February was cold and clear; the snow that had been fluffy and romantic in December was now piled in icy amalgams of dirt, salt, and grime. George was looking forward to spring, for many reasons. Each day they were closer, he believed, to a resolution to Alf's situation, and to his own resolution with Michelle. Every day that passed he loved her more, and while a part of him became equally convinced that she would accept him for what he was, a different part of him became more fearful, as he became more aware of what he had to lose.
He had finished his first book, bound it, and sealed it in an envelope. He had already decided that he would let Michelle read it as soon as they'd talked about their hidden pasts. Meanwhile, part two was coming along nicely, with his rather silly sister in the midst of girl-angst with the diary of Tom Riddle.
But as he stood on a freezing Friday afternoon, chipping ice off the front walk, he realized that there was another very good reason to pray for spring. The icy cold of the neighborhood seemed to hang right over the O'Malley house.
George had gone to the funeral. He had taken Alf with him, because he felt the boy deserved a chance to say goodbye. O'Malley had seemed stoic and numb, as several of Mike's teachers spoke, about his skill as a budding musician, about his artistic talent, about his friendliness and smile. George felt every word stab him, because he knew that for Butch O'Malley, he was realizing Mike's gifts for the first time.
He remembered, pausing to lean against the mailbox, the dream he'd had after the funeral. He had been back at Fred's funeral, by himself, staring at the coffin, and suddenly Fred came up to him, dressed in mourning himself.
"Here?" George had asked, hating this place, hating the memory of that day.
"Sorry." Fred said, gently. And then, more gently still. "You can't save everybody, George. You know that."
"Of course I do." But he couldn't keep the scorn out of his voice. "That doesn't mean I have to like it." George cleared his throat then, and cast a sidelong glance at his brother. "Fred...do muggles go to the same place...I mean..."
Fred put a hand on his shoulder. "What I can tell you, Georgie, is that Mike is at peace now. Now he feels his father's love, in a way he never did in life. He's not suffering any more...it's Butch O'Malley now who has to pay the price." And then, turning George to look at him, he added, "It's a price you'll never have to pay, brother. Your girl is right, you know. You don't love by halves. Never have."
George's brow furrowed. "But..."
"George...when I died, you mourned and you suffered...you were angry...but you never questioned how we lived our lives. You knew...we both knew...what we meant to each other." Fred turned to walk way, hands stuffed into the pockets of his overcoat. "Remember that especially in the days ahead, George. You'll need to."
George roused himself, as a passing car splashed more murky slush onto his sidewalk. That dream hadn't left him particularly happy...the allusion to difficulties ahead scared him more than he'd care to admit. Well and good to say that if anything happened to Alf he'd have nothing to reproach himself with...he still didn't want anything hurting so much as a hair on that boy's head!
"Hey, you!" Michelle approached with a steaming cup of cappuccino. "You look cold."
"Thanks." He took the cup gratefully. Just her presence with him soothed him. "Dinner tonight?" He asked, hopefully.
"Love to. I have to head over to Boston tomorrow for a conference, but tonight I am all yours." She came forward and nuzzled his nose gently. "You're getting frost bite."
George smirked. "Is that an offer to warm me up?" He suggested.
"Ahem." Alf had come up out of nowhere, and George and Michelle separated, but just slightly; George kept his arm wrapped around her. "Can I go with Tony to the movies tonight?"
"Absolutely..." George reached in for his wallet, and handed him twenty dollars. "Do you want to stay over too?"
Alf blinked at him, and George was surprised to see a faintly calculating glance from Alf. "I could, I'm sure...if you want me to."
"Um...it's if you want to, Alf." He replied. "Either way is fine with me."
Alf nodded slowly. "Right. I'll sleep over Tony's, then...it's pretty much a standing offer." And before George could say anything else, Alf had scampered over the front lawn to the house, no doubt to get his bag and to call Tony with the news.
"Is it me, or was that a little strange?" George asked, feeling somewhat unsettled.
"It was strange." Michelle agreed, looking puzzled herself. "I always thought Alf liked me...you sure he isn't seeing me as moving in on his mother's territory?"
"I guarantee you it isn't that." George said, immediately. "I'll have to speak to him later...maybe it has something to do with Mike's death. That would be enough to leave anyone unsettled."
"Mmmm." Michelle didn't sound like she agreed, but time enough to figure it out. Alf would come to him if he was worried; their relationship was far beyond where it was back during the fireworks incident. Best to leave it alone for now.
WWWWWWWWWW
Saturday morning hadn't started bad. Michelle had left for her day in Boston, but she would be back Sunday and they were all planning to head to the science museum. Breakfast had, in fact, been down-right cute; he felt a completeness when he was with her that had been missing from his life for a long time.
Things had started to go south not long after she left. Alf came home from Tony's and seemed quiet, almost moody; he finally announced he was going to shoot some hoops at the school yard and made it quite clear company wasn't welcome. Which turned out to be a good thing, because Alf wasn't ten mintues gone when Hermione appeared through the floo.
"You've been down as 'unavailable' for ages." She grumbled. I've been trying to get over here since last night." She dusted herself off.
"Sorry...I...er...had company." George blushed. "Um, is it wise for you to be physically here and not just firechatting?"
She gave him a wan grin. "As of yesterday, yes...we have fully identified everyone involved in the attempted attack on Alf and people are being detained."
"That's good news." George pulled over a plate of pastries for her, and poured her coffee. "That was what you were coming to tell me, then?"
"Partly." She ran her hands over her face. "Pardon me if I came across just now as rather snotty; it's been a rough week for us. But yes, we should be able to visit you more regularly now; your location no longer needs to be top secret." She absentmindedly took a bite of the danish, and her eyes went wide. 'My god, you CAN cook."
"Why this comes as SUCH a surprise to people is beyond me!" George sat across from her. "You do look tired, Mi."
"Well...that's because it's not all good news, my being here." She sighed. "We're still having problems with that damned potion, Draco and I, and I thought you deserved a live update, as it were, since I can now do that."
"Ah." George sighed deeply. "Look, I know how hard you guys have been working...last I heard it sounded like you were pretty close."
"We SHOULD be done." She shook her head. "The potion appears to be the right color, the right consistency, and the right smell, even. Every ingredient was countered properly and balanced well. But...well, we're at the testing stage...using lab rats-New Zealand Borers, you know..."
"Rats. Right." George blinked uncomprehendingly. "How would that tell you if it was working or not?"
"We'd fed a group of them some of the dark potion to begin with, turning magical mice into non-magic creatures. That was months ago. Now, we're giving them the antidote." She hesitated, fiddling with her coffee cup.
"And it isn't working?" George guessed, sympathetically.
She grimaced. "Oh, it's working just fine...within seconds the mouse would show definite signs of a returned magic status...perfectly normal magic status, even."
"So what's the problem?" George asked, starting to get excited.
She looked at him carefully. "They're all dead."
George spilled the coffee across the table. "SHIT!...I beg your pardon...the potion is KILLING THEM?" George frantically dabbed at the pool of liquid with shaking hands.
Hermione grabbed his hand to still him. "The first rat was fine for five minutes and then keeled over like it had been hit with Avada Kedavra. The second made it half an hour. We've gotten them up to twenty four hours, but the last one died yesterday."
George pulled away from her and threw the mug across the kitchen, where it hit the wall, shattering. "Fuck that, Hermione...twenty four hours? Are you kidding me?"
"I wish I was, George. Of course, these are mice, and not people, but..."
"Wait...hang on...I know, I just know that you're not suggesting we dose Alf with this stuff in the hopes that maybe it has a different reaction with human beings! My God, Hermione, this is my SON we're talking about." He screamed at her from the center of the room.
"I know, George!" She firmly answered, rising and coming to him. She grasped both of his arms firmly. "Do you think there is a single chance I would let Alfred take a toxic potion? Or Draco, for that matter?"
George snorted. "Draco might...wouldn't have put it past him..."
Hermione dug her fingers into his arms, making him wince. "Don't, George. That isn't becoming of you at all. Draco has worked night and day on this thing; he's gotten it into his head that discovering this antidote is the only way he can restore any kind of dignity to the Malfoy name. He actually cried yesterday when we found the last rat dead. We'd thought that was the one, you see..."
George pulled away from Hermione roughly, turning to lean on the counter. Through the window over the sink he could see to the playground, where his son was listlessly tossing a basketball. "I know, Mi. I know you've both been working so hard on this. But I can't...can't risk it. I'm doing okay here...I can pass as a muggle. Hell, my girlfriend is a muggle. I have no problem with Alfred being a muggle. Alfred dead is not acceptable to me."
"I know." She said more gently, coming up beside him and giving him a gentle squeeze. "I know what you'd give up for him. Btu George, we will get it right. Because Alf ought to be what he is by birthright. We're dosing more mice now, and we're talking to Hagrid to see what advice he has...although he'll probably blubber like a baby if we kill any more." She rubbed his back. "Another month, George. Two at most. By the end of May, we'll have an answer."
"Time is immaterial, Hermione." George sighed, and bravely gave her a wan smile. "However long it takes to be foolproof, fine; but I'm not risking his life."
She reached up and kissed him on his cheek. "You're a good man, George Weasley. And a good father. Fred would be proud of you."
"Thanks." He returned the hug briefly. "How's Ron doing? Business appears to be booming."
"He's working his ass of for you...which is another incentive for me to get this potion fixed, I'd like my husband back, thankyouverymuch!" She teased. "Which means I have to return now...Ginny's watching the kids at the moment."
"Give everyone my love, Mi. And tell Draco thanks, from both of us." He walked her back to the living room, and watched her depart, then threw himself down on the sofa, permitting himself to wallow in the possibilities, and to take a long, hard look at what his future might be. Perhaps it was somewhat selfish, or perhaps not, but he would give anything for Alf to know what it was to be a wizard; to be able to fly on a broom and play Quidditch, to feel the surge of power that a well placed spell left you with. It just didn't seem fair that he'd never be able to fully enjoy the legacy he'd been given.
WWWWWWW
Alf came home mid day, and they strangely danced around each other. George knew he was preoccupied, which he understood—pictures of Alf, dead from that cure, and with eyes glassy and empty like Fred, kept coming forward in his mind—but so was Alf, which was rather more unexpected. It wasn't until an uncharacteristically quiet dinner that his son finally spoke about something more than inane sports scores and television shows.
"Dad...you and Ms. Fabry seem to be getting pretty close." Alf's eyes met him, and for once they were unreadable.
"I like her a good deal, Alf." George was surprised at the question. "I thought you liked her too?"
"I do. She's great. It's just...I've been..." Alf chewed on his lip in that way he had when he was worried. "I dunno...nevermind."
Oh no you don't. George thought. "Spill it, Alfred. Since when can't you talk to me about something?" George sat back and looked at him intently.
Alf met his stare, and set his shoulders. "Alright then." He took a deep breath. "What happens if you get married? I mean, what happens to me? What happens when you have your own kids?" He forced out his words in a rush, but kept his resolve and his reserve up.
George felt like he'd been sucker punched.
"Excuse me?" He asked, with a deceptively calm voice.
Alf blinked, but kept going. "I mean, you're bound to have a real son, and then everything will be different, won't it..."
"How DARE you!" George snapped. He stood abruptly, leaning both hands on the table, and towered over Alf. "You ARE my son, Alfred. You have been for some time. But I can't believe you would do me the disservice of asking me that question. I have seen you nearly killed by trampling threstals in Diagon Alley and held you through a dosage of skele-grow; I kept loving you after you destroyed thousands of pounds worth of fireworks; I have been living a muggle life for the past six months for you; I wept over your lifeless body when you nearly broke your neck off in that soccer match; I worry about you so damned much that I feel like I'm developing permanent frown lines and an ulcer!" George thought about Hermione's visit, and his blood began to boil, so much so that he barely registered that Alf had gone pale and pressed himself back into his chair, leaning away from him. "If you could explain, to me, PLEASE, what exactly it would take for you to bloody well trust me, I'd appreciate it. Do you need for me to bleed for you? Because I'd do it. Do you need me to die for you? Because I would, without hesitation. But every time you question whether or not I actually love you, it HURTS ME, Alfred...hurts me more than you could ever possibly know. And I can't KEEP ON DOING THIS!"
With effort, he shoved his chair away from the table, and strode out of the kitchen, retiring to his bedroom; his head was pounding viciously, and he just couldn't even look at Alf at the moment; it was ripping his heart out.
WWWWWWWWW
"Well done, George." Fred, a deep scowl on his face, arms crossed in front of him, leaning back on a fence in the fields at The Burrow. "Really terrific way to ease my son's worries."
"Oh, shut up, Fred." George was pacing in front of him. "You have no bloody idea what I'm going through."
"Bollocks." Fred growled. "I know everything you're going through, only I can't bloody well help. How, exactly, do you think that makes ME feel, George? So you can quit your little pity party right there."
George turned and looked at him, hands on the side of his head trying to contain the headache. "I don't know what else he wants from me, Fred. Seriously, what else can I DO? I live and breathe by his presence in my life, and I haven't been exactly shy about showing him that. I tell him that I love him every night; every morning he wakes up and I'm still there for him. WHAT ELSE CAN I DO?"
Fred's glare lessened, but just slightly. "Well, for starters you could remember that he's ten years old, and you're thirty. Honestly, George, I know you love him; of course I do. But he's still a kid. And if you've told him a hundred times that you won't be abandoning him, then make it one hundred and one if you need to. You expect him to get over his mother's death, at his feeling abandoned, that quickly? How good were you doing nine months after I died, George?"
George balked at that for a second, and then reeled. It was, perhaps, just a little too easy for him to forget that Alf would be mourning his mother. Alf entering his life had been a beginning for George; Katie's death had not, in that context, really been a bad thing, though he certainly wouldn't have wished it. But for Alf, his mother was dead. That was something pretty serious indeed.
"And here I am thinking about asking Shell to marry me..." George murmured. "Replacing his mother."
"There you go." Fred said, seeming to relax as he realized George got it. "Not that I'm saying you shouldn't ask her to marry you...bloody well time, actually. Just don't dismiss his worries, George. They're very real to him."
"Hell." George threw his head up to the sky. "What now?"
"Go talk to him." Fred came over and put his hand on his shoulder. "He is resilient, I'll give him that. Tell him why you're worried, too; he'll understand that. Just don't leave him wondering. His imagination is far too active for his own good."
"Right." George went to fade away from his dream, when abruptly Fred hugged him tight.
"Thank you..." He heard Fred whisper as he felt himself waking up. "For everything."
George sat up in bed, headache gone but sweating profusely. It was pitch black in the room; he hadn't bothered to dress for bed, but had just thrown himself down on it, in a moody fit. He rubbed his through the sleeves of his shirt, and pulled himself together.
Go talk to him.
He walked through the quiet hallway to Alf's room, and through the door. The room was dark and quiet, and George came up to his bed.
"Alf?" He whispered.
No response.
"C'mon, kiddo...we need to talk. I need to explain to you why I was such a moody git." He waited, but still there was silence. "I promise not to yell again..." Still Alfred said nothing. "C'mon Alf, don't make me feel worse than I do..." He reached over to stroke his son's head.
And hit air.
After a brief jolt, George felt around the pillow, then the bed, his heart rate increasing. Abruptly he pulled the light on, panic rising in his breast. Alf's bed was pristine; neatly made and not slept in. He looked around the room wildly; Alf's knapsack was gone as well.
Dear God, he ran away!
"ALFRED!" George bellowed, absolutely terrified. He turned and ran thundering down the stairs. "ALFRED!"
"What?" Alf said innocently. as George went through the kitchen. He tried to stop himself and skidded, grasping at the kitchen chair trying to stop, the net result being that he and the chair tumbled over. Alf stood up, concerned, as George gasped for breath.
"You're here." George blinked up at him, relief replacing adrenaline. To be followed by anger. "What in the bloody hell are you doing?"
Alf flushed slightly, frowning, crossing his arms defensively. "My history homework; I have a paper due on Monday."
George pulled himself up, rubbing his elbow. "At this time of night?" He scathed.
Alf said nothing; he stood by the table, his knapsack out and books splayed across it. Then he raised one eyebrow, and then pointedly turned to look at the clock.
It was only 10:30pm.
George stood there gaping, and then closed his eyes. He could hear Fred now: That went well, you great idiot.
Breathing deeply, George opened his eyes and saw that behind the defensive pose, Alf was both hurt and scared at his irrational behavior. He exhaled with a whoosh, and then came forward slowly. Alf, to his credit, didn't back away, and George put his arms out to hug him. "Sorry kiddo." He said, gently. Alf gave in and hugged him back, his shoulders shaking slightly. "I thought it was later than that, and I thought you'd taken off because of my rather volatile behavior earlier. Anyway...sorry..." He bent down to kiss the boy on the top of the head.
"I wouldn't leave." Alf mumbled into his shirt, voice quavering. "And I didn't mean to hurt you, Dad...I don't want to hurt you!"
George pulled Alf over to the chair with him, sitting down and holding him close. "I know you didn't mean to, Alf." He rested his chin on the boy's head. "But I'm not going to lie to you and tell you that you didn't. Look at it this way, if what you asked hadn't hurt me, you would have reason to be worried." He rubbed gentle circles on the boy's back, wondering how to move forward. "But that doesn't excuse my reaction to what you asked earlier. I don't want you to ever feel like you can't ask me something, like you can't talk to me."
"I know." Alf sniffed once, rubbing his cheek against George's chest. "And I want to explain...I know you love me, I do...but...I thought my stepfather loved me once too. And then Len was born." Alf gave George's arm a slight squeeze.
"Come again?" George asked, surprised. Alf had not mentioned Billy Woodruff since the middle of last summer, and his only experience of the man had been tending to Alf's bruises the first night they'd been together. He had assumed that the man had been, if not an abusive asshole, at least indifferent towards the boy in his care.
Not so. Alf, in a low voice, explained his childhood memories, of someone who used to be a father to him, who treated him with love and kindness. A man who would never have turned him out at Katie's death, who appeared to be raising Alf as his own child. They were distant memories...Alf had only been around three...but clearly had been vivid in Alf's mind. And then, when a real son had come along, the love and care he had come to expect had evaporated as if it had never been.
Adults don't have a real good track record in his life. Fred's voice echoed in his mind. Fred, he thought back, You don't know the half of it.
When Alf had finished, George paused to choose his words carefully. "Thank you for explaining that to me, Alf. I understand your question much better now, but I'm not sure I really know how to answer it. I know how much I love you, and I know I won't change at all should I ever have other children, with Michelle or otherwise. But I also know that no matter how much I tell you that, it's going to be hard for you to believe, because of what's happened to you before. I am not Billy Woodruff, Alf; and we do have a biological bond, even if it isn't father-son. So the most we can do is go forward, trusting each other to the best of our ability, and let that carry us through."
"Okay." Alf said. And he sighed. "I do know, you realize, that the only times I've seen you go bonkers is when you've been worried about me." He looked up at George with a frown. "So why today? You were pretty out there before dinner...is something wrong?"
"In a manner of speaking." And with calmness at first, soon fading to a nervous fear and a death grip on his son, George explained Hermione's visit. Both the good...the apprehension of his attackers...and the bad...the death of the lab mice. The fear of losing Alfred came back full force, and his grip on the boy tightened exponentially.
Alf didn't say anything at first, he just let George hug him. Then he looked up and managed a smile. "I understand. We'll be okay...I do know that, Dad. If Aunt Hermione and Mr. Malfoy get that potion fixed, fine, but if not, we'll be okay."
George half laughed. "How can you get so worried about hypothetical children I may never have, and not be bothered at all about this?"
Alf laughed back. "I know it's stupid. But...we've been doing the muggle thing since August, now. You can cook. You can write. You even coach soccer. We've had fun, mostly. I know that my not having magic doesn't bother you, because I've lived it...does that make sense."
"Whereas your life experience has taught you that siblings are dangerous. Got it." George relaxed his grip slightly. "And in a bizarre, strange way, it does make sense."
"I'm not going to die." He said, suddenly. "Not like Mike, Dad. I know that's worrying you too...I see you looking at Mike's dad and putting yourself in his place. I won't leave you. I didn't run away before and I'm not going to swallow pills or anything...promise."
George sighed. Fred once would have promised him that they'd live long lives together, and die on the same day. That was a promise that couldn't be kept, no matter how much Alf believed it. But neither was that something a kid his age was supposed to be thinking about at all. Still, he understood what Alf was trying to say: he was never going to willingly leave.
It occurred to George suddenly that Alf wasn't the only one with abandonment issues, and he managed a smile. "I am supposed to be the one picking you up, Alf. Not the other way around."
Alf leaned back against him. "I think we do a good job of picking each other up, actually, Dad. We do it all the time. Works out pretty well, I think."
"Excellently." George agreed. He looked up at the clock. "We ought both to be getting to bed, I guess...enough of this emotional soul searching." He felt his stomach rumble. "Unless...how do banana pancakes sound to you, kiddo?"
Alf perked up immediately. "I'll do the dishes!"
They laughed at each other, and George went about slicing bananas while Alf finished up the last of his homework.. Alf was right about one thing most definitely...even if he never got his magic back, they'd be okay.
WWWWWWW
"He has to get his magic back, Fred."
Once again, Fred was in the waiting room at King's Cross, making sure his brother had events with Alfred well in hand. He'd seen Cedric Diggory here many times since that first time, when he'd alluded to his unfortunate younger brother's plight, and when he'd indicated that George might be of importance in CJ's life. Every time they ran into each other, Cedric would inquire about Alf quite politely. Tonight was the first time he'd seen Cedric driven frantic...the man was pacing violently, and waving his arms about in frustration.
Fred studied him carefully. "Nobody wants my son to receive his full due as a wizard more than I do, Cedric. But I hope you're not expecting his life to be risked in the endeavor?"
Cedric stopped short. "Of course not, Fred...George is quite right. But Hermione and Draco have GOT to figure this out. My brother's life...and your family's future...hang in the balance!"
"Hang on..." Fred rose quickly. "What do you mean my family's future? What's going on here, Cedric?" Anxiety and anger were feelings Fred had begun to forget, and it was most unpleasant to have them rear their ugly head in his life.
Cedric came up short, realizing what he'd said. "I can't tell you, Fred...I just can't...but it's complicated. CJ is going to need Alf, and your brother...and they are going to need to know him...and how that happens without them both at Hogwarts I can't figure." Cedric pulled himself together and set his shoulders, as beyond, on that modified television that showed Fred the lives of those he'd left behind, Hermione and Draco beat themselves over the head as their test mice died. "I'll take care of it, Fred. It might not be a popular decision...but I have to do this. Just this once..."
And Cedric vanished into the mist.
Fred looked with confusion back at his screen. Slowly, he switched channels, and saw his brother and Alfred, along with George's young lady, at some sort of birthday party for one of Alf's friends...the one he played soccer with. They were having a grand time, without magic, and a part of Fred was fine for that to continue. Better that than risking Alf's life.
But apparently there was more at risk than that. And more at stake than his son. What it all meant, he couldn't possibly imagine. But he sat back down, deciding to forgo a return to the world beyond, to keep his eye on his child, and to see if he could figure out what Cedric had planned.