Chapter 3: The Burrow

Going home is even harder than Charlie anticipated.

The rain comes down in sheets, and he has a miserable flight. The Cauldron Cakes that Slovadan's sister baked last weekend crumble into gooey mush long before he crosses the French border. He is levitating a large duffle bag behind him, which slows him down. But there's no alternative. The British Floo Network is not connected to the Romanian Floo network, which is, in any case, unreliable. Some wizards would apparate, but Charlie has never felt entirely confident about apparition, and he doesn't want to risk it with a duffle bag. Distracted as he is, he would probably go and splinch himself.

Besides, he likes to fly.

Charlie has already discovered, to his chagrin, that Hermione wasn't joking about the dragon petting zoo. It isn't every day, or even every decade, that a Bones marries a Longbottom. Susan's parents and Neville's grandmother have planned a wedding on an almost royal scale, and they have their hearts set on dragons. Charlie did at least manage to talk them out of an ill-advised plan to import a Hungarian Horntail. He recommended Common Welsh Greens, but there's been an outbreak of dragon pox on the Welsh reservation, so Augusta Longbottom settled at last on Swedish Shortsnouts, which, while ferocious, are still tamer than any of the eastern European varieties.

At the Burrow, Charlie is received warmly by his assembled kin, enjoying a chaotic family dinner the night before Neville's big day. His short, stout mother throws her arms around him, soggy as he is, and reprimands him for not apparating. He gently disengages himself, fishes in his damp duffle bag, and hands her a vial of dragon's blood, her favorite, and inordinately expensive, brand of oven cleaner. Her tears turn to smiles.

The Burrow is, as usual, overflowing, but the gender ratio has shifted. Women crowd the rooms. Fleur is lounging around the living room in swishy, gilt-trimmed satin maternity robes, with her feet up on the ottoman, giving orders for chocolates, tea, pillows, and ice water freely to every Weasley who passes by, although most of the time Bill is the only one who listens. Jenny, whose baby is due a month before Fleur's and who has perhaps a better right to the ottoman, is not making a fuss. Jenny never makes a fuss. She is a Muggle, plain-faced and sweet, and full of constant quiet wonder about the wizarding world. She is the last sort of girl that Charlie imagined George would marry, but he likes her better every time he sees her. Jenny's parents run a stationery shop in a village near the Burrow, and she spent years waiting on customers. She fits right in now, in Diagon Alley, in spite of all the raised eyebrows. She is even starting to take an interest in Quidditch.

It must be awfully hard to be a Muggle, though. As best Charlie can make out, being a Muggle makes the simplest things, such as cooking and transportation, extremely complicated. And then there is the whole issue of eckeltricity. In the world that Jenny comes from, nothing whatsoever seems to work without recourse to plugs and eckeltricity. Arthur is fascinated, of course. Arthur adores Jenny.

Charlie is just glad he was spared the burden of such dependence.

Bill and Fleur's son Freddie has pulled himself up on a chair. He toddles across the room, shrieking and waving his arms, and Fleur beams with pride. Charlie stands Percy's freckled, red-haired son up in his lap. This boy is, predictably, named Percy Jr. He is six months old and he is—as both Percy and Penelope will gladly explain to anyone who gives them half an opening—exceptionally bright. To be sure, he is evincing profound academic curiosity about the contents of Charlie's robe pockets. Even now, he is drooling on the handle of Charlie's wand.

Charlie sets Percy Jr. down in his lap, wipes the wand, and hands the baby a gurdyroot to chew on instead. "I guess there'll be a couple more this winter," he says quietly.

Hermione giggles. Ron looks extremely pleased with himself. "Three," he says. "There'll be three."

Charlie looks from Ron to Hermione. "Oh, and when were you planning to tell me that?" he asks. "That didn't quite make it into the letters to Romania."

Hermione takes Ron's hand. "We only just found out ourselves," she says.

Charlie looks from Hermione to Ron, his kid brother. They look very, very young. Calm, confident, eager. Loving parents in the making. By wizarding standards, this is not unusual. By wizarding standards, this is the right time to start their family. This is the age at which his parents had Bill. But Charlie is seven and a half years older than Ron, and to him, his brother and his brother's wife just look so very, very young.

It is late. The reluctant June twilight has at last faded over the fields, the last cup of tea has been drunk, the last infant has been calmed, and the Burrow is still. Charlie can't sleep. Sighing, he heaves himself out of bed and clambers down three flights of stairs to the living room. Insomnia seldom plagues him in Romania.

To his surprise, the living room is not empty. Hermione sits curled in an armchair, reading a slender hardcover book by the light of her wand. She nods to him silently. Ron is fast asleep, still fully dressed, on the threadbare sofa.

Charlie picks through the reading matter on the coffee table. Outdated copies of Witch Weekly and Which Broomstick. The spring catalog for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. A bound copy of Percy's first report on cauldron bottoms, carefully preserved by Molly. Controlling Tantrums: A Mother's Magic Touch. An Elementary Guide to Quantum Mechanics. An Introduction to String Theory. Charlie doesn't even know what string theory is. He flips it open; it looks like science. Penelope is—most unusually, but that's Penelope—apparating to Oxford in the autumn, to read for a degree in physics. It must be hers. Curiously, he bends his head to see the cover of Hermione's book.

The title is, Men Who Love Dragons Too Much.

She sees him read it. He flushes.

"Hermione," he says quietly, "why do you read that muck?"

"It's not mine," she says defensively. "It's your mother's. I'm just reading it because I couldn't sleep, and I thought it looked funny."

Oh. That makes it so much better.

"It's—well, she worries, Charlie. You know, she worries that you'll never settle down. She worries that you don't want to get married. I mean, I don't. I think you have a right to do whatever you want to do. I don't like dragons very much myself, but I do see how someone else could find them—well, er, interesting. And I don't think that everyone necessarily has to get married. I mean, some people want to and some people don't. It's a personal choice. I'm not going to give you a hard time if you'd rather just be single and travel around and keep dragons."

"Hermione," he says, "it's not that I don't want to."

"Oh. Well, I'm not going to ask you nosy questions. I'm sure you'll tell us about your love life when you want to. Bill and Penelope and Ron and I all agreed that we're not going to give you a hard time about it. And your dad's very proud of you. I know he is. It's just your mother who—"

"Hermione," he says. "You don't understand what it's like. No one who hasn't been to Romania can possibly understand what it's like."

"I know, Charlie," she says soothingly, absently, looking over his shoulder at her rumpled husband. "I know."

He knows she doesn't know.

Ron snores on the sofa, heedless of this tense exchange between his brother and his pregnant wife. Nine years ago, Ron was a little boy. Nine years ago, Ron and Ginny, and sometimes even the twins, listened star-struck and spellbound to Charlie's tales of life on a dragon reservation, to his first experiences of harvesting horns and clipping talons. Nine years flew by. Ron grew up, left school, fought a war, got married, and went into business. Charlie just kept harvesting horns and clipping talons.

Fergal, in his late thirties, has been a Dragon Keeper for seventeen years. He spent four years in the Andes, tending Peruvian Vipertooths. He has been to Australia and to China. He has lived a life of travel, adventure, and first-degree burns.

This is what Charlie has to look forward to.

There was a time when he did look forward to it.