Chapter Eight

Preparation for the wedding took quite some time –and a lot more cleaning than Briar would expect. Mrs Weasley had written up a list of chores to be completed for the day in question. The lawn had yet to be spruced up, and the garden still needed to be de-gnomed, but it was the cleanest The Burrow had ever been. Even the chickens seemed less scruffy.
But it had been far from an easy day. Briar had been roused from sleep, sweating profusely and a scream still lingering on her lips. George hovered about her, concern knotting his brows in a very un-George-like way. The day was quickly followed by incident after incident. Briar had already pried the curtains from Ronald's neck more than twice.

The days were quickly growing hotter –evidence of which gleamed against Briar's temples. She lingered over the garden, pulling weeds that looked suspiciously similar to the flowers Mrs Weasley had planted. Sitting back on her heels, Briar gazed up at the cloudless sky, watching as Fred and Ginny whipped past on their broomsticks. The pair had claimed they were taking a break. Two hours ago.
With a short exhale, Briar forced away the smile that had worked itself across her face. Smiling had been a problem lately. With the wedding so close, Briar waited for each hour to pass with a nervous anticipation, glancing superstitiously at her watch, as if that would make time pass quicker. Marriage. Marriage was simultaneously terrifying, and exhilarating.

"Oi, Briar!" Fred bellowed from above. Briar spared him a glance as he dropped down beside her.
"George and I never did teach you how to fly, did we?" Fred noted aloud, watching her expression. The colour vanished from her cheeks, and she swallowed thickly, "I'd really rather not."
"Aw, come on Briar," Fred nudged her. "We did promise you!" Shaking her head, Briar replied, "No, really. Flying terrifies me."
Ginny exchanged a smirk with Fred –since the end of the war, Ginny had grown tremendously and definition lined every visible muscle. This of course meant little maturity-wise.
"Well," Ginny began, "you could either sit here pulling up mum's flowers, or you could grow a pair and leap on." Briar eyed the younger woman nervously. Ginny had been drafted into the Holyhead Harpies the year prior. Briar squared her jaw after a moment, and stood. She approached Ginny's broom nervously. The dark wood of the broom gleamed with an attractive finish, and the bristles seemed well-kept. It was now or never. The younger woman courteously extended a hand and pulled Briar onto the broom. Cackling in a manner unlike a muggle witch, Ginny leaned forward. With a lurch, the broom zoomed forward, and a shrill shriek filled the air.

"Never again," Briar announced, gasping for air against her new porcelain friend. George leant against the sink, his eyes twinkling with forbidden laughter. "Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't bail the first time you fell off," he retorted. Briar groaned, her brows knitting together as her stomach lurched. "If you think you're so good on a broom yourself, why don't you pick one up and do some sweeping for once," Briar snapped. Unblinking, George lowered himself to the cool tile of the washroom's floor. He was used to her sharp retorts by now. "Although I wish you would've saved your trip 'round the moon after the wedding," he added with an afterthought, "being a widower sounds cooler anyhow." She ignored him, spitting away the taste of bile.
"Why'd you hate brooms anyhow?" George wondered aloud, prodding her for conversation. He had downed far too much fire-whiskey with Charlie that evening. Briar sighed, shuffling to lay her head against George's thigh. "I might as well tell you –what I remember anyhow," she spoke, her voice quiet. "I do have family –somewhere, I mean. Rurik took off when he found out levitating the pet cat for fun and shattering the windows when he was angry wasn't exactly normal. So when he had a kid who could do the same, he wasn't exactly eager to bring me 'round for Sunday roast."
George's fingers tangled in her curls, struggling to pull one of the many twigs from her unruly mane. Briar closed her eyes, allowing the gentle tugging to lull her.

"One day, Rurik brought over this man –at first I thought he was one of dad's work friends. But dad introduced him as some distant cousin. 'He's like us,' I remember dad saying." Briar flinched as the twig in her hair came loose with a particularly sharp tug. George murmured an apology, rubbing gently at her tender scalp. Briar relaxed once more, feeling the careful scrape of his short fingernails against her scalp. It was sad in a way, Briar reflected, Dad must've so felt isolated from his family.
"Anyway," Briar continued. "So this guy –my cousin, I guess, brings out this broom…"

AN:

When you write a story, I find that you fall in love with your characters. Whether a villain, or a self-described "hero," you really have to know your character before you write about them. Unfortunately, I feel like I have fallen out with Briar York. After a particularly kind and tear-jerking review from Namida-Kaida, I took the time to sit down with a couple cans of fruity liquor and re-read the Corruption series. I decided to try it again. If this chapter feels out of sync, I apologize, and I sincerely ask that those who read it allow me some time to get back in the groove.

If I do complete this story, you have Namida-Kaida to thank. In the meantime, I would like to thank this reviewer -so, thank you. It's people like you who truly make this world a wonderful place.

Sincerely,

AL.