my
sleeve and tapped it to the door. "Alohomora," I murmured as I
did so. Grumbling about trying to get some sleep, the door opened and admitted
me within.
I could never have
prepared for the sight I saw after that. My wife, a meticulously clean woman,
had vials shattered on the ground, cauldrons tipped over and an entire jar of
butterfly wings smashed beneath a pile of parchment. I knew something was wrong
and the rose dropped from my hand.Panicking, I searched the entire laboratory.
The place where she worked was large and sectioned off for different
experiments and hazardous chemicals. Finally, in a small corner section, I saw
her sprawled across the floor, left arm bent at an unnatural angle.
My heart jumped into my
throat as I rushed to her side. I immediately saw her eyes were closed and her
chest still, not breathing. I whispered her name as I picked her head up and
placed it into my lap. Miraculously, her chest hitched and she drew in a ragged
breath. Agonizingly slowly, her eyelids fluttered open to reveal her beautiful
blue eyes, dull with pain. I brushed hair out of her face and saw my fingertips
come away bloody, due to a gash along her temple.
"George…" she
whispered. I nodded.
"It's me," I
whispered back. It hadn't occurred to me until later to go for help; I suppose
that when she began to speak, I knew they were her final words. No spell or
potion would have been able to save her.
"Take care… of our…
children," she breathed. After the great effort taken to produce the
sentence, she coughed and a small rivulet of blood bubbled out of the corner of
her mouth. "I love you." Her eyes slowly closed and she was still.
"No… no, wait,"
I begged, stroking her hair. "Don't leave me. Please, God, don't take
her." My eyes filled with tears that began to fall down my cheeks, but I
took no notice. "I need you." I rocked her back and forth in my arms,
murmuring all the spells I could think of, whispering her name, begging her to
come back to me, desperately needing to hear her voice one final time. "I
love you," I murmured in a choked sob. But she was gone.
Seconds, minutes, hours
could have passed without me knowing the difference. The next thing I
remembered was someone trying to pull my beautiful wife out of my arms. I held
onto her, convincing myself that if I could just hold her a little longer, she
would come back. She had to. I heard a faint murmuring of a spell -something
that would put me to sleep, no doubt- and then darkness. I was a widower before
I awakened.
I found later that she had
been killed by the final remaining Death Eaters: Draco Malfoy, Ernie Macmillian
and Marcus Flint. Hate welled inside me and rage poisoned my mind. The only
thing I had been able to think of was revenge. It wasn't until they were thrown
into Azkaban (where they died within months) by Order of the Phoenix that I
felt true redemption for my wife's wasteful death.
Her funeral was planned
mostly by my brothers, Charlie and Fred, as I could only float through the next
few weeks like a zombie. I guess that at first, I hadn't believed that she was
dead. I thought it was some sick joke that someone had cooked up; my wife
couldn't be gone. Then, anger. How could she have left me alone like this? She
should have been more careful with career choices. She should have quit like I
asked her to. Didn't she know that she was going to destroy our entire family,
emotionally? Then it'd just been self-hatred and guilt for being angry with
her. With her memory. It should have been me, I told myself over and
over. It should have been me.
Although Charlie and Fred
planned most of the funeral, I was firm in one aspect: closed casket. I wanted
my children to remember her as she was, not some cold, lifeless body lying in a
box. I wanted Anastasia to remember her mum singing her to sleep. I wanted
Nicholas to remember all the times she magicked away his cuts and wiped his
tears away. I wanted Michael to remember my wife telling him how proud she was
that Michael had made the Gryffindor Quidditch team and how he was the best
Chaser Professor McGonagall had seen since James Potter.
I myself needed a happier
memory to replace the final one I had of her. I chose the day I proposed to
her, on top of our rock bluff. I had been so nervous that I'd nearly dropped
the ring after I asked her. She had looked down at it, eyes wide then back up
at me. She didn't answer me verbally; she merely took my face in her hands and
kissed me.
"I hope that wasn't a
kiss-off," I joked nervously. She smiled and threw her arms around me,
whispering the words "Yes, I'll marry you."
In the past few months,
Cho Chang has been stopping by often and "bumping" into me in Diagon
Alley. She never fails to mention that she divorced her husband (whom I only
know by the title "that cheating bastard.") and would like a sweet,
sensitive, caring man in her life. I always politely refuse her invitations to
dinner and Apparate home. I couldn't possibly consider being with another
woman.
It may seem cruel,
depriving my children of a motherly figure after my wife's passing, but I think
a substitute would shatter them even more. And so I am truly alone now, with my
children away at school and the woman I loved, and still love, dead. I try and
occupy myself, forcing myself to live on without her. I went back to my job,
but only worked half the hours so I could be there for my kids.
It's a strange thing to
get used to a person so much and then have them leave you. I can still feel her
presence sometimes. I can rarely shake the feeling that when I wake, maybe her
half of the bed is always a little warmer than it should be... that the covers
are a little more messed up and that there is a slight indentation in the
pillow next to mine... that a whiff of her perfume passes my nose as I turn a
corner.
I've nearly convinced
myself that all of this is in my mind. But sometimes, late at night, if I
listen hard enough, I can just make out my wife singing in the shower.
As Fleur would say… "Zee End!"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~