At first he and Uncle George were flying…together on one broom, his Uncle gently encouraging him with whispered words, letting him get the feel of the handle, his larger hands on top of his. Alf could actually feel the man's heart beating against his back, and it made him feel completely safe, even though the moors seemed miles below, sliding past them quickly.

And then he was at his old home, the place where he had grown up, with his Mum and step-father. He stepped off the broom, now alone, and headed up to the door, only it was locked. He pounded on it, and dug in his pockets, but he didn't have the key. He wasn't welcome here.

So he went round the back door, and walked in. It was Uncle George's house now…and Uncle George was there, at the table, with twins…bright red-haired five year olds who looked just like him. The man didn't look up, didn't even acknowledge him.

"Uncle George, I got straight A's on my report card."

There was no direct response, but his Uncle continued teaching the young twins before him how to play chess.

"Uncle George? I can fly a broom now!" He tried.

Cold, icy eyes slid over him. "You can't do that…you're just a squib." His Uncle frowned. "Why are you here? Am I stuck with you this weekend?"

"But…" Alf started, but George was already at the floo.

Suddenly all of his Uncles were there, even Uncle Charlie, who he'd never even met yet, all arguing about who was going to get stuck with him.

"I've put up with him for enough…somebody else needs to deal with him. I don't need him now!" George grumbled.

One after another each one of his Uncles refused to take him in. Finally, Percy, waving a Wo-Wo about, came up with a solution, "What about a foster home? Isn't that what he wanted all along?"

"But I don't wanna go away!" Alf begged. "Please…I'll do anything…anything!" He grabbed Uncle George's arm.

Uncle George threw him to the side, into the floo. "You're useless, Alfred!" And with a toss of floo powder, yelling, "Foster Home!"

Alf watched his family spin away from him, as he howled in despair.

Alfred sulked in the stock room of Weasleys'. He'd been cranky all day, ever since he'd woken up from the most vivid, and terrible, dream imaginable. And afraid to tell anyone what he had dreamed about, tired, groggy, and scared, he'd taken it out on everyone he came across.

He'd been snarly at breakfast, earning a rebuke from Molly, and an admonishment from Arthur that he guessed sleeping in a tent wasn't something that was going to be repeated. That only ticked him off more, and he'd refused to eat breakfast, which caused Uncle George no small frustration. Then at the shop he'd skulked around, knocking in to things. Uncle Ron had been forced to banish him in the stockroom, and the last thing he'd heard Ron say to George as he shut the door had been, "What the bleeding hell is that kid's problem today?"

Nothing was helping his mood. He kicked listlessly at a box as he moved canary creams around. That kid. Great. Not even Fred's son. Dead Fred's son, he thought, darkly. Dead Fred's son the squib. For some reason all the optimism and hope he'd felt last night had disappeared in the avalanche of dreams. He gave another shove to the boxes he was cataloguing. What good was it to have a dead father? Someone who was nothing more real than a mound of dirt and a headstone. A mound of dirt couldn't talk to him about his mum. It couldn't listen to his fears. It couldn't teach him how to fly…if he'd ever be capable of it. Come to think of it, who knew how Dead Fred would have reacted to having a squib son, anyway? Would he even want him around? Hell, the Weasley family only wanted him around anyway because it made them forget that Fred was Dead Fred. Bet by now they all wished he was just dead too, being that he was causing all this work and all.

He snorted hard and gave a determined shove to one last case. Which unfortunately contained a full set box of Weas-works, the new musical fireworks Uncle George had been working on. He realized it as the case teetered, and he gulped, not quite in time to keep it from going over. As if in slow motion, he saw the box spill, and one firework…it was always one…bounced high and into a box of flaming footballs. It ignited, and playing, of all things, the Marseilles, it flew into the stack of boxes near Alf, which contained other fireworks. Within seconds the was a brilliant flash, as boxes and boxes of Weas-works went off in the contained area, with a cacophony of different orchestral arrangements, knocking into boxes of other products…the exploding sparrows bursting feathers everywhere, the Wo-wo's rolling about the floor with their own sets of sparks and music, the fanged Frisbees zooming about his head. Desperately he leapt up, trying vainly to stop the domino-like avalanche from continuing, ignoring the occasional singe he got from the explosives.

He heard George and Ron enter, heard the yells and shouts, and he considered running for it. Shite, if Uncle George had ANY reservations about having a squib ward, this was going to cement them firm.

"Stupefy!" "Scourgify!" The curses zipped past his head, and coughing filled his ears as boxes and smoke settled. He felt his blood freeze and terrified he turned to look at his two Uncles.

Looking at Uncle Ron was bad enough. Sleeves rolled up, face red, death grip on his wand, Alf figured the only thing keeping him from being beaten senseless was Uncle George. But looking at Uncle George had Alf thinking he might be better off submitting to punishment from Uncle Ron. Because Uncle George was absolutely enraged. Face pale and immobile, eyes blazing, Alf saw the remaining days of his life evaporate.

Thirty seconds ticked by. Ron was clearly itching to speak, but was deferring to George, and George looked like he was afraid of what he might say. Finally, terse words were directed at his brother, though his eyes never left Alf. "How much was that inventory worth, do you reckon, Ron?"

"Ten thousand Galleons, at least, George. Maybe more." Ron folded his arms across his chest. "Going to be hard to meet our commitments for the French Ministry's celebrations now."

"Right. First time the French have ever commissioned their fireworks to an English firm, and we're going to fail." George laid strong emphasis on the last word. "Embarrassing the entire British wizarding world."

Guilt overwhelmed Alf and he looked down at the floor, swallowing hard, jaw clenched. He couldn't even get out the word "sorry" because he was afraid if he started speaking he'd end up bawling like a two year old. His shoulders shook slightly as he heard Uncle George speak, so calmly it scared him. "Ron, leave us, please."

"Right." Without looking up, he heard his other Uncle turn around and walk away, the door shutting behind him and seeming to suck the air out of the room.

"Alfred." He heard Uncle George step towards him and he remained rooted to the spot, though every bone in his body screamed run. But he couldn't look up. Still eerily calm, George spoke again. "Are you hurt?"

"No, Sir." He whispered, although he suspected that status was about to change.

A hand came to his face, then, though not to strike him. It went to his chin, and firmly but without violence forced him to look up. Uncle George's face wasn't calmer, exactly; but his eyes weren't lasers of rage any longer, either. "How did this happen?" His Uncle asked him, firmly. "Did you do this on purpose?"

"N-no." Alf stuttered out. "I didn't mean to…" He came to a stop hoping that was enough, but Uncle George would not let him look away and was clearly waiting for more. He blinked once and managed to get the rest out. "I was angry…and…and I don't know why…I kicked the box…I didn't mean to kick it over but I did…and just…just one firework landed in with the footballs and…and…" He screwed his eyes shut tight, unable to look at his Uncle anymore.

The man exhaled, a long drawn out sound. The hand dropped from his chin to his shoulder. "Come."

To his surprise George guided him to a box and sat him down, then knelt before him, grasping his hands tightly. "Alf, why were you angry?"

He managed to look at his Uncle again, and felt sadness overwhelming him. "I'm sorry." He whispered.

"I know you are. I can see that." George seemed to be growing calmer by the second. "But I need you to tell me why you were angry. Did somebody do something to you? Say something? You've been… off…all day. I had rather thought yesterday was a GOOD day." George almost sounded hurt, and that worked better than all the screaming he could have done to get Alf blathering.

"I…I…" A thousand different things wanted to force their way out of his mouth, about the potion, about how scared he was it wouldn't work, about how if it didn't work, he had no clue what was going to happen to him, where he'd end up, how he'd live. "I WISH YOU WERE MY DAD!" He blurted out suddenly. "I HATE THAT MY FATHER IS DEAD." A sob broke from him. "I HATE THAT I'M NOT ANYTHING MORE TO YOU THAN…JAMES OR ALBUS OR RICKY!" He lost it then, bending over double to hide his face as the guilty secret came out.

"Oh, Alf!" George said with shocking kindness. Arms wrapped around him tightly and pulled him close, and Alfred sobbed without restraint, burying his head into George's maroon robes; George began rubbing his back gently, letting him let go of everything. "Shhh…its okay, Alf. It's going to be okay." He kissed the side of Alf's head. "Not about the fireworks, mind…you have a world of cleaning ahead of you for that one…but everything else will be okay. Shhh, now…Ron will think I'm beating you to death!"

Alf hiccupped, calming himself slowly. He couldn't believe…couldn't believe that Uncle George actually wasn't going to beat him senseless. Or something. Cleaning? He looked up at his guardian finally; George's anger had faded, and there was back the faintest spark of laughter in his blue eyes. He pushed the hair off of Alf's face and it immediately flopped back down, making George smile. "You don't hate me?" Alf asked, stunned.

"You know I don't." George squeezed him. "I mean that literally, Alf…deep inside, under all that insecurity you're carrying around, you KNOW." He paused, seeing Alf's confusion. "Alfred, when that firework show went off, and all hell was breaking lose around you, why didn't you run?"

Alf swallowed hard. "I thought about it."

"Of course you did…you're no fool. You knew you were in deep trouble, and there Ron and I were in a right rage, and you still obscured by smoke and feathers and other debris, and you could have made a break for the back door, but you stood there ready to accept whatever punishment we threw at you. Now why is that?"

Alf shrugged, but seeing George waiting for an answer, he sighed. "I dunno…I just didn't want to run. I'd face anything before I'd leave you." He admitted.

George reached over and touched his chest lightly. "Because inside, deep inside away from your over-worked brain, you trust me. Here, in your heart, you understood that as angry as I would get…and I WAS angry, Alf…I wouldn't stop loving you. And I won't. Now, why is that?" He prompted again.

"We belong." Alf said, suddenly feeling what they had kept telling each other all along.

George squeezed him again, and then spoke softly once more. "Now about this whole Dad thing Alf, well, you should realize that you're NOT just another nephew to me. I can't imagine my life without you in it. I feel like your father, Alfred, every single day. Makes me guilty, sometimes, like I'm usurping Fred's place. But then…" He paused, leaning his chin on Alf's head. "I had a dream last night, and I felt your father with me…felt him telling me to stop feeling so guilty, that we'd always shared everything, how could we not share you?"

Alf took a deep breath. "But I can't call you Dad, can I?" He asked wistfully. "Even if you're okay with it, the rest of the family will be kind of weirded out, won't they."

George loosened his grip slightly, letting them both recline against the box, side by side. "Yeah, kiddo…I've been thinking about that, and I think you're right. We know what we are, but I'm not sure everyone else is ready for that." He squeezed his hand. "But one thing…I'm going to talk to Percy about getting a formal adoption pushed through."

Alf frowned. "What happened before?"

"A court order appointing me guardian, which is not quite the same thing." George admitted, smoothing out his robes. "An adoption would actually make me your father legally, not just a guardian. There's not a whole lot of difference, but it feels more right." George sighed, and rose, extending his hand to Alf. "Now…you…" He motioned around this room. "I need this cleaned up. Put the damaged goods in bins over to the left, and I'll see what I can salvage. You know where the cleaning supplies are." He patted him lightly on the shoulder. "I need to firecall France and explain about withdrawing from the contract."

Guilt overwhelmed Alfred again…he'd almost wished George had hit him. "Can't we make it?" He pleaded. "I'll help…I will! I know I can't do magic, but I can chop and organize and clean and pack. Please, can't we try?"

George looked down at him thoughtfully. "It will be a lot of work, Alf…we'll have to go just about full stop for the next three days!"

Alf set his shoulders. "We can do it, I know we can!"

Just slightly George smiled at him. "Then let's get to it! Scramble about and gather anything that didn't go off to see what we can use. I'll go let Ron know you're still alive, and ask him to man the store."

Feeling like he'd passed some almighty test, and feeling Fred almost smiling down at him in approval, George watched Alf scramble madly to get the work done, before he turned to go to Ron, and tell him just how completely he'd lost his mind.

WWWWWWWWW

Three days later, an exhausted George sat back, entirely satisfied as he watched the last box of Weas-Works levitate out of the store-room to a waiting transport, a sort of trucking equivalent of the Night Bus. Alfred was curled up in fetal position on a bean-chair, utterly exhausted and sound asleep. He had, as promised, worked tirelessly, measuring ingredients, packaging product, cleaning, chopping, even manning the store for stretches so Ron could help with the magic end of it. He was proud of the boy, for how forthrightly he'd accepted the responsibilities and the workload.

Stretching, he stood reaching for the ceiling, yawning. He took his own robes off and draped them over the sleeping child tenderly. Just a few more things to straighten up now…

Ron came in, also yawning. "Last lot off. Looks like we're making contract." He rolled his shoulders. "I hate to say it, but I think the final product came off better than the ones Alf blew up."

"Agreed. Always did our best work under pressure, I guess." He poured his brother a fire-whiskey, and they sat by the desk. Ron looked down at Alfred, somewhat bemused, as he accepted the drink.

"You know, I really thought you might lose it with him. Hell, I was afraid I was going to, and I don't own the place." He admitted. Ron met his eye. "I think he expected to catch it, as well."

George sipped thoughtfully at the firewhiskey, enjoying the sensation the burn gave his tired body. "I counted to ten at least three times, Ron. I just couldn't believe he would do something like that." He shuddered. "And I'm glad I didn't lose it, because it was an accident. A careless one, but not like I thought…that in a snit he'd decided to purposely wreck us."

"Mmm." Ron said, not sure he understood. "Still…wouldn't it have been easier just to punish him outright and get it over with?"

George looked at Ron incredulously. "Easier to hit him, you mean? Have you ever struck Rosie? How easy would you find it to do?" He watched as Ron opened and closed his mouth. George continued. "Look, discounting Mom's occasional frenzies and ear pulling, how often did any of us ever get struck, anyway?"

Ron looked rather sheepish. "I…er…I guess I can't ever remember anything worse than getting cuffed upside the head."

"Right." George smirked. "There are exactly two times I ever feared for my physical safety, and not from Mom. And only one time Dad ever actually struck me…which you remember."

"The unbreakable vow." Ron remembered, nodding.

George tipped his glass to him. As far as he was concerned, Dad had been entirely justified. He and Fred…egged on by Charlie…had decided to bind Ron in an Unbreakable Vow. They'd only been seven years old, Ron about 5, but had found the incantation and snuck Bill's wand. The idea was to make Ron a slave for life. Neither of them had really understood that Ron could die from the thing. After all, what was death to a seven year old?

Dad had caught them mid way, and he'd gone a shade of gray George now recognized as parental terror, and had grabbed Fred and positively walloped him, while a horrified George stood on, barely registering that he'd be next. George got lucky, in a way…the initial terror Arthur had felt had been mostly translated to poor Fred; George had maybe gotten five or six solid swats to Fred's fifteen, eventually giving birth to Fred's joke that his left buttock was the only way to tell them apart.

Arthur had spoken to them later, calm then but stern, saying that he was sorry he'd had to do that, but they needed to understand the seriousness of what they'd done. He knew that they would be very sad if Ronnie would go away for ever and ever…and THAT was what would happen if their little plan had worked.

Strangely, they had never given up Charlie's role in the whole thing, although days later when they'd purposely turned Charlie's hair bright green with silver stripes right before his first day at youth Quidditch, Arthur had called off Molly's ear-pulling ire…and had given George a discreet wink.

Made sense in hind-sight, George thought. Arthur was smart enough to know that a pair of seven year olds hadn't been likely to come up with that one on their own.

"What was the other time?" Ron asked, curious.

"Hm?" George stirred from the memory, somewhat groggy from the work and the whiskey. "Oh, right…well, like I said, he never struck us again. But the second time I almost wished he had…Fred and I exploded a dung-bomb under Fudge's brand new, wizard-spaced ministry BMW, round about when we were eleven or so."

Ron whistled. "Wow, mate…that took some cheek." His eyes sparkled "Wish I'd done it with you."

George sighed. "Well, it seemed like a good idea…you remember what Fudge was like, and he kept putting down dad, insulting him, belittling him. But then he came down on MUM, and no way Fred and I were going to let that slide."

"Good on you." Ron nodded in approval.

George shook his head. "Well, the dung bomb was my idea, and we executed it perfectly…Fudge actually had no clue how it happened…he thought the car was defective. But Dad knows his muggle stuff, Ron, and he knew EXACTLY who did it." He shuddered. "After Fudge left, Dad ordered us both into the tool shed, and just glared down at us for a good five minutes, absolutely white with rage. THEN he positively shredded us with guilt. About what exactly would happen to the family if he lost his job. About Ginny being given up for adoption, about having to drop out of school. About how much Mum would cry as we were forced to go into menial jobs just to put food on the table. We were nearly begging him to hit us before he finished." George pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You know, I think that was the last time we ever pranked someone without thinking about the consequences. People never thought we did…but we always made sure we fully understood what the ramifications of any trick we played would be. Even if we then went forward with it."

Ron turned his head to look at him. "Umbridge?"

George grinned. "We thought EVERY BIT OF THAT through, Ronnie my boy. Right down to what Mum would say when we showed up on the doorstep. Dad, surprisingly, supported us fully. We took the step knowing damned well what would happen."

Ron tried one more. "The flying car?"

George actually winked. "Did Dad ever tell you he was the one who suggested it to Fred and I?"

"Blimey!" Ron's mouth fell open. "He acted like he'd had no clue!"

"Well of course, Mum would have killed him. But he knew what was being done to Harry, and knew he wouldn't be able to get away with springing him." George laughed at the look on Ron's face. "And he knew who, exactly, could get away with it with no more than a sentence of lawn de-gnoming!"

Ron was shaking his head, and he filled both of their glasses. "Well, you learned well…that stunt in the shed after the dung bomb sounds pretty much like how you got to Alf."

George was startled for a moment, then he realized Ron was right. "Guilt, the wonder-drug." He admitted. "But it worked better than even I thought it would…after all, if I'd just smacked him, I'd have also just given up the contract. He was the one who suggested…insisted really…that we try to fulfill it."

Ron rose to leave. "Hermione will kill me if I stay here another night." He murmured. "Take care of yourself, George. And your little rug-rat."

My little rug rat. George hugged the possessiveness to himself. "Night, ickle Ronniekins." He teased, laughing at the rude gesture it earned him in return, as Ron left to floo. He in turn aimed a wand at Alfred, making him feather light with an incantation, and levitating into his arms to be carried upstairs.

Alfred stirred, and blinked momentarily awake. "All done?" He murmured.

George pressed his lips to the boy's forehead. "All done." He answered. "Well done." He added.

Alf's eyes closed again, with one more comment. "Y'could have just magicked me all the way to bed."

George grasped him close. "I like this better."