A/N: Heads up for a rating shift.

the Royal George

March 2006

I ordered a drink at the bar and, after scanning the room and determining George wasn't here yet, took a seat in a nearby booth. The Muggle pub just off Charing Cross Road had become a favorite of Ron, Harry, and Hermione after the war since they could hang out without the unwanted attention they drew in Diagon Alley. Over the years it had become a convenient meeting place for conversations we didn't want printed in the gossip magazines.

I frowned at my watch. I should have known George would be late; he had to close up shop. I was on my second ale and wishing I had stayed to read to the kids when he appeared.

"Sorry I'm late. I had to—"

"Close up shop."

"Yeah."

George wrestled with his coat in the narrow confines of the booth, and I took the opportunity to study my younger brother. He looked tense, his movements jerky and impatient, and the fine lines that had appeared prematurely around his eyes were more pronounced than usual. His owl had said it was urgent, and my curiosity as to why he had asked to meet me, when he usually sought out Charlie or Ron for advice, morphed into concern.

"How's business?" I said once the waitress had taken George's order and left again.

"Business is good." George seemed relieved not to have to delve into the problem immediately and relayed a few highlights from the Hogwarts' pupils' last visit to the Hogsmeade shop.

I swiped a few chips from George's plate. I'd eaten dinner with Fleur and the kids, but … it was chips.

"How's Angelina?"

George took one bite of his sandwich, then another, stalling for time. But I had learned decades ago that the best way to get George to confess was simply to wait. As the silence stretched through chewing and swallowing, I began to suspect what the problem was and why George was talking to me, the longest-married Weasley. Well, other than Mum and Dad, obviously.

Finally, after two chips and a drink, George answered. "She's pregnant."

"That's—not great?" I tempered my enthusiasm at my brother's dark look.

"It's not great timing, that's for certain."

George and Angelina weren't married. "Are you worried about Mum? She'll rant for a while, but—"

"No, you prat, I'm worried about Angie."

"Is she sick?" Fleur had been sicker than shit the first few months with Victoire and Dominique.

"I don't know. She left for a weekend with Katie, and I haven't seen her since."

Today was Wednesday. I sat back. This was not good. Pregnant women were tetchy, and if George had made some flippant remark…. "What did you say when she told you?"

"She didn't."

"Then how—"

"Because I can count," he snapped. "And the dates fit." His ear turned red.

Maybe George and Angelina were living together more than anyone realized, despite the separate flats. "All right. Let's say she's pregnant. What are you going to do?"

George fiddled with his coaster, using the condensation from the empty glass to pick it up off the table. "I want to marry her."

"I—come again?" I hadn't expected him to be so blunt.

"I want to marry her," he said defiantly. "I've been thinking about it for a while, but I haven't said anything because—well, things are good the way they are—or at least they were—but if I ask her now, she'll think it's on account of her being pregnant and she'll say no."

This was definitely not a conversation for Charlie. I was still gathering my thoughts when George spoke again.

"How did you ask Fleur?"

"On the beach by moonlight. I don't recommend proposing in the dark, though. Fumbled the ring taking it out of the box and had to summon the bloody thing. Wait—do you have a ring?" Birds always took you seriously if you had a ring. Not that I'd proposed to anyone but Fleur, but … I did know women. At least as much as a bloke could.

George shrugged, now spinning his glass in circles.

"What does that mean?"

"Been looking. Sort of," he mumbled.

I raised one eyebrow, impressed. "How the hell have you managed to look at rings without it being splashed all over the papers?"

"Went to Lee's house. Swore him to secrecy."

It would help if your best mate's family owned a jewelry store. I'd bought Fleur's ring from Jordan's.

"There you go."

George looked up, brow furrowed.

"Buy the ring, propose, and when she says she doesn't want you to feel obligated, you can pledge your undying love and say you planned it all before she got pregnant. Lee and Mr. Jordan will back you up. You do love her, right?"

I actually had no doubts about this, nor Angelina's feelings either. She had been the only one George had let close after Fred's death, the one who made him smile again, and only someone who really loved him would have put up with half the shit he put her through. George was right, things had been good between them for a while, even if Mum did more than hint about marriage and Angelina looked a bit wistful whenever someone handed her a baby.

"I do, but … a baby?" George had the same half-scared, half-hopeful expression he'd worn when Mum and Dad had announced the family's visit to Egypt. As if it were too good to be true.

"That baby is your responsibility regardless of what happens between you and Angelina," I said firmly, unable to resist the lecture. "She deserves to be loved and to have her father in her life."

"I do love her! Him. It. You think it's a girl?"

I smiled at the wonder in his voice. Well I remembered that feeling, the sheer awe at the idea I'd helped create a new life.

"After five nieces, George, I'd say the odds are against you."

"Should I tell her?"

"What?"

"Angelina. Should I tell her I know about our baby?" His voice was hushed, almost reverent. Somehow during the course of this conversation, he had moved from "Angelina's pregnant" to "our baby."

I finished off my drink, considering. "How far along is she?"

"How should I know?"

I rolled my eyes. "You're the one who said you could count."

"Oh." He frowned, his gaze shifting out of focus. "Maybe six weeks?"

So, not Christmas or New Year's then. I had wondered, given that he seemed to know when the baby was conceived.

"Six weeks is pretty early. Give her a little longer to tell you. Maybe that's what she's doing at her friend's house, working up the courage."

"Why would she need courage for that?"

Poor kid. Good thing she'd grow up surrounded by intelligent, capable uncles and aunts when she had a dunderhead for a dad.

"You and Angelina ever talk about having kids? Settling down, finding a nice place together? Ever lie in bed in the middle of the night, arguing about baby names and whether she'd have ginger hair, or he'd have her eyes?"

George looked a little pale.

"She doesn't know how you're going to react, George. I'm guessing she can figure out, from your popularity as an uncle, that you'll want the baby, but she needs to know you want her."

He looked paler still. "You don't think she would—that she's gone to—"

"You know better than that. Weren't you paying attention last year when James and Rose and Lucy were born? Dead jealous, she was."

"You think—you think I should wait for her to tell me then?"

"At least wait until she comes back."

He was quiet for a few moments, and when he did speak, his voice was so low I nearly had to read his lips. "What if she doesn't come back?"

I shoved the dishes to the side and leaned forward. "Do you love her?" I asked again.

He nodded.

"Even without the baby? If it turns out she's not pregnant, or Merlin forbid, something's gone wrong?"

He nodded again. "Yes. I want to be with Angelina. I want to marry her."

"Then if she doesn't come home, you go get her and bring her home. Buy the ring, George. Take her someplace special. Start looking for a flat that's bigger than a puffskein cage."

He gripped the edges of the table, looking more lost than I had seen him since right after Fred's death. "You really think I can do this?"

"Are you my brother or not?"

a/n: I've always thought George and Angelina were together for a long time before they were officially together and were the last to marry. George, Angelina, Fred II, and Roxanne are the only Weasley family not mentioned in the epilogue, and I have interpreted this to mean Fred and Roxanne were too young for Hogwarts. Also, there really is a pub called the Royal George off Charing Cross Road (according to Google, at least). I was looking for inspiration for pub names and knew I'd get a huge list if I googled "london pubs," so I put in the street name. I might have skipped over it if I weren't writing about George at the time, but, well...