Hello my lovelies! I've been shriking my duties-work and school-this week to write on some of my other fics. But then I saw Harry Potter (lucky number 7 part 2) for the-admittedly-fifth time, and I STILL cried when Fred died. I mean, I cried through the whole movie (am I seriously turning into my mother?) but Fred's death still makes me distraught. Though I do love Fred very much, nothing makes me sadder than the fact that Geroge is left to cope on his own. And I HATE that he marries Angelina Johnson, who by all accounts was Fred's sorta-girlfriend. So I'm changing it (I beg your forgiveness, JK Rowling!). I hope you enjoy my virtually meaningless oneshot, if only to satisfy my pathetic fangirlishness. My OC probably sucks, but I had this freakin' plot bunny hopping around inside my head for days, and it just needed to be shot or something.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT own George Weasley, or the Harry Potter series, though it admittedly owns me. :D I only own my OC.
April 1, 1989
Fred Weasley was a dead man. At the very least, he was living on borrowed time. The second George got ahold of his brother, Fred's days on this good green earth were numbered.
George glared across the cramped space towards one of his sworn enemies; a girl. Emmie Whitfield, a petite brunette with thick glasses and an acne problem, sat parallel to him, knees touching, in the tiny broom closet.
Yes, Fred had cackled manically as he had pushed George inside, soon followed by Emmie. It was their first year, and already they had pulled more pranks, caused more mayhem, and gotten more detentions than anyone had in their first year at Hogwarts.
But this was not a prank.
This was betrayel.
Oh, Fred is going to get it. Thought a livid George. He found himself repeating the same choice phrases over and over in his head, so he abandoned that unproductive mantra. Instead, he allowed thoughts of sweet revenge to take him. He imagined all the ways to get back at his twin, who was destined to die a painful death at his hands, even if it was their birthday.
"Um, when do you think he'll let us out?" came a mousy voice from the other side.
Ugh, he didn't want to talk to her. Girls were gross. They had cooties, they giggled at everything, and they smelled like nasty fake flowers all the time. But Emmie had to be the worst. She was not pleasing to look at by any means, and she was incredibly shy, making her seem weak and pitiable in comparison to other girls.
She had been the butt of many of the twins' jokes, and had often suffered their pranking nature firsthand. Not to say she was the only one, but her quiet nature loaned her to be an easy target.
"I dunno," he replied shortly. "But he might want to think twice about unleashing me at all. I 'm going to mess his face up so bad that no one could ever call us twins again."
She gave a half-smile that just looked lopsided and settled back for the wait…
A long time passed.
He didn't know how many hours they sat there, but he was getting angrier by the minute. Suddenly, the door flew open. Without a second thought George threw himself at the door, wand ready; the first hex already leaving his mouth before he got a good look at whoever it was.
Professor McGonagall now sported pink hair.
A horrified shriek echoed through the halls, and George soon found himself hauled off by the ear, a terrified Emmie following and trying to calm the irate Professor down.
"Please ma'am, he didn't mean anything by it. It wasn't you he wanted to hex. It was his brother," she stumbled over the words in her haste to get them out before Minerva did something she would regret.
McGonagall stopped in front of the Headmaster's office, and launched the pair of them inside. "Headmaster, I'm leaving these two to you!" With that, she slammed the door so hard the pictures on the wall rattled.
Dumbledore sat in his chair, reading, and looking rather amused as the woman and her pink hair flounced away.
"So…you managed to hex Mistress Minerva and live, I see," Dumbledore commented dryly. George, who had yet to close his mouth, finally burst into speech.
"I'm so sorry, Headmaster. I thought it was Fred. He—"
"Locked you and Miss Whitfield in a broom closet?" Albus finished for him.
Emmie looked amazed at the old man. How had he guessed?
"I'm rather surprised at his daring. I have a brother as well, and how well I know that one good prank deserves another. Though I must say, you got rather lucky to get stuck with Miss Whitfield," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye.
"Ew! Sir, that's exactly why I wanted to hex him! Girls are icky, and he put me with the worst of them!" George spoke before he could think. He suddenly regretted the insult when he saw the Headmaster's look of disapproval and Emmie's eyes fill with tears.
"Mr. Weasley, I think you should apologize to Emmie," he said sternly.
"No, Headmaster...it—it's alright, sir," Emmie spoke up. "May we please be excused?"
The wizard looked gravely between the two of them. "You may," he said finally.
As George turned to leave, Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder.
"It would be wise, my boy, to leave some words unsaid. And it would be wiser not to write off girls as 'icky.'" He smiled, as though there was some private joke in his mind.
George left the office confused. Dumbledore's words rolled in his head. When he ran into a laughing Fred later, he didn't even feel up to hexing him.
February 8, 1996
Well, this is familiar. George thought wryly. Fall for it once, shame on him. Fall for it twice, shame on me.
He was in a broom closet. With Emmie Whitfield.
"Bloody hell!"
He looked up hesitantly from his corner. She was seething, her brow furrowed and a glare directed at him.
"Your brother is so dead when I get ahold of him," she said tonelessly. George couldn't believe it, but he felt the actual urge to quake at her feet.
Emmie Whitfield had changed…to say the least.
Gone were the thick rimmed glasses, the acne, the shy and mousy personality. Gone was the girl he had despised. In front of him was the woman he loved.
Her honey-brown hair was shorter and spikier, with tinges of darker browns and blacks that had naturally grown in as she came into maturity. She wore eyeliner that make her hazel eyes look amazing; flecks of greens, browns, and blues dancing with barely controlled fury.
Her figure had always been slim, but now she had womanly curves that any other seventeen year old girl would envy. Both the twins and Emmie's birthdays were in the same month, less than a few months away. George knew that he and Fred would not be there for either their birthday or graduation.
They had been planning to make Umbridge's head spin. The plans were soon to be set in motion, and George highly doubted they would be allowed to stick around after what they were going to do.
Normally, George would have laughed it off and not cared. But for some reason, it made him sad. A reason he knew all too well.
He wouldn't be there on her birthday, the day he had promised himself he would apologize for everything, and confess his feelings for her. Not that he thought it would go well.
Emmie had not only grown exponentially in beauty, but in personality as well. She had a generous and happy disposition to others…all except the twins. They had taken their hurtful jokes too far too many times in her opinion. With the twins, she was downright mean. She'd had enough. Gone was the girl who would smile sadly when they snickered as she walked by. As she had grown, she had begun to trade them insult for insult. Frankly, she was really good at it too. She'd even made Fred cry once, astonishing everyone who had been within ear shot, including Fred himself.
"Screw this! I'm not sitting for a second longer in this god-forsaken broom closet with you! I'm finding a way out!" she growled, standing up. She aimed her wand at the door and yelled "Incendio!"
Nothing happened.
George was actually more surprised that it didn't burn down than the fact that she had chosen to actually burn the door down.
"Damn it all!" she shrieked, plopping herself back down to the floor. "Damn Fred to hell!"
George laughed out loud. He knew it would get him in trouble, but she was just so beautiful when she was upset.
"George Weasley, I consider you as equally guilty! Keep laughing, and you won't be having children anytime soon!" she threatened menacingly.
"Hex my bits and baubles, and you'll find yourself infertile! If I can't have kids, neither can you," George choked out past his laughter.
She glared at him for a moment longer, then sighed and settled against the wall.
Long silence passed, and when Emmie looked back up, she found George staring at her with his chin resting on his hand and a smile on his face.
"What's wrong with you?" she asked warily.
"You're beautiful, you know that?" he said suddenly, not really sure if he had meant to say that out loud.
Her eyebrows disappeared into her bangs. "I'm what!" she asked skeptically.
"I said, you're beautiful."
"I heard what you said. What I want to know is what you mean," she said. Her stare was boring into him, trying to piece together his mood and his odd words. He blushed, cursing himself for saying anything at all.
"I meant just that. I find you very attractive." He wasn't going to back down now, no matter how flustered she made him.
A bitter laugh escaped her. "Yup, sure, 'cause I'm going to believe that coming from George Weasley. The same Weasley who's called me names and pranked me since I started here," she barked out.
Silence ensued. George broke it.
"Haven't you heard? Boys tease girls they like. And I am sorry about how I've acted," he spoke quietly, not at all like himself. It was freaking him out that not only was he blurting out the truth like an idiot, but also not in his usual charming way.
He'd had many girlfriends in the past. He and Fred had more dating experience individually than all of the boys in his year combined. But they had all been fake to George. All had been in vain; in hope that he could forget about the one he really loved. But forgetting the one you care about is like remembering someone you've never met.
It's impossible.
"I'm sorry Fred and I treated you so cruelly for so long. I was wrong and I've known it for a long time. But I gotta tell you. I've never felt more important than when you go out of your way to laugh at me. I've never felt more alive than that day when I woke up with pneumonia and you were the one who had to bring me my homework—"
"Which didn't matter, since you never did your homework anyways," she snorted.
"Yeah, but still, you brought it to me," he explained.
Another awkward silence.
"Sorry, but it doesn't change anything. You never saw the real me, you only saw what you wanted to see, and now, I can do better than you. I don't need your compliments or your approval anymore," she said quietly. She didn't say it angrily, but George felt like she had slapped him. It hurt more than if she had.
She rose from her seat, and went to the door. "Dammit, Weasley, I can hear you breathing. If you don't let me out right NOW, you're going to be in a lot of pain."
The door opened, revealing Fred with a look of mixed sadness and repentance on his face as he looked to his brother.
Without another word, Emmie brushed past Fred, walked down the hall and around the corner, and went out of sight.
George stared blankly at where she had disappeared, not even noticing Fred was laying a hand on his twin's shoulder and saying quietly, "Sorry, mate."
May 10, 1998
"I can't believe you're gone, Fred. It's feels like a half of me has been torn off and the half that's left is lost at sea. It sounds melodramatic, but I'm not sure how I'm going to survive without you," George said haltingly to his brother's grave. He traced the words on the cold stone that did nothing to represent Fred's vivacious personality.
Fred Weasley
Dear Son, Beloved Brother, Amazing Twin
Epic Prankster
Fred would love his tombstone.
His family had long since left, in order to allow him to grieve for his fallen brother. It was still so raw, only a week or so had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts had ended with Voldemort's defeat and Harry's victory.
Sure, he was relieved that it was all over. But he'd rather it go on forever than lose his twin in the process.
He barely registered the hand on his armr as he kneeled on the ground before the grave.
An arm went about his shoulders, pressing him to lean into the side of whatever family member had come looking for him.
He looked over dully, not really interested in who it was: until he realized it was Emmie.
"Hey," she said softly, wiping away his tears, with a handkerchief, that he hadn't realized were cascading unbidden down his face.
"Hey," he said back, giving her a half smile that probably just looked lopsided.
"I won't ask if you're okay. That would be stupid on my part. And I pride myself on my smarts," she joked half-heartedly. She looked into his eyes, searching for something, and when she found whatever it was, she drew him closer to her.
Suddenly overwhelmed by his misery at the loss of his brother, and the love for the woman holding him safely in her arms, George buried his face in the crook of her neck and sobbed.
"Shh, George, shh," she soothed, stroking his hair and resisting the urge to rock him like a child. They spent long minutes like that, and when George had cried himself out, he found the will to ask.
"Why are you here? I know you don't like me or Fred, but it was really nice of you to come. Sorry you had to see that," he gave a mirthless laugh, wiping off his face and standing up.
"I'm here because I want to be. I wanted to make sure you are going to be okay; that the George who knows how to tease mercilessly will be back someday." She smiled a weak smile.
The sound of voices drifted over to them on the air. It was his family. Oh please, don't make me leave yet! He thought desperately. I'm not ready to say goodbye. To Fred or Emmie.
Emmie seemed to sense his anguish, because she suddenly pulled him with her and quickly sprinted to the broom shed, where the groundskeeper kept the tools of the graveyard.
"We won't be found here," Emmie said, peering out the window. "You can have a little more time before you have to leave Fred."
George sighed, looking out to the grave again, "I'm not sure I can ever be like I was. It doesn't feel right to laugh without Fred to share the joke. I remember when I lost my ear protecting Harry. I was laid out on the couch and he came in all worried and asked how I was feeling. I told him I felt 'holy'. He cracked up." He choked on another sob.
Soft hands turned his face to look into her eyes. "It's not a crime to smile again, George. It's okay to be happy and whole when the pain gradually lessens. You know Fred would want you to be happy. He would roll in his grave and send you an Almighty Hex from Heaven if he thought for one second that you would never feel joy after he left."
George almost cracked a smile at the imagery that brought up. His brother would be pissed if he found out his twin was mourning. Smile, George! I'm in paradise partying with the hottest girls in Paradise. I've got it good. Stop acting like you'll never see me again. He would say.
"Thanks, Emmie," he whispered.
She smiled and pulled him into a hug. "No problem. You think we can stay in touch? I'm going to America for a year or so, to study abroad. It's about time I got out of England for awhile. I'm attending University there, and I want to contribute to England's rebuilding when I return."
George wanted to beg her to take him with her. Despite her refusal years earlier, he had never found anyone her equal. She simply wasn't going to be replaced in his heart. What would he do, now that he had felt some of her warmth, only to be taken from him to a different continent.
"I'll miss you," he said, looking down.
A moment pause and then, "I'll miss you too."
Emmie leaned up to kiss his forehead, then went to the door of the broom shed and walked out, with a small smile as her parting gift.
"Fred, did you lock me in the closet with her, or was that just a weird coincidence?" he asked out loud after a moment.
He could have sworn he heard Fred's laughter on the wind.
July 17, 2001
George's romantic motto came from a line in a movie called Hitched. "No woman wakes up in the morning thinking 'God, I hope I don't get swept off my feet today'." So it made sense that he wasn't going to give up.
Hanging up the phone again, he growled and redialed. "Emmie, I know you have work off today, you told me last week. I'm taking you on a date. Pick up the phone!" he said agitatedly when the cheerful voice of his love told him to leave a message. "Aargh!" he yelled as he slammed the phone back into the holder.
"Emmie, this is the last time I'm calling you. If you don't pick up, I'm not going to take you on a date. I swear I won't call again," he whined as the answering machine picked up again. "Never again!"
…He tried once more.
"Emmelia Sellie Whitfield, I'm coming over to your house in promptly half an hour! If you don't answer your door, I'm busting it down. Never underestimate a man in love!" with a chuckle and a 'goodbye', he hung up again.
Emmie was giving him one shot, and that was final. She had consistently turned down his offers for a date, teasing that though they had slowly become friends through the years since the war ended, she could still do better.
He knew she could. Which was why he wasn't giving up. He loved her, and he was not going to let a little (a lot) of rejection stop him.
He put on a suit and tie—He was going to do this right—making sure his hair looked impeccable, and grabbed a bouquet of flowers from the counter before he apparated to Emmie's apartment.
He smoothed his tie one more time, then knocked on the door.
He waited patiently.
When a few minutes had passed with no answer, he rang the buzzer. Stepped back and waited some more.
Finally, he grumbled, "I warned you."
And promptly kicked the door down.
Surprised that he had actually gone through with the breaking and entering threat—and knowing she would probably get a restraining order—he made his way into her small apartment.
He looked in the living room, he looked in the kitchen, he looked in the bedroom. No sign of her.
He wanted to slap himself. He had called and called, and she wasn't even in! Didn't that just take the flippin' cake?
Suddenly, he heard a noise from the broom closet near where he stood. Curiously, he opened the door and stepped inside to take a look.
"No! Don't let the door—" came a voice frantically.
The door slammed shut, the lock clicking into place..
"…close."
George was momentarily muddled by the darkness. Suddenly, everything made sense.
He burst into laughter.
"It's not FUNNY!" Emmie yelled from her spot on the floor, judging from where her voice was coming from. "I can't believe how stupid you are! You let the bloody door trap us both!"
He just kept laughing, tears of mirth rolling down his face. "I'm stupid? Who got locked in here in the first place? This explains why you didn't call back."
She started chuckling ruefully. "Actually, I could hear all of your messages from here. I've been hoping you would follow through and 'break my door down'. I was hoping to be rescued, but it seems my faith was misplaced." Now that his eyes were getting used to the dark, he could see a vague outline of Emmie's slim form. Her hair was long again, after years of growing it out. It had natural waves that enhanced her figure. Even in the dark she was beautiful.
"So, we're stuck. I guess this is our date," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice.
"I guess so. Well, at least we have plenty of time to talk."
"Possibly forever to talk. Talk until we expire here."
"So optimistic, aren't you?" he quirked a brow, though she couldn't see it.
"Optimism is your job."
They lapsed into a comfortable silence which lasted a long time. George's mind was racing, wondering if fate had offered him an opportunity. He was going to go for it.
"So, why the sudden desperation for a date?" she asked, breaking the quiet that had descended. He smiled and looked at his hands.
"M'not desperate for a date. I was desperate for a date with you," he said quietly. "Looks like this is gonna be it. My one shot."
He could hear her breathing speed up. "One shot for what?" she asked after a moment. He slowly went to his knees, edging forward until his hand made contact with hers. He took her hands and folded them in his.
"One shot to convince you how much I love you."
He leaned forward; slowly, to savor the moment. He was the moth to her flame, and it was very possible he was about to get burned. But she would always be worth it.
His lips brushed her forehead, drifted down her cheek. They found a path in the darkness, moving up across her eyelids, which had closed. He drew back for a moment, then lightly touched his lips to hers.
For a few moments, nothing happened. George sighed, and started to move back, acknowledging defeat.
"Wait…" she whispered, and put her hands on his face, drawing him back to her. Their lips met again tentatively, hesitantly.
Her mouth moved on his, the whispering sounds of kisses the only sound in the broom closet.
She pulled back for a moment.
"Hmm, I guess I was wrong," she breathed.
"Wrong about what?" he whispered, fearing the pain of refusal.
"I said I could do better…but, no one and nothing could be better than you."
For the span of three heartbeats, the world ceased to spin (a phenomenon that completely freaked out scientists later in the evening).
Then, with a moan of surrender, he crushed his mouth to hers, running his tongue along the seam of her mouth until she granted him access. His tongue drew hers out to dance, gliding together in a slow exploration of each other.
He drew back, his breathing ragged, and peppered kisses along her jaw, and down her throat, whispering, "I love you" against her collarbone.
"I love you too."
They stayed still for a few more moments, simply relishing in the heady rush of joy that those simple words brought them.
They talked for hours as they sat in the broom closet, often pausing to exchange slow kisses and words of love. It was nearly six hours later that Mrs. Weatherby, the landlady, came in and released them.
They had to admit, freedom was a bittersweet feeling.
September 28, 2006
What a day. What a dismal, crappy day.
That thought ran round and round Emmie's head as she made her way up the street to her and George's apartment. Her brow was furrowed, thinking hard about punching small animals and dismembering a certain Four-Eyed-Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Her at work tomorrow.
Emmie had come into work that day in the Auror's office with a growl and a slam of papers on Harry's desk. He stared amusedly at her as she plopped down at her desk and immediately began writing furiously.
"What's the matter, Emmie?" he'd asked.
"He forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"Our anniversary," she spat the last word venomously.
Harry had nearly burst out laughing at the absurdity of the assumption, but refrained, knowing It would only get his ass kicked. "What makes you think that?"
Sniffles started to emanate from the brunette, and she suddenly gave a sob and put her head on the desk. Startled, Harry moved around the desk to put a hand on her shoulder.
"Hey now, none of that. He hasn't forgotten your anniversary, I'm sure of it," he tried to console her, hiding a grin.
George Weasley had been getting on everyone's nerves he was so excited about their anniversary. He'd been in and out of the Burrow and Harry and Ginny's house trying to come up with ideas how to surprise his wife on their special day.
They'd been married four years, and up till now, neither had ever forgotten their wedding date. But according to Emmie, Geroge had this time. Harry knew it was not so, but he spared a stern thought for the redhead's prankish nature.
"I've got a feeling that nothing I say is going to make you feel better. But, I've got a feeling your husband is sitting at home, staring at the clock, waiting to pounce when you get home. It's just a hunch, though," he said, laughing and earning him a glare from the petite Auror.
"I can take care of things today. Ginny said she would get your paperwork done in time. She also said, 'Harry, tell Emmie to take the day off and go get pampered and dolled up for your George.'"
"Well…fine. I'm not really in the mood for catching Death Eaters today. I might hurt someone in the mood I'm in anyways," she sighed reluctantly. Not that she was going to 'doll herself up' for George.
As she made her way around Diagon Alley, looking for something to do while George was still at work, just a few alleys down, she figured she might as well get pampered. It had nothing to do with her prat of a husband, she told herself firmly.
She got her nails done, a massage with scented oils, and a quick hair trim.
Of course, the nail stylist gave her the wrong color, the massage went awry and gave her a crick in her lower back, and the hair witch had dyed her tresses two different hideous shades before they got it fixed and her hair was back to its honey brown.
What a day.
She came up to the door, and went in, locking it behind her. She breathed out slowly, and turned around.
George wasn't there to greet her.
A note was on the floor. It read…
Dearest Emmie,
Broom Closet.
See you there.
Love,
George
What?
Emmie stared at the note, completely baffled. What the hell was George talking about? She shrugged, and started to make her way up the stairs towards the broom closet where they stored all the stuff that had never made it out of unpacking. There was really noting to be said for the unoffending little room, but something seemed…different.
As she came up to the door, her breathing quickened. Something was definitely going on, and for some reason she couldn't place…she had a feeling she was going to like it.
She turned the knob, and slowly stepped into the darkness. A second passed, and then all of a sudden, the tiny closet was lit with brilliant light. Only…it wasn't a tiny broom closet anymore.
A vast room awaited her, enhanced by an Expanding Charm, with a tiny table set for two with a lavish dinner. Music played softly in the background, and off to the left was a wide bed, which made her heart gallop in her chest.
A pair of arms snaked around her waist and pulled her to a strong chest.
"Happy Anniversary, my love."
Emmie burst into tears.
George quickly turned her around to look at him, fear and worry in his eyes. "Emmie? Emmie, what's wrong? Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry—"
He cut himself off as helpless giggles erupted from his wife, her mirth mingling with her tears.
"Oh Geroge, no, you've done nothing wrong. It's me that needs to apologize. I've made the most complete cake of myself! I thought—I thought you'd…forgotten," she hiccupped through her apology.
George laughed. "Well, I couldn't ruin the surprise, now could I? It's been killing me all day, knowing you were probably stewing and storing up words for me. But, I hoped you would forgive me and we could have an amazing evening in the broom closet."
Emmie wiped off her face and laughed. "Doesn't really look much like a broom closet to be honest. And may I ask, why the broom closet?"
George smiled, and looked down at his hands, which were playing with her fingers.
"Because, love," he said in a deeper voice than the one she was used to. It sent shivers up her spine. "it's where so many of the defining points in our relationship have been. It's where I first truly met you, where I confessed the love I had bottled up for so long, where you rejected me, where you accepted me and we first kissed…" he trailed off, planting tiny pecks on each of her fingertips, then kissed her palms.
Emmie thought she was about to drown in the soft heat in his eyes when he looked back up at her.
"And I thought I would express a little gratefulness to the room where all my hopes came true."
With a cheeky grin, the intense mood was broken, and he clasped her hand in his, tugging her over to the table. "Now," he said dramatically, "We shall dine on the most savory foods, the sweetest desserts, and the best wine in the Wizarding world! Come, my dear, let us feast!"
With a laugh, Emmie allowed herself to be seated. She ate sparingly, though the food was delicious, looking over at the wide bed every so often. When they had finished, George changed the music playing to a soft ballad, and swept her in a dance around the floor of the transformed broom closet.
When the music began to wane, they stood swaying slowly on the 'dancefloor', whispering words of love to each other. George's hands were gently massaging her back, swiftly erasing the crick she'd gotten earlier.
"My beloved Emmie, thank you so much for marrying me four years ago. You made me the happiest bloke alive, and I'll treasure you forever, and try my absolute hardest to never forget that special day," he smirked as he teased her.
"Hmm, and if you do forget someday, I'll do my best not to be too hasty as I kill you," she hummed dubiously. She winked at him, suddenly looking over at the bed again.
He followed her gaze, a mischievous smile playing around the edges of his mouth.
"Emmie, I do believe you've read my mind!" he exclaimed, sweeping her into him arms and carrying her to the bed.
There's something to be said for broom closets after all! Was her last coherent thought for quite a while.
So there you have it. Read and Review, my friends. I have to know that I'm not totally being idiotic in my love for George. I hope to hear from you all soon.