Archive of Our Own ^beta

“The grief for her dead lover shining in her eyes, Angelina Johnson tearfully turns away from me. It is my mention of Fred Weasley, undoubtedly, that brings our interview to an end, though I do not doubt that Chaser Johnson, renowned for her tough-witch attitude, does not relish the idea of being seen in such a vulnerable, emotional state.

“Rubbish,” Angelina spat, throwing the Sport page of the Sunday Prophet down on the table. “Unmitigated, pure bloody rubbish.”

“Your eyes are shining a bit right now,” George Weasley remarked, looking at her over his bacon and pumpkin juice with a faint twitch of a smile on his face. “Though more with lunatic rage than grief.”

“That harpy,” Angelina continued as though she hadn’t heard him, stabbing viciously at a sausage on her plate. She missed and it went flying across the table, hitting George in the chest.

He picked it up off his lap and offered it to her, and when she shook her head violently he shrugged and dropped it onto his plate. “Why do you care what old Rita Skeeter says?”

Pointedly covering the photo of herself ‘tearfully turning away’—more like, George couldn’t help thinking, storming off before she hexed the reporter and her photographer—Angelina said, “I don’t. I mean, I don’t care that she says it, but I care that I’m being punished for refusing her interview. She’ll be after you next, George. You know she will be. Once she finds out we’re together.”

“You should be flattered; it means your dashing, handsome, brilliant boyfriend’s newsworthy.” She pursed her lips and George added, “You’re right, I forgot charming and fit.”

At that, she finally smiled a little. “You are newsworthy, now you’ve bought Zonko’s.”

“You’re suggesting I wasn’t before?” he asked with mock umbrage.

Without responding, Angelina’s eyes drifted back down to the Prophet, where a corner of the article about her was still visible. “People are going to say things about us,” she said quietly.

“Which, being a Weasley, I’m well used to.”

“George.” The seriousness of her tone made him look hard at her. She was folding and unfolding a corner of the paper and staring at the words, which upside down George could read, ‘remains to be seen whether her play will suffer from these tragic blows—’

He got up and walked around the table until he was standing behind her, where he put his hands on her shoulders. “Last I checked you’re bearing up well under all the strain,” he said. “Anyway, remember what she said about me last year when she came snooping round trying to sniff out if we were buying Zonko’s?”

Tilting her head back to look up at him, she asked, “You mean after you told her to take her sodding Quick Quotes Quill and stick it up her—”

“Yeah, that’s the time.”

Angelina smiled a little, which was exactly what George was looking for. “Actually, no. Is that the piece you’ve got pinned on the wall in your ‘laboratory’?”

“Yep. One of my proudest moments, isn’t it? Couldn’t’ve just binned it. She said, and I quote, ‘The legality of many of Mr Weasley’s products is questionable, and some have wondered if he’s entirely in his right mind when he unveils them for public consumption. Indeed, some have wondered if the curse that took his ear didn’t take part of his mind, as well’.”

With a guffaw, Angelina reached up and tapped the left side of his head. “Has a way with words, doesn’t she?”

“Surprised you didn’t agree with her that I was a few Knuts short of a Sickle,” George remarked.

“Well,” she said, “that goes without saying.”

He grinned, leaned down, and kissed her. “Sane enough to finally snatch you up, wasn’t I?”

She snorted, but then her expression grew dark again. “I doubt,” she said pointedly, “that that will conform to Rita Skeeter’s version of events.”

George kept his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them lightly. “How’d she find out about you and Fred, anyway?”

She rolled her eyes. “Gale. Fantastic Beater, but he hasn’t got an ounce of sense.”

“That’s why we didn’t go professional—Bludger damage really starts taking its toll then,” George said.

“Not that he meant anything by it,” she sighed, ignoring him. “But she cornered me after training, and when I told her to eff off she spotted him coming out of the changing room. And he saw Fred and I together that year. You know, when we were still having matches and pretending that everything hadn’t gone totally to hell.” She buried her head in her hands, plonking her elbows onto the table. “George,” she said, her voice muffled by her palms, “don’t you understand? They’re going to say I’m only with you because you look like him.”

He figured this probably wasn’t the moment to remind her that he wasn’t a simpleton, and that he’d worked out the implications of Rita broadcasting to the world Angelina’s relationship with his dead twin the minute he’d glanced down at the Sport page on his way to the cupboard that Sunday morning. For a brief moment he’d considered hiding it from her, but she’d notice its absence as it was the one section of the Prophet that she read thoroughly.

He’d learnt that about her when she’d started spending regular nights in his flat above Wheezes. Just like he’d learnt that she was as bad about chucking her clothes on the floor and leaving them there as he was, that she spent more time on her hair than he’d ever have imagined, that she owned exactly two pieces of sexy lingerie, that she wet her toothbrush after she’d already put toothpaste on, rather than before, and a million other little things that he loved knowing because those things, in their simplicity, proved to him in a way that nothing else really could that Angelina Johnson really was with him, and not some other lucky bastard.

Angelina Johnson was with him, and she was currently making herself ill over what the unknown masses thought of their relationship. It wasn’t the Sunday morning he’d been looking forward to, though it had started out well enough—those clothes that had got thrown on the floor had never been re-donned, after all. “You don’t really care if people say that, do you?” he asked, knowing full well the answer.

Her face was still hidden in her hands as she replied, “I feel like every time someone says it, it’s that much closer to being true.”

George rolled his eyes ceiling-wards and then pulled his chair around so that he could plop down next to her. “Ange, you know that it’s not—”

Just then, a tapping at the window caught both of their attentions and they turned to see a sleek brown owl perched outside—his parents’. George opened the window and the owl fluttered in to sit on his shoulder while he untied the message around her leg. “From Mum and Dad,” he said, scanning the parchment, “wanting to know if we’d like to come for dinner tonight, and—oh no.”

“What?” Angelina asked, making a grab for the note and missing as George twisted away.

“That’s why you’re not a Seeker, love,” he said distractedly, staring in horror at his mother’s handwriting. The owl nipped his ear, apparently forgetting who’d bought her as an anniversary present for his parents, and he winced, saying indignantly, “Watch it, you, I’ve only got one of those!”

“What was the ‘oh no’ for?” Angelina demanded.

George looked at her. “She’s invited Auntie Muriel and I’m absolutely not to make an excuse not to come.”

“Auntie Muriel?” Angelina asked curiously, and then, with alarm flashing over her face, “I can’t go to dinner at your parents’, your mum will have read that hack job on me—”

“Mum doesn’t read the sport page,” George said with a shake of his head. “And Dad’ll know not to believe a word of it. Quite sensible, he is, putting aside the Muggle fetish. But,” he said with purpose, “it’s not you she’s demanding comes. It’s me. Though she’d love to have you.”

“Would she?” Angelina asked doubtfully. She was under the impression—an impression which he’d tried to dispel numerous times—that his mother disapproved of her. In fact he knew, from Ginny’s reports, that Mum heartily approved of Angelina. She approved of the very idea of someone like Angelina, this final proof that he was capable of carrying on by himself. Or rather, not by himself. Even if she hadn’t liked the woman he’d chosen on her own merits she’d have liked her for the fact that he’d chosen her at all. But Mum did like Angelina. Said she was good for him. Down-to-earth (George had snorted into his rhubarb crumble when the comment had been made, and Angelina had kicked him under the table).

No, it was the Quidditch that Mum didn’t approve of. When—if—when George and Angelina married, he knew the question of when Angelina would give it up would be one of the first things out of Mum’s mouth once the rings were on their fingers.

That thought preoccupied him for a moment—the image of her with a ring on her finger was a nice one—and so he wondered if he’d missed some intervening comment when Angelina said, “I’ll come, then. If I’m invited, and if you’d like the company.” She gave him a wry smile. “And if you’re really sure that your mum won’t have read that article.”

George offered the sausage on his plate to the owl, which just blinked at him impatiently. “If I’d like the company?” he said. “You’re mad, aren’t you, woman?”

“If you’re saying in your typical sensitive way that you always want my company, then I’m flattered.”

He shot a grin at her and, before she had the chance to change her mind, scribbled, Angelina and I will be there on the back of the note his mother had sent, then rolled it up and tied it to the owl’s leg. As it hopped to the windowsill and took wing into the morning, George slid back into his chair and grabbed one of her hands across the table. After a second, she returned the grin and then determinedly closed the Sunday Prophet.

“Want some help in the shop today?” she asked him. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was closed on Sundays, but there was usually a week’s worth of accumulated tidying and assorted shop-keeping to catch up on. “You know, since you like my company so much.”

Her fingers curled slightly around his. For a minute he just looked at their linked hands, at her gorgeous skin and her strong, slender fingers, at the three freckles at her wrist and the way she kept her nails short, at how their palms fit together perfectly. He was half tempted to skive off and leave the chores that needed doing downstairs for Monday morning, but his responsibility to WWW was one he took seriously.

Bit ironic, that, he guessed, but you didn’t bring hilarity and pranks to the Wizarding world by being half-committed. It filled him with a light, ballooning happiness that Angelina was willing to spend her Sunday taking care of the shop, too.

Drawing her hand to his mouth and kissing her knuckles lightly, he said, “Yeah, so long as you don’t mind risking life and limb clearing out that old storage bin in the laboratory. Pretty sure some Doxies are breeding in there and they’ve very possibly mutated into some new species by this point.” When she arched an eyebrow, he added, “Or at least, you could be on hand to patch me up.”

“Oh, I’ll always be on hand for that,” she said, smiling at him.

He squeezed her hand, feeling overcome, for just a second, by a rush of emotion. It would ruin his image to let her see just how much. Though the way he was holding her hand probably said everything, anyway. Out loud, though, he just said, “S’pose Ron would want me to reconcile the ledgers for the week, too.”

“Are Ron and Hermione coming tonight?” she asked.

“Should be the whole Weasley clan, love. Except Charlie, of course; always gets out of suffering through an Auntie Muriel visit, that one does.”

“Good.” Angelina grinned. “You’re all at your best you’re at your most chaotic.”

“I’m not sure we know how to be any other way.” George rather thought it was one of the reasons him and Fred were the way they were—damn, three and a half years on and he was still confusing his tenses; probably always would—with three older brothers and the babies, little Gred and Forge had had no choice but to be louder, more demanding of their parents’ attention, more chaotic, than all the others combined.

The day passed lazily, as neither of them were in any great hurry get too involved in a solitary task downstairs in the shop. Angelina held a large bottle of Doxycide and sprayed while George prodded the Doxy nest (they seemed, luckily, to be bog-standard Doxies). One managed to dodge both of them, and Angelina took aim with a box of U-No-Poo and lobbed it at the little blighter, knocking it out of the air before it got too far. They dusted, swept, stocked, and, admittedly, he probably could have got it done faster alone, since they obviously had to take frequent snogging breaks, and by the time he was done reconciling the ledgers, the late afternoon sun was angling through the windows.

She slid off the counter, where she’d been sitting, idly running her fingers through his hair as he’d worked—he’d definitely have to get Ron to check these numbers, he’d been enjoying it far too much to stop her just to preserve a little thing like accuracy. “I’d better go home for a bit,” she said with a yawn. “I need to change into something decent for dinner with your family.”

“What’s wrong with what you’ve got on?”

She glanced down at her ripped-at-the-knees jeans and baggy jumper, rolled her eyes good-naturedly, and disappeared with a pop!

With a yawn and a stretch, George headed back up to the flat. Before Angelina had been gone much more than ten minutes, there was a knock at the door, accompanied by Ron hollering, “You’d better be at the Burrow tonight because I’m not eating dinner with Auntie Muriel with only Percy for support! He barely counts as support!”

Opening the door, George asked in lieu of greeting, “What about Harry? Didn’t Ginny receive the no-excuses injunction?”

Ron was scowling as he stomped into the flat, and George absently locked the door behind him. “She’ll be there. I’ve just been by her place. But Harry’s got some rubbish training tonight.”

“On Sunday?” George asked in horror. Was nothing sacred? “Blimey, I knew there was a reason I didn’t become an Auror.”

“Though if it gets you out of a meal with Auntie Muriel, it might be worth it.”

“Yeah, you’ve a point there. No Bill either?”

Making a face, Ron replied, “Victoire is ill.”

“So he says.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Ron glanced round the flat, taking in, no doubt, the number of feminine effects there. “Figured Angelina’d be here,” he said casually. “That’s why I knocked. By the way, I told Hermione to meet me here when she was done changing.”

Before George could respond (and wonder aloud what it was about both of their perfectly lovely girlfriends that made them think they needed to wear specific clothing to impress Mum and Dad), Angelina reappeared in the centre of the room, causing Ron to start. Angelina didn’t look surprised to see him—Ron and George had a habit of popping into each other’s flats when inspiration struck for something in the shop, though they tried to keep the other apprised of when a girlfriend, or fiancée, as the case may have been, was going to be there. Both of them had interrupted the other during…well, moments that were best not interrupted. George supposed he could have removed the exemption in his anti-Apparition charms to prevent his family from Apparating directly into his flat, but he didn’t really mind it.

“Hi, Ron,” she said, stowing her wand in the back pocket of her jeans.

He returned the greeting, but before they could say anything else, there was a loud crack! in the corridor outside the flat, then a knock on the door.

“Come in, Hermione, you know the door’s always open!” George called. When the door caught, however, still locked, he grimaced, waved a casual hand at it, and amended, “Er, usually the door is always open.”

As Hermione stepped inside, Ron said, “That’s why you should just Apparate right into the flat. I was already here, it wasn’t going to be like last time. George would have had time to put trousers on.”

She rolled her eyes, though she was smiling. “I’m trying to set an example for both of you.”

“I’m not sure I would bother,” Angelina commented. “They’re both fairly hopeless.”

Cheerfully, George said, “Yep—expect both of us to show up in the middle of your living rooms—maybe kitchen in Ron’s case, that’s where the food is, after all—for the rest of our earthly lives.”

Angelina and Hermione shared a look, though George noted that both of them appeared to be attempting to suppress laughter. “I suppose you’re not exactly signing up for a peaceful life when you get involved with a Weasley,” Angelina said.

“‘Fraid not,” George said, and he felt his stomach do a weird flip-flopping thing as his girlfriend looked at him, that luminous smile on her face that made it impossible to look away from her.

“Speaking of a peaceful life,” Ron said, “we saw that Rita Skeeter had a go at you, Angelina.”

The smile dropped off her face and a stormy expression—which truth be told, George was just as familiar with—settled there instead. “I was hoping you hadn’t read that.”

“She’s still foul as ever,” Hermione spat, as Ron made a sympathetic noise. “I never should have trusted her to keep that wretched quill to herself.”

When George raised his eyebrows, Ron just said, “It’s a long story.”

Angelina’s expression cleared slightly at this show of support, though George hoped she knew that his siblings and their significant others were on her side. “I don’t imagine she’d have had many complimentary things to say about me, anyway,” she said with a shrug. “It’s not really her style.”

Hermione still looked incensed. “Just because she will inevitably say something horrid doesn’t mean we should just accept it.”

“Best to just ignore the old cow,” George advised, looking at Angelina as he said it. This time, she gave him an easy smile, as though to say, old news; nothing to be fussed about. So, that bridge crossed and behind them, he decided to give the next one a go. “Difficult as it’s going to be, try to be nice to Auntie Muriel,” he cautioned her.

“Difficult?” Ron snorted. “It’s practically impossible.”

“She’s a hag,” George agreed.

Hermione looked at Ron incredulously. “Muriel? You didn’t mention she was going to be there.”

“Oh, didn’t I? Funny, I thought I had done…” Ron said, squirming and refusing to meet her eye.

Looking at her engagement ring sadly, Hermione remarked, “She’s going to ask when we’re getting married and I suppose that means we’ll have to invite her.”

“Maybe she’ll snuff it first?” George suggested. “The rate Ron’s going setting a date, anyway—ow!” He glanced over at Angelina as she elbowed him. “If that was for Muriel snuffing it, you just wait till you’ve met her.”

“It was for your second comment, for your information, but—” Giving the two of them a faintly incredulous look, Angelina added, “Does anyone like this woman?”

“We don’t really think so,” Ron replied. “But Mum hasn’t got a lot of her family left so she keeps getting included.”

“Last time she saw me she asked how I ever expected to find a woman who could tolerate me if I didn’t at least get my ears straightened out,” George volunteered.

“She said I obviously never completely got over my spattergroit,” Ron added.

“And she said Hermione had skinny ankles before she even knew her name,” George concluded. “That was at Bill and Fleur’s wedding.”

“She knows my name?” Hermione asked, sounding horrified.

“Well,” Angelina remarked, “I can’t wait for this meal. Sounds as though it will be completely charming.”

“Look, it’ll be a massive pain in the rectum, but it’ll be good practice for the wedding if we have one,” George said. “Anyway, she’s Mum’s aunt, and it never hurts to wheedle your way closer to her heart. Mum’s, I mean. Not Auntie Muriel’s—I rather think she hasn’t got a heart, anyway.”

For a moment, Angelina didn’t respond, as her eyebrows were raised so high. “The wedding, if we have one?” she finally repeated.

“Not that I’m saying let’s plan one right now, understand—”

There was a smile and a funny look on Angelina’s face, a mixture of incredulity, amusement, and delight, and Hermione was obviously suppressing her own smile as she said, “George, for Merlin’s sake, you can’t propose to Angelina in front of us!”

Defensively, George replied, “That wasn’t my proposal! Think I’d do something so half-arsed, do you, Miss Granger; I haven’t got a ring or anything—” Before he could go on, Angelina grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him. He returned the kiss enthusiastically, his arms going automatically around her, until he heard Ron groan, “Get a room, you two.”

They broke apart and George pointed out with a crooked grin, “You’re in my flat.”

Hermione was still beaming, and her eyes looked suspiciously bright, but luckily, George didn’t have to admonish her not to cry; that when he did propose for real, there’d be enough tears from Mum, and that he didn’t want people crying over the fact that he was actually happy, that he was healing a little more every day, and that Angelina was the one who bore so much responsibility for that.

“So, we can’t say congratulations?” Hermione asked mischievously.

“Absolutely not,” George said. “Hold all your congratulatory notes, gifts, and good wishes until I’ve had a chance to do the thing properly.” He looked back to Angelina, who just grinned and kissed him hard.

“I love you,” she murmured to him, just loud enough for him to hear.

Tightening his arms around her, he murmured back, “I love you too.” Then, after giving her another swift kiss, he said with a crooked smile, “But that really wasn’t my proposal.”

She laughed. “All right, Weasley, but your real one had better be amazing.”

“Would you expect anything less?”

“Oy,” Ron said, “we’re going to be late if you two don’t hurry up deciding whether or not George just proposed or not.”

George reluctantly let her go, but she grabbed his hand just before they Disapparated, twining her fingers with his.

The lane leading to the Burrow bounced into existence around them, and George looked down to see a chicken eyeing him with annoyance for interrupting its foraging. A pair of gnomes raced from the cover of one shrub to another. When Ron and Hermione appeared in the lane next to them, the chicken fluffed out its feathers and stalked off in irritation.

The windows of the Burrow shined brightly in the rapidly fading light, and as the four of them made their way to the kitchen door, Ron asked, “What do you think the odds are Muriel isn’t here yet?”

A figure moved in front of the sitting room window, and George caught a glimpse of Percy’s wife, Audrey, with a strained smile on her face. “Pretty poor,” he guessed. “Better brace yourselves.”

With a laugh, Angelina said, “I almost feel sorry for this woman.”

Almost simultaneously, George, Ron, and Hermione all responded, “You won’t.”

Dad was in the kitchen when they pushed the door open, looking harried, though the moment he saw them, he gamely attempted to appear as though he was having a pleasant evening. George almost told him they hadn’t fought the Second Wizarding War to have to pretend they were enjoying Auntie Muriel’s company, but bit his tongue at the last second, deciding his father looked unlikely to find this amusing at present.

“Hello, you four,” Dad said. “Ron, George, your mother will be happy to see you. And, er, Muriel, of course…” Absently patting Hermione’s shoulder, he added, “Good of you ladies to come as well and face her—ah, that is, meet her.”

Looking disgruntled, Ron muttered, “We wouldn’t be here if Mum hadn’t threatened us.”

At that moment, Percy popped his head into the kitchen, having heard their voices. “Oh good, you’re here,” he said, the relief evident in his tone. George glanced at Angelina, who was looking more and more gobsmacked at the obvious dislike they all had for Muriel. Well, he had tried to tell her.

“Angelina,” Percy greeted, offering her a handshake. George could practically see him wondering if he needed to start hugging the women in his brothers’ lives. “I saw your picture in the Prophet today.”

With mild trepidation, she asked, “Did you?”

“Yes, though I didn’t read the piece—”

“Good,” she said emphatically. “Don’t.”

Percy looked mildly taken aback, but moved on to greet Ron and Hermione before he squared his shoulders and returned to the sitting room. Meanwhile, Dad was looking like he wished he could find something to fiddle with on the stove, but after inspecting each pot and checking on the progress of the roast in the oven, he gave up and moved closer to George and Angelina. “I read it,” he said, but at her stricken look, added, “Don’t pay any attention to Rita Skeeter, Angelina. News has been slow; she’s looking for anything to make a Galleon.”

“Yeah,” said Ginny’s voice suddenly as she sidled into the kitchen. Giving Angelina a quick, one-armed hug, she went on, “Rita’s favorite subject hasn’t been giving her much dirt, anyway. No one’s got anything nasty to say about Harry’s Auror training.”

Dad looked at Angelina seriously. “Obviously we don’t put any stock in a word Rita Skeeter writes.”

“Or at least, what her quill does,” Hermione muttered.

Giving his girlfriend a pointed look, George said, “Told you.”

Angelina elbowed him, but he could tell from the set of her shoulders how relieved she was. It weighed entirely too heavily on her mind, this business of her being with him because of who he was. Or who he wasn’t. It killed him seeing that shadow in her eyes that meant she was thinking about it; thinking maybe, just maybe, a small part of it was true. He knew he couldn’t take the worry from her, but it didn’t stop him from wishing there was an incantation, or a flick of his wrist as he waved his wand, that would do the trick.

Come to think of it, Audrey was in the Obliviation Office…

“You lot had better come in here,” Ginny said, with a long-suffering look at her brothers.

“Yes, boys, you’d better go in and say hello to your mother. And, er, Auntie Muriel, of course,” Dad said. George couldn’t help noticing that he had conspicuously begun poking at an apple tart, which had looked perfectly fine prior to his ministrations. The tart deflated, collapsing in on itself with a thwump. For one of the first times in his life, George wished he was better at kitchen spells—it would have given him an excuse to stay there.

Normally it was at this point that Hermione, ever the stickler for doing the right thing, would chivvy them all along, but even she continued to stand there, until Ginny said, “Oh, come off it, if I have to spend an evening with Auntie Muriel, then you lot do as well.”

“Point taken,” George sighed. He took Angelina’s hand and led her into the sitting room, followed by Ron and Hermione, while Ginny remained in the kitchen to help Dad repair the apple tart.

Muriel was seated in Dad’s saggy armchair, while Mum, Percy, and Audrey were all squashed onto the sofa together. As the four of them made their ways into the sitting room, Audrey was saying weakly, “Oh, no, we always send a liaison officer in large cases like that, you know, someone to smooth things over and help fill in any blanks. Obviously we try to avoid it but when there’s so much memory modification, sometimes things are a little rough around the edges—”

“Seems like a waste of Galleons to me!” Auntie Muriel pronounced. “Who ever heard of Obliviators needing a Muggle Liaison Officer? In my day we just let them figure things out on the own!”

“Hmph, hardly,” Hermione muttered. “The International Statute of Secrecy has been in effect since 1692.”

“To be fair, she looks like she’s pushing four hundred,” Ron replied, making Hermione snort.

The noise seemed to draw Muriel’s attention to them, and she said loudly, “Is that Ronald and George? Come here, come here, let me get a proper look at you—I’m one hundred and eleven years old, you can’t expect me to get up!”

George and Ron dutifully stepped closer as Mum got to her feet, hugged both of them at the same time, and whispered sternly, “Be nice.”

Shame she hadn’t been on his left side, then he could have pretended not to hear. Instead, George plastered what he hoped was a pleasant smile on his face, rather than a grimace, and lied, “Good to see you, Auntie Muriel.”

“Can’t they do something about those lopsided ears of yours?” Muriel barked. “Every time I see you, you assure me you’ll see to getting them fixed!”

“Oh, you know, business is booming; I just haven’t got round to it yet,” he replied. Beside him, Ron stifled something that sounded suspiciously like a guffaw, earning him a sharp look from Mum.

With a sniff, Auntie Muriel said, “Well, it doesn’t seem to have stopped you from finding a young woman. Which one of these is yours, then?” she asked, waving a finger in the vague direction of Angelina and Hermione, both of whom seemed to be doing their best to recede into the background by this point.

“Auntie Muriel, you remember Hermione!” Ron said, which was an amateurish mistake as far as George was concerned; here he was, after all, making a noble brotherly sacrifice and taking all of Muriel’s crotchety meanness—the least Ron could do was not butt in. “You’ve met her before—we’re engaged.”

Unless he was mistaken, George heard Hermione give a low groan of despair at this announcement.

“Engaged, are you?” Muriel squinted at Hermione, then looked back to Ron. “Didn’t the Ministry put out a warning regarding spattergroit sterilising men?”

“Er,” Ron said, reddening.

Muriel turned her beady gaze back to George. “You haven’t introduced me to your young woman! Young people’s manners these days—honestly, Molly, whatever is this country coming to?” Mum’s answering smile, George rather thought, could be called “strained” only if one was being particularly generous.

“This is Angelina, Auntie Muriel,” George said. “Angelina Johnson.” No point in telling the old bat that Angelina was a famous Chaser whose team had won the League last season, nor that she was an accomplished witch who could out-duel him any day. Muriel wouldn’t care about those things, let along the fact that George was completely stupid over her, and that he’d be perfectly content spending the rest of his life trying to make her laugh.

He could see Muriel giving Angelina a thorough once-over, looking for any physical attributes she could harp on. Finally, she held out a hand, which Angelina gingerly stepped forward and shook. “Nice to meet you,” Angelina said, and George felt a surge of love for her, just for the fact that she was trying, that left him almost weak in the knees.

“Awfully skinny hips,” Muriel finally pronounced. Then, as an afterthought, she added, “It’s nice to meet you, as well.”

Audrey shot Angelina a sympathetic look, but Ange just shrugged and smiled slightly, a what-can-you-do expression that George wanted to kiss her for.

Ginny sloped back into the sitting room from the kitchen at that moment, looking mutinous. George had to admire Dad’s ruthlessness at using his own children as human shields so he could stay in the other room, out of the line of fire. “Ginevra, you really must do something with your hair,” Muriel, fixing her with a critical stare. “And is dinner ready yet? You do cook, don’t you?”

The smile on Ginny’s face looked remarkably like Mum’s—that was to say, not a smile, so much as a rictus. “I’m not sure, Auntie Muriel, maybe you’d like to check that everything’s getting done to your liking?”

“Don’t be ridiculous; standing over a stove, at my age?” Muriel huffed. “I’m sure whatever Molly’s preparing will be adequate.”

At this, George—and Ron, if the strangled noise he made was any indication—had to make a real effort not to laugh. Mum, to her credit, dealt with this pretty well, as she took only a moment to suppress whatever it had been her first instinct to say, then smiled in a nearly-convincing way, and said, “I hope you find it to your liking, Auntie Muriel. Boys, can you lay the table? I’m sure everything’s ready by now.”

Ron and George jumped at the chance to do something besides be the object of Auntie Muriel’s unimpeded attention, but so did Percy, who rushed from the sofa to join them. “Oi,” Ron hissed at him, “this is a two person job, sod off!”

“It’s a one person job,” Percy whispered back furiously.

“Yeah, well, George can help, I feel bad for him that our new product testing is rubbish.”

“It’s not that bad,” George objected.

“You had fifteen fingers yesterday!”

“At least it was the right number—we’re just missing the hand part of the extra hand.”

Ron jerked the plates away from Percy, who’d been attempting to pick them up, and George flicked his wand so that the silverware slid in all directions across the table. Each place setting was in a slightly different order, but at least it was all facing the right direction.

Platters mounded with food began appearing on the table then, and Muriel said, “Finally! You—Hermininny—help me up; I’m one hundred and eleven, you know, I can’t get around like I used to be able to.”

The expression on Hermione’s face was stoic as she went to do as Auntie Muriel said. Angelina gave her a hand, and the two women supported Muriel between them, helping her shuffle towards the table. Watching them out of the corner of his eye, George tried not to scoff. He’d always rather thought Muriel was putting on her frailty a bit—he’d once seen her aim a vicious kick at a gnome that had taken a chunk out of her leg. Him and Fred had put out some food for the gnomes after that particular holiday gathering to show their appreciation.

“You have a grip like a man, Angelina,” Muriel complained.

“Oh—sorry.” Angelina looked chagrined. “I play Quidditch—it’s a hard habit to break.”

“You play that dreadful sport too?” With a shudder, Muriel said, “I’ve told Molly she needs to insist that Ginevra give it up. You do something sensible for a living, don’t you, dear?” she asked, turning to Hermione.

“Er, I suppose,” Hermione replied, looking as though she had much more to say on the subject of her future sisters-in-law’s professions, and her own. Ron crossed his arms over his chest and muttered to George, “Yeah, right—Amos Diggory’s going to quit any day now; Harry heard him ranting to himself in the loo up on the second floor about how Hermione’s driving him mad with all her memos and initiatives to improve non-wizard rights.” There was a distinct note of pride in Ron’s voice, though, and George grinned.

When Auntie Muriel was finally situated in a chair at the head of the table, everyone sat down, and somehow, George and Angelina found themselves sitting next to her, with Ron and Hermione across from them. Percy and Dad, George noticed, had managed to situate themselves as far away as they could from Muriel’s end of the table, with their chairs scooted over an extra couple inches just for good measure.

Muriel surveyed the roast in front of her critically, but couldn’t seem to find anything to criticise without tasting it first. Thankfully, they had a few moments of peace as she turned her attention towards Percy and Audrey, demanding to know why they didn’t have a baby yet. Percy's explanation that they were both concentrating on their careers didn’t seem to be going over well.

His mouth was full of buttered peas when Auntie Muriel turned back towards them, drink in hand. “I read in the Prophet that you were walking out with Frederick,” she said disapprovingly, peering over her goblet at Angelina.

It was obvious that most of the table hadn’t heard the remark. Only George, Ron, and Hermione turned towards the disturbance. Ginny was within earshot, but was arguing across the table with Mum about giving up her spot on the Harpies, while Percy, Audrey, and Dad were deep in discussion about the Ministry.

Before Angelina could answer, George swallowed his mouthful of peas (too quickly; he had to force down a cough), slid a hand onto her leg under the table, and said cheerfully, in a last-ditch attempt to put a stop to wherever this conversation was going, “I once consented to go on a date with Griselda Marchbanks—she was so impressed with me during my OWL Charms practical that she wouldn’t take no for an answer. All in the past, though—that’s the nice thing about the past, isn’t it, Auntie Muriel?”

Auntie Muriel completely ignored him, except to shoot him a brief, dirty look. “Well, of course I do wonder how you can manage not just one, but both of these young men. Unless,” she said, now turning to George, “your behaviour has improved since you were a child?”

“Not a bit,” he answered cheerfully.

She looked shocked that he’d dare this bit of impertinence and returned her attention to Angelina. “I daresay I could never tell them apart, either,” Muriel sniffed, “so I don’t blame you, Miss—what did you say your name was?”

“Johnson,” Angelina replied in a low, dangerous tone.

“Miss Johnson, yes. Johnson, I don’t think that’s a Wizarding surname?”

“My father’s a Muggle,” she said stiffly.

“Ah.” Muriel glanced towards George, who was fighting to keep a civil expression on his face. Normally, when it was only directed at him and his siblings, he found Muriel amusing in her careless, barbed cruelty. But finding his girlfriend the target of it was intolerable in a way he hadn’t quite expected. “Well, as I said,” she went on, “I could never tell them apart either. For all you know, both of them were courting you, pretending to be Frederick the entire time.”

There was a rigid silence. Hermione’s eyes were bright with anger and George could see her twisting her napkin in her lap; Angelina was suddenly holding herself very still, with a distinctive set to her jaw that George recognised as a Very Bad Sign.

“Angelina would probably have killed them both if they’d tried it,” Ron spoke up suddenly, unexpectedly, and bravely. “Not that they would have,” he added with an apologetic glance towards George.

Muriel looked unconvinced, though she remained silent for a moment, taking what seemed like a rather too large gulp of elf-made wine, considering what she’d spent the last five minutes saying. George hadn’t moved his hand from Angelina’s knee, but he was daring to hope that Muriel had tired of them, as she seemed to have turned her attention back to Percy and Audrey. He wouldn’t’ve minded having that hand back to cut his roast beef with—

“Of course it was a terrible loss when my grand-nephew was killed,” she said abruptly, turning back to them and sounding, George thought, as though the opposite were the case, “and I didn’t want to say this to Molly, but at least one of you survived.” She glanced at George, who grit his teeth. “Not like my poor sister, who lost Gideon and Fabian. And really, Miss Johnson,” she said, turning her attention back to Angelina, “if you were involved with Frederick, George is the next best thing.”

The only good thing about that moment, George reflected later, was that Ginny hadn’t heard Muriel. Hermione’s breath hissed in outrage but Ron clamped a hand around her arm, and George squeezed his fingers into Angelina’s leg.

“Fred still had both his ears,” George pointed out. In retrospect, it wasn’t funny.

Muriel waved a dismissive hand. “We all must compromise our standards.”

“Excuse me for a minute,” Angelina said abruptly, a grimace of a smile plastered on her face. She didn’t look at George as her chair scraped on the floor, and as she slipped into the kitchen, Mum asked, “Angelina, dear, is there something I can get you?”

She shook her head and murmured, “Just need to…er…kitchen…”

His mother shot George a look of concern and he sighed, willing himself not to hex Auntie Muriel, though the old bat deserved a good Rictumsempra. Maybe if that sour expression wasn’t always on her face, she’d not feel the need to force her misery on everyone around her. For a second or two, he debated whether or not to go after Angelina—sometimes, after all, she only wanted to be alone. She’d been known to fire some nasty dermatological hexes in her day and he didn’t fancy being on the receiving end of one. So maybe the thing to do was to stay where he was and give her some time. Yeah. That was probably for the best.

He found her standing outside on the steps to the garden, despite the chill in the October evening, her arms crossed over her chest. At the sound of his approach, she glanced over her shoulder. Her expression was stony and even George’s smile didn’t do anything to soften it. “I’d rather be alone,” she snapped, looking away from him.

“Yeah, I figured you might.” Neither her tone nor her standoffish pose deterred him, and he came to stand next to her, though he refrained from touching her. “So how’s the view out here?”

“George,” she sighed.

He wasn’t going to be deterred, though. Even worse than spending an evening with Muriel was letting her ruin that evening. “I think I’d like a view like this someday,” he went on, trying to sound casual. “You know, England’s mountains green and pleasant pastures and all that. Not that I don’t like London but some more space would be nice—”

Angelina turned to face him. “George,” she repeated, and her tone made him stop. He was rambling, anyway, and clearly not helping things. “Do you want to live with that for the rest of your life?”

“Muriel? I think there are laws to prevent that sort of thing, luckily.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” She sucked in a breath. “I meant—” But she stopped, and George watched her clench and unclench her fists under her elbows. All he wanted was to make her stop worrying; to see her smile—for her to be happy. Not just now, but always. Before he could say anything else, though, she expelled a harsh breath and demanded, “Doesn’t it bother you?” He opened his mouth to respond, but she plowed on, “Everything that she said—everything that everyone says—doesn’t it?” The anger melted off her face and suddenly she just looked sad and stricken, and she finished in a much smaller voice, “What if they’re right?”

At that, George grabbed her into a crushing hug. “They’re not,” he said fiercely. “They’re not.” Pulling back to look at her, he said, “Look, I was serious before. I want to marry you. I thought you knew. And I know that you—” He stopped and took a deep breath. He was going to say this right, because he was tired of it; because despite what he pretended, he knew—and people said it to him, and it was infuriating on every level. That people couldn’t mind their own business, that they actually thought he’d been interchangeable with Fred, that they believed Angelina capable of that kind of cruelty. That they thought there wasn’t room in a person’s life for the intersection of grief and love.

“Ange,” he said, “this—you and me—they can’t touch it. This is ours, and nothing they say can ever change anything.”

She held his eyes with that look of defiance that was one of so many things that he loved about her, and then her arms went around him tightly. For what felt like ages they just stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the sounds of the English autumn night whispering around them. He himself had never doubted the sincerity, and the separateness, of Angelina’s feelings for him. Wherever Fred was right now, George figured he didn’t, either. The bushes rustled and a garden gnome giggled, and from inside came the sound of Dad telling Muriel he thought she’d had enough to drink. George felt Angelina chuckle quietly and unwillingly at that, and then she held him more tightly and said, “I love you.”

“I’m a lucky bloke.”

“I’m a lucky woman,” she countered.

He laughed softly and put a hand to her head, tangling his fingers in her hair. “I’ll let you win that one for now.”

For a second, Angelina’s arms tightened around him, and then she sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to people gossiping about us.”

George wished he could see her face, but he didn’t want to let go of her. “People like Muriel and Rita Skeeter aren’t worth listening to. Seriously, I’ve been tuning Muriel out for my whole life. We all do. Honestly, I’m not sure Mum hears a word she says anymore.” Turning his head to kiss her temple, he added, “Hang round us long enough and it’s a skill you’ll pick up.”

“That’s comforting, I think.” She leaned back to look at him, giving him a measuring look. Something flickered across her face, and then she just said, “All right.”

“All right?” he repeated, trying to remember if he’d asked a question recently.

“Yeah, all right.” She smiled mischievously. “I’ll marry you.”

His heart lurched in startled happiness. “I still haven’t proposed,” he pointed out, beginning to grin.

“Haven’t you?”

“Well, I still haven’t got a ring. But if you insist on accepting now, I suppose I’ll have to do the thing properly, so, Angelina Johnson—” He paused to drink her in for a moment, her dark brown eyes and tight, flyaway curls; her strong, high cheekbones and full lips; the way the glow from the house seemed to burnish her skin. Then he got down on one knee, holding her hand tightly in both of his. “Angelina,” he repeated, “will you marry me?”

“Of course,” she said promptly, and her beautiful smile filled his vision for a moment.

“Took all the suspense out of that, you did,” he said, before he jumped to his feet and pulled her to him, then kissed her soundly. Their kiss deepened and he let everything else fade to a background hum. His whole world was her, the way she felt in his arms, the way her lips felt against his, the idea of having her at his side for the rest of his life. That promise, of his life with the woman who’d made everything better for him, was intoxicating, and even if he’d felt certain that wedded bliss was where they’d been headed, it didn’t take anything away from this moment, the formality of question and acceptance; the power of those two simple words, ‘of course’.

There was a noise in the kitchen, and the door creaked open a tiny crack to reveal Hermione’s eyes peering out at them. “Oh!” she said, then lowered her voice. “I just wanted to make sure everything’s all right.” She hesitated. “And that you aren’t putting any stock at all in what that horrible woman said. Sorry, George, I know she’s your aunt.”

“Only because we can’t seem to disown her,” George said.

Angelina leaned into him, one arm still around his neck, and he held her tighter. It was amazing the way his arm fit perfectly around her waist. Like they were made to go together, him and Angelina. “Trying not to,” Angelina said, and her blunt honesty made Hermione smile a little ruefully.

From inside the house came the sound of Muriel demanding, “Where’s everyone got to? Those girls have just wandered off, and I suppose you think George isn’t up to something with them! I may be one hundred and eleven, but I remember being twenty!”

The three of them smothered their laughter—and, honestly, revulsion; the thought of Muriel being twenty and getting ‘up to something’ was frankly horrifying—and Hermione grinned at them before whispering, “Better make an appearance before Muriel stops thinking of me as the sensible one…” Before she shut the door, though, she studied Angelina and George’s faces. Her eyes drifted to Angelina’s left hand, and she said mischievously, “Still no ring, but—congratulations.”

The door closed with a snick, and the two of them looked at each other. There was really no point in wondering aloud how Hermione knew—George was well used to her discerning what others didn’t. But then again, as he looked at Angelina, at the glow lighting her face, he knew that the same bright happiness was probably lighting his as well. Maybe it wasn’t hard to tell at all.

The two of them held each other’s gazes, and he didn’t say what he was thinking because he knew it was showing in his eyes. He was the luckiest man alive because he had somehow ended up with her; through all the devastation and ruin and grief, they had found each other and become more than two broken people. They had healed, would keep healing, and now—if there could be perfection in the most imperfect life he ever could have imagined, then this was it.