Chapter 8: Fred

James has data and Internet working on everybody's phones by the end of the week, and one of his buddies comes up with a way to charge electronics without a cable or electrical outlet. By dinnertime on Friday, I've followed 200 people on Instagram and have been invited to join three private Facebook groups. The profs, bless them, start Accioing away people's phones when they catch them using them during class, and they end up with piles of phones dozens high on their desks by the time the bell rings to signal the end of class, but none of us learn. Of course we don't learn. We're millennials, baby. Have you met us?

"I think we're actually Gen Z, Weasley," Smith points out when I'm making this point at dinner. "And the teachers aren't totally wrong. Wanna take bets on how fast somebody posts something on social media that leaks out to the Muggles? I give it two weeks."

"Come on, we're not that stupid," says Chloe Walker, rolling her eyes. "Two months."

"Month and a half," I say. "I'll put ten Galleons on it. Is someone writing these down?"

As it turns out, all of us are overly optimistic. It's not even another week before some idiot seventh year posts a video of themselves Transfiguring their mate's head into a shark's head à la Viktor Krum in a space that isn't friends-locked, and it leaks out on Tumblr and goes viral. The Muggles, of course, don't recognize the magic for what it is, assuming that the whole thing is just a good bit of CGI special effects or whatever, and while that sounds ignorant of them on the surface, you can't really blame them, can you? Their whole lives, they've been hammered over the head with the belief that magic is as fake as the sky is blue, and they've seen time and time again the technology capable of pulling off a stunt like that and making it look real when it isn't.

The Ministry, predictably, flips its shit. The bloke in the video and the bird doing the shooting—both Gryffindors, obviously—get dragged in for an inquiry, and Vic says they threaten to snap both their wands if they ever pull a stunt like that again. As far as I'm concerned, we all got lucky this time—that the Muggles didn't take it seriously, I mean. Can you imagine what's going to happen when something like this leaks and Muggles actually take it seriously? Obliviators can't just bust up the Internet and erase any trace of a viral video. You think anybody in the Ministry knows how to hack a computer?

And even if they did, nothing is ever gone from the Internet for good. There's the Wayback Machine and shit, and once other people have reblogged your stuff on Tumblr, there's no getting it back without tracking down every single password to every one of those accounts and deleting them all. Once you've done that, there's still every single person who remembers seeing the thing—it'd be practically as difficult to track them all down as it was to implement the Statute of Secrecy in the first place, and back then, people whose memories had been wiped weren't getting re-exposed to the same secrets by the Internet over and over.

The one weird and surprising upshot of having working phones is that McLaggen and I can talk and text on the weekends when I'm staying with Dad. He sends me funny texts about other Slytherins' antics around the common room, and I text him back with snark, and we FaceTime at night to help each other practice spells and bitch about my sister. We both had phones even before James got the spells working, but it's not like we ever communicated like this during school breaks or anything in the past.

So it's not a total surprise when we're chatting during my third weekend visiting home and McLaggen says, "So, uh, the next Hogsmeade trip is coming up next weekend. Are you coming, or will you be at your dad's again?"

"I was going to stay with my dad. Didn't see the point of going," I say with a goddamn stone sinking in my stomach.

"You could go. You could go with me," says McLaggen, and there it is.

"What, like a date?"

"Yes, like a date. If you wanted."

"C.J.…"

"What, you think I slept with you because I don't like you? I'm not Chandni. It's not going to go down like it did between you and her."

I'm still not sure about this, but he's cute with his lip between his slightly yellowed teeth and his hand running nervously through his wavy brown hair, and I know him. We mostly talk smack, but I like to think I know him well enough to know that he's not going to screw with me on purpose. "Okay," I say. "We'll see how it goes. But if you think I'm going to dress up for you, you're dead wrong."

"I would have expected nothing less," McLaggen says with a grin.

I'm not feeling particularly keen to divulge anything about my love life to Dad, but it inevitably comes up when we're having breakfast the next morning, Sunday. Things have been pretty weird at home ever since the day after the funeral, when I was out with Molly and Aunt Ginny and I ran away or whatever. I'm spending most of my weekend time with the rest of the family—like, today, Uncle George and Angelina are picking me up before I go back to Hogwarts—and even when I am home with Dad, he's spending most of his time holed up in his study with his papers and crap. Our time together is basically just moments like these when there's no one and nothing around to distract us from each other and we have to fight through the awkwardness all on our own.

"So, uh, next weekend, Grammy and Granddad asked if you wanted to do an overnight at the Burrow on Friday," Dad says in between bites of bacon. "And on Sunday, Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione would like to have you over if you'd like."

"Sunday sounds good," I say as nonchalantly as I can, "but can I take a rain check on seeing Grammy and Granddad? I, um—I'm not going to Floo in next weekend until Saturday night. It's a Hogsmeade weekend."

"Hogsmeade?" says Dad with a confused little twitch of his lips. "You were just there with Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron two weeks ago."

"Yeah, but someone asked me to go with them, so I'm going."

He frowns. "You're not going with that Patil girl, are you? Because I thought—"

"What? No way in hell. She cheated on me; I'm not that desperate."

"Then who…?"

I sigh. "Do you remember my friend McLaggen?"

"You mean that boy you've been on the phone with every night since you've been coming back home to stay?"

Huh. I hadn't realized he had even noticed. Maybe Dad has been paying more attention than I thought. "We're just friends, Dad."

"Yeah, okay," he says. He's got a funny look on his face as he adds, "Luce, you—you're not doing anything with him or—or with anyone yet, are you? And you know how important it is to be careful? Because you're getting to be about that age, and—"

Angelina and Uncle George conveniently choose that moment to Apparate with a crack into the front hall. "I smell food," Uncle George calls. "If there are any kippers left, I'm having some."

"Help yourself," I yell, while Dad shakes his head at me.

It's maybe a little weird that I'm closer to Angelina than I am to Uncle George, considering that he's the one who's actually family. That's not to say that I don't love my Uncle George or that I don't feel I have a connection with him. He's sweet and funny and charming and always quick to sneak me prototypes of the latest Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes merch when Dad isn't looking, and I like spending time with him, I do. But Uncle George—he won't tell you how he is when you ask, even if you can see how haunted he is in his eyes, and Dad says he put walls up when Uncle Fred died that never came down, not even all these years later.

Angelina, on the other hand, is totally upfront and honest about everything, including Uncle George. I don't totally understand why Uncle George brings her along to family stuff sometimes and doesn't seem to mind her having a relationship with me outside of him, considering that their entire relationship is a hot mess of commitment issues and drama. I mean, why would you refuse to call her your girlfriend but then repeatedly introduce her to your entire family? But it means that Angelina gets to be my friend, and I like having Angelina as my friend. She listens to me and actually tells me stuff, like about what happened in the war and about Uncle George.

The baby is due next month—November fourth, to be exact. When we found out that Angelina was pregnant, I was hoping it would spur Uncle George to marry her, so that she could really be my aunt and they could finally be a family. Call me old-fashioned, whatever—it's not that I have any moral issues with her getting pregnant out of wedlock; I just want Uncle George to value her like I do, and more than that, I want her to be a Weasley. But she didn't become his wife—she didn't move in with him—she didn't even become his girlfriend. I wonder how that's going to affect the kid, growing up in two broken homes with a dad who won't admit he loves its mom.

I guess I haven't really considered the possibility that Angelina might be as reluctant to commit as Uncle George is. She's just always seemed so happy to be close to me and the other Weasleys—why would she do that if she didn't want to belong with Uncle George?

Anyway, we hit up The Leaky Cauldron, and Uncle George buys me a banana split at Florean Fortescue's afterwards. Angelina tries to ask me about my mum a few times, but I drown her out talking about James's spells and the havoc they're wreaking at Hogwarts. Angelina has heard all about the shark's head incident already—she works in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes at the Ministry. "I don't think word has really spread to most of Wizarding Britain yet," she tells me as I'm chopping my banana into smaller pieces with my spoon, "since it barely got any media coverage. The Prophet threw in a two-paragraph item about it way in the back of the paper when it went down, and that was it. But I think the higher-ups in my department are very, very worried. They're in talks with Professor McGonagall to send a couple people over and speak to the student body about the importance of Internet privacy."

"That'll be a mess," I snort. "I bet you nobody in the Ministry knows a thing about how the Internet works. So how close do you think we are to a massive breach of the Statute of Secrecy, anyway?"

Angelina and Uncle George exchange a look. "Close," says Angelina. "And it's not just stupid teenagers putting us at risk, either. It just takes one… duel between two pissed-off wizards in the street or something getting caught on camera by Muggles and posted on social media for things to fall apart."

"But it's not like Muggles seeing it online will believe it's real," I say.

"Maybe not, but it's going to look real fishy if you have a bunch of eyewitness accounts claiming it was real and then abruptly trying to take it back once they've been Obliviated."

Uncle George jumps in, "Will it, though? Look fishy? We could track everybody down, modify their memories to make them believe they were helping pull off a hoax the whole time. Even if we miss a few people, there's no way that Muggles will start believing in magic and think an incident like that is real just because a few oddballs are claiming it is."

Angelina doesn't look convinced, but Uncle George starts asking me research questions about what kinds of prank items Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes should add to their lineup next, and we move on.

An hour later, they Side-Along Apparate me back to Dad's house so that he can say goodbye before I go back to school. Predictably, Dad is holed up in his study with papers from work. Jesus, does that man ever take a break? I don't know if I've ever seen him relax and do something for fun during his off hours.

"Oh, hey, Perce," says Uncle George after hellos have been said. "Do you mind if I ask you something about the quarterly earnings report for the shop? I just had this small thing come up…"

"We'd better leave them to it," says Angelina in an undertone. "Knowing your dad, this could go on for hours. Come on, let's take a walk."

So we step back outside to wind our way around the block. She puts a quick arm around my shoulders and kind of scrunches it a couple of times before letting go. "Really, hon, are you doing okay? You've told us all about everything except how you're really doing."

"I'm fine," I say.

But something in my voice must give me away. "Lucy, it's me. You can tell me."

I shrug. "I'm fine. My mum is dead. It's not like we had a relationship—it's not like anything is missing that was there in the first place."

"You don't have to do that, you know," says Angelina softly.

"I'm not doing anything."

"But you are. You're getting defensive, and you're putting walls up. I know you and I love you, Lucy, and anybody would be rattled by their mum committing suicide. Your whole family knows you and loves you, and they just want to be there for you and your dad and Molly."

"So that's why you're here? Because you pity me? Because you feel sorry for me?"

She tries to say, "I just care about you, and I want—"

"I'm going back home," I say abruptly, and I turn around on the spot and start to run back.

Angelina has the good sense not to follow me. My feet pound the pavement, and my muscles and lungs are all screaming by the time I get to two houses away from ours, so I slow to a walk and try to focus on my breathing the rest of the way back. God, I'm out of shape. If I really want to do this, I should really hop onto Google and find out the best way to get started as a runner, because this thing where I go as far as I can and practically kill myself clearly isn't going to work.

In my opinion, I'm pretty loud when I clamber through the front door and slam it shut all while breathing heavily, but Dad and Uncle George don't seem to hear me. I assume they're just engrossed in Uncle George's quarterly whatever-it-was, but when I come closer to the study, I stop in my tracks and hang back to listen.

"She's having your child, George," says Dad. "What more reason do you need?"

"It's too soon," Uncle George says.

"George, it's been twenty years, almost."

"It's too soon. I always liked her, even when she was dating him all those years ago. He never knew. He wouldn't have been pissed at me for it—that's how he was—but I could never bring myself to taint this one good thing in his life. Now he's gone and it feels like I stole her."

"She's her own person. You didn't steal anything—she decided for herself that she wanted to be with you."

"Yeah, and how did she decide she wanted me? How is it that she can want me? How can she look at me and not just see him? I think about what she must feel when she looks at me, and I want to be sick."

"But you stay with her. You haven't left," says Dad.

There's a big pause where Uncle George must be—I don't know. Finding the courage to say why, or something. "Because being close to Angelina makes me feel like I'm close to him, like there's a piece of him that I can keep with me. I hate myself for it, but there it is. How can I marry her and raise our kid with that kind of example?"

That's when I realize that Uncle George and Dad are talking about Uncle Fred. Angelina was dating Uncle Fred? And now she's sleeping with—?

I can't go back outside—Angelina could still be out there somewhere near the house—but I can't stay here and listen to any more of this, either. For a second, I wish I knew how to Disapparate so I could just vanish on the spot, but then I remember that there'd be a crack and Dad and Uncle George would know I've been here listening.

So now I know why Uncle George and Angelina won't just get married like I always thought they should. I guess I was wrong—about that, and about Angelina always being up front and honest with me about everything, because she sure as hell wasn't up front or honest about this.