Extendable Earmuffs

Extendable Earmuffs

Chapter One

George Weasley quickened his step over the spongy marsh between Stoatshead Hill and the Burrow as soon as he heard the first sound of raucous celebration. His heart felt like it was in his throat, and surely said heart shouldn't have been burning, right? It should have been warm and drippy with waterworks with the prospect of home just a few springy steps ahead. A sickeningly sweet picture, perhaps, but George wanted it all the same. He was going sentimental. You always knew it was going to start at some point, Fred.

"An'--" Hic! "--I'd jus' like ter say--" Hic! "--thank--" Hic! "--yeh!" Hic! George was able to make the tear-filled, booming voice out faintly. A grin slowly spread across his face, making the twenty-two-year-old look more his age; the double-purpose-serving earmuffs, various multicolored scarves, and the melted, weary look of George's face usually made him look lopsided and raving, as well as rounding thirty. That must be Hagrid; wonder what he's doing at the Burrow. He never could hold his liquor. Wonder if he's supposed to sound like he's accepting a film award? Damn, it's been a while. Wonder what they're celebrating?

He startled himself with the great laugh that burst out of him at the sight of two gnomes perched atop a wedding cake, one wearing a crudely made tuxedo, and the other what looked like a tissue fashioned like a bridal gown. Neither of them looked very happy, but the male gnome in the tissue-dress looked especially murderous. George patted them both on the head (and consequently forced their feet deeper into the thick icing) and kept on through the garden, before pivoting on his heel. An eight-foot-tall wedding cake?

He set out at a run, nearly tripping over a footstool set next to the cake, suddenly dreading what he was missing--Please don't be anyone I know, please don't be anyone I know... He hoped beyond hope that the odd and mildly disturbing image that sprang to mind--Filch and Mrs. Norris--was correct and he wasn't missing anything monumental--anything that would sour the fantasy he'd been relishing over the past three months: he would creep into the house in the dead of night, and, without waking anyone, sleep in his and Fred's old room, one he knew his mother would have kept vacant. Then, in the morning, once he heard pots and pans clanking around in the kitchen, he'd come in tousled and well rested, and ask his mother to make his favorite kind of kipper. She would cry, his dad would cry, hell, everyone would have a good cry, and ask where he'd been, what he'd been doing for the past two years...

But not if this was what he feared--oh, who was he kidding? Who else would have an eight-foot cake but Hagrid?

George was never fat, but he wasn't skinny either--and even though he'd lived pretty tightly for the last few years, he hadn't ever managed to lose any weight. Boy, did he feel that stitch in his side now. Should have taken Verity, his assistant at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, up on that personal trainer offer...

He rounded the side of the house now, barely noticing the white streamers flapping in the light, summer breeze, or the inexplicable bouquets of flowers that resembled oversized artichokes, or the banner that read "Rubeus & Olympe," and would have stopped just short of the classy, white lawn chairs if he hadn't seen Hagrid's beardless face. Instead, dread branding the lining of his stomach, he toppled over the lawn chairs, bringing at least eight down with him and making more noise than Ron's irking owl Pigwidgeon hyped up on the bird-version of catnip and cast with a sonorous spell.

The party, moments before the crash brimming with inebriated voices, not all of them English, fell almost entirely silent. Hagrid was still blubbering into his quite-literally-bigger-than-George's-torso handkerchief, but all of the other narrowed eyes were on him. "Who is that?" he heard, and, "What's going on? What crashed?" But one voice, even though it was whispered, George heard above all of them because he was staring right at her. "George," his mum said to his dad. "Arthur, it's George."

The rippling, inquisitive shouts of, "What's all this mess?" "Is that George?" "I can't see him--what's that on his head?" completely drowned out whatever his mother was yelling at him, but George hardly cared. He recklessly hurdle-jumped over rows and rows of white lawn chairs, and finally felt himself in his mother's warm embrace. "Oh, George," Molly whimpered in his ear. "Oh, George." She repeated his name three more times before his dad came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder, and she promptly broke down sobbing.

"Mum, it's all right," George comforted cautiously, patting Molly awkwardly on the arm.

Arthur turned to him. "Where--where have you been, I mean...George...it's been years..." His father's eyes were wide and sad, and there were wrinkles in the corners that hadn't ever been that deep, or that webbed. The top of his head was entirely bald and reflected the fairy lights glinting above them.

"I know, Dad," George said gruffly, blinking hard. "But, just believe me that it was necessary, all right? And...try to forgive me soon. I've been away a while and would like to get things back to normal as soon as possible." He tried for a weak grin that broadened when he spotted Arthur's kind smile and loving eyes.

"You were forgiven before you left, Son. We're just glad you're home."

"Food!" yelled Molly suddenly, her bloodshot eyes flashing open. "He needs food, Arthur, get out of the way, Merlin knows where he's been or what he's been eating--look at him, he's practically skeletal..." She grasped George's wrist, her grip like a Grindylow's, and began pulling him over to the refreshment table.

"Mum," George grunted, "it's fine, really, stop. Pay attention to the happy new couple--it's Hagrid's wedding!"

"Oh, he won't mind. This is his second."

After tripping over another of those damn lawn chairs, he asked, nonplussed, "Second? Hagrid was married before?"

"To Olympe, yes. But the last wedding wasn't quite to Olympe's taste--they were in Romania, you see, and something happened--I think her dress caught on fire, dragons, you know--and so Olympe wanted another wedding at France, but we talked her into having it here." Molly beamed up at her second youngest son. "Ah, here we are. So, I made a little of everything. Shepherd's pie, onion soup, oh, look, a roast... here's something odd, I don't know what it is, something French... oh, it smells vile, let's move that over here--"

"Mum, I've already eaten. I--erm--I ate at the Leaky Cauldron. Tom makes good scones, you know."

"The Leaky Cauldron?" Molly mouthed, appearing shell-shocked. "Then you've been in the area for a day, at least? George, you should've come sooner."

Avoiding his mother's stern face, George cleared his throat. "Erm--Mum. I've eaten at the Leaky Cauldron nearly every day."

"Since when?"

"Fred and I ate there, and I just kept up the tradition. It was easy, you know? Right down the street. And then I stopped working and...cheap food, you know."

Molly's eye twitched at the mention of her other son just before Arthur Weasley came up behind her, and, apparently having heard the last few sentences, said with a hard face, "So you were in Diagon Alley the entire time?"

"George! How could you?" his mother screeched. The celebrations that had resumed around them ceased again, and a hundred curious faces stared at the scene. "We had no idea where you were! We kept calling and calling at your shop, harassing Verity! We assumed you'd gone gallivanting over the countryside, or had killed--" Molly took a deep breath, very red in the face. "And the whole time you were there? You must've known we were worried about you."

"I did know. I'm so sorry." Those toppled over chairs might make a handy barricade if this turns into warfare, nice job being clumsy this time, George, he thought wryly.

"We stopped looking for you in Diagon Alley," said Arthur, "because you'd stopped creating toys. Why on earth--"

George put up a hand to stop him. "Ah, can't make them without Fred, can I?" he said sadly, shaking his head. "No, I make a modest living selling off what's already in there...and when people stop buying, I'll stop selling. Right now, most of the profit's paying Verity's salary--she does all the work now, in the shop. I pop in and out to say hello, but... Well, it's just the way it has to be."

Molly looked appalled. "George...that was your dream. You worked so hard."

"No, Mum. Not me, we. It just doesn't feel right anymore. Hasn't for two years." Feeling overwhelmed, George shoved his hands in his pockets, turned back towards the now-haphazardly strewn lawn chairs, and walked back out towards the garden. All of the wedding guests just watched him go before slowly returning to their festivities.

Shit, thought George. Hell. Bullocks. Damn. Fuck. Every other bloody curse I know. That had not gone as planned. Yeah, let's just go stamping in there and knock every fucking chair over at Hagrid's wedding. Let's start making Mum cry because you were too cowardly to face home for two bloody years. Let's mention Fred in front of her just to grind some bubotuber pus in the wound. He kicked at a hoe stuck at an odd angle in the ground, and watched, satisfied, as it rattled against the broom shed and fell over. You don't deserve this family.

Just as he pulled his leg back to kick a half-buried bucket, George felt a hand on his shoulder. He pivoted on his one grounded leg, staggered, and fell on his ass with a thump! Ginny Weasley glared at him through too-long bangs with her arms crossed.

"Hello, Gin," George tried weakly.

"Hello," replied Ginny through gritted teeth. She had filled out since he last saw her; though her hip jutted out in the same way it always had, it was shapelier now, and much more like their mother's battle-stance. Her red hair was cut sleek and short and her face was thinner.

"You look great."

Ginny snorted and rolled her eyes. Ah, Ginny, George thought. You must be a handful. "So," she started, her cheeks fiery. "Where've you been? I saw you talking to Mum. She was crying."

"Yeah--er, I've been around."

"Around? Really?" Her nostrils flared, and George dug his fingernails into the dirt around him, still plopped on the ground. "Is that really how you want to start this conversation after two years, George?"

"Sure. How'd you want it to start? 'Hey, Gins, sorry I've been gone so long, I needed a little time to collect my thoughts about my brother dying, but I'm fine now. How about some Quidditch'?"

"I play enough Quidditch already, thanks, but--oh! You wouldn't know that, would you?" Ginny took an aggressive step forward, her hands clutched into painful-looking fists. "Well, here's the low-down. I'm eighteen years old, I play seeker for the Holyhead Harpies, and I'm the main caretaker of a two-year-old named Teddy, remember him? Yeah, he's gotten big," she snarled. "Looks more like his dad than his mum, we expect, but since none of us ever really got a good look at Tonks, we can't be sure. Harry and I are saving for an apartment in London, but for now we're living right here; he's in your old room, and you're fool if you think he's moving for you. Dad's partner, Perkins, died last month, and they shut down Dad's department. [Scrimgeor's] got a bigger division for Muggles now, so Dad's been shunted to pushing papers 'cause they say he's getting on in years. Mum's happy since he's home early everyday now, but you can tell it's wearing on him. He's got new wrinkles every day. Says he's happy, though, because at least now he gets a window."

Ginny paused to take a breath, quite red in the face and shaking, and George pounced on the chance to defend himself. Just like Mum, he thought again, and felt an odd rush of endearment for his little sister. "Ginny, I knew most of that, it's not like I wasn't watch--"

"Oh, great. That's just brilliant, George! So it's just fine that you weren't here, because you knew everything anyway, so what was the point? Here's the point: Mum was convinced you'd killed yourself. There was no word of you, Verity was being shifty, and even Lee Jordan had no idea where you'd gone. She never said it to me, of course, but my room's right above Mum and Dad's and I heard her crying about it every night through the vents. So while you were off 'collecting your thoughts' you were poisoning everyone else's."

"What can I do about it now? How can I make it up to you, Gins, because I really, really want to. I'm here now, and that's...well, it's the best I can do. All right?"

Ginny looked like she was going to tell him, no, it's not all right, when her name was called from the other side of the garden. Harry raised his hand in greeting as he trumped, lopsided, across the garden. The lump on his side revealed itself to be a toddler as he came closer to the dim lantern hanging from the shed.

"George?" he said, surprised, cocking an eyebrow at the stocky redhead planted on the ground. Harry looked much the same as the last time George had seen him, though maybe a bit less skinny, a bit taller. Been eating your vegetables, Harry? Yeah, being fed Mum's cooking full-time will do that to you.

"All right, Harry?" he grunted as he grabbed Harry's offered hand and heaved himself to his feet.

"I'm fine," Harry replied, his eyes concerned behind his glasses. That was something George hadn't seen before. "Dunno 'bout you, though. Where've you been?"

"He's been 'around,'" huffed Ginny, taking Teddy from Harry's arms. She bounced the curly, light-brown haired child up and down on her hip as she swayed back and forth, still glaring at George.

George didn't respond--he was too busy staring at the kid in Ginny's arms. He had four teeth. Guilt pressed on George's stomach from all sides, making him feel compressed as he looked into Teddy's almost wise-looking brown eyes--eyes almost exactly like, George imagined, an old friend he once had. A brave friend who had just tried doing the best for his new wife and child, and ended up--yes, George definitely felt like puking.

And here, all this time, when this little boy was growing up without parents, George had been sulking around Diagon Alley like it was the end of the world. This little boy's was just beginning--as was Ginny's and Harry's, George realized. When he hadn't answered, they had started having a conversation of their own. George noticed with wide eyes how Harry caressed his sister's elbow, how Ginny put her free hand on Harry's face for a moment before they both turned back to him. He'd missed so much, for so little reason. You're disgusting, he told himself, full of so much venom-like self-loathing that he spit into the shrubs beside him.

"We're going for cake," Ginny said, turning on her heel--When did Ginny start wearing sensible heels? Bloody hell, she is turning into Mum!--and carrying Teddy back towards Hagrid's wedding.

"Er...Coming?" Harry asked, turning only his head back to where George was standing.

"Yeah, I'll come." Fred, I dunno what it is, but Harry's different. Wonder what did it.

"Glad you're back," Harry said, grinning briefly, and George followed him, feeling nonplussed, until he realized what it was.

Harry, at nineteen, had grown older, while George was still the same he'd ever been.