"Happy birthday to you!"

The kitchen was dark, save for the large amount of flickering candles on the large cake in front of him. Seven faces patterned with shadows looked on at he stared down on the candles, one for every year of his life. They were all smiling, but they did not look genuinely happy. Hell, could he blame them? He disguised a sigh as a deep breath, and blew out the candles, extinguishing all twenty-one with one great exhalation.

The lights came up with a wave of his mother's wand, and as she bent to take the cake from him, she lovingly swept his fringe back and kissed his forehead.

"What did you wish for, love?"

Fred. "A Muggle motorcycle and tickets to the Quidditch World Cup." They were the first two things that had come to mind that wouldn't make anyone cry.

"I wished you'd get a haircut this year." Bill said, tipping back in his chair.

"So said by the man with the ponytail." George replied as Mrs. Weasley set an enormous piece of cake in front of him. It oozed chocolate frosting as he pressed his fork into it.

"You should have wished for Zonko's. Ooof." Ginny grunted as Ron elbowed her squarely in the gut, under the guise of cutting into his cake. "You did that on purpose!"

"I did not.!" Ron replied around a mouthful of cake, looking offended.

"Yes you did! I'm getting awfully tired of your attitude towards me."

"I don't know if I want to buy Zonko's yet." George interrupted loudly, but Ginny and Ron continued to squabble.

"Ron, Ginny, take it outside!" Mr. Weasley said with uncharacteristic firmness, before turning back to George with an interested smile. "When are you going to meet with Zonkonowksi?"

"I'm meeting him in Hogsmeade the Monday after next." he continued, watching with mild amusement as Ginny punched Ron swiftly in the shoulder before darting out the kitchen door, with him hot on her heels.

"Is he willing to give you a discount?" Charlie asked.

"Yeah, he's offering it to me for less than he'd get on the open market, and include everything that's in there."

"Really? That's great. What's in there?"

He shrugged. "That's what I'm going to find out."

"I think it sounds wonderful, love." Mrs. Weasley said, smiling at him from across the table, but the smile did not reach her eyes. He knew why.

"Thanks."

He finished his cake in silence, listening only half-heartedly to his brothers' conversations. Bill and Mr. Weasley were discoursing on a new Ministry regulation involving the monitoring of the Floo network, with frequent, impassioned interjections by Percy.

"-- and I can't see how you think that less supervision is possibly a good idea!" he was saying, two spots of colour high in his cheeks. "It's the complete antithesis of what should be happening!"

"Kingsley said that, if the Ministry should ever be infiltrated again, he wants safeguards against--"

"I understand the concept, Bill, but it seems highly unlikely that the Ministry will ever face that sort of breach again."

Bill shrugged "You know the saying, Perce, as well as I do. Wizards who fail to learn from the mistakes of their predecessors are destined to repeat them."

It was about this time that George tuned out again. Family gatherings had always been so much more noteworthy when Fred was around. They probably would have made something explode by now. He smiled to himself, imagining the cake blasting into a hundred pieces with two well-placed spells.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up. His mother looked down at him. "Are you all right, Georgie?" she asked quietly.

"Fine, Mum."

"It's just that you look so.…" she broke off with a watery sigh.

"I'm fine."

"Are you, love? Are you really?"

Conversation at the other end of the table had ceased, and George was quite aware that his father and his three elder brothers were watching them in silence. The kitchen was growing very warm and stuffy, and he was suddenly overcome with the urge to run screaming like a nutter from the claustrophobic room. "I'm fine." he said brusquely. "Please, I'm fine."

She could only nod and walk away, leaving him angry and confused. This was a difficult day for all of them, wasn't it? Why should he be special, be singled out and fawned over, just because he shared the same face as the bloke who wasn't here to celebrate his birthday? And yet, why couldn't he comfort his mother, who was hurting in ways even he couldn't imagine? What was stopping him from telling her what she desperately wanted to hear?

It wasn't the kind of situation that made him want to stick around, but he suffered through an awkward opening of gifts. When Ron and Ginny finally came through the door, both bruised, bloodied and panting heavily, George was thrilled to be forgotten in the chaos that followed.

Soon after, but not soon enough, he and Ron were ready to depart The Burrow. Following a round of rather formal good-byes and hugs from both his mother and Ginny, who seemed in a much better mood than he'd seen her in awhile, they were making their way across the back garden.

"Do you still have any of that bruise-remover paste?" Ron asked, wincing as he touched his impressively blackened eye.

"There's a jar of it in the office. She got you good, eh?"

"Unfortunately."

"You two friends again?"

"I guess. She was downright chummy after she kicked me in the ribs."

"She kicked you in the ribs?"

"Oh yeah. Ginny fights dirty, or don't you remember?"

"No, I remember." he said, recalling a particular incident in which she had kidney-punched Fred for reading her diary.

They had reached the point past which they could Disapparate, and did so nearly simultaneously, appearing a millisecond apart back in the flat. Once there, Ron headed for the office and George for his bedroom, where he flopped down onto his unmade bed. Ron appeared in the doorway a moment later with the jar of bruise-remover, which he began to apply liberally to his eye.

"You going out with Lee?" he asked, sighing contentedly as she spread the thick yellow paste over his injury.

"Not tonight. Not really in the mood."

"I know what you mean. Are you, you know, all right?"

"Godric, not you too."

"Well, happy birthday, then." Ron said a moment later, looking as though he very much wanted to say something else.

"Thanks. And thanks for the quill. I didn't expect you to go for looks as well as functionality."

He shrugged. "I could have gone with peacock-feather, but you aren't really a Lockhart kind of guy."

"I'm glad you've noticed."

He nodded. "Okay, um, well, goodnight."

"Goodnight." he replied, feeling immense relief and only a touch of guilt as Ron closed the door behind him.

XxX

The pub looked vaguely like The Hog's Head, but each table was filled with people, and witches and wizards stood two deep at the bar-- save for that night, he'd never seen The Hog's Head play host to so many people. He craned his neck, but Aberforth was nowhere to be seen. Over by the fireplace, beneath the large portrait of Ariana Dumbledore, a kind-faced witch was sipping sherry from a slender flute. Her hair was very fair and very long, in a plait that hung to her waist. She caught his eye and smiled warmly, as though they knew each other. He smiled back, uncertain.

"You're making eyes at Loony Lovegood's mum."

His head whipped around. Standing above him, inexplicably, was Fred, looking as alive as he ever had, a large mug of dark amber liquid clutched in one hand. "F-Fred?" he stammered. "What-- where is this place? Is this a dream?"

"No, you great muppet, I really am this good-looking. Can I sit?"

"I-- sure." He watched, feeling almost completely unmoored as Fred slipped into the seat across from him, waving jovially to a squat man with a bushy beard and a lazy eye. "Seriously, is this a dream?" he demanded. "It doesn't feel like a dream."

Fred looked thoughtful as he sipped from his mug. When he drew it back, there was a large swathe of foam on his upper lip. "Well, technically, you're in that weird place between asleep and awake. So it's not really a dream. At least not in principle."

"So you're still….?"

"Deceased, late, departed, sainted, clogs up? Yep, still dead."

George touched the space above his own mouth. "But am I actually here?"

"What is 'here'?" Fred asked with a smirk, wiping his lip with the back of his sleeve. "I mean, is it a physical place, or a state of--"

"You know, you're just as bloody infuriating now as you were when you were alive."

He laughed. "I get that a lot. Anyway, if you open your eyes-- and I swear to Godric that I will haunt you if you do-- you'll be snug in your own bed, and Ronnie'll still be sawing logs on the sofa."

"How are--"

Fred shrugged. "How should I know? You wished for it. When you blew out your candles."

"But--"

"Look, I don't make the rules around here, I just do what I'm told. 'Go with Mrs. Lovegood and sing folk songs to Luna', 'follow Ron into London and scare that Muggle so he forgets to lock his gate', 'hover 'round the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts and shoo birds in front of the Slytherin Seeker--"

"Wait, doing what you're told? Has the afterlife made you feeble?"

"Hardly. D'you really think they tell me to sing swear words to the tune of 'Scotland the Brave?' No, I just do it 'cause I know you'll hear it and recognize me!"

"Oh. Well, then, why--"

"Oi! For someone who knows magic, you're sure having a hard time keeping an open mind. You want a drink?" he asked, peering into the bottom of his empty mug.

He considered. "Sure."

"Good, good, this place isn't half-bad." Fred half-stood and waved across the pub, flagging down a dark-haired girl in an apron. She approached the table with a friendly smile. "What can I getchoo lads?" she asked in a heavy Scottish accent.

"Two more, please, Caitriona." Fred said with a wink. The girl rolled her eyes good-naturedly and went off into the crowd once again. "So, how've you been?"

"You mean you don't know?"

"You think I don't have anything better to do than hang around and watch you? I've got other stuff going !"

"Like what?"

"Like the weekly Wizard Chess game with Fabian and Gideon, and choir practice, and I gotta keep an eye on the whole family, don't I? There are seven more besides you, ya know. Plus Fleur, and Elizabeth and Hermione and Harry, but they don't exactly count as part of the family yet--"

"Harry and Ginny broke it off."

Fred put on a look of mock horror and slapped his own wrist. "Did I say yet? How silly of me, I must not know anything."

"Git."

He shot George a devilish grin. "You know it, Forge. And while we're on the subject of the family, you might want to lay off 'em a bit, especially Mum. They love you, and all that."

"Yeah, I know. I just hate the way they look at me sometimes, like I'm… I don't know... incomplete, or something."

"You are incomplete, lugless. Didja forget about that hole in the side of your head?"

"You know what I mean."

"Oh, you're right. But you might want to stop being such a prat-- they're in mourning, for Godric's sake, show some compassion. No wonder they're sad. Everyone knew I was the best looking out of the whole litter." he said, a wide grin on his face.

George shrugged, marvelling at the casual way Fred lounged in his seat, talking about his own death. "So you hang 'round with Fabian and Gideon? What are they like?"

"Oh, great blokes, real ace. You'd like 'em, they're a good time. We've got a bet going on now when Fleur's gonna pop out her first kid. Gideon's already out, his money was on February just past. They wanted to come with me here, but I said hold off. Next time. Didn't want to overload you, ya know, scare you off."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." He smiled over George's head, and a second later, Caitriona approached the table, two full mugs in her hand. "Thanks, Cait." he said with a salacious smile.

"Call me that again, Fred Weasley, and I'll cuff that mingin' head o' yours." she replied with a smile, then laid her hand on George's shoulder. "Was'is edjit like this when 'e was alive?"

"Frequently." George replied, looking up at the Scottish girl. The corners of her dark eyes crinkled in a smile, and then she was gone, weaving through the crowd to answer another patron's call.

"She looks a bit like your friend." Fred said, sentence punctuated by a long draught from his glass.

"What friend?"

"Honestly, George, it seems a bit unlikely that you've already forgotten your own kid."

He took a tentative sip from his own mug, found it tasted quite like cold butterbeer, and drank more. "Oh, you mean Paige?" he asked, taking another drink. "Yeah, kind of."

Fred looked at him expectantly for a moment, then made a coaxing kind of motion with his hands. George noticed that the knuckles of his left hand were cut and bruised. "Is that all? Come on, you have to have something more to say about it than that!"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Anything!" Fred said, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Gideon and I were sitting with Sirius the other day, and we were talking about what colour Mum's gonna turn when you finally tell her."

"Sirius? That's really comforting." He paused. "What colour do you think?"

"I said first red, then purple."

"That's what I was leaning towards, too."

"Yeah, but Sirius said white, and Gideon went with white, then red."

"Oh. Yeah, I can picture that too."

"Yeah." Fred tossed back the last bit of his drink, then leaned over the table. "But tell me, what are you planning to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, George, you're a lot dumber now than I remember."

"Thanks."

"No problem. Now, what about the kid?"

"Right. Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?"

"Of course. But that doesn't mean that I'm going to tell you."

"Come on."

"Negative. But if you stop interrogating me after every breath, I promise I'll tell you something almost as interesting."

George sighed. "All right, all right."

"Good. Now, I hope you don't mind, but I glanced in on your, uh, friend. She happened to be at work at the time, and... Well, as enjoyable as I found it, that's no environment to bring a kid. Especially not a Weasely. Everyone looks pasty, smells like smoke and rancid lager--"

"I'm not sure that I really want to hear this."

"That's tough shite. Listen, George, far be it from me to tell you that you have to have deep-seated emotional attachment to a girl to sleep with her--"

"Fred with the relationship advice, ladies and gentlemen! Remind me, dear brother, how many girls you've slept with?"

"We're talking about you here, you ear-lacking lummox."

"Like I thought." He grinned. "The floor is yours."

"About time! Your time here is only good 'til you drop off asleep, sunshine. I get to hang around indefinitely. So," he said, rubbing his hands briskly together, "back to the topic at hand. The general consensus is, you need to put forth a little bit more effort."

"What a load of old bollocks. I've put in plenty--"

"Right. So, was the effort showing up to the café, or letting her get the check?"

"That's pants!"

He chuckled. "Yeah. Look, do what you want, I'm just telling you what I see."

"All right." George replied, if only to mollify his brother. "I'll think about it."

"What's there to think about? Kid could be the spitting image of yours truly. Why would you want to deprive greater Wizarding Britain of that?"

"I said I'll think about it."

"Point taken." He checked his watch. "Getting a little late for you, eh, dear brother? I reckon you're going to be out cold in five minutes."

George nodded, trying to be nonchalant, but he had no real desire to leave this place. If this was what death was like, sitting around in a pub and betting on--

"It's not all it's cracked up to be. It's not so bad here, everyone's cool, but I'd much rather be alive."

"What, you can read my mind now?"

He waved his hand. "It's not like we have a psychic connection. You're not feckin' Trelawney. But we're still twins. I can still read you like a book."

"Oh, is that right? Go ahead, try me."

Fred stroked his chin as he looked across the table at his brother, brows furrowed in concentration. "Okay, I know. You're thinking about that time in winter of fourth year, when we stole Percy's flagon of frog spawn and charmed it to sing 'An Poc Ar Buile' every time Snape scratched that mammoth nose of his."

A roguish grin appeared on George's face. "Close. I'm thinking of the Yule Ball, when we hit Kenneth Towler with Jelly-Legs whilst he was dancing with that girl from Beauxbatons."

"Ahhhh yes. He went down like a ton of bricks. Tried to catch himself on the front of her dress, if I recall. Thought he was being cheeky, didn't she, and shot him point-blank with Conjunctivitis Curse." He smiled fondly at the memory. "But how is that close to what I guessed?"

"They were both bloody brilliant."

"And how."

George was vaguely aware of a sense of motion, as though he was on a very slow-moving train, looking back as the pub remained stationary. "Wait, what's going on?"

"Looks like you're falling asleep."

"But wait, no, I'm not ready. I just got here."

"Everything in moderation. Mind if I finish your drink?"

"Go ahead. But I want--"

"Oh, Georgie, don't get all wet on me. I'm always around."

"But--"

"Shut up now." he said with a rueful smile. The distance between them was growing, and quickly. Fred leaned across the table and procured his half-empty mug. "Oh, and I promised you something interesting, didn't I? All right, then... June."

"June? What happens in June?"

He grinned, looking just as alive as he ever had. "Everything."

XxX

George awoke with a start. The sound of Ron's deep, steady snoring seeped into the dark room, but it was not this that had awakened him. He'd just had an incredibly vivid dream, one that had felt almost real, and now his head felt like in was in the midst of a Quidditch brawl, his thoughts frenzied and all over the place.

He dressed quickly, and crept out into the sitting room. According to the clock on the wall, it was only quarter past one. Ron was flat on his back on the sofa, sprawled comfortably out with one foot hanging over the arm. Pig's cage stood open, empty, and the window was cracked just enough to let the tiny owl back in. George contemplated waking his brother, but didn't. Instead, he skulked down the stairs and out into the night.

Diagon Alley was deserted at this time on a weeknight, and his footsteps echoed uncomfortably In the stillness. The Leaky Cauldron was still doing a brisk business, though, ablaze with light and laughter. He glanced through the window as he passed, moving swiftly out onto Charing Cross Road, stopping frequently to consult the directions.

Ten minutes later, after twice needing to double back after a wrong turn, he paused in the deep shadows between streetlamps and turned on the spot, concentrating hard on the address clutched in his hand. He appeared a moment later on a narrow avenue. The blank, featureless buildings that lined the street were thrown into stark relief by the buzzing streetlamps, making him feel claustrophobic. Nearby but unseen, a radio played, the music punctuated by the occasional shout or burst of raucous laughter. With a final glance at the crumpled napkin in his hand , he approached the nearest building and pulled open the heavy door.

George moved quickly through the tiny vestibule lined with mail slots and into a dingy, high-ceilinged hallway that gave him the impression of moving down a chute. It smelled of smoke and cooking oil, and the air hummed with muffled music and conversation. He rode the tiny lift up to the third floor, and a nearly identical hallway stretched in front of him. Finally, he stopped on the threadbare carpet outside of a door, marked number 39 in flaking brown paint.

His feet were threatening to act of their own accord and break into a run, but he steeled himself against any rogue impulses. What was he doing here? This… oh, bugger it, enough with the philosophical questions and the existential crises, just bloody do something, he thought angrily to himself. Then he knocked.

There was activity within, and what sounded like a lock clicking, and then the door opened. He was taken aback by the person that stood in front of him, a pale-skinned girl with electric pink hair and excessively large black boots. She might have been cute, save for her hostile expression.

"Who are you?" she asked frostily, folding her arms over her snug-fitting t-shirt.

"Uh, I must have the wrong place--"

"I asked, who are you?"

"I'm George, but I--."

"You're George?" she interrupted, cocking an over-arched eyebrow inquisitively at him.

"I am."

The change in her demeanour was slight but significant. "Well, come in." she said, stepping back and making a sweeping gesture with her hand, admitting him into the flat. As he entered, though, he realized that it wasn't a series of rooms, like where he lived, but instead one not-very-large room. It was cramped at best, containing one miniscule table with two folding chairs, a tiny bookcase that made the headboard of a narrow bed, another chair by the window at the foot of the bed, and a series of cabinets in an L shape that ran most of length of one wall and around to the window. On the worktop closest to him, something that resembled a wireless set cased in a plastic shell was spitting out strange music, all strings and edges and lilting female vocals.

Paige was kneeling on one of the chairs at the table, and looked up, alarmed, as he entered. "George, what's wrong?"

"Oh, uh…"

"He was just in the neighbourhood, Paige, isn't it obvious?" the other girl said, sounding highly amused. She slipped close behind him and took the empty seat at the table, which was littered with cartons and containers of food. She crossed one leg over the other and fixed him with a significant look. It was then that he decided he reviled this girl, whoever she may be.

"I, er, yeah." he said lamely.

Paige looked at him strangely. "Well, uh, okay, sure. There's plenty of food, if you're hungry. You can grab the chair over there if you want." she said, gesturing over to the window.

"Oh, that's all right." he said, already edging towards the door. "I can just come by another time."

"Nonsense, ginger." the pink-haired girl said. "I'll be leaving shortly. You should stay; we were just talking about you."

"Good things, I hope."

"Hmmmm, that remains to be seen."

Behind her, Paige rolled her eyes. "Don't listen to her. Anymore, I mean. George, this is my friend Verlaine. We work together. Verlaine, this is George."

"He's the one that got you in the family way, yes. Pleasure to finally meet you." Verlaine said, offering her pale, slender hand to him. It felt cool in his.

After a long, appraising look, Verlaine got to her feet. "I think you'll suffice." she said with a nod, then turned to Paige. "Then this is good-night, love. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow." Paige answered

"Smashing." Verlaine turned once more to George, stepping closer to him. "Until we meet again, then." she said, and then quietly exited the room, boots clunking against the peeling linoleum.

George waited until the door clicked softly shut behind her before turning to Paige. "What the hell was that?"

"Oh, don't listen to her. Verlaine likes to make people uncomfortable."

"She didn't make me uncomfortable." he said, taking the chair that had just been vacated.

Paige shrugged. "Well, either way, I apologize." She pulled a white carton towards her and unfolded the top, then dug into the mound of rice within, bringing up a great spoonful. Then she paused. "Hey, George, don't take this the wrong way, but… what are you doing here? Isn't today your birthday?"

"Yeah."

"Well, happy birthday. How old are you now?"

"Twenty-one."

"Oh, even better. Cheers."

"Thanks."

"So, uh, what's up?" she asked, tossing a plastic fork across the table to him and indicating the spread in front of them. "Feel free, by the way-- there's plenty."

"Thanks." he said, fiddling with the clear wrapping over the utensil. "Well, uh-- wait, are you... sparkling?"

She wiped her neck with the back of her hand, then inspected it. "Oh, yeah. Body glitter; an occupational hazard."

"Oh. Why?"

"Why glitter? Couldn't tell you." She sniffed a carton of some sort of noodle concoction, wrinkled her nose, and pushed it across to him.

"I've been thinking." he said, winding noodles around his fork.

There was a long silence, broken only by the strange music that still played. "About anything in particular?" she finally asked.

"Yeah, about, you know, the kid."

"Right."

"And, well… I'm not sure that I'm comfortable with this, uh, arrangement."

"Could you be a bit more specific?"

He sighed. "I don't want you working at that place anymore. It can't be good for the kid."

This was apparently not the correct thing to say. She sat back, folding her arms over her chest. "I see. And, um, what exactly would you suggest that I do instead?"

"I'm… not entirely sure."

The look on her face was not encouraging. "So, let me get this straight. You want me to quit my job, but you don't know what you want me to do instead."

"Yeah, that about covers it."

She let out a snort. "Look, George, I'm not exactly overrun with marketable skills, in case you didn't notice. I guess I appreciate your concern, but unless you want me and my ripening uterus to follow you home, that just isn't really--"

"Can I see it?" he blurted out.

"I-- what?"

"Can I see your stomach?" he asked, feeling enormously embarrassed as the words left his mouth.

A strange expression passed fleetingly across her face, but she slowly nodded and got to her feet, coming to stand in front of him. He watched, half fascinated and half terrified, as she lifted her shirt. There was a rounded swell, just above the waistband of her pants, that reminded him inexplicably of looking at large egg sideways. It made him feel strange.

"If I'd been skinnier, you'd probably be able to see better."

"I can tell where it is. Can you feel it yet?"

"Moving, you mean? No, not yet."

He raised a hand, but let it hover in the air, not knowing how she would react if he touched her. Finally, she took his hand in hers and laid it against the small bulge of her stomach. His heart was hammering in his chest, and all at once he wanted to laugh, to cry, and to be sick.

They stood like that for a long while, until finally she broke the silence. "Kind of crazy, huh? I mean, to think there's a baby in there."

"Yeah." he said quietly, and he was pretty sure that now he understood Percy a little better, even if the kid in question didn't belong to him in a biologic sense.

The next hours passed by with amazing speed. His interest in the contents of her stomach had seemed to change things, and she seemed more willing to open up to him, and vice versa. He seemed able to say things to her, not because of who she was exactly, but because of who she wasn't. It wasn't something he could articulate, but there was something comforting about the way she listened to him speak, and she did not look at him in that way that made him want to throw things.

Pale light was filtering through the curtains by the time he finally looked at the clock. It was nearly six.

"You should get some rest." she said. "Why don't you sleep here instead of going back across town?"

"No, I've got to get going." he replied. "Work soon."

"Oh, right." Her voice sounded rather disappointed. "Thanks for coming by."

"Thank you." He hesitated. "Will you be going to work tonight?"

She smiled contritely at him. "I honestly don't think I have a choice, George. I know what you're saying, but I don't exactly have an alternative right now. I need a place to live."

"You can come stay with me." The words had barely escaped his lips when he realized just exactly what he was offering.

Paige looked at him in disbelief. "You don't mean that."

"I do." In fact, he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted her to come stay with him, but he certainly wanted the baby to, and at this point, he couldn't have one without the other.

"But George…."

"I want to take care of you. Both of you."

After a long moment, she nodded. "I want to let you."

He took a deep breath. "Well, if this is going to happen, there's something I need to tell you."

"Okay." she replied cautiously.

Well, here it went. "I-- I'm a wizard."

She stared at him for a very long time, then stood up from the table. "For fuck's sake, George. I get it if you aren't into this, but to get to the point where you ask me to come stay with you--"

"Wait!" He leaned over the table and grabbed her wrist. "Please, wait."

"You could have at least come up with something believable, like you were married or something." A thunderous look was on her face, but she sank slowly back into the seat and held out her hands as if to say, "What now?"

From his pocket, he withdrew his wand. She looked from his face to the slender bit of wood in his hand, expression morphing from one of anger to one of complete and utter bewilderment. He pointed it at the take-away napkin that lay crumpled on the table. "Reducto."

It burst into flames. Her jaw fell open as she watched it burn brilliantly, impressively, for a few seconds before disintegrating into ash. She stared at the smouldering remains in stunned silence. Very slowly, her head lifted until their eyes met. "How?" she breathed, barely audibly.

"Magic."

"I don't believe you." she said, but she didn't look convinced.

"I'll show you."

Very slowly, she nodded.

Author's Note: Well, that was fun to write. The exchange between Fred and George wasn't supposed to be the longest part of the chapter, it was actually supposed to be very brief, but I couldn't help myself.

As an aside, I pictured Paige and her obnoxious friend Verlaine (who is totally a mall goth) sitting around listening to Rasputina and eating Chinese food, much like a particular stripper I knew in my misspent youth.

I hope that now my motives for using an OC are clearer as opposed to picking a canon female. As time passes, and we won't see Paige and George interact for a good three or four chapters, they have a bit of a role reversal-- whereas he initially was reluctant to want any sort of relationship with Paige or the baby, he becomes more excited and falls into the role of "family man". Paige will be the one who has difficulty, because being non-magical in an entirely magic environment is going to prove very difficult.

Ginny and Ron are friends again, yay! The next chapter will focus on her. And I'd say more, but I'm going to see The Dark Knight in less than an hour, and I'm still in my pajamas.

And now I have a favor to ask-- soon, we'll have a chapter all about the first anniversary of the battle. Who's point of view do you think it should it be from?

Danke schoen to the fine folk who reviewed the last chapter: Jasperella, Shlee Verde, WaffleNinja, snapplappl21, Strawberry-Swirls, smushly, crystalight22, cinroc, and katkat000.