"Charlie, I can do it myself, I'm fine now. Fed, hydrated, well-rested, sufficiently untraumatized."
"My mum raised a gentleman, 'Rie. C'mon. You haven't even got a wand."
Eventually, after a little bickering and scuffling, and Henrietta questioning the antifeminist purpose of chivalry, they entered her flat. It was small, plain, and distinctly un-lived in, and she seemed embarrassed by the beige walls and lack of personal touch. No wallpaper, no photos, and just a small couch that had obviously come with the rental.
"As soon as I moved in, work was hectic," she explained, coloring a little. "I never even actually fully unpacked. There wasn't really much to put away."
He checked the cabinets. "There's no food in here. You should be on your knees, begging Mum for a weekly package. It'd give her something to do, anyway."
"Okay, first of all, I shop," she defended, sending him an offended look with just a pair of raised brows. "I just haven't slept here in two weeks," she clarified with a small shake of her head, leaving him alone and immediately hopping into the shower. The shoes she left in the middle of the hallway were the only source of clutter, but the place was filthy.
He wondered if the bathroom was any cleaner. He wondered if he actually cared to know the answer. So he sighed and began to fire off a few cleaning spells, trying to make the place less lonely. Even the spiderwebs were abandoned. The Burrow was cluttered, definitely, but this was practically haunted. Seemed more like Grimmauld Place, which he'd been lucky enough to see only once. Grim old place, that house, with more unpleasant memories than floorboards. But he did not want to think of Sirius, didn't want to think of Remus. He especially did not want to think about Tonks. Not now, when it hurt. Later, when it was time to remember the good times. His chest ached a little, but he forced himself to push the thoughts away. Later, he promised himself. There was time to be maudlin later.
Stepping back into the room more rapidly than he'd thought possible, Henrietta had transformed, looking much cleaner and more relaxed than she had fifteen minutes previously. Her hair was dripping wet, but she didn't seem bothered. Which was good. At least the pain she'd been in had gone away. She'd been right as rain at breakfast, answering Hermione's many questions about St. Mungo's and detailing semi-embarrassing stories about Bill for the entertainment of Ginny and Fleur, flinging her breakfast potatoes at Ron with an accuracy that had impressed George and Harry.
Though stories about Bill were only so humiliating - his elder brother had never had an awkward stage - and Ron, with the instincts of a Keeper, actually managed to block her assault once he'd realized where it was coming from. She'd even managed to coax a smile out of Mum with her offer to do the dishes.
They'd stayed until after lunch, where Ginny had insisted on inviting a neighbor, whom Harry and Ginny had paid particular respectful attention to. It was halfway through the meal before Henrietta had realized that this was Luna Lovegood, the same friend that a nine-year-old Ginny had introduced her to. She'd grown, to say the least. She'd been involved in many of Harry Potter's adventures, and apparently her mother had died only days after Henrietta had met them.
The girl was also oddly beautiful; not like Fleur, who glowed with a strange evanescent beauty that was both physical and metaphysical, but airy and feminine with a strangely sharp wit that was belied by her odd mannerisms. She seemed to hold power over most of the Weasleys and even over Harry. It was not a controlling atmosphere, but one of reverence, though Hermione, for her part, seemed rather untouched by it. The same way Fleur's allure seemed to dim everyone in her shadow, eclipsing them, Luna's eccentric aura seemed to dim Hermione, making her seem harsher, despite their obvious familiarity. Friends who didn't much like one another weren't unfamiliar to Henrietta, though she puzzled at what she might be missing. It seemed to her as though Luna was a young woman of many depths; a question led to more questions, and she resolved to get to know the girl better.
"Why don't you sleep here?" Charlie wondered, sitting on the small couch. He'd unpacked the basket of food his mum had sent with them. "I mean, it seems like the Shrieking Shack would be more comfortable, but you pay to live here." There was no table to put his feet, no books or magazines. Not even a wireless. The Weasley family's wireless was one of their most precious belongings. Except during Christmas, when Mum commandeered it and constantly played Celestina Warbeck.
"Work has been... unbelievably hectic," she shook her head wearily, as if the very reminder sapped her energy. "Constant. Everywhere you look, Muggle-borns have been cursed or hexed and need immediate attention. Then they tried to pass a new legislation saying Muggles can't be healed, even after the nastier curses or contact with hexed items, that they'd send officers out to make it look like a non-magical scenario, car accidents and explosions. It's ridiculous, and it's a total death sentence for these people and they don't even understand why, and these people are so incompetent that half the time they end up cursing themselves while trying to figure out what happened and how to cover it up properly. Then we have to heal Death Eaters or their cohorts from the same curses that injured the Muggles to begin with!"
Continuing on that vein for a while, he studied her, swept up in passion and righteous fury. In their youth, he'd always quizzed her, asking her questions about his family, or his dragons, testing to make sure she was genuinely listening to him when he spoke. So often, he felt as though he'd been tuned out. Understandably, since his three favorite subjects had been magical creatures, Quidditch, and his family. Belatedly, he realized he rarely let her speak about her own interests. She'd always been a mirror for other people, allowing them to reflect off her. What sort of friend was he?
"Tell me more about your work with the Order," he invited, while she ran a comb through her wet hair. "How did you learn about it? Your parents don't have much to do with it, do they?" He was singularly unwilling to ask about her brother. It had caused her too much distress already. He had caused her too much distress. Her family was a sore subject, and she generally refrained from discussing them. At least with him. If she confided in Bill, Bill was an excellent secret-keeper. But they'd known one another long enough and well enough that the pair of them practically had their own language. It would have been enough to make Fleur jealous, Charlie mused, if Henrietta, via owl, hadn't early established herself as one of Fleur's champions, though the pair weren't particularly well-acquainted.
"Tonks, obviously, though I wasn't so much in the Order as working sidelong with them. I said before that Rowan was like an informant to me. She has research skills most people could never dream of. She somehow devised a way to spy on the border patrol, figuring out patterns in security, when it was heightened and where, and why, and when it was decreased," she smiled proudly. "It was down to an exact science. Honestly, it was brilliant, I'm still not quite sure how she managed it, and she's explained it to me several times. So when Muggleborns were ready to leave intensive care, rather than letting them be escorted out by Death Eaters - likely to Azkaban or even just to their deaths, we smuggled them out. Of course, we never could've dreamed of doing it without the Order's help," she said, and elucidated. "Someone from the Order would take a Polyjuice potion and help me get them out of there. It was a bloody constant job, honestly, because it's difficult to tell who's actually themselves, and people don't exit hospitals in groups. Safehouses had to be arranged as well."
Riveted by the detail, Charlie leaned forward while she elaborated on the inner-workings of the Order. It was a little awing, what they'd done. The level of attention to detail required was heart-stopping.
"Fred and George did a lot of those missions, actually, though I had little contact with them except for making them sign discharge papers. There was always a codeword - it changed often, always on Potterwatch," she grinned wryly. "It became almost a game. They'd find the oddest words and find ways to slip them into casual conversation. Tonks was usually good for it too, though her Auror duties sometimes interfered, and then her pregnancy."
Becoming serious again, and yanking at a particularly troublesome knot tangled in her hair, she looked up at him. He realized, too late, that he should've offered to do a drying spell on her hair.
"It was dangerous work. For everyone involved. For your brothers, for Rowan. The borders were watched, Apparation is tracked, portkeys are closely monitored. The Ministry can see every move. Getting portkeys licensed just became more and more difficult, and a lot of the travelling was on foot or by broom. Most of those people were hardly well enough to wipe their own arses, after the ordeals they'd been through, and they'd be faced with potentially dying. Being chased, or duelling with people who want you dead... some people didn't want to do it. They were scared. Too scared to escape." Her voice tapered off, remembering. Charlie shuddered at the thought. People so frightened they wouldn't even attempt to save their own lives, or so deluded into trusting the Ministry that they'd allow themselves to die. "They could hardly stand, some of them had their wands confiscated or broken already, and they were terrified. We'd have to Obliviate them and let them make their choice. You can't force people to accept freedom. You can't force them to live or die in a way they don't want to. Even when you know it isn't right."
"You could've been caught," Charlie observed, finding it odd that his throat suddenly felt swollen, his voice low. He was in physical pain, his muscles tight and his eyes and throat burning, lungs constricting. "A million times over. Bloody foolish, that was. Whether it was Death Eaters or a loudmouth foreigner who doesn't know just what damage was going on politically."
They sat for a moment, absorbing that. Obviously it had been dangerous. Obviously she could've been caught. They all lived in danger every day. Charlie was at risk of being burnt, gored, or crushed. They could've all been turned in as blood traitors. They might've died during the Final Battle. They could die in a few hours. What did it matter, so long as their lives had meant something? He watched her, struggling with her long, damp hair, her eyes faraway.
"I tried to smuggle Ben out, but he refused," she admitted, her voice so faint that he knelt forward to hear her, his ear next to her mouth. She stared at his chest. "Before the Ministry really fell. He said he'd stay, to try and help any way he could. We were fighting about it - the day of… the day of Bill's wedding. I was tired… so tired, Charlie," she let her mouth hang open a little, showing her teeth. They needled at her lower lip a little. "I said things that I shouldn't've. It had been such a hard day. But he was strong 'till the end. And he suffered for that. He suffered for the sake of bravery and little else. It seems so pointless now... We would've gotten the same result if he'd agreed in that very moment. He was doomed simply for existing, Charlie, and the principle of it is irrelevant now, isn't it?"
In true Gryffindor fashion, she wanted to say to Charlie, his eyes so soft and understanding. Braver for that he was always frightened. The cowardly boy they'd known had grown, and he had probably died for it. Henrietta began to cry for the second time in two days, and Charlie stood, wrapping his arms around her as she began to dissolve into heavy sobs, breaking down entirely as she recounted the past year and a half of her life. He held her so closely he felt that he wasn't quite sure where she began and he ended, that her crying would be his tears too.
"It's not fair," she railed, leaving a wet mark against his chest. "He was always so frightened. Of everything. He was so scared but he wanted to help anyway! Because he knew it was the right thing to do. And now he's probably dead, and so is Tonks, and Remus, and Fred! And all those kids, Charlie!"
He felt the dam of his own emotions strain against the weight of her tears, his heart breaking as she clung to him. "I know," he said hoarsely, knowing his words meant little, hoping his embrace could do more. He ran his hands across her back, pressing her as tightly as he could without breaking her in half. He gripped her as though she were a baby dragon he were wrestling with, holding her with all the strength in his body, trying to contain the emotion that threatened to erupt.
"I just imagine Bill, or you, or Rowan having to face Death Eaters in the same hallways that you were supposed to be safest in. Facing Barnaby… or Merula Snyde," she whispered, her breath hot against his chest, trembling with the effort to not break. "Or the bloody Minister. Or your own teachers."
He clutched her like she was the only thing that could keep him from falling over, like his balance in the universe was solely dependent on his grip on this crying witch, and her hair was sopping and cold against his arms. Nothing made sense because it wasn't supposed to. The lines between pureness and purity were not evenly drawn, and shadows needed light, and dragonfire burned like ice, and Tonks was dead. Purity was not clean and mud was not evil and choosing death was sometimes brave and refusing to participate did not mean wisdom and choosing life was sometimes brave and sometimes all of those things meant cowardice. And sometimes cowardice was not a sin. He was tired of ultimatums, of clean lines and definition. They could be blown apart so easily by the fury of a curse or a falling wall or a government that did not operate like it was supposed to.
"There have just been so many battles," she muttered to his chest, and he felt the vibrations of her voice. "It just never feels like we did enough. To prevent it or to end it. A seventeen-year-old killed him, Charlie, he killed the greatest dark wizard in history. Does anyone ever remember that he's a child? The Boy Who Lived… and he's a boy! We had breakfast with him, Charlie!" she grew a little hysterical, and he soothed her, patting her back and rubbing her shoulders and squeezing her arms, trying to keep her present. "He was so normal! He's dating your sister! Your mother scolded him for his table manners!"
Charlie remembered turning seventeen, and Henrietta and Ben had been with him. He imagined the graduation ceremony turning into a warzone. Or he tried. As hard as he tried, he could not imagine it. "I know," he whispered again, and her keening became incoherent until it slowly petered out and she simply leaned against him, no longer crying but quaking uncontrollably, her body twitching with the force of her emotion. After a few minutes, she began to settle, her weeping waned to quiet shaking, and then even her breathing quieted.
"I'm so sorry, Charlie," she said, more than a little mournfully. "You haven't seen me in years and I'm doing this, and you have just as much to cry about. More, really," she said, trying to force a smile and step away. He did not let her, loosening his grip but still effectively trapping her with his arms. It was his turn. He'd comforted her, and now he just wanted to hold her a little longer. Wanted to be held in return.
He wanted her.
To hold him, he clarified to himself. He'd never suffered from loneliness, but it suddenly felt vital that she hug him back, embrace him with the same strength he'd just held her with. Like he was her anchor in a moment that gravity lost its magical pull, or otters holding hands in repose as the gentle flow of a river sent them down to an unfamiliar setting.
Sensing his intention, she leaned back into him, short and sturdy and fully. Alive. Safe. That was a miracle in itself. They were scarred, but that was okay. That was good. Scars meant there had been a fight. Fight was good.
Gratefully, he let her rest against him, feeling the softness of her robes, worn and familiar, appreciating the tight grip she had around his torso and her cheek against his shoulder. The skin of her forehead was warm against the crook of his neck and shoulder.
"I'm glad Wood found you," he said, the thought of her lying alone next to a dead man enough to send him into a frenzy worse than a Chinese Fireball in heat. He was glad Oliver had found her, because he would have torn down the castle in a fit of fury if he'd seen her lying next to Tonks. Next to his brother. Unconsciously, he shuddered. He was glad she was crying. It meant she was processing what had happened. He didn't think anyone would process Fred's death until after the funeral. He wondered if George ever would.
"Me too," he could feel her rub her temple against his chest, soothing him, but probably also attempting to keep her hair from tickling her face. "I probably would've died if he hadn't. Not being dead is excellent, actually."
"He came to find me," Charlie continued, saying it to her hair. "He hunted me down like a Seeker chases a Snitch. You know the look, you've met that maniacal little bastard."
"Only a few times," she chuckled a little, looking up at him, but it was a weak effort. Her brown eyes were shining, her face puffy and red. "Little isn't a word I'd use to describe that man, anyhow. He's huge. Brawny even. Are we sure he isn't related to Hagrid?"
"It was after the battle, after... Voldemort fell. All he said to me and Bill was 'Highbridge is over there in the corner. Half-dead.'" Charlie grinned at the blend of surprise, fear, delight, and worry that had overcome him in that moment. "I ran over there like my pants were on fire," he said, not exaggerating even a little.
She laughed a little at that, but it was a strained sound. Reserved, like she wasn't sure if laughing was allowed, but strong, as if she'd thought of the funniest thing imaginable but she was in the middle of her NEWTs. Impossible to keep it in but a struggle to let out.
"Really," he insisted cheerfully. "I've been less panicked over dragon skirmishes," he added, trying to coax a real smile from her. Where had she gone, the girl he'd known? Easy, calm, determined. She'd been traumatized, utterly spent from exhaustion and turmoil. It was wrong of him to expect her to be the same as she'd been their seventh year. But still, he wondered what she was like when she wasn't in the aftermath of a battle that had decided the fate of the wizarding world. Was she still so deadpan? Did she have the same smug look about her when she was feeling particularly accomplished?
Was he as different as she was? Had anyone stayed the same? Was it even possible? Time marched inexorably on, and even time-turners could not change truths once they were known.
"He was right," she pointed out. "I think he truly thought I was dead when he found me. He dug me out of a broken corridor."
"The only reason Bill didn't climb over the head of every person in there is because Fleur was injured," Charlie finished, his heart swelling with love and pride at the thought of Bill, who'd so clearly wanted to rush over, losing a little bit of that facade of 'cool' he'd always worn so easily. Fleur and Henrietta were two witches who'd always managed to break that side of his brother, bring out the dopey sap in him.
Since Bill was incapable, Charlie had done just that, nearly knocking over several celebrating groups of witches and wizards with his broad frame, mindless to everything except Henrietta. While Fleur's injury had been minor, the love between her and his brother was palpable; it was visible in his eyes that he wanted to murder every single Death Eater with his bare hands, then take her pain upon himself. He wouldn't leave her for the world, and had thanked Charlie later for going after their friend. Beloved friend. Best friend, perhaps.
Their similarities in age and their likeness in disposition meant they'd always been close. They'd always felt the pressure to achieve, to be good examples for their siblings, but also the calling to find adventure. Bill would've done the same thing if their positions were reversed, going as a surrogate for his brother. They had an ease of relationship that none of their other siblings had. They were close friends, different enough to carve their own paths but still able to understand one another. The only other two who had anything resembling their symbiotic relationship were the twins, but their identities had always been inextricable from one another's, more codependent than anything else. Charlie supposed he was lucky to have Bill; Percy had always been a loner, and Ron felt his 'youngest brother' status deeply, and Ginny had been everyone's baby girl. They all loved one another deeply, of course, but Charlie counted himself among the luckiest of his brothers.
"Don't exaggerate. I was fine." Henrietta gave him one of her signature facial expressions, her forehead tilted back and her eyes narrowed, with her mouth pouting and curious, nose flaring.
"You were not," he contradicted merrily. "You looked worse than the twins that time their first year-"
"When they 'accidentally' blew up three packs of Exploding Snap in Potions," they finished together, and Henrietta chortled, an ugly, unmelodious sound that filled him up with happiness to hear. Then they quieted. Because the twins would no longer ever be the twins.
"I've missed you," he told her again, partly because he meant it and partially because he wanted something to say. To fill the silence. It was an easy silence, but he'd spent too long without hearing her voice.
"You keep saying that, but sooner or later, you'll jet off to Romania on your broom without so much as an owl, and don't say you won't. Worst corresponder I've ever met," she said, and he could picture her mutinous expression, feeling her face morph against his robes.
Charlie only looked sheepish, and she stepped away, shaking her head at him, her mannerisms normal and her face swollen.
"C'mon, then, when are you leaving really?"
"Maybe a month. Probably less," he hedged. "Though if the family needs me, I'll put it off. They'll be fine without me for a while at the Sanctuary."
"So, as soon as possible?"
"Yeah," he admitted, grinning. "I love it. I can't wait to get back."
Henrietta gave him the same soft, easy smile she wore whenever she had gotten the answer right in Transfiguration class, or managed a new charm for the first time. It was an expression full of muted pride. He hadn't felt its quiet warmth in many years, and it made him wistful. "I'm happy for you, Charlie. But I'll miss you too. Now," she said briskly. "I need to pop off to Rowan's, make sure she's alright. Then I have to go to St. Mungo's and see if they terminated my contract. Then I'll have to go to Gringotts and get a new one."
"What if they don't terminate it?" Charlie asked stupidly, not quite following her train of thought.
"If they don't, I will," she answered bluntly. "I need to get out of here m'self, Charlie, whether I want to or not. Curse-breaking is invigorating, it's fun, it's spontaneity and thinking on your feet, bringing home treasure and history. It's learning new spells and new concepts every day, staying active and seeing beautiful, powerful things. Old magic... it's indescribable. Curse-breaking at St. Mungo's is depressing, monotonous work, and honestly, I'm exhausted and rather well-off by this point. Even if the goblins don't give me a new assignation - which they will, since they weren't keen on me going to St. Mungo's anyway - I could use a long vacation. Maybe travel a bit. Fleur'd love it if I went to France. She'd said at breakfast she hasn't seen Gabrielle in far too long."
Charlie couldn't argue with that. Though an idea began to percolate in his mind, and he just needed to phrase it properly, to entice her without pressuring her.
"Come to Romania," he invited indelicately.
Her brows raised and her mouth quirked. "Charlie, I don't know the first thing about dragons, and that includes not dying. Thanks for the offer, but I prefer my eyebrows not singed off."
"Listen, there's a lot of abandoned castles out there that Gringotts is beginning to explore," he wheedled, seeing the spark of interest in her eye and pushing. "It's a new initiative they began a while back but discontinued with the war. You'd be fulfilling your passion and you'd be close enough to Apparate back to my place. It's a real cabin, as well, and we can easily upgrade it. Not as hot as Egypt. A whole new environment to study in... and you'd see my dragons."
"Are you suggesting we move in together on the basis of showing me highly dangerous creatures I'm not even slightly qualified to handle?" she raised a brow, but did not seem adverse so much as confused. "Charlie, we haven't spoken in years. For all we know, we'd hate one another. Perhaps I'm supremely annoying and cramp your style. Maybe I think you're an neat-freak and blow my brains out."
"You couldn't have ever changed enough for me to not adore you," he assured her with a grin. "And I believe I am uniquely unhateable. Not sure if it's the strapping good looks or my incredible personality. Besides, if it turns out we're incompatible, which I doubt, you can easily get a new place, even if it's round the Sanctuary. They're constantly rebuilding and upgrading."
"You're bloody barmy," she told him, but he could see she wasn't totally adverse. There was an ease to her statement; her rejections were never final when they were serious, they were thoughtful and slow. Flat-out denials meant she could be convinced. "Your mum would have kittens, and-"
"Bugger every excuse you've got," he declared, though she was right about his mum and he would make very sure not to inform her of that particular detail. "You're coming to Romania. You don't even have to stay long, but it'll be nice to have friends nearby. You can leave whenever you want. Just come for a few weeks. Explore a castle or two. You'll fall in love, I'm calling it now. You need a new challenge. You aren't good with stagnation. You did Egypt beautifully, then you helped save the world. Now you're due for a bit more fun."
Her expression morphed into something he couldn't quite define. He couldn't read if it was compassion, wistfulness, sadness, or even just thoughtful curiosity. "You're probably right, Charlie. I'll have a go at it."
"Don't do it out of pity," he urged, unsure if he liked the expression stealing across her face. "Do it because you like me, and I want you to. You moved to ruddy Africa to pal around with Bill, now come to Romania with me." He grinned. "Next you can help George run the joke shop. Make you a Weasley by trade, even if not by coloring."
Back to confused. Henrietta looked up at him. "This rather sudden, Charlie. What do you even mean?"
Running a hand through his head, he tried to explain what he hadn't even yet explicitly considered. Now that he'd said it aloud, it felt like the right thing to do, and he didn't understand why she couldn't see it. He'd never wanted anyone from his life here to come to Romania, and he was feeling urgent now that she didn't seem to be receptive to the idea. Charlie was good at compartmentalizing. Family was in one box, neatly tied away. Dragons were in another. Girls in a third, and mates in a fourth. He'd never brought a girl home, with the exception of Tonks or Henrietta, and he was a brutal manager at work, with no time for games or politics. He disliked messiness and carnage.
"You were my best friend in school," he began slowly, working it over in his own mind. "Probably the best friend I've ever had, except for Tonks, of course. You're an adventurer at heart, but even-keeled, which is a good quality. Don't think I've ever met someone with such a lack of temper." After living with his family, the less likely to explode in fits of fury the better. Same went for dragons, who were liable to eat a fellow for waking them up from a nap. "You're smart, brilliant really. You're kind," he realized he was rambling, and felt a bit foolish, but as he continued, he only strengthened his resolve and his position on the matter.
He'd always hated when people referred to one another as 'kind'. It felt like a cop-out, a weak word, a placeholder for people who lacked strength of character. But it felt right, saying it to her, and he meant it with the most vehemence he could summon. She was kind when it was easier to be snippy or morose. She was good to others when they didn't deserve it. When she didn't particularly want to be. When it was necessary, and when it wasn't. That was the mark of a true Hufflepuff. Being good even when it didn't feel good. That's why she and Tonks got along. Tonks, constantly joking and pranking and goofing off, always skiving off class, was true to herself and accepting of others, their good qualities and their flaws.
With his train of thought, he'd just changed the meaning of the word in his heart forever. Kind didn't mean malleable, passive, lukewarm. Kindness was difficult and treacherous, and it was chosen. Hufflepuff wasn't the boring house; it was the house of righteousness, far more than Gryffindor ever was.
"And I…" he realized he'd trailed off, leaving her with an obviously unconvinced set of her mouth. "Well, I-" Frustrated at his inability to find words that weren't blathering rambles, he leaned down impulsively, gripping her shoulders with perhaps a little too much force, and kissing the bewilderment off her lips.
It had been a long time since Charlie had kissed anyone, and if he was being honest with himself, he was a little nervous that she'd hex him for his trouble and never speak to him again. That would have been the worst case scenario. Rejection... and a well-placed Flipendo. He forgot she didn't have her wand, that she'd never harm anyone on purpose.
He forgot everything, because to his absolute delight, she responded, utterly melting his brain. It took her a split second that felt like years. She was good at processing. So was he, and he felt every beat of her heart until she chose her reaction. Her hands moved up to his neck and jaw, angling him better, leaning on tiptoe to reach him more comfortably. The movement sent goosepimples down his arms and legs. She tasted like the butterbeer she'd had after lunch, nicked from Ron, who deserved it after all the bloody thieving he did from others' plates.
Her lips were dry, but her mouth was warm and moist and he did not want to let go of her, not when she'd just leaned against him and taken more control of the kiss. Unable to tear himself away, he wrapped his arms around her waist, encouraging her closeness. She felt soft and slightly damp and smelled incredible. Her soap smelled like lime, in that overly-processed, unnatural, pungent way, and it was delicious. Fresh, clean, sweet and tangy. He wondered vaguely what kind of potion it was - it was intoxicating. Was it new? Had she always smelled like this?
He didn't want to let go. He did though, pushing for as long as he could until he knew he had to stop. Before he did something that really would get him hexed.
Breaking away, he apologized, feeling his face redden in the same unflattering shade he'd seen on Ginny a million times. Suddenly, he felt very aware of what had just happened. His heart was thrumming in his ears. He felt hot all over. He felt his blood surging south and stepped away a little bit.
"Yeah, I wish you'd given me some warning on that," she chided him, but her expression was a little bit soft, a little dreamy, and that made him hopeful, preening like a dragon who'd just hatched a dozen eggs. "Why did you do that?"
Her hand traveled slowly to her mouth, touching it, as if verifying that the moment hadn't been a daydream. He'd left them tender and swollen. It made him want to do that again, to memorize their texture and consistency. Were her lips lush and malleable or were they lean and strong? How would they fit in his mouth? What did her tongue like to do?
"I've been thinking of it ever since I remembered telling you how you should be a Weasley," he admitted, unabashed and unashamed, secure in his decision. "It just got stuck in my head. I don't know why I didn't do it sooner, really."
The look on her face only cemented that bit of self-recrimination. He should've done it a decade ago.
"So that's why you want me to come to Romania, so you can have your way with me," she teased, eyes widening in mock-surprise to hide her actual surprise. "Well, I should be flattered your intentions are honorable." Then she looked dumbstruck as an idea came to her. "Charlie… have you ever been with a girl?"
"Very few," he confessed, still unembarrassed. This was Henrietta - she'd seen him and Bill practically tackling one another over quibbles about Quidditch or care packages, had half-guided him through adolescence, had once comforted him as he'd cried over an elderly owl that had died, and never ever made situations awkward. It was a rare talent, he realized suddenly, that was probably a side-along gift of her kindness. She had the ability to make people comfortable around her, and her wide eyes were never judgmental, always open and willing to accept what she was seeing. "Suffice to say few have piqued my interest. Though if you prefer lads with more experience, I'll owl those Gryffindor girls straight away. For research purposes. One of them wouldn't have happened to be Lascivia Sybaris, would they?" he joked hopefully.
"Again, flattering," she said, eyes twinkling. Those bruised-looking lips quirked. "What an offer. To get Laci's leftovers. Really, absolutely corking, mate. This may be the opportunity of a lifetime. How could I say no?" Before he could respond, she turned her gaze up to him, pinkening a little herself. "Can I... kiss you again?"
Flushing a little at the question, he nodded, and she took the lead this time, different from what he'd done, nipping at his lips and using her tongue and essentially sending Charlie over the moon with each little scrape of her teeth and suckling against his lips. Even if he hadn't been so delighted by what she was doing, he would've been blissful over the fact that she'd initiated it. She'd wanted it, just as he had.
"You're a better kisser than I am," he complimented her, burying his face into her neck, unwilling to let go and unwilling to push his luck. "All those suitors, huh?"
"I've probably had a bit more practice than you've had," she reminded him straightforwardly. "I've had a few boyfriends."
"None of them worked out?"
She blew a sigh heavily. "They all broke it off for the same reason."
"What reason?" Charlie wondered aloud, suddenly overwhelmed with annoyance. How could anyone find her anything other than enchanting?
She shrugged, looking genuinely uncomfortable for the first time, even moreso than when they'd been discussing Lee the day before. "Can we talk about this another time?"
"Do you want me to go?" he offered, wanting to maintain the happiness of the past few moments, to wrap them into a Pensieve and visit it again, untainted by the tragedy around them. For a moment, his mind had been away from the war. It was precious.
"No, come see Rowan," she urged. "It'll make her day. She goes a little stir-crazy sometimes. She's hardly left her room since before the war. Terrible idea for her to have moved from her parents. She gets virtually no contact with humans."
Smiling down at her, he agreed, and she held his arm, Apparating with a pop.
"Where are we?" he wanted to know. It was a barren-looking place, with dead grass and little shrubbery.
"Near Upper Flagley," she explained, and began striding towards a small house. A very small house, that appeared to grow smaller the closer they got. Brown, beaten wood contrasted with the lovely sky overhead.
"How does she fit her books in there?" Charlie wanted to know. The cabin was small and shoddily constructed, hardly large enough to be an outhouse, and definitely allowing in drafts and the wet.
"That's a rubbish question and I refuse to answer it," she said, deadpan, and he grinned. She opened the door easily, no wand or unlocking required, and stuck her head in the door. "Oi! Rowan! Put some trousers on, I'm here with Charlie Weasley and he doesn't want to see your knickers."
"No Bill?" came a disappointed, disembodied voice from deep within the shack.
"No, and no Gilderoy Lockhart either," she turned to Charlie. "Be cautious now. Mind the steps."
She disappeared into the shack, and Charlie nodded, carefully stepping into the cabin. Immediately, he realized that the building was really more of a cover. Rowan lived underground, and likely it was the size of a small stadium.
As he descended, he realized he'd been correct. Brightly lit, and strewn with Hufflepuff house colors, various houseplants, and more books than were in the Hogwarts library, Rowan Khanna was living in her own personal heaven, with nobody to naysay her or to give her reason to dress appropriately.
"Charlie!" Rowan crowed, nearly tripping over a pile of books in her excitement. She hadn't taken Henrietta's advice to put on more clothing.
Not that he minded.
The years had treated Rowan Khanna excellently. While Henrietta was practically the same height as she'd been at age eleven, Rowan had become quite statuesque, with long, shapely legs left uncovered by a loose robe . A forehead that had once been too large was covered with a thick fringe, and she'd swapped her glasses for a more flattering pair. Her cheekbones had come to prominence, and the nose that had once been too large for her face had become an elegant feature in an overall lovely face. Acne had been replaced by a smooth complexion, and while she was in obvious disarray, she still was… honestly, very fetching. It was a shocking transformation. He couldn't help but stare.
"Blokes," Henrietta said wisely to Rowan. "Told you clothes were a good idea. Don't hug him now, mind."
"I thought Charlie of all people wouldn't be bothered," Rowan sighed, adjusting her glasses and stepping away. "And I lost my last clean pair. You know I'm rubbish at cleaning spells. I was just having a bit of a lie-in when you came. What's new with you, Henrietta? I heard the war is over!"
"Have you left the house yet?" Henrietta asked, calm and even compared to Rowan's blighted chattering. "Charlie, make yourself useful and run some cleaning spells."
"Where's your wand?" Rowan wanted to know.
"Lost in the battle," she answered grimly, and Rowan shook her head in understanding.
Unlike most other people Charlie had seen lately, Rowan Khanna seemed absolutely untouched by the horrors of war. It was a little disconcerting, a little comforting, and a little irritating. She'd never been a coward, but she wasn't good for direct action, and her ability with a wand left something to be desired. That she'd holed away for the past year meant she'd missed a good deal of the trauma that had been inflicted on the wizarding world. She'd made herself useful, that was clear, had assisted Henrietta and thus the Order, and behind-the-scenes machinations were just as vital to a victory as outright rebellion... but he couldn't help be bothered. Perhaps it was a sense of superiority? Or anger? Jealousy? He couldn't quite define the emotion that tainted his state of mind. How could he resent her for hiding when almost everyone had done it? Yet he envied her for her innocence.
The two girls chattered as Charlie made quick work of the messy hidey-hole, lost in his own thoughts. The room seemed to change size and shape as he put books and scrolls neatly away, spelled clean clothing to fold itself and disappear into trunks, and Vanished the rubbish. It was quite fascinating, reminding him of his father's old tents.
"Ben made it for us," Rowan had said, and Charlie only half listened after that, once again thrown into the lurch of reminiscence. "And I've managed to track down Andre - he's going to be coming home soon. I haven't been able to locate Penny but the news should be so widespread soon that she'll hear about it and come home. Tulip was released from Azkaban - a few weeks after that close encounter, she'd stirred up trouble again. Did you hear they're debating the use of Dementors at the prison? Saying it's inhumane. Can't say I disagree. Even for Death Eaters. Those creatures are nightmarish."
Only half listening, Charlie's mind wandered to Sirius, to Remus and Tonks. To Xenophilius Lovegood, who'd been imprisoned in Azkaban as well, according to Luna's offhand comment.
"That's not a bad idea, but where will they go? It'll be a rampage out here."
"I was researching what the Dementors did before Azkaban," Rowan continued enthusiastically, reaching around for her books, seeming to recognize them by touch. "There were hundreds of Muggle attacks, even attacks on wizards. Azkaban was the only possible truce we could consider. They resided there from way back, and -"
Rowan began to educate them both about the history of the island and Dementors, which was apparently more brutal and horrifying than historians would discuss. The conversation only seemed to increase his feeling of unhappiness, and he was grateful when Rowan stood, declaring she'd need to venture out for some new books, now that it was safe, perhaps something that could help her locate Penny.
By the time they'd all Apparated to Diagon Alley, Charlie was relieved to see the now-clothed Rowan go on her own way.
"How can you stand it?" he murmured to her, and she looked a little tired as she glanced up, trying to figure out what to say to him. Maybe: Rowan's my oldest friend. Or: She's stayed by my side when I've had nothing else, although she's a bit of a chatterbox and can be a little insensitive. I know you probably don't understand the way she's lived her life of late. There was also: Rowan's parents thought she might be a Squib until she got her letter, she's got virtually no magical aptitude. She helped the cause immensely, and she endangered herself on multiple occasions to help others. The most important: She's loyal to a fault.
She didn't want to say all of those things. She wished he could simply understand. So she merely said "You don't actually know her very well." That was true enough.
Together, they strode into Gringotts. It was pandemonium in the main hall, but Henrietta pulled him to a subtle side door, whisking them away from the crowds.
"Wow," he said. "That seemed awful."
"Yeah," she smirked. "Bill's in there, dealing with that. Fleur too, probably."
Charlie stared at her before barking out a laugh. Grinning back, she dragged him down a series of hallways, where goblins frowned at him. Henrietta's expression was stoic. There were whispers in Gobbledegook, and occasionally he saw Henrietta's head turn sharply, punctuated by foreign words. It was an incredibly difficult language to master. Even Bill could only manage a few phrases. Did she speak it?
They'd ended up in an abandoned room, with empty desks strewn with paperwork.
"All of them are probably out dealing with the state of emergency," she said grimly.
"Can you speak Gobbledegook?" Charlie demanded, not focusing on the internal state of affairs at the bank. If she could, that'd be an incredible accomplishment, and yet another thing he didn't know about her.
"Only a couple of words. You can't work around here for long and not pick up a few things. It's an incredibly complex language, and human throats aren't actually capable of making all the required sounds," she said absently, moving to a desk and fiddling with it, clicking her teeth in annoyance when it didn't budge. "I can't get in here without my wand. Stay here. I mean it. I'll have to go get my supervisor."
She disappeared out another door, and Charlie stood awkwardly, rubbing a hand on his neck. A few moments passed, with goblins and humans alike stopping in, staring at him, and exiting. Not a friendly place to work, Gringotts.
After an interminably long time, she returned, following a small female goblin, who, with a mere wave of her hand and hardly a glance at Charlie, opened the locked desk, reaching in and handing Henrietta several filed pieces of paper and a scroll.
"What is he doing here?" she wanted to know, her voice low and slow and hoarse, as if she had not spoken in a very long time. "He is a stranger to us."
"He is kin to Bill Weasley, and we will depart soon," Henrietta soothed, her tone respectful and subservient. "I came for reassignment."
That seemed to amuse the creature, and she fixed Charlie with her powerful stare before returning her gaze to Henrietta. "Your letter of termination came in from St. Mungo's today. You will be reassigned within the week."
"What about Romania?" Charlie blurted to the goblin, who did not even look at him this time.
"His insolence will be noted," she said, still speaking only to Henrietta.
"He's ignorant," Henrietta dismissed, and murmured something in Gobbledegook.
The goblin nodded, responding back in a flow of strangely lilting words and guttural, throaty sounds.
"Thank you, Rilnak," Henrietta said fervently, and the goblin departed.
"What just happened?"
"I told her you were an idiot wizard with no sense of respect," Henrietta grinned impishly, and he rolled his eyes. "But... then she said she'd get me the position in Romania. Not many people want to go there, it seems. Not as glamorous as Egypt. And far too many dragons. Seems to be a health hazard to most, though I can't imagine why."
Charlie whooped and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her a little in his excitement. She laughed aloud at his uncontained, infectious joy, a moment untouched by pain. "C'mon," he said. "If we're in Diagon Alley, we'll pop by George's shop."
They exited quickly, avoiding the rush of the masses in Gringotts. In comparison, the rest of Diagon Alley was nearly abandoned. The school year rush was weeks away, and with the war having ended hardly two days ago, there was no sign of either side, with the except of essential employees.
They meandered slowly down the street, chatting about old memories. When they'd reached George's shop, Charlie pulled out his wand and the door accepted him.
The place was in shambles. It had clearly been searched multiple times over, and there was a huge mess of potions over the floors, with shattered glass everywhere and an odd smell rising. It was smoky, like dragon smoke before the beasts really got shirty, which was odd, since there'd be no reason for that smell to be anywhere near England, and the strong scent of fresh air through trees, which was just as odd since this place had been locked up since Fred and George had gone into hiding and should be utterly stagnant. There was something else... something citrusy, perhaps.
"I thought you said George was here," Henrietta jerked back from the fragrance. "That's definitely some diluted form of Amortentia. Do they use it in their products?" she wanted to know in disbelief, but Charlie had no answer. "Can we get to his flat from the outside? I definitely don't want to step in love potion. Or anything else they've cooked up in here."
"He was supposed to be," Charlie mused. "Perhaps he's still 'round the Burrow. We can try though. He'll probably need a hand with Vanishing all this."
He took her to the back, where there was a small, hidden staircase, and up through a private door. He unlocked it easily, and they stepped inside. It was a bit airier in here, though just as cluttered with debris, though it seemed more purposeful than the chaos of the shop. Mess in the name of decor, as it was.
"George?" Charlie called cautiously. "You in here?"
There was no response, but they stepped in anyways. It was a small flat, far more brightly-colored and lived in than Henrietta's own. Though there was no response, she saw a slight movement of ginger hair in the corner of her eye, and followed it.
It had been a silencing charm that had kept everything so quiet.
George Weasley was sitting at the corner of a door frame, sobbing, his legs curled into his arm. His face was red and blotchy and though he was crying with gusto, he remained voiceless. Enormous tears rolled down his hot face, and he was sweating from the effort of the emotional release. He didn't even seem to notice them, his eyes clenched shut and his mouth open in silent anguish.
Immediately kneeling down, she took his hand, and he seemed not to notice or recognize her, only clutching back at her hand and continuing to bawl. She looked into the room, saw the leftover jumper with a bright F on the front strewn across a chair, and her heart broke for him. The pain in her chest threatened to cleave her in two, and all of the pain she'd felt seemed to wither and pale compared to what she imagined George Weasley was feeling.
Charlie had dropped to the floor as well, gathering George in his arms as the smaller boy wept, squeezing him tightly, holding him close to his chest and closing his eyes, tears rolling through his clamped eyelids, forcing themselves through. Henrietta felt like she'd intruded on something incredibly precious and private and tragic, but George did not release her hand even as he rolled more tightly into Charlie's embrace, until his crying dissolved into soundless hiccoughs and those slowly ceased, until he simply was lying in Charlie's arms, one hand clutching Henrietta, their palms sweaty and entwined, and his other clutching his wand against Charlie's forearm.
With the wave of his hand and wand, his leftover hiccoughs became loud, and his breathing was heavy. Charlie continued to hold him, rocking a little, and George made no move to release himself, seemingly content in his brother's arms.
"I can't go in there," he said hoarsely, his voice hardly above a whisper.
"You don't have to," Charlie answered, his voice breaking a little bit, matching George's tone. "You don't have to do this yet, George. It's not been two days."
"I had to make sure it was real," George murmured. "It didn't seem real. I thought maybe he'd be in there."
"I know," Charlie said, his tears still coming, his words bringing no comfort but better than silence.
"Sorry," he muttered, releasing Charlie's arm to swipe at his damp face. "Didn't think anyone'd come by here yet."
"We were in the neighborhood," Charlie explained. "Wanted to come give a hand, if you wanted it. Shop's a mess."
"I'm not ready," George shut his eyes again. "What if I'm never ready?"
"You don't have to do anything right now, George. You don't have to decide anything," Charlie soothed, rocking his brother like a child. "We can stay at the Burrow."
"Don't wanna stay there," George piped up, clearing his throat. "Mum's driving me nutters. I'm not... used to that anymore. I'm not used to being alone."
"I could stay here," Charlie offered. "Or Ginny could. Or you could owl Luna, I'm sure she'd enjoy visiting you."
George dismissed that with a shake of his head. Asking for help was one of the hardest bits. He shook his head at Charlie's suggestion of Lee Jordan, of Ron.
"What about Angelina?"
George's face froze over at that, he stiffened. "No," he snapped. "I can't."
"Or Perce?"
"I don't want Ginny, or that git Percy, or even you, Charlie," George burst out, his voice small and childish. "I don't want Ange or Luna. I want Fred. Not Mum, not Ron, not Bill. I want Fred!"
With that he began to heave again with great sobs, but without his silencing charm, the keening that came out of his body as he tried to contain himself was ungodly in its desolation. It sent chills up her back, and she rested a cool hand against George's red face, wishing she could somehow take the pain away from him, away from his family, like a spell to draw out infection. She wished she could even take it upon herself, just to let him breathe for a moment. His behavior at the Burrow and at Hogwarts made sense. He'd been bottling himself up, trying to keep everyone off the scent of his despair.
This bout of tears did not last as long, and exhausted, George slumped against Charlie's strong frame, hardly able to move, content just to sit for a few moments. They did so until George's breathing evened and his eyes closed, sitting together in a pathetic trio.
"C'mon, mate," Charlie cooed to his younger brother as if he were still a child. "Let's get you down for a nap."
"Not a ruddy baby," George murmured back, his voice tapering off. He released Henrietta's hand and let Charlie pick him up, depositing him gently onto his own bed, precisely across the hall from Fred's room. He could see into it from his bed, and she delicately closed Fred's door - not enough to click the lock into place, but enough to block the sight of Fred's old jumper.
She waited for Charlie, who closed George's own door in much the same manner as Fred's. He sighed upon seeing her stricken face, but to his surprise, she approached him and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing tightly.
"We should come back later," Henrietta said to his torso, her voice muffled. "When he's awake. Help him clean. Or just visit, if he wants to stay here."
"You don't have a wand."
"Well, let's Apparate to Hogsmeade and you can summon it for me."
Doing just that, they appeared in the middle of the village, which was far more bustling than Diagon Alley. In the distance, there was construction, partially for the memorial service that would be taking place the following day, and partially for the shattered infrastructure of the school. It took a great deal of magic to fiddle with a place like Hogwarts. The architecture would never again be the same. Perhaps that was a good thing. Sometimes change was good. It would help banish some of the unpleasant memories that resided there.
Raising his wand, Charlie summoned Henrietta's wand. Originally, she'd agreed to wait until the following day, when they'd all be at Hogsmeade together, but this was more important. "Accio, Henrietta's wand."
After a long moment, he caught the whizzing object in his hand with ease. Holding it gravely, he peered at it. "Ah, yes... Miss Highbridge... try this one. Eleven and a half inches, pear, unicorn hair. Pliable"
"It's actually twelve, and acacia," she corrected, snatching it back from him with joy, weighing it in her hand. "Your first wand was the same length."
"A great wand. Not suited for dragon-keeping. Missed it every day for a year, till I got used to mine."
"What do you use now?"
He presented his own, "Spruce, eleven and a quarter inches, dragon heartstring. Springy," he grinned lovingly at the piece. "I gave Ron my old one when I moved to Romania. You can get a new one there, ones made in the area, less susceptible to breakage or burning. It's no Ollivanders wand, but it's better for my life and magical habits now. Difficult not to get attached, isn't it?" he asked, looking at his wand fondly. He'd officially had it for longer than he'd had his first. He'd been put out, at first, that he was to get a new one and retire his old one to Ron. He'd rather have kept it. But it was no good for the life he'd chosen, and the idea of breaking a wand was physically painful to most wizards. These wands were reinforced to survive roughage, the elements.
Of course, Ron had snapped his old one in half when he was twelve, which made it null, but Charlie had tried not to be upset. He wondered if the wand had felt betrayed. His own tingled in his hand at the thought, as if reassuring him. Accidents happened. Wands broke. Wizards died.
She chuckled at his dramatics, and gestured at him with a shoulder. "C'mon, fancy a pint... or six?"
He nodded, thinking about their day thus far. "Desperately."
x
Hours after they'd gone to Hogsmeade, getting properly smashed to the amusement of Aberforth, who'd been filling them in on the rebuilding of Hogwarts and preparation of the memorial ceremony, they stumbled into George's flat, only to see what halfway resembled a party, including Oliver Wood and a few of the people she'd seen congregating around George in the aftermath of the Final Battle.
There were two half empty bottles, one of wine and one of firewhiskey, prominently featured on the little side table, and the wireless was blaring some abhorrent wizard's mediocre vocals. There was laughter too, and Henrietta was fervently grateful they hadn't drunkenly walked into another scene like they had earlier. It was later than she'd realized. They'd clearly dallied in the Hog's Head for hours longer than intended.
"Highbridge!" Wood called, gesturing her over. She obeyed, and he introduced her to the girl beside him, his wide hand casual against the small of her back. "This is Katie Bell. She would've been a first year your seventh year. Katie, this is Henrietta Highbridge, she's an old mate of the Weasley's."
"Pleasure," Katie grinned up at her, her face open and friendly. Then her face contorted into a frown. "Actually, I think I might know you from somewhere. Oh - don't you work at St. Mungo's?"
Henrietta sinkingly recognized her immediately. Katie Bell. She'd been Imperiused and given a cursed necklace, which had nearly killed her on contact, and she'd ended up missing a good deal of the school year. It had been a difficult case, and Henrietta was loathe to remind her. Most people disliked reminders of when they were at their worst.
"Of course, Healer Highbridge," Katie smacked herself with her free hand - the other of which was holding an empty wine glass. "How could I forget?" She seemed cheerful. Bottled cheer, wine was.
"It's usually preferable that way," she admitted, smiling ironically. "I remember you. How have you been?"
"Just graduated," Katie shook her head somberly, switching from cheery to subdued in half a second. "Though considering the state of Hogwarts the past year, I'm not sure if that's a qualification."
"You'll get your NEWTs back soon," Oliver said bracingly. "And you'll be getting the Quidditch callbacks any day now."
Seeing this as her moment to subtly exit the conversation for the toilet, she slipped away as the two devolved back into a more private conversation.
Just as she finished, bracing herself to return to make more odd small talk with people five years younger and three times drunker than she, she was caught in the small hallway by Charlie's larger form, proffering her a glass of wine. She accepted, though she was already tipsy herself. It was an obvious ploy, an excuse to catch her alone for a second. He'd probably wanted to ask her something. His mouth was opened, his eyes darkened, but before he could say anything, he was interrupted by the muffled sound of George snapping at someone.
Henrietta stilled, but Charlie tensed, listening. The direction of his voice came from Fred's room, which seemed like a bad sign.
"Don't do that, Angelina," came George's voice, fraught with irritation, deep with warning. "If I'm being quite frank, it isn't any of your bloody business what I do."
"I'm just saying, George, that you shouldn't be avoiding her. He wouldn't want you to-"
"Just because you snogged him when we were sixteen doesn't mean you bloody well know what he would've wanted to do with his bloody war widow!" George answered back forcefully, and Charlie quickly flicked his wand at the wireless, increasing the volume subtly before George's friends caught on to his show of temper.
Another girl was chatting with Lee Jordan, who was pouring himself another helping of firewhiskey. There was a sense of manic joy there, a forced joviality. Henrietta appreciated that George's friends had come, had helped him clean and brought food and wine and merriment, but she did not belong here. These were not her friends. She was uncomfortable, and she was listening in on a very private conversation. She wriggled to escape, but Charlie was holding her in place, strong even while absent-minded. At least George moved on from his earlier denial.
"That has nothing to do with this! I never snogged him, not once, you gigantic prat, and even if I had, that was four years ago! I only went with Fred because he asked me. I would've sooner gone with you, and you both knew it!"
"Going to say you thought it was me? You hoped it would've been me?" his voice was a little slurred, Henrietta realized, and Charlie loosened his grip on her slightly, realizing he was gripping her too tightly. It had begun to ache a little. "Bollocks, Ange."
Angelina blew out a sigh, clearly trying to redirect the conversation back to its original purpose. "I know exactly who the two of you are. And so does she. She knows you're not him, but that doesn't mean you can shut her out, it's cruel. I can't imagine how I'd feel if it were-"
"Luckily, you don't have to, so I'll bloody well thank you to keep your nose out of it," George answered cruelly, the pain and anger evident in his voice. It made her flinch against Charlie, and he rubbed his thumb against her.
Angelina, her voice sounding small and injured, said: "You're not the only one who hurts, George."
Panicked at their eavesdropping, Henrietta buried her head in Charlie's chest, not realizing how quickly she'd become comfortable with him, underestimating her buzz. Charlie listened intently, ready to intervene if George got violent, unsure how his brother would react under the weight of grief and stress and anger.
"Well, it bloody well feels like that, Angelina." George answered tiredly, a little bit of the crushed mess he'd been earlier showing in his tone.
"Then don't shut her out," she pleaded, her voice cracking. "Don't shut me out. We're friends, George, weren't we?"
"Hoped to be a bit more than that, yeah?" George jibed, his mask fully back in place.
"I was never the one he wanted to be with. And he was never the one I wanted to be with. You know that, George." Her tone was an attempt at soothing him.
George's tone was a little malicious, angry and jeering, sending shivers down Henrietta's arms. "From one twin to the next, Ange? A bit flighty, that. Make up your mind, love... maybe I can accommodate," George's tone transformed into something silky, seductive and sensual but with underlying viciousness.
"For the last time, you great drunken blithering arse, I don't want Fred! I never wanted Fred! We never dated, never did anything besides dance at a bloody ball! It was a bloody lark to him and you know it! Half the reason why he asked me was to make you jealous!"
"Pretty tears," George sneered, and there was a long few moments of silence, where Henrietta wondered which one had strangled the other, a sudden thump, and an enraged, gorgeous witch striding out of the room and out the door, not noticing anyone else in the flat as she departed quietly, not even attracting Oliver's attention as he poured Katie another glass of wine.
The unknown woman looked worried, and Lee Jordan put a restraining hand on her arm, murmuring something to her. She stayed, but the expression knitted on her lovely face did not smooth out.
George then exited his room, his lip bleeding from an obvious bite mark, his face flat and his eyes turbulent. Henrietta's jaw dropped at the sight of him.
"You mucked that one up, little brother," Charlie pointed out unsympathetically.
George sent him a withering glance. "Sod off," he said succinctly.
"What's your issue?" Charlie pressed, although Henrietta was giving him a shocked stare.
"None of your business, you nosy git," George shot back.
"Might end up with a few less lovebites if you don't verbally assault her before you snog her," Charlie continued calmly, seemingly oblivious to George's deepening frown.
"Shut up," George mumbled, deflated. "Took you a decade to get the girl, I don't need your relationship advice, you smarmy bastard."
"Well, take someone's, and do it quickly, before she figures out she deserves better," Charlie said frankly, and George made an offensive gesture before stomping out to follow Angelina, attracting the attention of all of his friends.
"Why did you say that?" Henrietta hissed, rooted to the ground in a mixture of shock and horror and anxiety. It wasn't like Charlie to be confrontational or snide.
"George gets in his head," Charlie explained in a whisper, his voice low and his breath in her ear. "Always has done it. Usually Fred can talk him down, but..."
Henrietta shook her head. "Are they dating?"
Charlie released her, standing back and staring at the door. "Not yet. Probably he fancies her as much as she fancies him, but it's going to be a long, messy road for them both."
"That's a lot to take in," Henrietta observed.
"George is grieving," Charlie answered simply. "He's lost his other half, his business partner, his best friend, his brother. This isn't just a tragedy, but a full-on identity crisis. It's not been two days since he died, Henrietta. It's understandable that he's not okay. He shouldn't be alone. I'm glad his mates recognized that."
"Are you okay?" she asked him, pausing.
Charlie looked into her deep brown eyes, furrowed in concern. She'd lost friends. So had he.
And he'd lost Fred.
His small face flashed in her mind, wheedling and begging for help with his Charms homework. Of course, it was never homework, just a ploy to learn a spell that'd help with a prank he had planned and wanted to keep his brothers off the scent. She'd agreed, of course, and had regretted it when he'd used Ascendio to peek into the Gryffindor girl's dormitory.
"No," he answered honestly. "I'm just better in a pinch. I can compartmentalize. Now isn't the time to fall apart, is it? Not when others need it more."
Awed, Henrietta shook her head. "Not sure that's a healthy mindset."
"Iunno either, but if it means I can keep this family from imploding, I'll accept it," he shrugged.
