"Holy shit!" I was suddenly aware that the boys may be able to hear us and winced as she released a torrent of panicked swears around the room. If I hadn't been so worried about the boys coming to see what was going on I would have laughed, instead I stood still a few paces from the door, waiting for Angelina to calm down enough to stop spouting every foul word under the sun. It took around five minutes for her to stop shouting, but she continued to pace for at least another two. She ground to a halt beside the bed, her brow still scrunched in what I think was confusion.
"When?" She asked it quietly, barely a whisper, but it was still there.
"A few weeks, honestly I'm not so sure." My voice was neutral, in a failed attempt to make it seem like it didn't matter to me that there was a tiny person growing inside me. No, it wasn't technically a person at this point, but it was a tiny bit of me, that was my responsibility.
"So you could still sort it out right."
"What?" I knew what she meant, I didn't want her to mean it but I knew she did.
"You could go to a muggle place and get it sorted," she was glaring at my stomach like it held the incarnation of the devil himself. "You are both too young, and it wouldn't be fair on Fred-" she kept talking, I didn't hear what she was saying, she was right, we were too young. That didn't mean that I could "sort" it though.
I just nodded along and pretended that what she was saying didn't hurt, nod along. Nodding and pretending; she continued her lecture for what seemed like hours, all of it logical, none of it making any sense in the moment. She must have known that I wouldn't though, because despite all of it she was grasping at straws: the child would be treated differently, how can we afford it, what about Molly, what about my parents. The child would not be treated differently because I knew the Weasley's would fight anyone who started it, there was enough money and I had stored up a cushion of funds from my shares of the shop, and the parents wouldn't be overjoyed at the idea but surely would come around.
Before realising I had stood and made my way out of the door, praying to any higher that she would have the sense not to continue this talk past the bedroom, just so that I could have a break from her speech which had progressed into how irresponsible we were to even be in this situation, knowing that I would have to hear the same from my mother the moment I told her. The boys had set up a plate for each of us, which sat opposite the two of them.
Taking the seat in front of Fred I picked up a fork and began pushing the food around the plate, it hadn't ended nearly as badly as some of their previous attempts, some of which resulted in having to get rid of some of the pans that even magic couldn't fix. Angelina had appeared after a minute or so, waiting to calm down most likely, and took a rather angry bite of her pasta. The conversation in front of us halted, the brown eyes studying both of us.
"What happened to you two?" Fred asked, his tone verging on sarcastic.
I shot Angelina a look that kept her mouth closed, though her jaw was clenched slightly too tightly for anyone to look past. "Just girl troubles," I winced through the words, even as I spoke them I felt guilty. He needed to know. But not yet, I would tell him, later.
George cleared his threat awkwardly, in a futile attempt to break the tension, it didn't work. We all sat in an uncomfortable quiet, the whirring of a fan the only thing suspending it just above silence; someone would cough, or sniffle, or the scraping of metal against the plate would slice through everyone. It seemed like the words were floating just out of reach above our heads, holding us captive around the rectangular table that was too big for the space.
So there we sat, for nearly ten minutes before I excused myself, feigning tiredness. As I left, I felt the air lighten, more so as I made my way further from the table, to the room where Angelina had yelled. The bed didn't look as inviting as it usually did, the sheets looked too clean and not lived in enough for my taste, the surfaces too tidy, like a showroom in a furniture store, looking like a home but with the unnerving feeling that it was far from it. That wasn't the case though, I had slept in this bed before, I had walked along the carpets and used the drawers, one of which held my stuff, but it no longer felt the same.
I perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, unsure of what to do, feeling that to disturb the carefully washed bedding would be a crime against the perfect setting. There wasn't enough room here for a crib, and it wouldn't fit the room, I would have to move, would it be we? Would Fred want this? He wanted to marry me, but would kids fit into that this young? Too young. The words playing around my head as I lay back on the covers, fully clothed, staring at the cream ceiling that was too clean, like it had been freshly painted, but it hadn't, in fact Fred and George hadn't painted the house at all, leaving it the colours it had come in, all neutral and too old, but they left it all the same. Boring bland walls. Sheets that were too clean. All taunting me like bugs that hovered around the windows in the warmer months, buzzing as I drifted into a sleep that didn't come fast enough and all to fast at the same time.