June 5, 2003

His brother was going to kill him.

His mother was going to kill him, and then after he was already dead his brother was going to kill him, and he'd be cast into the outer darkness the American muggle was yelling about on the street corner.

"GEORGE!"

"Hmmm?" George Weasley responded.

"I'm pregnant."

"So you said."

"With a baby."

"Yes."

"Your baby."

"I figured."

"Bastard."

It occurred to George that perhaps this was not the best time for sarcasm. "Sorry," he said, abashed, looking down at his cup of tea. They were at a Muggle café near Charing Cross Road. He thought, all things considered, Angelina would be angrier. Probably she was. He hadn't really said anything yet. Anything about the pregnancy. The baby. Angelina. George. Fred.

Fred and Angelina hadn't actually dated. They'd gone to the Yule Ball together. One date. They'd spent most of the time with George and Alicia; making fun of Filch, mocking Snape, unsuccessfully trying to charm Roger Davies robes to turn a lurid pink. George wasn't sure the rest of his family realized that. He wasn't sure they'd care, given that he'd gotten Fred's one-time-Yule-Ball-date pregnant.

He'd done alright with grief during these years, all things considered. There'd been some problematic alcohol use (to borrow Hermione's words from when she found him and Harry asleep on the top of the Burrow's chicken coop). There'd been some skiving off work. There'd been a surprising amount of crying. But really, he had done well. At least until he'd knocked Angelina up.

"George," Angelina said again. She sounded impatient.

"Oh, sorry," George replied, "I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to say. Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"I mean, have you gone to a healer?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Is everything fine? I mean with the baby. And you."

"Yes, everything's fine. We're both fine. The baby isn't very big."

"Right. Ummmm…when is it coming?"

"Late January." Angelina looked alright. She wasn't crying. She wasn't shouting. George had no idea what he was supposed to do. If Fred were alive, he'd ask Fred. If Fred were alive, there was no guarantee that George wouldn't have gotten Angelina pregnant anyways, but probably he wouldn't have been out drinking on the fifth anniversary of Fred's death.

Maybe he'd ask Bill.

"What do we do now?" George asked.

"I don't know," Angelina shrugged, "I suppose we tell people. Tell our parents."

June 6, 2003

"Angelina's pregnant," George said just as Bill had taken a swallow of butterbeer. Bill choked. "And seriously, could you be any more of a wuss? It's butterbeer not firewhiskey! It's not even as strong as muggle beer."

"Dominique is getting her molars in. I don't want to have a hangover tomorrow. But that's not the point. Angelina's pregnant? Angelina who?" Bill asked, running a hand through his hair, "Blimey, I'm not sure what to ask first."

"Yes, Angelina's pregnant. Angelina Johnson, you prat," Fred responded. Bill's expression was still blank. "Gryffindor Chaser, same year as Fred and me, captain our final year. Really, nothing?"

"I left the year before you started, remember? And went off to Egypt the year you and Fred made the team."

"She went to the Yule Ball with Fred. Does that ring a bell?"

"Oh," Bill responded, slightly bemused, "Yes. Pretty girl. I didn't know Fred had a girlfriend."

"He didn't," George replied, "It was just one night."

"And you and she? Was that just one night too?" George rolled his eyes. "I'm just asking, honest. It's Mum you've got to watch out for."

"Yeah," George said slowly, taking a sip of butterbeer, "Just one night. It was after the five year memorial."

"Hmmmm," murmured Bill, "Were you both drunk?"

"Tipsy," George said, "We went out with Katie and Oliver, but they had to get home early for their babysitter. Ran into Lee Jordan for a bit too."

"I would've thought the time for drunkenly knocking someone up would've been right after the Battle," Bill said, "Not five years later."

George shrugged, "Not like these things really get planned."

"Suppose not. Have you told Mum and Dad?"

"Not yet. We're supposed to go tell Angelina's parents tomorrow morning, then stop by the Burrow that evening. I'm not sure how much time it's supposed to take. What do you say, really? 'Hi, nice to see you, we're having a baby, due in January, bye.' Or do you stick around for tea? I can't even remember how you and Fleur told everyone."

"I stood up at Christmas dinner and announced it, although I think Mum already knew. Remember how we didn't tell you all for months? We weren't sure the baby would make it. Fleur didn't want to get everyone's hopes up," Bill said. Time had made it easier for him to talk about the year after the Battle of Hogwarts, the year he and Fleur kept trying to get pregnant, everyone grieving, and the two of them grieving the dead and the not-yet-living.

"There's an idea, waiting till Christmas," George said with a small smile.

"Don't even think about it," Bill replied sternly, "Are you going to marry her?"

"Dunno. Depends on what she wants, I guess. We've always gotten along, Angelina and me. I had a bit of a crush on her sixth year, but then Fred took her to the Ball, and then the next year she was Quidditch captain and there was Umbridge and then Fred and I left."

"Mum'll expect a wedding. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, I do. Yesterday didn't seem like a great time to bring it up though." George swallowed the last of his butterbeer.

Bill scooped up the two empty bottles. "I'll go get more." George leaned back in the booth. So far Victoire and Dominique were the only grandchildren. Percy and Charlie weren't even married, and the rest of them didn't have kids. Oliver and Katie had two.

"You're going to be a good dad, you know," Bill said as he passed George an uncapped butterbeer.

"What makes you say that?" George asked.

Bill shrugged. "We had a good dad. That seems to help. Whenever the girls are pitching fits or whinging I think, 'Now, what would Dad do?' Of course, he didn't have two daughters and I wasn't even around much when Ginny was a toddler."

"Blimey, I'm going to be a dad."

Bill smiled. "Welcome to fatherhood. Chin up."

July 28, 2003

"Are you sure about this?" George asked. Angelina was standing next to him in front of the jewelry shop, her hand tucked around his arm.

"Mostly," Angelina replied. She sounded calm. "This is what is done. Even in the Muggle world, for the most part, at least according to Hermione.

"I won't make you, you know," George said, "I'll stand up to Mum. Your Mum too. The whole damn world, if I must. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

"I know. I know you won't. And I won't make you either. But it is simpler. Easier. Even you must know that in our world people don't always marry for love. Probably not in the muggle world either. Remember that muggle princess?"

"The one who died during the war right before the kids had to go back to Hogwarts? Vaguely. I remember it made it easier for the Order to get the last of the muggleborn kids out of the country."

"Do you feel trapped?" Angelina asked.

"No," George replied, "Not really. This is how it is. We're having a baby so we're getting married. Means you need a ring. Bit backwards, I suppose. Fred should be here."

Angelina hummed in agreement but didn't say anything. George thought back to a few weeks prior. They'd gone 'round to Angelina's parents first. Angelina's father was a muggleborn and her mother was a half-blood – George felt oddly proud of being the father of the first half-blood Weasley – but they were a British couple born in the fifties. There was nothing odd to them about wand weddings – Mr. Johnson had called it a "shotgun" wedding, whatever that was. Not that they were pleased. But they didn't seem too angry.

His mum and dad probably would have been angrier if Fred hadn't died or if they hadn't had other grandchildren to distract them. As it was, being alive and getting a girl pregnant was a lot less depressing than being dead. His parents and older brothers didn't even seem to remember that Fred had gone to the Yule Ball with Angelina. Ron had raised an eyebrow but hadn't said anything.

"Shall we go in?" Angelina asked. The jewelry shop was cozy and underlit.

"Can I help you?" a kind-looking older man asked. He looked as old as Mr. Ollivander – or as young as Mr. Ollivander would have looked if Voldemort hadn't kidnapped and held him in Malfoy Manor during the war.

"Yes, we're looking for an engagement ring," George said.

"Right this way, right this way, congratulations, congratulations," the shopkeeper replied. He brought out two trays of rings. One was filled with diamond rings, the other with various gemstones. Finding a ring, much like the rest of their courtship, didn't take long. The shopkeeper put it in a little velvet box and wrapped it up, but once they were out of the shop and down the street Angelina tugged at his pocket.

"What?" he asked.

"Take it out, please."

George drew out the box. "What for? You know I have to propose with that."

"Don't be daft, put it on me," Angelina said bluntly. George stopped and looked at her. She seemed determined, not teary or wistful. He pulled out the box, opened it, and slipped the small emerald ring on her finger. "There," she said," That does look nice," and she tucked her arm back in his elbow.

"You don't want a proposal?" he asked.

"You can propose on our five year anniversary," Angelina replied, looking straight ahead.

September 2, 2003

"I'M KING OF THE WORLD!" Ron shouted.

"Get back in here! Are you daft! What is bloody wrong with you?" Harry shouted back and pulled his best friend down out of the sunroof of the limousine.

"I've seen it in those moving muggle pictures Hermione likes!" Ron said indignantly.

"Those are movies, not real life, don't be a prat. Honestly, Hermione shouldn't show them to you if this is how you're going to behave. Sorry, George," Harry said.

"I like them!" Ron responded with a huff, crossing his arms and flopping back on the seat.

"Carry on fighting like an old married couple, you two," Charlie said, "It's amusing for the rest of us."

"These muggles really are ingenious," Percy cut in, "Reckon one of us should go and get Dad? He'll be sorry he missed it."

With that, George cut in. "No," he said, "No one is getting Dad. Dad is not coming to my stag party, even if it's in a muggle limousine with muggle alcohol and muggle food." Harry, the organizer of the night's events, had indeed gotten muggle pizza and Chinese takeaway, as well as found the driver, who happened to be a muggle parent of a young witch whose case Hermione had worked on through the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

"Is it really a stag party if we're two nights away?" Bill asked, munching on a slice of pepperoni pizza.

"We had your stag party two nights before your wedding, remember?" Charlie said, "It was Harry's birthday the night before."

"Oh right," Bill responded, "I had forgotten."

"Yes, and we didn't bring Harry because he wasn't of age yet," said Percy.

"Also, because he looked like a specky fourteen-year-old and no one would have served him alcohol," said Ron, smirking.

"Hey, I resent that!" Harry replied, flinging a fortune cookie at his youngest brother-in-law. Ron dodged.

"What do you know, Auror boy can still dodge even when drunk!" George chortled, "And we're having my stag party two nights before because I am not showing up hungover to my own wedding."

"Yet the rest of us have to show up tired and hungover to work tomorrow. It is a Tuesday, after all," said Percy.

"Yeah, why are you getting married on a Thursday anyways? The rest of us had the decency to get married on a weekend," Ron piped up.

"The rest of us also didn't get our fiancée's pregnant and need to take one of the only available days for the officiant," said Harry.

"Well, that would have been impossible for you, right Potter? Given that you and my baby sister lived in perfect, pure chastity before your wedding and even now sleep in two different beds?" drawled Bill.

"If you believe that," Harry responded, "You're drunker than I thought."

"If you're discussing sex and my sister, you must be drunker than I thought, Potter," Charlie said darkly.

"I don't want to hear any of this," said Ron.

"Hear, hear," hiccupped Percy.

"What should we do now?" asked George, clapping his hands together.

"Get more pepperoni pizza," said Bill.

"Drink more muggle alcohol," said Charlie.

"Go home and go to bed," said Percy.

"Fireworks!" said Ron.

"Fireworks it is!" cried George happily, "Driver, to Diagon Alley!"

"Uhhh, that's near Charing Cross Road," Harry put in helpfully.

"Fireworks!" chorused Ron and George.

February 23, 2004

"Hello Fred," George said quietly, "Meet Fred." He was holding a small baby, bundled up against the February cold. Angelina was back at their flat over the joke shop, enjoying an hour's peace, while George brought their son to meet his namesake.

Fred Gideon Weasley

April 1, 1978-May 2, 1998

Beloved son and brother

Mischief managed

"He's my son. Mine and Angelina's. We got married. Told you she liked me best. How could she not? I'm smarter, handsomer, really, the full package. Truth be told, brother, I'm not really sure what I'm doing yet with little Fred. I haven't dropped him. That's probably good. I named him after my dead twin brother – that's you – which Angelina doesn't seem to mind but now I'm wondering if it's not a little creepy. Do you mind? I hope not. Tough luck if you do, I'm not filling out more paperwork. Babies, it turns out, are a lot of paperwork."

George stared down at the headstone. It had the emblem of the Order of the Phoenix, as all the resistance fighters did, with a mark underneath to show he had died in the final battle. Headstones like this were scattered up and down the country. There had been a hullabaloo when Xenophilius Lovegood had finally died of the damage done in Azkaban. Was he part of the resistance? Was he loyal? Did he deserve an emblem? He was buried in this graveyard too, but George didn't feel like checking.

This was the legacy of Fred Gideon Weasley – an Order of Merlin, a war finally over, a living and grieving twin brother, a namesake nephew too young to understand, and a headstone in a cold graveyard outside Ottery St. Catchpole.