Not Quite Paradise

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Not Quite Paradise

"Drink with me
To days gone by.
Can it be
You fear to die?
Will the world remember you
When you fall?
Could it be your death
Means nothing at all?
Is your life just one more lie?"

---Grantaire, Drink With Me, "Les Miserables"

Chapter Five

Drink With Me

Over the next few weeks, Sean and I owled back and forth. Weird work schedules (Jackalope was crueler than ever now that everyone at the company knew his daughter's problem.) prevented us from seeing each other as often as we would have liked, but we were able to meet for the occasional lunch. I learned more about him, but dodged enough questions about myself that he finally took the hint that Anya Parker wasn't one of my favorite subjects.

Something was amiss about him, though. It was almost as though he was trying terribly hard to impress me and he was never the one to decide where to eat. "Up to the lady," he would say with a smile. It was just a bit unnerving, but I suppose he could have worse traits.

My nightmares worsened for a while, but never changed. Soon, I found that a glass of wine before bed would stave off my demons for a while. Over time, it was taking a bit more wine each night to take the night terrors out of my sleeping pattern, but what was a little hangover in the morning in return for a good night's sleep?

Shelly, of course, needed every last detail of the evening at the Golden Snitch. I told her everything except George and Fred's espionage mission. She was relieved with the Hunter revelation and I told her we'd gotten a formal but stiff apology letter from PJPJE. George had gotten it framed and hung it in the shop as a joke. She looked annoyed when I mentioned Draco's speech and his demeanor towards Ginny, but not surprised.

"That man is an absolute prat. Ever since the war, he's been positively - well, so full of himself! Then Malfosoft," Shelly added, rolling her eyes as we took a seat in Florean Fortescue's (They'd recently opened another shop in Hogsmeade and expanded to carry all sorts of magical candy.). "As if the man couldn't get any richer. I heard he donated three million Galleons - pocket change to him, really - to a computer literacy charity. Can you possibly think of a colder cause?"

I couldn't, but my defend-the-absent reaction sprang up involuntarily and I said, "I read that rumor, too, in Rachel Ratliffe's column. Angelina - Fred's wife, you know -" (I thought I saw something pass through her eyes, but as soon as I was aware of it, it was gone) "I know she told me once that Rachel's the next generation Rita Skeeter. And you know what I think of that woman."

During our sixth year at Hogwarts, Rita Skeeter published several articles discrediting Harry Potter, using everything from his mental health to his rumored love life with Hermione Granger. The Harry Potter books, published by that awful Rowling woman, reprinted several of them. What the books failed to include were the articles on the other Hogwarts students and staff. Unfortunately, I was the target of one such article. According to an "inside source" (Draco Malfoy himself, no doubt), I was ordering Fluffy to attack other students; rather than the truth, which was calming him down and leading him back to Hagrid.

Needless to say, the woman was not my favorite person and Skeeter's biggest fan isn't too high on the list either.

"Okay, maybe you're right, but I still don't like that Malfoy..." Shelly trailed off before completely finishing her thought. Her eyes were fixated on something behind me and I turned to see a large group of people entering Florean's, including George and Fred, laughing loudly about something. George waved at me with a huge grin and I smiled back.

When I turned back around, Shelly was taking our ice cream sundaes out of the waiter's hand and placing them before us. My friend had a morose look on her face as she swirled her spoon in the vanilla ice cream before her, head bowed so I couldn't see her face.

"See someone you know?" I asked casually, dipping a spoon into my knickerbocker glory.

"Something like that..." she said and didn't meet my eyes. I frowned, worried. Shelly was the paradigm of a bubbly, outgoing person with no dark secrets and no sad memories. Though money had been tight with her family when she was young, just as it was with the Weasleys, her parents had done everything they could to keep her childhood as joyful as possible. I'd never known her to be depressed and on the odd occasion she was upset, a few jokes and some advice would cheer her up.

"I can read you like a book, Shelly," I said, leaning across the table. She still refused to meet my eyes. "Come on, there's something you're hiding from me. I don't keep any secrets from you..." She continued to ignore me, pushing her spoon around the dish aimlessly, face hidden. I sat back in my seat, half-worried about her and half-angry about her lack of trust in confiding in me. "Fine," I murmured into my ice cream and lifted a spoonful to my mouth. We ate our ice cream in tense silence, with me wishing she would just say something - anything - to break it.

"Fancy running into you here," a voice said from behind me. George and Fred stepped up on either side of the table and made themselves comfortable with assumed invitation. I forced a smile at the two of them and noticed that Shelly had stiffened considerably and ducked her head even lower. "We're just here for a quick minute to grab some lunch," George explained.

I eyed the large container in his hands labeled "Chocolate Covered Mangoes" (The bloke had a weird diet) and arched an eyebrow.

"I see you're going for a healthy, well-balanced lunch," I quipped. George shrugged with a "What can I say?" sort of smile and Fred laughed, though he really had no place to do so because of the box of Fizzing Whizbees in his possession. Shelly's head dipped even lower and she had ceased all movement. I kicked her beneath the table as George bit into his first mango. She sat up straight, eyes wide and looked at me with a pleading sort of desperation. She mouthed something to me, but I couldn't tell what she wanted me to do.

At that moment, Fred turned his head to see her. As their eyes met, his face changed slowly. The next expression to grace his features I would never be able to quite describe. The closest thing I could think of would be shame with perhaps a twinge of embarrassment.

"Hello," Fred said quietly.

"Hi," she whispered in a choked voice. George's eyes found a spot on the wall and remained there.

I had the distinct feeling that everyone at the table knew something and I was the only one being left out. I clenched my fists beneath the table and counted silently to ten. This always happened, with me being the one not knowing but far too polite to ask. Finally, Fred cleared his throat and stood, shifting his package under his arm.

"Catch you back at 3W," he said, looking over my head to George. His twin nodded and Fred left, watching his feet as he walked out the door. I looked between George and Shelly, who were both neatly avoiding my eyes. They both knew and neither of them trusted me enough to tell me what secret was being passed around.

"Fine," I said quietly. "Just thought you guys might be able to trust me." George's head snapped up at this and he began to shake his head. "No," I said before he could get a word out. "I understand perfectly. No one wants naive little Anya to know anything." I pushed my knickerbocker glory away from me and stood up angrily.

"Anya, wait," Shelly said, just as I began to turn away. I froze, not turning back to her, but not walking out either. "I'll tell you everything." My shoulders slumped; I definitely had some sort of complex that prevented me from staying angry with someone for too long. I looked over my shoulder at Shelly. "Please." Reluctantly, I returned to my seat at the table at the same time George stood to leave.

"Girl talk," he said, by way of excuse. "Yuck." He nodded and bade goodbye to the two of us, then left. I pulled my ice cream back towards me, and then looked up at Shelly.

"Do... do you promise not to hate me?" At this point, Shelly's tone and behavior was seriously frightening me. I slid my hand across the table and wrapped it around hers in that comforting way George did to me when I was upset. "A long time ago... over a year now..." She paused and lifted her frame, throwing her shoulders back and raising her chin. I could see the confidence return to her features. She had a look of determination in her eyes as she continued speaking. "Fred and I had... a night... together."

I blinked for a few moments, not quite understanding Suddenly, my eyes widened. Fred and Angelina had been quite unstable at times, but I could tell by the way they looked at each other when the other wasn't watching that their love ran deep and wasn't ever in question. Their stubbornness and tempers, however, were matched a bit too well. I never thought either of them would ever betray the other.

"How did it happen?" I murmured. Her face relaxed at this, probably because I didn't tell her straight out that what she had done was wrong.

"It was a long time ago," she repeated. "Before Angelina was pregnant. They had a bunch of rough spots... really close together. She said something awful to him... told him she didn't love him or something like that. He went out drinking at the Leaky Cauldron. I guess he couldn't deal with her anymore that night." She took a deep breath and began to speak again in a stronger voice. "I saw him, then, from across the room. You know I fancied him at Hogwarts." I nodded, remembering the giggles and passed notes during Charms about the newest males that had fallen into our crosshairs. Shelly, much to my surprise, never really went out of her way to get to know Fred, but gushed about him in countless notes. "So I went up to him... we got to talking... Anya, you wouldn't believe how drunk he was. I took advantage of him. I... I seduced him. We got a room above the Leaky Cauldron..." She was crying now, very softly, and I tightened my hand around hers.

"Then what?" I whispered. She laughed through her tears and then withdrew her hand from mine to wipe them from her face.

"Oh, Anya, you weren't kidding when you said you were naïve. What do you think happened, love?" I offered a small smile.

"Well, I know what happened... but after that? What did he say? Did you two talk about it?" Shelly shook her head as she blew her nose into her napkin and wiped the final tears from her cheeks.

"He was gone before I woke up," she sniffled. I was torn between being disapproving of her behavior and sympathy for her plight. She shouldn't have given into temptation. A woman should have more willpower. But Fred should have cleaned up his mistake instead of leaving her to wonder what had really happened. "I saw him with his wife in Diagon Alley the next week. He was holding her hand... then, they kissed." These words didn't seem to make her weaker and more desolate. Instead, they seemed to strengthen her and, amazingly enough, her features betrayed no evidence that she had been crying.

"Did you love him?" I blurted out before I could run my comments through the tact-o-meter and weed out stupid comments like the one I'd just uttered. She looked at me with a sad sort of smile.

"Dunno. But I don't think so. He and Angelina are the perfect pair. They were meant to be. I suppose... I suppose I was just frustrated that he didn't love me. You and I both know how it was at Hogwarts." What Katie Bell was to Gryffindor, Shelly Walters was to Hufflepuff. "I look back at those days and see how foolish we were as children." She shook her head. "I don't think I loved him. And I certainly don't love him now. It just... hurts a lot. I'm actually rather relieved that I don't. It must be horrible to watch someone you love love someone else."

"It doesn't make you a bad person, you know. If you did love him, I mean. It's not wrong to feel an emotion." I shrugged. "You can't help it."

"I hate to disappoint you," Shelly chuckled, "But I don't spend my days and nights dreaming of him. It just smarted a bit to see him after all this time." She drew in a deep breath and pulled her wits about her. The Shelly I knew and loved returned and I was overjoyed at her reappearance. "Melodrama worthy of As The Cauldron Turns, no?" she joked, quoting a popular wizarding soap opera. We laughed ourselves silly over this, the final tinges of tension draining away. "Now, please, I'd rather not talk about me anymore. Let us speak of your whirlwind romance with a certain Quidditch player..."

My spoon became quite interested in my ice cream as I blushed. Whirlwind, this romance was indeed not. I adored Sean, I really did, but at times it seemed as though he didn't have a mind of his own. When choosing where to go, he would let me pick every time. Granted, he did order his own meal, so perhaps I was just being paranoid.

"We've got a date this Saturday. Picnic in Primavera Park."

"A picnic! How romantic! Is that the park with Faeries' Mirror Lake where it's always spring?" Shelly asked excitedly, ice cream forgotten. I nodded. "Shall I book a church for next Wednesday? Oh, and what's your ring size?" Shelly asked innocently, not able to completely hide the wicked grin touching her lips. I groaned. I definitely had my Shelly back.

***

At ten after noon that Saturday, I Apparated in front of 6123 Cauldron Lane and knocked on the door. Sean told me to be there at noon, but stupid cat had done almost everything in his power to delay me. I often wondered why I kept the feline around though it gave me nothing but hassle. But when it came to kicking out that sad-green-eyed little fluff ball, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I knocked again, a little impatient.

"Come in!" I heard Sean call faintly. "It's open." I creaked open the door and stepped inside the warm house. The front entryway was neat and tidy, hardly the appearance of a typical bachelor pad. I closed the door gently behind me as Sean came through an archway off to my left. He grinned broadly, blue eyes warm.

"Who is it, love?" a female voice called from the other room. Involuntarily, my eyebrows narrowed with suspicion. He had seemed too perfect.

"Am I interrupting something?" I asked, careful to keep an edge out of my voice. Sean looked guilty beyond words for a moment, then took my hand and pulled me towards him.

"A chess match with my cousin, but I was losing anyway. Would you like to meet her?" he asked, looking down at me with a small smile. I nodded, fighting down a tinge of remorse for jumping to conclusions. He smiled again and pulled me into the sitting room behind him.

Standing beside the chessboard in his sitting room was a beautiful witch with long, dark hair and brown eyes the color of mahogany wood. Her skin, a pale olive, combined with her other features convinced me that this woman had some sort of gypsy roots in her family tree. Her eyes were large and friendly, and her full lips curved in an amicable smile. When she saw me, the smile faded for a moment, but then returned quickly, warmer than ever.

"Mo, this is Anya Parker. Anya, this is my famous cousin, Maureen Ludlam," Sean announced proudly. I dropped his hand to shake hers (She had quite the firm grip). Her smile widened.

"You can call me Mo... no one calls me Maureen. And I am not famous," she added, reaching out to smack Sean's shoulder, but he jumped out of the way just in time.

"She'll never admit it," Sean said, circling around me to stand at my side, "but I'm the cousin of the world's greatest chess player." She rolled her eyes at him as she sat back down at the chessboard. I remembered his comment at the party about Mo being arrogant when she won at chess, but the witch before me seemed awfully humble. "Oh, don't you look at me like that," he teased her.

"Ignore him," Mo said in a low voice as she gestured for Sean to sit across from her. "I've not yet won the All-Wizarding Chess Tournament or even gotten to the finals. I'm hardly famous."

"Yet," Sean teased, then turned to me. "Would you mind if Mo and I finished our chess game?" he asked. I shook my head.

"No, I'd love to watch. My friend's brother - Ron Weasley - is quite the chess player himself, when he's not on the Quidditch pitch," I told Mo as Sean went into the kitchen to get me a chair.

"Ron Weasley, hmm? Sounds familiar," Mo said absently as she studied the chessboard. My eyes widened a bit at this, as most witches in my generation would have given their entire Gringotts account to have five minute alone with the Red Weasel. "Big shot Quidditch Seeker, isn't he?" I tried to hide a smile, never having met someone so unimpressed with Ron. She looked up at me and I nodded, just as Sean came back into the sitting room with a chair.

Mo won easily, with almost no losses.

"Dear cousin, you must work on your game," Mo teased as they put away the board and pieces. "Maybe next time you'll capture one of my pawns," she winked as she tucked her satchel of pieces into her robes. "Well, I'll leave you two lovebirds be for now. It was a pleasure meeting you, Anya." After shaking my hand again, and then giving Sean a firm hug and a kiss on the cheek, she left.

"Would you like something to drink?" Sean asked as he raised himself up onto his toes to put the chessboard on the top shelf of his closet. Giving in, he used his wand to levitate it upwards and slide it easily on top of the shelf.

"Sure," I replied, studying the pictures on his mantelpiece.

"Is wine all right? I know it's a bit early, but my mother always said..."

"... It has to be after five somewhere in the world," I finished with a laugh. "Sure, a glass of wine would be great." He grinned and disappeared into the kitchen again. I looked at the pictures on the mantel and smiled at the shot of Sean holding Mo upside down, both of their faces alive with laughter. The next shot was of an older woman who resembled my mother just a little bit, but I suppose all mothers seem to have a vague resemblance. The woman was wearing proper dress robes and had just the slightest hint of a smile on her thin lips. I moved my eyes to the next shot, but I felt a hand come down on my shoulder suddenly. I spun around quickly and found myself looking up at Sean.

"Hi," I said breathlessly. He smiled and handed me my wine glass. It struck me just then that he was rather tall, not exactly dark, but quite handsome indeed. Nice work, Shelly, I said silently, as he gestured for me to sit on the couch. I tucked my feet under myself like I always sat and watched as he knelt by the fireplace with his wand, poked a few logs, and started a fire. "Cheater," I smirked as I took a sip of wine. He sat beside me and set the wine down on his coffee table.

"Cheater?" he asked, confused.

"Well, I'm Muggle-born," I started reluctantly. "Sometimes I think magic is an easy way out of problems... I envy Muggles sometimes. They've got a higher average kinetic intelligence. They haven't got the same spells and easy solutions we do and have to think on a higher level. Magic is almost like cheating."

"I never thought of it that way..." he said thoughtfully, turning more to face me. "What was it like growing up with a Muggle father? Was magic practiced openly in your home?" I nodded and reluctantly told him some of my home life. It had always been a bit painful to talk about it with anyone but George or Shelly, but as I was getting more comfortable around Sean, it was a bit easier. I also noticed that we were sitting a lot closer towards the end of the conversation than we were in the beginning.

And I wasn't entirely uncomfortable with that.

Soon, our knees were touching softly and Sean's arm was resting gently on the couch behind me. His face was very close to mine as he spoke and his voice was deep and rough. Suddenly, his fingertips were touching my jaw very lightly as I spoke. As his fingertips moved slowly over my lips, I fell silent, far too caught up in the moment to care what I was saying.

"Sean..." I breathed softly, just before his lips pressed to mine urgently. I let out a soft mmph of surprise, but did nothing else to protest. I felt his arms wrap themselves securely around my waist and my arms found their way slowly around his neck. The way he kissed me seemed so... confident, so sure, as though we'd kissed like this thousands of times before and he knew exactly what he was doing. My heart was beating rapidly and I could feel his shoulder blades moving beneath my fingers. He was pushing me backwards very slightly and I felt his hands--

"I can't do this," Sean gasped suddenly, breaking away from my lips and turning his face away. I looked up at him, breathing heavily, dizzy from both the kiss and the shock of him pulling away.

"What... what do you mean?" I asked with a frown. The look in his crystalline eyes as he turned and gazed down at me made me want to burst into tears. He gave the impression of harboring some sort of terrible grief behind his eyes. "I... I must've... must've done something wrong." I dropped my head shamefully and moved to stand, terribly humiliated. "I'm sorry." He caught my arm and turned me to face him before I could get to my feet.

I felt him put a finger under my chin and force me to look up at him.

"You did nothing wrong," he whispered. "It wasn't you."

"What is it then? Tell me what's wrong."

"I can't do this to her," he muttered, shaking his head. "I promised myself I wouldn't... and I can't." For one crazy moment, I thought he was talking about Mo, but that was probably the wine messing with my thoughts.

"Who?" I whispered. It was desperately important for me to know what was going on.

"My wife," he murmured softly. Never before in my life had I ever struck someone in the heat of anger, but at that moment, I was so sick of being lied to, so embarrassed at being taken advantage of and so tired of having things kept from me that I lashed out at Sean.

I slapped him soundly across the face. His head turned sharply to one side with the slap and his eyes closed.

"I am so sorry," I gasped, instantly shameful. It was absolutely ridiculous, but all I could think about was that my mum and dad would have been so disappointed in my behavior. Not that I felt he wasn't a complete and total git, but violence was out of the question. I reached my hand up to touch his cheek gently, but he shook his head and waved my hand away.

"Don't be sorry; I deserved that. I'm going to tell you everything." He stood up and left the room for a moment. I waited awkwardly, head spinning a mile a minute. What more was there to tell? I'd just been some naive fling who'd nearly been swept off her feet by a handsome Quidditch player. I was only a distraction to him. He reentered the room with a thick photo album bound with string and sat beside me again, only this time not as close. He untied the string with trembling fingers and the pages splayed open on his lap.

The inside of the front cover had an inscription:

To my favorite cousin in the whole wide world-

This is wishing you best of luck in your marriage and a place to hold the memories of those times.

-Mo

Mo's handwriting was neat and precise, but still had a unique style. On the opposite page was a picture of Sean in formal marriage dress robes and a broad smile. His arm was hooked through the arm of the woman beside him who looked exactly like... me.

I took the album from him slowly and rested it in my own lap. Leaning forwards slightly, I squinted and realized that the likeness wasn't quite as perfect as it had seemed at first glance, but the resemblance was still striking. Her hair was shorter than mine, and wavy. Her eyes were a light honey brown while mine were very dark. Her cheekbones were higher and she was an awful lot prettier than me. She had her head tilted slightly towards Sean and the smile on her face told me that he was the only one in her eyes.

"How could you do this to her?" I whispered, not daring to allow myself to speak louder for I might've shouted at him until I became hoarse.

"I always promised myself I wouldn't, Anya; you've got believe me. She and I talked about it once and she said she wanted me to be happy, to move on, if anything ever happened to her..."

"Happened to her...?" I repeated, confused. He frowned back, just as confused, then his eyes lit with understanding.

"Oh, no... you thought...? I may not be the greatest person on the planet - not that I haven't tried to convince you otherwise - but I could never do that. Never." I avoided his eyes, terribly embarrassed yet again, but with the way he had spoken, it was easy to think this Mrs. Ludlam was still alive.

"What happened?" I asked softly, as he took the album gently from my hands.

"She disappeared," he replied after a moment of silence. "Almost two years ago. I came home from work and... and she was just gone. There was some... some..." He stopped speaking here and composed himself. "There was blood on the doorknob." I gasped sharply and fought back tears. He seemed to be doing the same as he paged slowly through the album, caught up in his own world. After his wife's disappearance (especially with so little hope at the presence of foul play), he must've been so destroyed to promise himself not to be with anyone else. But when he saw me, a near copy of his wife... That's what he had meant about convincing me he was a great person.

"You... you changed yourself so I would fall in love with you," I said. It was not a question, just a simple statement of fact. He nodded solemnly. "Why?"

"The picture doesn't show it," he began quietly, "but you and my Joey - short for Josephine, but no one ever called her that - look so alike. I wanted her back so badly... I'll always miss how she loved me, more than anything else in the world. I had this stupid deranged idea that if I changed myself - made myself perfect - made you fall in love with me, it would be the same... God, Anya, I'm so sorry." To see him sitting before me with tears in his eyes and the most broken expression with just the slightest red mark on his face from where I had struck him, filled me with such an awful sadness that it made my stomach ache.

"It was wrong to do," I said haltingly, "but I can understand why. And I would understand if you didn't want to continue seeing me." Each time he looked at me must have been a twist in his heart.

"I do want to keep seeing you," he said. He paused and shook his head slightly, closing the album. "But not like this... you're a wonderful person, Anya, but I can't ask you to give your heart to me if I can't give mine to you. Wherever Joey is, that's where my heart is. And if she's dead... well, then a little piece of me died with her, too." He took a deep breath and swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "But I don't want to lose our friendship." I nodded and he closed his eyes slowly. It hurt, both my heart and my pride, but Sean was right; it couldn't keep going on like this. I sat up straight and leaned towards him.

Joey had been taller than me, and judging by her features, she had a little Italian in her. Somehow, her face and the way she stood in the photo made me think she was more of the soft-spoken type.

"I love you, Sean," I whispered in his ear in what I hoped sounded like Joey. He started a little and tears began to flow out from underneath his eyelids. "I've always loved you."

"I miss you so much, Joey," he choked out. I pressed my lips very softly against his, and then stood, heading for the door. I paused in the doorway and looked back at him. His eyes were still closed. "Thank you," he murmured. Without another word, I left.

***

I went about work on Monday as usual, not overly enthusiastic, but not showing too blatantly that I was still a bit upset. It should have been unfair for me to be upset, compared to the hellish years Sean had to endure, but I thought I was still entitled to a few days of feeling sorry for myself. Fred noticed I was a bit quieter than usual, but didn't inquire. Consequently, it was a quiet morning and there was an unhealthy spike in the amount of mundane tasks accomplished by myself.

George came in a little past noon, mumbling something about crazy next-door neighbors keeping him up half the night with their damn music and caught my frown straight away.

"What's wrong, Anya?" he asked, following me into the back room with a case of Flirting Flounders in his arms. I shook my head as I lifted a box out of the crate and placed it gently onto the shelf. "Come on, you know you can tell me anything. I hate seeing you upset. You can't possibly still be angry with me because of the Jackalope thing, can you?" I shook my head again, stocking a few more boxes of Flirting Flounders. I hated it when George got that pleading tone in his voice, because it meant he was going to get upset if I didn't tell him. "Did your date with Sean go bad?" I stopped in midshelf and dropped my chin. I turned slowly to meet his eyes and in that moment, he knew. "That bastard broke your heart, didn't he?"

"Sorta," I said quietly. He put the case of Flirting Flounders on the ground, stepped over the box and wrapped me in a tight hug. "I'm okay, really, George," I protested weakly, returning the hug. He didn't release me, but that was okay, as I suspected all I really needed was a big hug from George and everything would be fine.

"Are you sure?" he asked, releasing me slightly. I nodded. "I'll kill him if you'd like," he said a bit too seriously. I laughed nervously and shook my head.

"No, that's quite all right. It was bound to happen sooner or later."

"Not even a little bit?" he asked with a frown, holding his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. I shook my head at him again and he brushed a few locks of hair out of my face tenderly. "All right then. Want to take the rest of the day off and go home and feels sorry for yourself? Always works for me." Here, I smirked. For such a strong-willed man, George loved playing martyr and always pegged it as part of his charm. "Things are slow... I'll come by later with ice cream and you can tell me all about it." I grinned and gave him another hug. I had to love some of his more feminine qualities (Hey, he was bisexual and used this to his advantage) like his instinctive tendency to take care of me.

"I think I just might take you up on that offer," I smiled. It wasn't that I could use another evening of feeling pitiful, but my house could use a good cleaning and I wanted to stop by Shelly's. Besides, I was out of ice cream.

***

Long after George had left with the last of the ice cream (greedy bastard), I was left with messy house that would make my mother roll over in her grave. Getting out my wand and rolling up my sleeves, I set to work. One would think that magic makes house-cleaning a whole lot easier.

It doesn't.

There's absolutely no spell in the world that will get chocolate ice cream out of the rug and I learned that quick enough. So after thirty different spells, I finally stomped into my kitchen, took a section of leaf off the agave plant I keep in my kitchen (dead useful, the plant is) and scrubbed the rug with the leaf where George had spilled ice cream. Not a spot was on the carpet when I was done.

Tossing the leaf into the waste container, I returned to the living room, murmuring "Accio" as I pointed my wand at various items around the cluttered area.

Suddenly, a heavy object hit my hand. As I yelped and shook off the sharp pain, the object fell to the carpet. It was a photo album. It was just my awful luck that the album had flipped open to a smiling picture of George and Katie. This brought a frown to my face. Would her ghost always haunt me?

I sank to the floor, but somehow couldn't bring myself to close the album. I folded my feet beneath me and began to remember...

"The worst thing in the world is a public marriage proposal," George said, pacing the floor of the 3W stockroom as he spoke. "It's a dangerous social trend! Like pet rocks... big hair... the Spice Girls...?"

I laughed. "What's so wrong with announcing to the world your love for a special lady?"

"What's right with it? You know, this all began with those corny announcements at the Quidditch pro games at halftime: "Katerina, won't you marry me? Love, Ivan"... and then the oh-so-astonished ladylove replies "Yes"! This, too, is announced later in the game, usually just as the Snitch is caught. It's... it's....?"

"Cute," I finished for him with a smirk. He shook his head as he leaned against a shelf.

"Cute, you say? Not on your life! Perhaps corny, but never cute! And vain... isn't such a moment supposed to be private? Anyone can see where encouraging such cutesy sops to vanity will lead -- broadcasting the couple's wedding night on the WWN!" He paused here with a look that made me think perhaps it would pull in some good ratings.

I giggled uncontrollably. "So you're not going to propose to Katie in the middle of the Quidditch World cup, are you?"

"Of course not! With the way things are going, every Quidditch game and Daily Prophet advertisement page will be broadcasting yet another tacky marriage proposal."

"A girl would love for her man to be so in love that he doesn't care about embarrassment." I shoved him in the arm for no real good reason, and passed him to a ladder.

"What's next?" George asked, shaking his head and continuing to pace as I climbed the ladder and pulled a box from an upper shelf. "Surprise scoreboard-delivered divorce announcements?"

I was silent for a moment. Then, "That's assuming you and Katie will someday get divorced. I find that difficult to believe." He raised his eyebrows as he took the box from me and reached a hand up to help me down from the ladder.

"Why is that? The divorce statistics in the wizarding world are rather outrageous actually."

"Well, when you make a decision," I said, hopping down from the last step and taking the box back, "You usually know what you're getting into. You may be your brother's brother, but you have more restraint and introspection than he does. You don't look before you leap sometimes, but not for important things like who you're going to spend the rest of your life with." He gave me a small smile.

"So do you think she'll say yes?"

He would never find out. Katie died three weeks after that conversation, in a Sponging. It was the same accident that took Angelina's broomstick abilities from her. George had been hit hard with her death because he had been so sure of figuring himself out. He wanted to spend his life with Katie, but that destiny was ripped away with one warm spring afternoon in 1998. He had to start all over again with finding himself.

I stood up with a sigh, closing the photo album. With gentle hands, I put the album away and temporarily silenced her ghost.

***

Late three evenings later (so it took me a while to clean the house), I Apparated in front of Shelly's door, feeling the biting cold from the wind around me. Pulling my cloak tighter, I knocked. Tapping my feet to stay warm, I waited impatiently. Friends don't let friends freeze their arses off, right? I knocked again, harder. After a few minutes with no reply, I groaned, dug my wand out of my robes and opened the door with a simple "Alohomora."

The door swung open in front of me slowly, like in one of those awful horror movies. I stepped inside to a burst of warm air and closed the door behind me. It was like stepping into a sauna. Shelly had always been very meticulous about the temperature of her home since her family had been poor when she was younger. Freezing cold winters and sweltering hot summers had taught her well.

"Shelly?" I called, hanging my cloak on a snoring coat rack. It startled awake when I put my cloak on one of its prongs and muttered something sleepily about an attractive bookshelf named Lenore before dozing off again. "Shelly, are you home? I really need to talk to you. Sean and I... well, there's no more--" I broke off when I saw a dark stain puddling on the floor between the carpet of the living room and the tile of the kitchen.

My blood froze in my veins and I got this horrible feeling of dread that something was wrong. Shelly was the tidiest person I had ever met in my life; leaving a stain to sit on brand new carpet was definitely not her style. Against my own will, my feet took me forward and I could see farther into the kitchen.

A goblet lay dented in the dark puddle of blue liquid... farther still... fingertips curled limply around the stem. I was at the point of no return when I saw the fingers were attached to a hand attached to an arm that disappeared under a bundle of robes. I felt a sick rising in my stomach and I saw a pair of feet sticking out from under the pile of robes.

"Oh, God..." I put a hand over my middle and recoiled in horror. "Oh, God..." Something inside me had to know. My body working against my better judgment, I staggered towards the bundle in the kitchen. I fell to my knees just next to the form and turned it over.

Rochelle Delilah Walters, my best friend and confidante since the age of thirteen, looked up at me, glassy blue eyes wide and lifeless. Her nose was slightly red and she had a crease in her brow. Her lips were parted slightly and a dribble of the blue liquid clung to them. She had the frozen expression of one who had just woken up from a screaming nightmare.

"Shelly... Shelly, wake up!" I demanded hoarsely. No, not my best friend... She was alive; she had to be. I shook her roughly and a small piece of paper fluttered out of her opposite hand. I glanced up at it absently before withdrawing my wand and muttering spells to wake her up. I didn't even notice when the tears had started rolling down my cheeks. "Shelly, wake up, damn it!" I shouted.

I could see wasn't going to be able to wake her up on my own, so I summoned stretcher-bearers in between sobs. I continued to shake her and whisper spells, but she must have been very sleepy because she wasn't answering me. When the stretcher-bearers arrived, I was a complete wreck.

The smallest of the lot, a tiny gnome who introduced himself as Gobbo, pushed me off to the side and told me to stay back while they worked. I wrung my hands nervously. Certainly the medignomes would be able to wake her up. Shelly was going to be furious when she saw what her drink had done to the rug. I would help her clean it up and then we would talk about Sean. She'd be upset about the relationship ending, but she would already be on the lookout for another bloke to fix me up with. Bless her heart, she watched out for me like my mum had. Not exactly the same, but it was a nice surrogate.

Suddenly, a warm sort of denial settled over me. Of course she was all right. I couldn't remember a single time she was ever sick for more than seventy-two hours. She was just a little sleepy; that was all.

After what seemed like an eternity, Gobbo took me aside and said that they had done everything they could, but she was gone long before they arrived.

"That's nonsense," I told him with a shaky voice. "Shelly isn't dead. She's just... she's not..." I put my hand over my mouth and trembled. Wrapping my arms around myself, I began crying again, if only out of sheer confusion. For the next ten minutes, I heard faint popping noises around me and I was aware of strangers entering Shelly's home. I remember telling a red-haired woman to wipe her feet before entering because Shelly hated messes.

A woman, looking just a hair short of thirty, came over to me and asked my name. She was wearing dark black robes with a Ministry of Magic badge fastened to the left side. The letters MME were stitched across the badge. I tried to think of what the letters stood for, but drew a blank.

"Anya Parker," I said haltingly. Her unfriendly cool hazel eyes looked me over, studying me. I didn't like the way she was peering at me like I was some sort of zoo exhibit. She seemed to be ignoring the strands of honey colored hair that were falling in her face.

"What is your relationship to the deceased?" she asked me. At the same time as her question, she reached into her robes and took out a scrap of parchment and an eagle quill.

"Deceased?" I repeated slowly, wondering in the back of my mind why so many people were in Shelly's house and what was underneath the white sheet in the kitchen. The woman stepped in front of me to block my view into the kitchen. She reached into her robes and withdrew another scrap of parchment, this one with ragged edges and wilting corners. It was soaked with some sort of blue liquid.

"A Miss Michelle Walters according to the suicide note," she said. I trembled. Something wasn't right about the way she'd said Shelly's name, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

"She's my best friend. She and George Weasley are my best friends," I said quietly. "She's not dead and she certainly didn't commit suicide."

"Are you saying you killed her?" she asked slowly, as she moved her hand subtly to the pocket of her robes and tensed her fingers. Her tone of voice scared me.

"No, I'm saying SHE'S NOT DEAD!" My shouts had elicited sympathetic looks and wide-eyes from what looked to be other Ministry officials around the sheet-covered lump in the kitchen. I glared at the woman in front of me as she turned away to mutter something to another wizard, who nodded.

"Ma'am, maybe you ought to just sit down for a little while and we'll get things straightened out then?" I nodded numbly, rather worried that Shelly would arrive soon and see all these strangers in her house. Miss MME led me to the couch and sat me at the end. She sat across from me and introduced herself as Ashlie Kauffman, a magical medical examiner from the Ministry, and said she had been summed by medignomes to the scene. I nodded numbly as she asked me questions about Shelly like if she was seeing anyone or if she had any enemies.

"Shelly is a nice girl," I said. "She can be a little overwhelming sometimes, but she would never hurt anyone." I nodded and waited for her to ask another question.

"I think you're in shock, Miss Parker. Do you understand that Miss Walters has passed away?" she asked. I could finally see some compassion in her eyes, but I couldn't understand why it was there. Shelly was just fine. Kauffman was the deranged one here.

"She's not dead," I said in a little voice, but my words came out in a tremble. I wrapped my arms around myself, needing to be held and comforted, and my eyes threatened to release tears. I shivered, becoming aware of the low temperature of the house once again. Funny how it'd been really warm earlier. My eyes roved over the worn furniture and antique lamps, remembering the times we had gone to Muggle garage sales and bought what they thought were old junk. One man's trash was Shelly's treasure. "I... I think I want to go home now."

"All right then. I'm having another official to contact Mr. George Weasley - your best friend, you said?" I nodded. "He'll take you home, but I trust you'll be available for questioning?"

"Questioning? Questioning for what?" She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, looking like she was half-pitying me and half-exasperated.

"Sit here and wait," she said. Her patience seemed to have reached its end and I curled my feet beneath me on the couch. Her words pounded in my head and I picked up a cushion from the sofa and put it over my chest. Something was very wrong, but my mind had put up some sort of a block and I couldn't tell what was so upsetting. Shelly would be home soon and she would explain it to me.

"Anya?" a voice said from the doorway. I looked up and saw George standing in the doorway, looking confused and panicked. I had never seen him look so helpless before, like he was in Charms class for the first time and had no idea how to make the feather float. "Oh, thank Merlin," he breathed as he rushed across the room and swept me into his arms. He held me tightly against his strong chest, pressing his lips roughly to my hair. Out of sheer need to be held, I wrapped my arms tightly around him. I heard his voice near my ear, muffled: "The... the Ministry official came my house... said you were... you were involved in a death... he didn't know... wouldn't tell me... gave me an address... thought I'd lost you."

The only other time in my entire life I'd felt him hold me like that was just after the Missing Week in VWII.

I had gone back to be with my father during that time. I didn't breathe a word about the war to him; I was afraid he would fall apart. I must have owled George and Shelly thousands of times. Within hours, Shelly would write back. None of George's letters elicited replies.

I stayed in my old room at my father's house, so empty now that my mother had passed away and my brother had disappeared in the war, a noble soldier. My father would stand in the doorway when he thought I was asleep and watch me for a while as though scared if he closed his eyes for a few moments that he would open them and I, too, would be gone. I don't think I ever really understood how lonely he had been after my mum's passing until after his own death.

Shelly wrote me short notes about latest developments. The Daily Prophet ceased to be delivered to my door, but Shelly's correspondence was able to paint a vivid picture. Hundreds of thousands of witches and wizards were killed in cold blood within that week. Tension mounted around the house as days passed with no word from George. I can't remember being so terrified before in my life. Shelly finally sent me one last letter, saying that things had become eerily quiet. I think that might have scared me more than the killings.

In the late evening hours of that final Saturday, I was up in my room, writing one last owl to George. If he didn't reply... well, I would never give up on him unless I saw--I would never give up on him. The doorbell rang downstairs and I heard my father's voice call, "I'll get it, princess." He had always called my mum his Russian queen and me their beautiful princess.

"All right," I called down in a ragged sort of voice. I heard footsteps and then a door opening. Two deep male voices conversed for a few moments before he called for me again.

"You've got a visitor, Anya," he called. I bottled my inkwell, pulled the parchment off my lap and trudged across my room to open the door. I stepped out into the hallway and paused at the top of the stairs. At the bottom were my dad and a very familiar redhead.

"George!" I shrieked. I flew down the stairs and threw my arms around him. He staggered back a few steps and wound his arms tightly around me.

"You're okay," he whispered against my hair. "I was so scared."

"I was scared, too... you didn't answer any of my owls... Where were you?"

He never told me.

"Anya, are you all right?" I looked up at George and remembered that I was standing in Shelly Walter's sitting room in 2004, not my father's entryway in 1998. Six years. Distant past. "Can you hear me? Oh, God, she's in shock... can someone--"

"No... no, I'm okay. I want to go home. I'm confused," I whispered. "No one will tell me why all these people are in Shelly's house. She's going to be so furious when she gets home." The rude woman, Kauffman, who had been talking to me earlier with all sorts of crazy ideas, leaned close to George and whispered something. George's brilliant blue eyes held a sort of sad pity as she spoke.

"I'll take you home," he said raggedly.

I can't remember how I got to my house, into my pajamas and tucked into bed, but I do remember George sitting beside me and telling me to get sleep, because everything would make sense in the morning.

"Just lay back and get some rest," he said, his voice sounding strained. I laid back into my pillows and closed my eyes. I felt my covers being pulled up to my neck and tucked in around me snugly. A whisp of hair was swept away from my face and I slowly began to lose consciousness.

"Stay until morning," I slurred out sleepily, as darkness began to close in. I just barely heard George's agreement before I drifted away.

The horror of finding Shelly's lifeless body played over and over in my head, disguised as a dream, until I woke up screaming. The pieces all fell into place at once... the goblet... the unwavering, crystalline stare... the stain on the carpet... the Ministry officials... Strong arms wrapped themselves around me as I began to thrash violently.

"NO! NO, LET ME GO! I'VE GOT TO GET TO SHELLY!" I screamed. My energy drained as I fought my unseen captor and slumped limply into the protective embrace, sobbing. "She's not dead... not dead," I cried into a warm shoulder. I pulled away and saw George looking at me, whispering something comforting that I couldn't understand over my own sobs. "She's not dead," I murmured. I begged him to tell me I was right, that it was a huge misunderstanding, a dream that was too vivid for easy dismissal.

"She's gone, love," he said gently, wiping my tears away with his thumbs. This only infuriated me more. How dare he lie to me about something like this? I tried to hit him so he would admit that he was lying, but he only grabbed my fists and held them securely against my sides until my forearms hurt and I gave up.

I understood then that Shelly was gone. I had found her body, but my mind wouldn't let me accept it. George was all I had left and he would probably leave me, too. I told him this as I tried to calm myself, quite unsuccessfully.

"I'll never leave you," he promised in a whisper, wiping fresh tears from my face. "I promise you that, Anya." He couldn't promise me that. He could die at any moment and I would have nothing. No family, no friends... nothing. Nothing but memories. His hands released my wrists and I wrapped by arms around him limply, burying my face against his shoulder.

"Don't leave...I can't lose you, too... don't leave," I begged, voice muffled against his robes. I felt his hands shaking on my back as he held me. He might've been crying, too, but I wasn't sure.

"I'll stay here," he swore. "I'll take care of you... no one will hurt you while I'm here." The worlds were familiar, but I was too upset to try placing them. I pressed myself against him tightly, slowly calming to the gentle beating of his heart against my own chest.

***

When I woke up, my first thought was that the previous night hadn't occurred, for I felt too warm, too safe and secure for anything horrible to ever have happened to me. I opened my eyes slowly and saw I was tucked under the covers. My eyes drifted upwards and I saw George lying beside me, his red hair clashing horribly with my orange pillow. He was sleeping quietly, his arms still wound tightly around me. I sighed softly and rested my head against his strong chest, listening to his heartbeat beneath my ear.

"You 'wake?" George slurred out. I lifted my head to look at him and nodded. His eyes were only half-open and he removed one arm from around me to rub his left eye sleepily with his fist.

"Good morning," I whispered, as his arm circled me again. He smiled a little at this and opened his eyes all the way. "Sleep well?" I asked as I swept a lock of fiery hair from his face.

"I could lay like this forever," he murmured. With those words, we toed some unspoken line drawn in every friendship like ours. I lifted my eyes to his and was immediately lost in those gigantic blue irises of his that had always brought warmth and comfort into my life.

"Well... why not?" I said in a soft whisper. His blue eyes then began to close a little and I was aware of the soft pressure of his hand against my back. It was all the encouragement I needed.

I dipped my head forward and pressed my lips against his. No resistance there. I had to admit the effect was intoxicating. It was like stepping into a warm bath filled up with bubbles. His lips were very soft and he was kissing me gently, as though he was afraid he'd hurt me. I reached one hand up and tangled my fingers into his fiery hair. I felt his hand slowly slide down my side and when it began to move upwards again, there was no barrier between his fingers and my flesh.

Take me, I begged without words. Take me and make the rest of the world disappear. I brushed my fingers softly against his cheek and--

He pulled away abruptly, leaving us both gasping for air. I searched his face, trying to figure out what I had done wrong. He wanted this, too, didn't he?

"We... we can't do this," he croaked, looking terribly torn. "I... Not when you're... I can't let you." He pushed me away gently but firmly and pulled the covers off us. The next thing I knew, he was standing before my bed, hair ruffled and robes disheveled. He looked nervous as I sat up. "I told Fred I'd... I'd open the shop this morning."

I turned my face away from him and looked at the wall, an embarrassed flush creeping up my neck. "Okay," I said tonelessly. My head was still spinning from the kiss and I hated myself for it. Obviously, it had meant nothing to him and he'd rejected me, just like Sean had. I heard the door close.

With the sound of the click, the tears burst forth. I tore the covers from my bed and threw them to the ground viciously. I made a point to trample over them as I stalked out of my bedroom and into the sitting room. Rage pounding in my ears, I lifted up the tiny stone Ashwinder from my dining room table and whipped it into the kitchen with as much strength as I could muster. The sound of shattered stone did little to alleviate my frustrations.

I wiped my tears from my face angrily with the back of my hand as I staggered into the kitchen. I went immediately to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of wine. Wiping my face again and mentally berating myself for bothering to care about George Weasley, I threw open my cabinet door, grabbed a wine glass and slammed the door shut again. With bottle and glass, I sat at the kitchen table and drank until I couldn't see straight.

This is wrong, my conscience told me. This is not the way to deal with loss. My pride however, had comments more along the lines of Screw you.

I lifted up the wine bottle into my hands and giggled madly. It had lost so much weight since I had gotten it out of the fridge. I would have to commend it and ask it what sort of diet it had. I walked (staggered, actually) to the garbage can (no use for an empty wine bottle, now is there?) and aimed carefully. With the precision of a lazy-eyed three-year old, I next heard the sound of breaking glass.

Oh, well. With a hiccup, I stepped over the pretty glass with the sharp edges and headed for the bathroom, a sick feeling rising from my stomach. A good cold shower would make the room stop spinning. I pushed open the bathroom door and heard a scuffling inside. Stevie, that damn cat. I stumbled over to the sink, placing one hand on each side of the porcelain basin. I turned on the faucets and splashed water onto my face. Shaking uncontrollably, I looked up into the mirror and gazed at my sorry self.

Both of my eyes were red, with a rosy nose to match. My hair was tangled and looked as though a hippogriff had nested in it. My skin was pale and I was shivering, though the house was very hot. What had happened to the beautiful woman Shelly had created in me less than a month before? I began to speak then, not recognizing the hoarseness of my own voice.

"No family to love me, no boyfriend to care, no best friend to pick up the pieces..." I said to my awful reflection. Shelly was dead, Sean didn't want me, George never had and never will. He had always been pretending, just like the one time Katie Bell had helped me with Divination and I ended up getting only two out of ten on the paper. They were always pretending, never real. "You filthy little Mudblood," I swore.

I drew back the shower curtain and gazed downwards. What was before me wasn't real, couldn't have been real, but it didn't stop me from staring. Draped haphazardly across the bathtub was George, head resting on his shoulder and blood trickling from the corner of his lips. The entire bathtub was filled with blood and his robes floated lazily in the crimson liquid.

That was the last straw.

I ran over the broken glass, feeling sharp pain in my feet, and to the front door. I had to get out of there before I lost my mind completely. My broomstick found its way into my hand and I snagged the bristles in one hand. Crying again, I threw the door open, mounted my broomstick and took off. The next thing I remembered was a tree swiftly passing me by and then blackness surrounding me.

To be continued...