For Mandy in KC, who asked me years ago to write more George/Angelina. Skiving got posted long before this one, although I started on this one before Skiving. Scary thought how long fanfic sits on my computer sometimes. Years, really.
Notes: The idea for Angelina taking George's temperature came from an old episode of The Nanny; I didn't come up with it on my own. But it did seem like a good idea to put in the story, and I liked it for Angelina. Temperatures are in Celsius, since the UK uses metric. Finally, this is a sequel of sorts to my story Apple Butter, but can easily be read as a stand-alone.
Special Thanks: To my fellow Hexians and Pottermore pals at the probably-now-defunct "Quill & Cauldron" group, who helped me bat around the idea of wizard temperature-taking methods, until we all finally settled on the concept of a Fever Probe. I forget exactly who came up with it, but for some reason, I'm thinking it was Lin.
~BD
A 'Bout of the Flu
The rain was coming down in icy torrents, and it was impossible to see more than a few meters ahead. Angelina swore as she stumbled on one of those uneven cobblestones that Diagon Alley was so bloody famous for. She squinted through the darkness, the blinding sheets of freezing water, and the cutting wind, trying to read the numbers on the dark shop beside her. She knew instinctively that she hadn't gone far enough but the weather was so bad that it was throwing off her sense of direction.
George would pick tonight of all nights to come down with something, she thought grumpily. She just hoped to Merlin it wasn't anything catching. She'd kill him if she caught whatever he had.
Of course, she hadn't known he was sick at all until just a few hours earlier. She hadn't actually seen him for the past two days, which would explain her lack of knowledge. It was the end of November and Christmas orders were coming in thick and fast from Hogwarts - not to mention the children under the age of eleven who were visiting Diagon Alley with their parents to buy gifts.
When they'd started dating at Halloween, George warned her that November and December were hectic months for the store and his time with her would be limited, but he promised he would make it up to her in January. Angelina had taken the information with a grain of salt. It wasn't as if she couldn't survive a couple of months seeing less or more of him than before. She was an independent woman and had survived well enough on her own the past year. She could manage.
It was Ron who tipped her off about George being sick. He'd come in to the Leaky Cauldron at lunch, his robes soaked to his knees despite the charm he'd cast over his head in effort to keep dry. She had been eating at the Leaky's bar with a couple of teammates, and he'd made the sour remark that he hoped George would feel better soon, because George tended to jump Ron's case worse than usual if he wasn't feeling well.
Angelina tried to ask Ron what was wrong with his brother, but Ron was in a hurry and rushed out before she could get a word in edgewise. Apparently, George had only given him thirty minutes for lunch, and if Ron wasn't back on time, George was likely to hex his brother's arse to the moon and back. One of their supply orders hadn't come in earlier, Ron wasn't stocking shelves fast enough, and George was quite ready to blow up if his nose didn't explode from congestion first. Angelina had given up at that point - Ron was already out the door, still grousing about his brother's management style, or lack thereof.
Still... it wasn't like George to get sick. The twins had rarely gotten sick during their days at Hogwarts. Angelina remembered one incident in particular, during their second year, when the entire class came down with colds. Everyone except for Fred and George. Even the second year Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and Slytherins were coughing and sniffling. McGonagall had been rather suspicious that the twins had something to do with the outbreak, but nothing could be proven, and Fred and George insisted they honestly didn't have anything to do with it. No one knew whether to believe them or not.
Through the pouring rain, she barely made out the glint of Number 89's brass door plate, so she kept walking and gave up on her Impervious Charm as a bad job; it was protecting her head and upper body, but not her feet and legs. By the time she reached Number 97, her bottom half was drenched, and she wasn't certain if George would even hear her Patronus over the constant rolls of thunder and cracks of lightning.
Fortunately, he must have, because the shop door unlocked and opened of its own when she reached it, so Angelina let herself in and locked it magically behind her. Next time, she would damn well Floo to his place if it was raining - to hell with common courtesy.
Dripping puddles, she went to the back of the shop and through a curtained doorway, made her way around boxes of unpacked merchandise in the back room, and up a tight, narrow, steep, boxy staircase that led to the loft above.
She had only been in this loft a few times and was still familiarizing herself with the layout. It didn't help that it was pitch black and her lit wand wasn't illuminating nearly enough of the room for her immediate comfort. As she entered the loft, a dismal, dark scene from the Battle of Hogwarts floated briefly to her mind. She resolutely squashed it as she locked the door; inner demons were not what she desired to fight against at this moment - or anything else, for that matter. Those wretched demons always seemed to surface when it was dark.
"George?" she hissed, stepping around an armchair.
He didn't answer. She shrugged out of her coat, levitating it beside the empty fireplace before casting a silent Incendio. The flames leapt up cheerily. She would leave the coat to dry. And her shoes, she thought with annoyance, as she toed out of her slick wellies.
Damn. Even her socks were soaking wet.
She peeled those off too, in disgust, and levitated them in front of the fire to dry alongside the coat. Then she stormed towards the bedroom in a foul mood. She pushed the door open slightly and glanced inside. The lump on the bed was larger than normal, what with all the quilts piled on top of it. She sighed and walked over.
"George."
He didn't answer.
Angelina huffed. "George, come on, roll over. I need to take your temperature."
He grunted and, in a muffled, hoarse voice, managed to cough out, "Just go home, you don't need to catch whatever this is."
"Oh, believe me, that's a tempting option. But the way I see it, you have two choices. You can let me take care of you, or I can contact your mother and let her take care of you."
She saw him flinch, but after a few seconds, he grudgingly rolled over. His glare would have been ferocious had he not been sick, but even by the dim light of her wand, she could tell he looked terrible - pasty white and clammy, his eyes dull and hollow, his grimy hair laced with sweat and plastered to his head.
"Come on, sit up."
"Don't wanna," he muttered.
"I don't care what you want," she groused. "Sit up."
Reluctantly, he did ask she asked, struggling to throw off the blankets and quilts.
As soon as he was leaning against the headboard and pillows, Angelina pushed his icky hair off of his forehead with her hand; he moaned and leaned into her cool palm, and she sighed. He was burning up.
"What's the diagnose, Healer Johnson?" He tried to crack a smile; it came out more like a grimace.
"I haven't actually taken your temperature yet."
"Oh. Are you going to use one of those stupid Muggle contraptions?"
"That's quite tempting, too. I hear they shove them up your arse. Want me to go find one?"
He looked horrified. "Merlin's balls, seriously? That sounds kinky."
"I will hit you," she growled.
He glowered at her. "Do you have Fever Probe, then?"
Angelina raised her eyebrows. "Do I look like I have a Fever Probe hidden on me?"
"Then I don't see how you can take my temperature."
"An old Jamaican magical technique, that's how."
Without waiting for his response, she leaned forward and placed a wet, lingering kiss on his forehead, letting the heat from his body soak into her lips. After a long moment, she pulled away.
"39.1," she said briskly. "Get some of those quilts off before you sweat away. In fact, you probably need to take a cool bath to bring your temperature down."
He gaped at her like he had never seen her before, but Angelina ignored him. She didn't care to explain the mystical island magic behind the technique. Instead, she waved her wand at the pile of quilts. Immediately, they rose into the air and began to fold themselves into a neat stack.
"Up," she snapped again.
He slowly slid off the bed and to his feet, though he had to grab the bedpost to remain upright, and he staggered slightly.
"I'm not taking a bath with you," she warned, as she headed into the loo. "But I'll stay outside the door." Without waiting for a response, she turned the water on, testing the temperature under her hand, before performing a quick cleaning spell on the bathroom as a whole. She didn't want to know when George had bothered to clean last, but she suspected it had been a few months. She wondered, briefly, why she had to pick a man who had some aversion to not cleaning. That would have to change, or she'd go 'round the twist in short order.
While George took a shower, Angelina set about to cleaning the filthy bedroom. With magic. Because there was no way she was going to actually touch anything in here. Even by the light of a few baubles on the ceiling, it looked gross.
She finished about the same time George came stumbling out of the loo, with a towel around his waist and another around his shoulders, shivering violently.
"Clean pajamas," she stated, as matter-of-factly as possible, lying them out on the newly made bed. "And I put on clean sheets. The others were disgusting. I Vanished them completely. They were a hopeless cause. You're supposed to change them weekly, you know. Not yearly."
George didn't say anything. Instead, he let the towels drop and grabbed the pajama bottoms, shaking and clearly unconcerned about nudity. Angelina diverted her eyes as he tripped into the bottoms. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen him nude before - one didn't play Quidditch with a bunch of blokes and not see their bits once in a while; it was just how things went, after all. But George was sick, and she felt he needed a little more privacy than her sneaking glances.
Once he managed to get the pajamas on and she'd helped him into a flannel smoking jacket and slippers, she led him into the main room. It was just as messy as the bedroom, so she waved her wand to at least clear the dirty clothes and blanket from the couch so he could sit down.
"D-d-did y-you—g-g-get w-w-wet c-coming o-over?" His teeth were chattering, but he was eyeing her coat, shoes, and socks, which were still rotating slowly in front of the flames.
"Sit," she ordered, ignoring the question.
He flopped on the couch, looking exhausted, and she leaned over and kissed his forehead again.
"I could get used to that," he muttered.
"38.7," she snapped. "Don't move. You need to eat something."
Without waiting for a reply, she went into the small kitchen nook and started rummaging about in the cupboards. But there was bloody well nothing available. Didn't he ever buy food? There was a half-full bottle of Odgen's, which was hardly surprising, but that wasn't going to help them now, unless she administered it to stop the coughing.
"Haven't had time to shop," he mumbled, as though he could guess her thoughts.
"Clearly." She pursed her lips, then strode back into the main area and grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the mantel, tossed it into the flames, and stuck her head in the midst. "106-C Tansley Alley!" she called out sharply.
After a few seconds of head spinning, she found herself looking into the cozy, brightly lit kitchen of Alicia's tiny flat. Her best friend was nowhere in sight, but the tea kettle was emitting tiny puffs of steam from where it was perched on the old-fashioned stove.
"Alicia?" she called out. "It's me, Angie."
A few seconds passed by before Alicia came hurrying into the room, looking worried. "Angie?" She dropped to her knees in front of the hearth, her fuzzy dressing gown coming dangerously close to the fire. "What on earth is wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. But George is sick. I'm at his place. He's totally out of food. Do you have any soup? Or know where I can get some quickly without going out in the rain?"
"Sure. I made a pot last night for the week. Vegetable, is that okay?"
"At this point, I'd pour Firewhiskey in a bowl and tell him that was soup, except he needs nourishment instead of liquor." She wrinkled her nose.
Alicia laughed. "Give me a minute and I'll be over."
"Thanks."
She pulled her head back out of the fire and sat back on her heels. "Alicia's bringing some soup over. Behave."
"You act like I'm a Krup puppy who hasn't learned to tinkle on the Daily Prophet yet."
"I'd say that's an accurate description, yes. Have you looked at this flat lately? Merlin knows what's actually breeding under all this filth. Knowing you, you're doing it deliberately to sell Class C non-tradeables! But that doesn't negate the fact that it's gross." Angelina stood up and stretched, before fetching her socks from midair and feeling them over. Thank goodness they were dry. As she sat down to pull them on, the fire turned green and Alicia came spinning out, maintaining perfect balance while carrying a tureen of soup.
George cracked a small smile. "That landing deserves top marks, Spinnet. Bloody perfect. Must be those Chaser skills. I would have spilled it everywhere."
"Undoubtedly," Alicia drawled, her voice deadpan. "I'll just leave this here. Let me know if you need anything else, Angie. And you owe me, George."
"Thanks," Angelina said quickly, before George could complain.
Alicia grabbed another handful of Floo powder and disappeared back into the fire, and Angelina ladled soup into a bowl for George. She handed it to him rather roughly, and snapped, "Go on, eat."
"Yes, warden," he replied, but immediately began to sip the soup when she glared at him.
"How long have you been like this?" she asked.
He shrugged, looking rather miserable. "A couple of days. It came on rather suddenly. I dunno, maybe it's Dragon Pox."
"It is not," she snorted. "You'd have spots. I think you just caught a 'bout of flu. But your mum would know for sure."
George didn't say anything for a few minutes; he kept slurping soup in slow, long draughts that was driving Angelina gradually insane. She was just about to tell him to bloody well knock it off, when he sighed and said in a resigned, defeated voice, "Go on, then. You may as well Floo her; it'll give her something to do."
Angelina arched an eyebrow, but didn't argue. He must have been really sick if he agreed that Molly needed to come over. She went back to the fire, tossed in some more powder into the flames, and ducked her head inside before George could change his mind. It would probably be better if Molly dealt with this anyways, because if he kept slurping soup, Angelina was likely to hex him fifty different ways into next week and not care. If she hadn't been nursing a soft spot for him for years, she probably would have done so already.
"The Burrow!" she cried, and her head spun for a moment before she was facing Molly's dark, empty kitchen.
"Mrs. Weasley?" she called, trying to see around the room with little success. Not only was it dark, but she could only see a bit of the sitting room, and it didn't appear anyone was in there, either. "Mr. Weasley? Hello? Is anyone home? It's Angelina Johnson!"
A moment later, Mrs. Weasley came hurrying into the room, looking just as surprised as Alicia had, and nearly stumbling on her dressing gown in her haste.
"Angelina, dear! What on earth is wrong? Has something happened? Is everyone alright?" She looked petrified as she knelt before the fire.
"It's nothing too serious, Mrs. Weasley," Angelina insisted, feeling guilty that she had made the woman panic. "I'm sorry if I made you worry. George has a fever, that's all."
It sounded terribly lame when she said it. What would Mrs. Weasley think of her? That she wasn't up to handling a mere, trifling cold on her own? That she had made her worry for much of nothing?
Molly's face whitened, and Angelina plunged on quickly, determined to let her know she had, in fact, tried to help George. She said, "I made him take a lukewarm bath. That brought his fever down a bit. Then I contacted Alicia and she bought some soup over. Merlin only knows the last time he ate anything decent. But I think it would really be best if you came. I'm not very good at this sort of domestic thing, I'm afraid," she finished hollowly.
"Oh goodness, I wouldn't say that at all, dear. It sounds like you've done a right fine job so far! I'm so grateful you're around to help him, I really am. He can be ridiculously stubborn! I'll be right over, don't you worry. The twins- I mean, George… well, he can be beastly when he's sick." Mrs. Weasley gave her a small, embarrassed smile - she had gotten to her feet and was waving her wand. Food flew out of the cupboard and into a basket. "Give me a tick to change, will you? I'll Floo right over."
Angelina nodded and withdrew from the fire.
Back in George's loft, she found her patient scowling.
"It's for your own good. Your mum can do better than I can."
"You could shag me - then I'd feel better."
"You couldn't even get it up in your condition," she scoffed. Whether that was true or not was beside the point entirely.
"Want to see?" he leered.
Angelina's lip curled menacingly. "Aye, go ahead and pull your trousers down - I'm sure that's the first thing your mum wants to see when she steps out of the fire. You waving it around, trying to half-heartedly salute the world with a fever and a partially limp dick."
George blanched, and seconds later, before he could retort, the fire turned green and Mrs. Weasley stepped out carrying the basket, now dressed in plain robes.
"Oh, Georgie..." she said wistfully. "You do look terrible." She immediately felt his forehead, and he tried to jerk away in annoyance.
Angelina couldn't help it; she smiled slyly and tattled on him. "He thought he had Dragon Pox."
"Dragon Pox?" Mrs. Weasley rolled her eyes and tutted. "No, no. You'd have spots if that were the case. This is just the flu, I think. You look clammy and pasty. You've had some food, I see?" She glanced at the empty bowl and nodded satisfactorily. "At least you ate it all. Well come on, let's get you back to bed, then. I hope your bedroom is clean?"
"Er... Angie cleaned it," he muttered.
Mrs. Weasley's voice rose at least an octave; the fury almost made Angelina dive for the door to escape. "You made Angelina clean your bedroom?"
George instantly became defensive. "She did it on her own! I didn't ask her!"
"How dare you! I suspect it was absolutely filthy! Angelina, please don't judge me too harshly - I didn't raise him in a pigsty, I assure you!" Mrs. Weasley looked horrified. "I'll have to clean this entire place myself!"
"I can help, Mrs. Weasley," Angelina offered.
"Absolutely not! I ought to make him clean it," Mrs. Weasley replied, scowling at George, who at least had the good grace to look abashed. "I cannot believe you have let it get into this sort of condition! Or that Angelina had to clean anything! I didn't raise you this way!"
Angelina merely stood to the side as Mrs. Weasley continued to rave at George - it was probably doing him some good to get yelled at, and at least it wasn't her doing it. He'd listen to his mother where he may not listen to her, so all in all, this was a win.
While Mrs. Weasley continued on her furious tirade, she pushed George to his bedroom and forced him into bed, then came out and slammed the door behind her in anger.
"I'm so sorry, dear," she said, her face red with embarrassment. "You never should have had to clean anything!"
"I spent six and a half years with him at Hogwarts," Angelina reminded her, moving to the kitchen to put the rest of Alicia's soup in the icebox. "I remember what the boys' dormitory looked like well enough. And the Quidditch locker room."
"Be that as it may..." Mrs. Weasley sighed heavily and began unpacking her basket of food, glaring at the bare cupboards as though they were also insulting her.
"Once, I had to go up and fetch them for Quidditch practice. All the blokes in our year were having a big pillow fight when I opened the door. The entire room was a certified disaster. I just left and sent Oliver in after them. I was afraid if I went in, something would get thrown at me. Ollie lost his temper and fetched McGonagall."
Mrs. Weasley smiled sadly. "And I suspect they didn't listen to her anymore than Oliver Wood or you or anyone else."
"Well, she made them clean the entire dorm, at least." Angelina used her wand to clean out the sink, and then turned to the grimy stove, her lip curling in disgust. He had apparently tried to cook something on it and burned half the stove.
"The twins were always messy at home, too. They kept experimenting up in their room, it was maddening. There are still burn marks on the floor, I can't get them off." Molly paused, looking sad. "Or perhaps... well, maybe I just don't try hard enough," she murmured.
Angelina felt awkward, but said nothing about the passing reference to Fred. Instead, as soon as the stove was clean, she said quietly, "I'll check on him tomorrow after practice, shall I? Give you a bit of a break?"
Mrs. Weasley seemed to pull herself from her thoughts, and forced a small smile. "Tomorrow afternoon will be fine, dear. I'll stay with him until then, and see if I can't get some food in him. I'll have to go shopping for groceries, but he'll be alright on his own for a couple of hours, I expect. And Ron will be in the shop, if I need him."
"Well, if you need me, send a Patronus. I'll pop right over."
"I'm glad you're around." Mrs. Weasley walked with her to the fireplace, where Angelina collected her coat and boots. "Thank you for taking care of him. I feel better knowing you're about, watching out for him. I worry about him so much."
"I don't know that I'm doing a bang-up job, to be honest."
"We all wonder if we're doing a good job - me, included. You be careful, now. I don't want you getting sick, either."
"Don't worry. If I do, I'll head to St. Mungo's. I can't afford to be benched! Good night, Mrs. Weasley," she added, taking a pinch of powder and tossing it into the fire.
"Good night, dear."
Her last glance of Molly Weasley showed a warm, sad smile - and Angelina thought that at least if Molly Weasley liked her, that was something to be grateful for.
~FIN