Chapter Four

"What'd you mean I've got to wear a skirt!?" a loud, brash voice sounded from the kitchen. Briar groaned, muttering incoherently as she rose from bed. She had been in the midst of one of her better dreams when she had been startled awake by a booming shout. Briar drew George's night robe over her sleeping gown, and dragged herself down the stairs and to the kitchen, juggling her wand between her fingers all the while.
"I figured I knew that obnoxious voice," Briar muttered groggily, padding across the kitchen.
Drew Goldstein eyed the small woman with a critical eye framed by thick lenses, "Briar, have you been dragged through hell and back or what?"
"Oi! Take that back you-"
"Feels like it, certainly," Briar cut short George's angry retort. Drew snorted, shoving his glasses back up the length of his nose, "I'd normally figure that soon-to-be spouses would be glowing, although being married to an oaf like flame-head here probably would have snuffed out that glimmer."
"Hey!-"
"You're thinking of pregnant women, Drew," Briar cut through George's angry shout yet again, "And try not to insult my fiancé, especially in his own home."
"Whatever," Drew glowered, shaking his sandy curls from his eyes and leaning heavily against the counter. In the year since Voldemort's end Drew had matured vastly, although his biting attitude remained the same. His hair now curled past his ears and he stood an inch taller than George. Drew had remained as slender and lanky as he had been when he was a teenager.
"Although you've both become rather comfortable since marriage," Drew teased, eyeing George in a manner that had him cross his arms over his developing paunch and scowl at Drew in an uncharacteristic manner. It was just like Drew to bring the worst out of people.

Briar rolled her eyes skywards, "Coffee, anyone?" At Drew's scrunched nose, Briar nodded to herself, "And tea for Drew, is earl grey okay?"
Briar waved her wand and set the kettle to work –a trick she had learned from Mrs Weasley, which she had mastered in no time. After all, Charms had been one of her better classes.
"So, what was the shouting about?" Briar asked, twiddling her wand between her fingertips anxiously. George drew up, clearing his throat as he turned his glare away from Drew. He eyed her expression as he spoke, "Drew here figured that he'd like to be in the wedding party."
Drew scoffed, "Not anymore, what with the requirements needing a fluffy pink skirt."

"Oi! You're the one who promised!" George shot back.
"I thought we were going to all die! –It was a war, y'know!"
"You said-"

"ENOUGH!" Briar bellowed –the kettle which had been pouring the scorching water capsized and clattered to the floor. Briar cursed loudly, flicking the burning droplets away from her skin, and snatched a towel. George scrambled to help her, mopping the water from the floor as Briar returned to the sink and manually refilled the kettle.
Silence hung in the air as the couple tidied the mess as Drew observed the pair with an air of curiosity.

Drew shoved his square frames back up his nose, "But yes, I'd still like to be involved in the wedding party, that's what friends are for, right?"
A grin stretched across Briar's pale face, and she beamed her brilliant smile at him. "You can be my maid of honour!"
At this Drew scowled, "Man of honour!" Briar ignored his correction, stifling a shout of excitement, she flung her arms around the man as he sputtered, flailing his arms and nearly knocking his own glasses askew.
"Hey! What are you-"He fell silent, dropping his arms with a heavy sigh and relinquished by patting her shoulder lamely.
"Thanks, Drew."

"George, what the bloody hell are you doing?" Those were the first words from her mouth as she entered the living area, dropping her tote bag on the floor where it fell with an unusually loud thump. She had only just arrived home in a sour mood from a meeting in the Auror office, and she had found George strewn across the floor of the living area.
George sat up quickly, grinning nervously. "N-nothing, love."
Briar rose a brow, unimpressed. "George," the tone of her voice threatened a shouting match if he didn't fess up quickly. George cleared his throat, his nervous grin widening, "How was work then? You said something about a meeting, right?"
He was attempting to change the topic, Briar noticed. She crossed her arms over her chest and stalked over to him. "What are you hiding from me?"
"N-Nothing, love, nothing at all," George said as he scrambled to a stand. Even as he towered over the tiny woman, she maintained an intimidating air, reminding George of his mother on a particularly bad day. "So what happened at work today?"
"What happened at home today?" Briar countered –her hair was tightly bound up, and the suit dress and blazer she wore aged her considerably. George scratched at stubble poking up from his chin, "I was doing some cleaning," he lied.
"You never clean," Briar grumbled, "and if you were going to, start by cleaning the bedroom cupboard, I can't sleep with all the racket those contraptions make."
"They're important," George insisted. "So is my sleep!" Briar shot back, glowering up at him as she stiffened her jaw.
"They're for work," George explained hastily, "I need to keep an eye on them, so I've got to check on them a lot in the night and it's just easier.-"
"Well maybe you ought to sleep in another room," Briar cut him off. George fell silent, his mouth twitching with the effort not to antagonize her further. "Briar, I-""Forget it," she cut him off harshly her heart thudding rapidly, "I've got to head back to work anyway, have a good evening." Her tone was crisp and formal, although her eyes were sparked with an unreasonable rage. George opened his mouth in retort, although he was cut off with a sharp crack as Briar twisted on her heel and Disapparated.

AN:

If you or anyone you love is experiencing PTSD or post-traumatic stress disorder, please seek the help that you or someone else needs. PTSD is a terrible infliction which is dangerous to the victim and anyone around them. Save a life, and get the help.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I a medical professional. Anything written about PTSD is the result of a few Google searches.

-AL.