January 17, 2009…
George chuckled to himself as he sat at the computer.
Funny, this whole writing thing had seemed impossibly hard when he'd first been told what his cover story was. Now that he'd gotten in to it, though, the words sometimes just seemed to flow from him. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone was now nearing completion. Of course, much of what he knew of Harry's adventures had been hearsay, but sixteen years had given him a lot of time for that hearsay, and time to get to know Harry, and understand how he would have reacted to a lot of the things happening back then.
He had just completed the part about Ron's chess match, with the obvious changes for what his little brother had so clearly exaggerated, when Michelle made him jump about ten feet in the air as she touched his shoulder. Quickly he switched to another screen as he turned to her.
"Didn't hear you come in…" He murmured as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
"So I see…" She teased, running her fingers through his hair. "You were so wrapped up in that novel of yours that a bomb could have gone off and you wouldn't have moved." She slid a chair over next to him, and reached teasingly for the stack of papers beside him, which he immediately moved into a drawer. "You know, I am a teacher, George dear…I would be happy to proof read for you."
"I know." He felt a blush creep up his cheeks. "I'm just not ready for anybody to see it yet." She arched her eyebrows at him, and he found himself stuttering. "Really, Shell, I promise…before I send it to be published I will have you take a look at it…" A safe enough offer…he would never be sending it to be published, not if he wanted to safely enter within a five hundred yard vicinity of Harry ever again!
She crossed her arms and pouted, slightly. "Are you implying that you don't trust me, George?"
"No!" He gasped, before he realized she was teasing. With a sigh, he leaned in to her, touching his forehead against hers. "Please, Shell…I want you to really like it, and I'm just not sure it's good enough."
"You wrote it…" She kissed him lightly. "That's good enough for me…however, I am happy to humor you!" She rose quickly. "Is that the famous chicken goulash I smell?"
George beamed. "It is indeed…Mum's famous recipe, that I cannot begin to believe she sent along…" Warmth and nostalgia filled him. The turn it had given him when he'd opened up that package from Molly, was not to be believed. Hell, even Ginny had never wrangled a recipe from her, and here he got them all, with the clear understanding that these were not to be bandied about to unworthy people. He knew what she was entrusting him with, and the responsibility it entailed, and it awed him.
"I feel obligated to tell you…" Michelle teased, as she set the table. "…that if other women had had the chance to know what you were capable of before I stepped in to your life, you'd have been receiving offers of 'friendship' from about half a dozen different women…"
"None of whom..." He stressed. "Would have had any interest in a one-eared single father before they learned he could cook." He grabbed her waist as she stood at the table, nuzzling her temple.
"Stupid women!" She laughed back at him.
At that moment, Alf tumbled in, Rufus behind him; he'd just taken the dog out for a walk. But his face was abnormally pale, even for him. Immediately Michelle and George spoke together: "What's wrong Alf?"
He looked from one to the other, as he pealed off his gloves. "Commotion at O'Malleys." He said, face pinched. "Not sure exactly what's happening, but I hear a lot of high pitched yelling…sounds like his mum's back from wherever she was."
George sighed, and looked at Michelle, who was downright angry. "Mike's not been looking good in class…pretty damned depressed, actually. I would have expected his Mum being back in town would make him happy…but he was pretty mute today."
"Still no signs of anything actionable?" George asked, concerned.
"No…not on my end. Alf?" She appealed to the boy, who was, after all, Mike's contemporary.
Alf shrugged, in frustration. "He hasn't spoken to me since Christmas, when he decked me."
Michelle sighed. "I'll make a few inquiries later tonight…hell, I may just call social services anyway. I'm worried about that boy."
"Whatever you need…" George looked at her frankly. "You know I'd do it for you…"
"I know." She smiled at him as he removed the casserole from the oven, and she took a seat beside Alf. "I know you well enough, to know that."
WWWWWWW
Later that night, when a worried Michelle had left so that she could try to figure out what to do about Mike O'Malley, George was singing lightly to himself as he finished up a chapter. Just one more to go now, and then…second year, maybe? It would be great, really, to skip to third year and winning the Quidditch cup…although there was more than enough comic fodder in professor Lockhart!
"Dad…" Alf interrupted him, from the sink where he was washing dishes. "Why won't you show Michelle the book? I mean, I know what you told her, but why, really?"
George set his shoulders, but turned and looked at his son, and as often happened, he felt himself melting in that frank, concerned gaze. "I'm scared, Alf. I mean, you and I know this isn't fiction…what if she hates it? What if she thinks it's stupid and pointless and impossible? I don't know what I'd do then."
"You mean," He thought it over. "That if she rejects the novel, it will be like she's rejecting you, before she knows you, really?"
"Yeah." George rubbed at the back of his neck. "I'm pretty sure she'll be okay with the magic thing when I tell her…but to show her this now just seems to be dangerous. And then, there's my ability as a writer to question."
"What are you talking about? You're doing great!" Alf crossed his arms in defiance.
George laughed at him, at how stern his son looked, practically scolding him. "I am doing great for someone who's never written a book before. I am not sure at all that I am doing well for someone who's supposed to be an accomplished author with deep understanding of the history of English mythology."
"Ah." Alf nodded. "Yes, I guess." He put the last dish away. "Still, if you believe she'll be okay with magic, and I think you're right about that, by the way, then maybe the book is a tool for you. Why not have her read it first, and then say to her, guess what, it's real?"
"And you reacted to that method precisely how?" George pointed out.
Alf came up beside him, and gave him a hug. "At first, not well." He admitted. "Eventually, it was all okay. And that's what I think it will be with her."
"I hope you're right." George sighed, beginning to log off for the evening.
"Dad?" Alf asked, rather tentatively. George came over to him by the sink. "Why don't you tell her now? I mean, you clearly want to. It's got to be difficult, just waiting to do it."
George turned to him with a sad smile. "It is, kiddo...it is. But it's not entirely cowardice on my part, you know. What if, in a million-to-one chance, she's repulsed? What if she decides you are in danger from my crazy fantasies? Or worse, what if she blows our cover to the point that it attracts the attention of your Mum's relatives?" George shook his head. "I can't risk it, Alf. The entire point of being here is to stay out of the magic limelight."
Alf's face fell. "God, I'm sorry, Dad." He whispered.
"OI!" George rose immediately, and stood in front of Alfred, lifting his chin up to force the boy to look him in the eye. "None of that now! Don't go feeling guilty about things you can't control! I won't have it, Alf, not at all."
The boy blinked. "But if it weren't for me, you could tell her!" He pointed out.
George smiled at him. "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't know her." He countered, lowering his hands to squeeze his shoulders. "If it weren't for you, I'd still be a pathetic mess hiding in the back of my shop whenever possible. If it weren't for you, I'd still not be talking to my mother. So don't you even think about my being better of without you around, because I'm not."
"Right." Alf smiled back, looking a little sheepish now. "I'm being stupid, aren't I?"
"Fortunately you don't make a habit of it." George ruffled his hair and smiled as Alf nudged against him, before ducking away and bounding up the stairs. He ambled in to the living room, and found himself staring out the window towards O'Malley's house. Something like pity filled him then, not only for Mike but for Butch as well. Foolish man not to see what he had in front of him. He's missing so much, and he doesn't even know it.
There was a clamor of music from upstairs; Alf getting ready to get his homework done. George smiled to himself once more. How had he ever lived without this?
WWWWWWW
In the tiny back room of the tavern, Draco and Hermione waited impatiently over the cauldron. Beyond them, in his portrait, Severus Snape stroked the side of his face impatiently. To Draco's side was a cage of small white mice.
Suddenly Snape seemed to lean forward, as if he could escape the confines of the portrait. "That's it...that's the shade of chartreuse we need."
Hermione smiled, and Draco nodded at her. "Right, then..." He took an eye dropper and grasped one of the mice. They weren't just any mice; they were New Zealand Drillers, a highly magical breed known for boring through rock, resealing the passageways behind them. Normally, they were opalescent, with their fur having a nearly kaleidoscopic effect. In this case, they had all had their magic suppressed by means of the same potion that had afflicted Alfred.
"Right, then..." Hermione said, setting her shoulders. "Let's do it."
Draco fed the tiny rodent a droplet of the potion, and then placed it within a box that also contained a rather sizable rock. They all leaned forward and waited, hardly daring to breath...well, not that Snape could, anyway.
Slowly, the mouse's fur began to change...first to a pale blue, then tinged with pink, then shimmering with silver, and finally, after three long minutes, the mouse was fully colored as magic intended it to be. It headed to the rock, and began to bore, as a New Zealand Driller could be expected to do.
Hermione and Draco both let out a whoop a the same time, Hermione clapping her hands before her face, and Draco standing proudly, arms behind his back. Even Snape gave what might pass as at least a smirk, if not a smile.
Then, without warning, the little mouse stopped. It seemed suddenly to have a seizure. With a shudder, it froze solid and keeled over to its side. It was, unmistakably, dead.
Hermione and Draco stilled, and Snape swore softly.
Sadly, Hermione prodded the tiny animal. "What went wrong?" She asked, plaintively.
A solemn and serious Draco shrugged. "That is for us to find out, I guess...we can hardly use this under the circumstances."
"Right." Snape looked challenged. "Let's to an autopsy on the test subject, see what we can figure out. As complicated as this potion is, we can hardly have thought we'd have no set backs."
Hermione nodded, and went back to her notes. But there was no way she was telling George about this. The visual of that mouse, seizing up and dying, was nothing she was going to put in his head if she could help it.
WWWWWWWWW
It was two a.m. when George heard the phone ring. He stumbled out of bed and to the handset, wondering who in the devil would be calling him at this ungodly hour? If it had been a firecall from his family, he'd have immediately expected danger or tragedy, but he had no clue how muggles regarded dead of night communications.
He should have known.
"George?" A strained voice asked on the other end of the line.
"Michelle?" He was puzzled for a second, and then his brain began to clear. "Dear God, are you okay? Where are you?" His voice became frantic as fear replaced sleep.
"I'm at the hospital...don't freak out. I'm fine. It's Mikey." Her voice broke, and George sat, helplessly on the bed.
"What happened? What did that bloated bastard do to him?" He asked.
"Butch didn't...exactly. I'm not sure how it came about, but apparently Mike's mum was in town, and Mike asked if he could live with her. She refused him, and his father heard him ask, so he went ape shit; his two parents apparently got into quite a row." He sensed her forcing herself to pull it together. "They weren't paying attention to him, and I guess somehow he...he... he swallowed a whole bottle of pills...aspirin, I think. Butch didn't realize anything was wrong until about a couple of hours ago." She half laughed. "I heard his screaming, George, and I ran over there...first time that man has actually listened to me in four years. I drove..."
"I wish you'd have woken me up...I'd have gone with you." George tried to sooth her.
"You have Alf...and there wasn't time, anyway. Trust me, O'Malley was in no shape to drive." She sniffed hard. "It's ironic...he went in to check on him...all he keeps saying now was that he thought about what you said to him, about losing him, and he realized he nearly had, if his wife had said yes. So he was going up to talk to him, and then he couldn't wake him up...he's crazed with grief, right now, George. I'm trying to reach a relative to come stay with him, but he's...well, who knew aspirin could be fatal?"
George felt as if the blood were draining from his body. "What...wait...Shell, you're not telling me...you can't be telling me Mike's gone?"
She took a deep breath. "They pronounced him about half an hour ago, George." She forced herself to be calm. "His body tried to throw up the drugs, and he choked on it. They couldn't revive him."
"No...oh, no, no..." George sank down off the bed, slinking on to the floor. "It's terrible, Shell, just sick and terrible."
"I'm sorry." She said quietly. "I didn't want to tell you like this, but you know how rumors go about here. I didn't want you to hear it from someone else, or God forbid, for Alf to."
How am I going to tell him? George nearly moaned to himself. As shitty as O'Malley was, no man deserved this kind of pain. He knew there was nothing that could have been worse than losing Alf.
There is. It seemed like Fred was actually answering him, wide awake though he was. Alf knows you love him. He loves you back. Nothing could ever take that away George, not even death.
True enough. The pain O'Malley was going through then was beyond what he could imagine. And he sure didn't want to.
"George...are you okay?" Michelle broke through his thoughts.
"No." He answered truthfully, pulling himself together. "But I will be. I just need to figure out how I'm going to tell Alf..." He took a deep breath. "Will you be over later?" He was nearly begging.
"As soon as I can." She soothed. "I need to see you guys too. But as much as I've had issues with O'Malley, I feel like I'm needed here. For Mike's memory, if nothing else. See you later, George."
"Love you." He said quietly, and then replaced the cradle. Then, he picked himself up and headed to Alf's room. He could put it off till morning, he supposed, but it wouldn't make it any better or easier. And besides, he just really needed to be by his living, breathing son, if only for his own peace of mind.
WWWWWW
George hesitated, as he turned on a light. Alf flinched slightly, but at first didn't do more than role over, away from the brightness. George pulled the desk chair over as close as he could, and then, gathering all of his courage, he reached over to his son; he stroked his forehead gently, and watched the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Alf turned over again towards the touch, and pulled the blankets up to his chin. With a sigh, George gave him the vaguest of shakes, and Alf's eye's blinked open. With a sleepy smile, he rubbed his eyes. "Whazzit, Dad?" He mumbled.
"Kiddo." George smiled mechanically, now running his hands through Alf's hair. With effort the boy yawned, and pulled up a little on his pillow.
"Uh, oh." Alf read his face, as he left his dreams behind. "Did something happen, Dad?"
"It did." George chewed on his lower lip, and took Alf's hand. "And I don't quite know how to tell you."
Alf kept his eyes on George, finally speaking. "The longer you take, the worse things I am imagining."
George forced a smile. "Right. Alf, it concerns Mike O'Malley."
"Oh." Alf frowned. Then he paled. "Did his father do something to him?" He whispered.
George wished that Alf hadn't had reason to go so quickly to that conclusion. "No, Alf. That fight you heard pretty earlier…I guess things got pretty ugly over there. And you know, Mike's been pretty down, from everything we can figure, for a while…he was very upset about everything. His Mum, apparently, said some things too, and…well, he must have been feeling kind of hopeless." George realized he was rambling, and took a deep breath. "Alf, Mike…he swallowed a whole bottle of aspirin."
"Aspirin? Can that make you sick? I mean, it's just Aspirin…" Alf was watching George's face carefully, and George felt his own eyes fill with tears, wondering how he could get the rest out. "No. No, Dad, this isn't funny, IT ISN'T…" Alfred's voice rose, and his face paled; he started breathing rapidly."
George tried to calm him. "They did what they could, Alf…but it made him sick, and he choked; Michelle went with them to the hospital and she's the one who called." He tried running his fingers through Alf's hair again, only to have his son pull abruptly away.
"Don't." He mumbled, turning away. "Don't…it's my fault…I killed him. I…" Alf's pale face went slightly green, and George took the wastebasket quickly from under the desk, as Alf got sick.
Finally, George helplessly rubbing his back, Alf's retching ceased. "It's that bloody soccer game! It's my fault! I knew what his father was like." Alf murmured, tears spilling over his cheeks. "I remember thinking, in the days before the game, that I would LET Mike score…I knew you would be okay if we lost. You don't love me just because I play soccer. Mike's dad…that was all that mattered to him. WHY didn't I do it!" Alfred rolled away from him and curled up in ball, facing the wall.
"Hey…" George put the wastebasket down, and moved to sit on the bed. "Alf, c'mon, this isn't your fault…it just isn't." Alf didn't respond at all, just kept his eyes on the wall, and jerked his head out from under George's hand so violently that he was afraid to try touching him there again. He could only watch, and wonder what the hell he was supposed to say, as Alf refused to respond.
WWWWWWWWW
Alf woke up the next morning with his head heavy…almost as if his concussion were back. His entire body ached, and he couldn't recall why he had slept up next to the wall as if trying to crawl through it. Then he remembered why, and wished he could just disappear entirely.
He rolled over, and saw his father at his desk. George looked like he hadn't slept a wink all night, but what he had been doing astonished Alf. George was building a house of cards.
Not just any house of cards. A mammoth one, one which seemed to be teetering on disaster so badly that Alf wondered if he was using magic to hold it together. Why on earth…?
"Dad?" He asked, curious despite his own anxieties.
"Morning, Alf." George was watching the tower carefully. "Think you can slide out of bed for a moment and come here?"
Alf hesitated, but then did as George asked. He still felt queasy thinking about what had happened, and he shook a little as he got near his Dad. George wrapped around him and slid him over close. Worn out from his dark thoughts, Alf rested his head on George's shoulder.
"What do you think of my house of cards, Alf?" George asked, as he studied the structure thoughtfully.
"Um, it's a little wobbly." Alf said, honestly.
"So it is. Can you tell why."
Alf looked over the tower. "Well…" He decided to be kind. "There are a few cards that it almost looks like you purposely put at their limit…they're not very secure."
"Right. More than a few, actually, I'd say ten. But it's holding, isn't it? So that makes it secure."
Alfred frowned. "Not really, Dad…one more card, and I think it's over."
"Really?" George handed him one card. "Why don't you give it a go and see what happens?" He asked, innocently.
Alf looked at George…it wasn't like his father to trap him, but that sure seemed what this was. "After you've been working all night on it? Not likely."
"Humor me…" George gave him a gentle nudge. "I promise I won't be angry if it goes, Alf."
With a shrug, Alf studied the tower, and tried to find a place that seemed like it might be secure enough. With tremendous care, he placed the card in that one place…and for a second it held.
Then, with a hushed whoosh, the whole tower came down.
"Hm. It appears you were right." George gave him a squeeze, and with his wand, recreated the tower perfectly, the last card flying in to Alf's hands. "However, it was your fault that it came down, wasn't it?"
Alf opened his mouth and shut it. "You said…you SAID you wouldn't be angry." He looked reproachfully at his father.
"I'm not angry…not in the least. It is, however, still your fault."
"No, it isn't!" Alf blinked rapidly, not liking this game at all. "Look at it, Dad…you put it back just like it was and it's quaking like a leaf…if YOU put a card on now, it would fall too!"
"Let's try, shall we?" George took a different card from the deck and put it carefully in a different place…and again, it tumbled softly to the desk. As it did so, he gingerly eased Alf on to his lap, hugging him tightly.
"I guess you were right…it wasn't because of the last card that it fell…it was because it wasn't sound to begin with."
Alf was sulking slightly, not understanding what was going on; George rested his chin on his head. "Remind you of anything, Alf?"
He shook his head gently, not trusting himself to speak.
"That house of cards, is like Mike O'Malley. Mike had a lot of shakiness in his life. Parents got divorced…his mother was never around, you KNOW what his father was like. Lot of pressure on him…lots of insecure cards in his foundation. Lots we'll probably never know about."
He let Alf think that over for a second, then continued on. "You put a card on the top. You were careful and chose well, and put it in a secure spot. It fell. I put a different card in a different place, just as securely, and the same thing happened." He hugged him tightly. "Do you understand, Alf."
Alfred swallowed hard. "You mean…if it hadn't been me, saving that goal, it would have been something else that pushed him too far." He whispered.
"Yes…and no." George exhaled in relief, though, that Alf was getting it. "I don't think you were that last card…his father had more than enough chances, his mother was there last night. You tried, hard as you could, to help him; I tried to get through to his old man. His foundation was just too shaky, Alf…and it was so long before we met him. I'm sick to death about it, I wish I could have helped him somehow, but it isn't your fault or mine. Nobody knows what was going on in his head. I just hope he's at peace now."
Alf nodded slowly…leaning back against George. "I know you're right Dad. I just wish it could have been different. It should have been." He exhaled slowly.
"I know…" George embraced him, swiveling slightly in the chair. "No kid should have to grow up like that. If I had my way, none would."
Alf reached over to his desk, to the carved box that held Fred's wand, and he stroked the wood gently. "Wizards aren't ever like O'Malley, are they?"
George sighed. "I wish I could say that we're better than that, but there are good parents and bad parents everywhere. Look at Draco Malfoy…I know his old main tortured him in his own way. I just hope I never see anybody as bad as O'Malley ever again, on either side."