The next morning after breakfast Alf was in the back yard kicking the ball around to himself. George strolled out to the front door to check the mail.

"Weatherby you idiot!" O'Malley snapped to him. "There's no mail on Sunday in this country!"

"I am well aware of that." George called back. (He hadn't been, but oh, well.). "I never checked it yesterday."

The American Ministry was packaging owl-delivered information in a standard muggle format. He pulled two packets from the box, and turned, hoping that one of them was from Ron…

He nearly walked smack in to Ms. Fabry, walking Rufus.

Their eyes met…hers calculating, his startled. And this time, inspiration struck. With his best, most flirty grin, George smiled at her, and he knelt down to pet Rufus, who was loving it. Still smiling, George looked up at her and spoke.

"I am not in any way, shape, or form trying to come on to you, nor am I involved in any sort of a bet with that ignominious blow-hard across the street." He winked at her, rose, and leaned forward suggestively. "However, I am also not speaking loud enough for him to hear me, and what he is seeing right now is probably enough to get him to blow a blood vessel."

Ms. Fabry's lips twitched slightly. Encouraged, he went on, now leaning against the mail box. "In fact, I may say that if you were to give some very slight indication that you found me amusing in even the vaguest way, it might finish him off, which could only benefit the neighborhood."

She fought it for a second, and then broke out in a laugh.

George joined her. "Excellent, I see you are an actor of first rate ability. Allow me to formally introduce myself as George Weatherby, writer, father of one, and no friend of Butch O'Malley's."

"I am Michelle Fabry." She smiled. "Rufus, you've already met."

"Indeed I have. Remarkably intelligent dog."

To his surprise she leaned in to him, mimicking his suggestive manner. "Is it true, George Weatherby, that you pulled your son off of O'Malley's soccer team?"

George blinked. "Word gets around, I see."

"You have no idea." She smiled, and gently grasped his arm. "I am glad to hear it; I wish more parents had your guts. I teach fifth grade and most of Butch's team are either quivering masses of nerves or arrogant jerks hiding their nerves." Reaching over to him, she enticingly grabbed a pen that George had been carrying in his pocket, and took his hand. Gently she turned his wrist and wrote a number on it. "Right now O'Malley…if he hasn't already stroked out…is going ballistic because he thinks I'm giving you my phone number. In reality, it's the number of a friend of mine…a Jim Castelli. Jimmy is an accountant and a terrific guy."

"Do I need an accountant." George looked at the phone number and tried to put on a moonstruck expression. It wasn't hard.

"No, but you need a soccer coach…and Jimmy is one. Contrary to what O'Malley says, there's more than one team in this town. Mind you, they're not that good…Jimmy started it last year when his son came home from O'Malley's practice with a black eye. He basically takes anyone who isn't good enough to entice O'Malley, or whose parents have brains. Give him a call…he's a nice guy, and a great father." She winked up at him, and turned away.

Unable to believe his fortune, George stayed at the mailbox for a few seconds, memorizing that beautiful number and trying not to think about how it felt when she'd written on his hand. Before he could move she'd turned around once more. "Oh, and Weatherby…" She called out, loud enough for O'Malley to hear. "I wasn't acting. You DO amuse me."

Amuse. Well, where else did a Weasley twin start? George bowed to her, and then jogged quickly up to the house, calling for Alfred excitedly.

WWWWWWWW

"Nice to meet you in person, George Weatherby."

George took Jimmy Castelli's hand, and liked him immediately. From the phone call he'd sounded entirely reasonable and intelligent, and in person that was enhanced even more. He made no pretense of pretending to be an athlete, or dressing like one, nor did he pretend that the kids on his team were some sort of world champion caliber athletes. He had curly hair, slightly thinning, and a kind smile, and the kids, not nearly so regimented or organized as the Stingers, clearly adored him. His own son, Tony, was a year ahead of Alfred, and looked like Castelli in miniature, only with glasses.

"O'Malley's putting it about that your son is a coward, by the way." Castelli added.

"That…" George grumbled. "Pisses me off. Blame me all he wants, but it wasn't Alf's choice to leave that field, it was all on me. Not that I regret it, mind."

"Nor should you…O'Malley hit my kid once, and I think he's struck a few others but nobody talks about it. I reported him to the youth league and their response was I could start my own team if I didn't like it. So I did." Castelli called out to the boys then, and pulled them in a circle.

This, George thought, watching Jimmy at work, now THIS was coaching. He spent a full half hour demonstrating a few moves to them, talking about basic points in the game, and then having people partner to work on what he'd just shown them. Only then did he have them work on shots on goal. And Alfred continued right where he'd left off, unflappable and amazing, only this time he was having fun.

Castelli let the boys try from different angles, gave pointers, and told jokes. There were a lot of high-fives and encouragement between the kids.

After fifteen minutes, Castelli pulled Alf out of goal, and whispered something to him. Alf grinned, and took his spot in line to shoot against a new goalie.

Jimmy worked his way back to George later. "You didn't yell." He said, looking at him curiously.

"About what?" George was startled.

"Me removing Alf from the net."

George shrugged. "You're the coach, and you seem to have things pretty well in hand."

Jimmy gave him a sideways glance. "You know, most fathers, with a kid with as much talent as yours…and man, he's good, George…would have raised holy hell at seeing that."

"Yeah, but…" George thought it out. "This isn't a game. You need everyone to get practice, including the backup. And you know…" Memories of youth Quidditch came to mind. "At his age, he should be learning a lot of different things, not just goalie, right?"

"Right. And…" Castelli laughed a little. "I'd like my players to know how to score, and frankly I don't see them getting a thing past Alf."

George grinned. "I shouldn't brag, I know, and trust me when I say it's none of my doing…but he isn't bad, that's for sure."

At the end of the practice, Jimmy had frozen pops brought out for everyone. "Great job kids!"

Alfred, George was pleased to note, seemed to be making friends with the other boys around him, many of whom seemed at awe of him at first. But he noted his son taking time to work out a few moves with the kid who'd played goalie after him, motioning a few times, and pantomiming a leap.

"Nice kid." A voice spoke behind him.

It was Michelle Fabry.

"Thanks." George said, deciding to be normal instead of playing the little mocking game he'd done with her last time. "And thanks for the tip. Alf's much happier on this team, which makes me much happier."

She nodded over towards the school. "He's on my class list, by the way. New to the country, right, not just the town?"

"Yep." George admitted. "Sometimes I think he's adapting better than I am."

Her eyes scanned him carefully. "How's he holding up after his mother's death?"

Blimey, she didn't pull punches, did she? "Good days and bad days." Which was true; Alf's mother WAS recently deceased. The fact that he hadn't been married to her affected his part of the background story, not Alf's. "We're coping."

"Right. Sorry if that came out blunt…I don't really do subtle…"

"I hadn't noticed." George deadpanned. After a blink, she laughed again.

"Right. Forgot you've seen me around O'Malley. Anyway, I just wanted to know, since he's going to be in my class…sometimes there are things that don't find their way into a kid's file." She shrugged.

"Thanks for looking out for him." He said, honestly. He watched as Castelli noticed her there, and waved. "So…where do you know Jimmy from?"

"He was my fiancé's best friend." She said.

Ah. Well, that was short and to the point, wasn't it…or wait…

"Was?"

"My fiancé died." She said, as bluntly as she'd asked about his 'wife'. "Well, see you around, Weatherby. See Alf in school tomorrow."

"Right. See you."

He was left watching after her, when Castelli came up. "Hey, George…is it true you're a writer?"

"Yes…working on a novel." George lined up the answers for the usual questions in his head.

They didn't come. "Any chance you'd be willing to help out with the coaching?" George started, but Jimmy held his hand up. "I know, I know, not fair of me to assume, since you're working at home, that you'd be available. But I can use another hand two days a week after 3pm…I've got a college kid, Matty, working with me, and on Saturdays Dave Patterson's dad helps out. Me, I'm self employed, so I set my own hours, but finding somebody else in that situation is tough."

George felt torn. "I would really love to, but seriously, Jimmy, even though I'm English, I don't know a darned thing about the game. That probably doesn't make much sense, but…"

"Yeah, I heard about your ear injury…but you look pretty fit to me. Besides, I really need people just to keep the kids in line and focused…I have Matty for the technical stuff. And the kids like you."

Huh? "They haven't seen me before today…how do you know…"

Jimmy laughed. "Kids know, George. They can spot another big kid a mile away. They spotted me, didn't they?"

Laughter bubbled up inside George, so suddenly he couldn't quell it. He missed his nieces and nephews, he had always loved kids. Why the hell not?

"Alright, Jimmy…but if I embarrass you, you were warned!" He held out his hand.

"Deal!"

Alf gave him a flying tackle. "I knew you'd do it!" He said, triumph ringing in his eyes. "This is going to be BRILLIANT!"

WWWWWWWWW

Brilliant might not have been the right word. Fun, however, it definitely was.

By the second week of September, Jimmy's Salem Wizards (George had nearly fallen over when he'd heard the team name) were 2-3. Which was two games more than they'd won last year. And the losses weren't blow-outs, either; they were close and hard played. Alf was the talk of the league, despite the fact that the Stingers were 5-0.

Alf's school work was going well; for some reason George was surprised by how smart he was. Not that he expected him to be dumb, just perhaps not quite so good a student. But he read, voraciously (that was the "half Katie" in him, no doubt), and grasped new concepts quickly.

George's novel was chugging along. He had just detailed the escapade Harry, Ron and Hermione had been through with the Troll in the bathroom, making up what he didn't know for sure. Alfred was always willing to give feedback.

And a letter from Hermione indicated that she and Draco had already made progress. They'd gathered most of the ingredients seeming to be needed for a counter potion, and were working on portion now. She also indicated that they had a new source who was proving to be invaluable for help.

Unfortunately news from Harry at the ministry was less sanguine. They knew who the culprits were in the attack on the store, but couldn't yet prove it, at least not in scope. Therefore, it was inadvisable for anyone to actually visit George at the moment. It did seem that the Bell family was not very aggressive with Alf out of reach, but hell, George didn't want to have to live in exile forever.

He missed his family. The letters and the firechats helped. But he missed being in the store with Ron, playing with the kids, even the lawn gnomes. And no amount of Rachel Ray, or watching and trying to understand the baseball pennant race, made up for his homesickness.

He was trying, though…tonight he was gamely attempting a beef stroganoff.

"Hey, Weatherby."

He looked up quickly to see Michelle Fabry at the kitchen window. She looked rather down.

"Hello, Ms. Fabry. I trust you're not here about my wayward offspring?"

She laughed at him. "Alf? Wayward? I should have twenty more like him in class."

George smiled. He hadn't really seen her beyond a friendly wave from time to time, so he was rather at a loss as to why she'd pop by otherwise. Not that it was unwelcome… not at all. Especially right now, when he was feeling rather down himself. "You look restless."

"House feels claustrophobic tonight." She said, shuddering. "Thought I'd take a walk, and then I smelled something good."

George flashed her a smile. "Join us…there' s more than enough."

She came in the back door and looked at the stove, soon bursting out laughing. "I should say so, George Weatherby! You cook like you're cooking for ten!"

He looked rather sheepishly at the dish before him. "I know…I've never cooked much before, to be honest, but I seem to be channeling my portion control from my mother…we had a family of nine…my five brothers, sister, and parents. Cooking for ten isn't far off!"

"Your poor sainted mother." Michelle's eyes widened. "Seriously, I shouldn't stay, I'm Alf's teacher and…"

"Sit!" George commanded. "I don't get to do this that often." He glanced along sideways at her. "But if you stay, you're going to have to call me George."

He watched her, could see the debate going on in her mind. And he realized he'd won when she smiled at him. "Then I'm going to have to be Michelle."

"Fair enough. You don't look like a Myrtle, so Michelle it is." He quipped. "Let me finish off this sauce."

At that moment with the crash of arrival most noted in ten year olds, Alf bounded in. "Hey, Dad…You'll never believe it…I got an A on my essay on…oh, Hi, Ms. Fabry." He skidded to a startled stop in the kitchen, the paper waving in his hand futilely. George grabbed it with a grin and stuck it on the fridge.

Michelle smiled at him. "That would be the essay on how airplanes can fly, and it was very well written, Alfred. Why would you be surprised?"

"Oh, er…it's just…" He looked at George with appeal.

"My father…" George said, steering Alf to the sink to wash his hands. "Is totally intrigued by flight theory, you could say. Alf just about killed himself looking up information. We're going to send the paper back to England for him."

George gave Alf a look to see if he'd done alright. Alf smiled in encouragement, even as he scrubbed. "Grandpa will get a kick out of it."

Michelle smiled at him, but with a sense of sadness. "Sounds like you have a nice family, gentlemen."

George nudged Alf. "You never made your bed, there, Alf."

Alf blushed. "Sorry…woke up late…" He sighed under George's moderately stern glare. "I'll just take care of it now."

George didn't let himself smile in full until Alf was out of sight. "He gets distracted, sometimes." He took a look over at Michelle. "You can definitely use a glass of wine. Hope the red is okay…I bought it primarily to cook with."

She didn't turn him down. "Today's a really bad day for me." She absent-mindedly played with a ring that she wore on a chain round her neck. George suspected it had been from her late fiancé. The late fiancé she had not mentioned since that day at the field, and whom he for some reason felt shy about asking Jimmy about. George went about finishing the meal, sensing she was watching him.

"George…you must have been very young when you got married?" She asked, thoughtfully. "You can't be more than thirty?"

"Thirty last April." He chuckled lightly. "I was twenty when Alf was born." All true, of course.

She shook her head sadly. "I'm envious, in a way. I've got a few years on you, and yet a lot less to show for it."

George paused. Until three months ago, he hadn't had a damned thing to show either, not like what she meant. But he couldn't tell her that. "It hasn't always been easy."

"But you have each other." She tipped her wine glass. "I…have Rufus."

"And a fine specimen of canine he is!" George trilled, hoping to get her mood elevated slightly. He pulled plates out, and she helped him set the table without being asked. At one point they bumped into each other, reaching for the water glasses, and found themselves staring inches from each other's face. George held his breath.

Michelle spoke quietly. "You've known tragedy, George Weatherby, haven't you." She said, with quiet certainty.

"You too." He said. He could see her loss in the depths of her eyes.

"You're wife, then?" She asked. "But there's more?"

He was sorry about Katie, sure, but could hardly call that a tragedy. "My brother." He said, feeling a spasm of pain that would periodically rear it's ugly head. "My TWIN brother."

"Oh." She said, evenly, squeezing his arm. "I thought it was something. The sadness runs deep, doesn't it."

"You? Beyond your fiancé?" He asked, following her to the table with the casserole dish.

"My parents. When I was nine." She looked at him carefully. "I used to think that the loss made you appreciate the sweetness more." She shrugged. "After Anthony…well, I don't know what to believe anymore. I moved here from New York, but sometimes it seems like nothing helps."

George heard Alf coming down the stairs. "The sweetness still exists." He said, quietly. "You just never know when it's going to happen."

WWWWWWWW

They had a lot of laughs, on the surface, playing something called Monopoly after dinner, though George sensed that melancholy still hung in the air. Alf brought a lot of levity to the dinner, and when she got up to leave she had given George a brief squeeze.

"You can never understand what this meant to me." She had said.

Alf had put the news on in the living room. "Oi, see if you can get me the Red Sox score…I don't want to sound like an idiot at the field tomorrow!" He followed in to the living room, only to see the television showing a large tower, crumbling into dust. "Blimey!" George whispered. "What happened there?"

Alf looked at him in surprise. "It's the anniversary of 9-11, Dad." He said. And blinked. "Didn't you know about 9-11 in the wizard world?"

George, speechless, sat next to Alf, as Alf explained it to him, as much as he understood anyway. "I was just a little kid when it happened, but everyone's seen the twin towers go down. A lot of people died that day."

"So much destruction…such ugliness…" George shook his head. "I guess a part of me believed evil only existed with the likes of Voldemort." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "It's awful."

"Yeah." Alf stretched and rose for bed. "I overheard Coach talking with somebody. I think his best friend died there. He was a firefighter."

Best friend.

He was my fiancé's best friend.

Today's just a really bad day for me.

Oh, bugger.

Suddenly Michelle Fabry was not such a puzzle at all.