George & Annie: an Unofficial Biography

Chapter 14: Year 6

1994 - 1995

September 6, 1994

Dear Annie,

THE... TRIWIZARD... TOURNAMENT!

That was all I was going to write, but Fred suggests I explain a bit further how bloody flipping amazingly cool this year is going to be. I can't believe everyone else at home knew about it but us, and wouldn't tell! They've been driving us mental dropping hints since the Cup!

It hasn't happened in a century, but it's happening this year at Hogwarts! Students from two other schools in Europe are coming here for a magical competition. One champion from each school will be chosen, and the winner gets 1000 galleons!

Yes, to answer your next question. We are going to try to enter, obviously. Might be a bit tricky, though - the old nervy-birds here are limiting competitors to the over-seventeen crowd, but Fred and I agree that hardly seems fair, does it? What difference could a few months make? The champions don't get chosen until the end of October, so we've got a while to work out how to manage it.

Here's another bit of news you'll enjoy - our little mate Malfoy got turned into a ferret this week by a professor! Ha! Wish I had been there to see it. It was the new DADA Prof - Mad-Eye Moody. Don't let the name fool you - he's the coolest professor we've ever had. I predict that Fred and I will not even be tempted to skive, so that should tell you something. Now I'm really glad we didn't blow that particular OWL!

One down side to the year: because of the Tournament, quidditch is cancelled. But if Fred or I get chosen as Hogwarts champion, it won't matter much, will it?

Write back soon and wish us luck!

Love,

George

*

September 30, 1994

Dear George,

Tell me more! What sort of things does the competition entail? Flying on brooms? Magical duels? Dealing with bizarre creatures? And why would they put an age limit on a competition? It's not like a student competition would be that dangerous! I mean, they let you play quidditch for crying out loud!

And the prize money - holy cow! You could stake the shop! No pressure, but one of you has to be chosen! Good luck! A thousand times over!

You didn't mention anything about the Wheezes in your last letter. How goes it? Have you been able to build up your inventory again yet? You need to find a place to store it where your Mum won't be able to torch it again. Maybe the old tree fort would work - if you can figure out how to make it waterproof, that is.

Write back the instant you find out about the champions. Oh, and do you lot need anymore hyssop or toadflax? There's loads of it again this year.

Love you more,

Annie

*

October 5, 1994

Dear Annie,

Nobody really knows what sort of trials to expect in the Tournament, since it's different every time, and it hasn't happened in so long. Actually, it was cancelled back then due to the death toll. But don't worry - the only reason they brought it back now is because they're making it safer (roll eyes here).

Now that Fred and I have scaled back on attending classes, we've been able to build up our stores a fair bit. The fake wands especially - Fred has gotten particularly inspired with them lately, and now they turn into about twenty different things. We had to abandon the exploding ones, since our store of erumpent fluid has been used up.

Hiding stuff at the fort is not a bad idea - should be simple enough to enchant a few boxes to repel water.

Yes to the hyssop especially. And any knotweed you can find - just the stems. Thanks!

Love,

George

*

October 16, 1994

Dear George,

The death toll? Ha ha, very funny.

And here's the stuff you asked for, with a bit more briony as well.

Don't have much else to write about : nothing cool happens at my school. Or at work. Or at home. Snore. Now that Jane is gone to Cardiff, I never do anything even remotely resembling fun. Boo hoo me.

Write back soon. I'm living vicariously through you, so make it interesting. Even if you have to invent stuff, like the possibility a student competition could be fatal.

Love you more,

Annie

*

George stared out the window. Rain was beating on the outside of the panes, and the moist heat of the classroom full of students was steaming them up from the inside. Flitwick's monotonous voice droned on about some complicated theory or other, making it impossible for several of the students to resist daydreaming, if not falling asleep outright.

George, for one, was imagining he was lying on warm sand as a cooling sea breeze blew over him. It was the furthest thing possible from this god-rotten, soggy, freezing place, he reckoned. He had always been gifted with a particularly vivid imagination, which was facilitated by a high level of distractibility when bored. As a result, he could now hear the sound of the ocean waves lapping on the shore begin to drown out the professor's voice, and smell the brisk salt air.

He heard a familiar giggle next to him and turned to see the smiling face of his best friend. He could still remember the joke she had told him one afternoon, hear the words in her voice....

"A little old lady goes to the doctor and says, 'Doctor, I have this problem with wind, but it really doesn't bother me too much because they never smell and are always silent. As a matter of fact, I've farted at least twenty times since I've been here in your office.'

"The doctor says, 'I see. Take these pills and come back to see me next week.'

"The next week the poor old dear goes back to his office. 'Doctor,' she says, 'I don't know what you gave me, but now my farts, although still silent, stink horribly!'

"So the doctor says, 'Good. Now that we've cleared up your sinuses, let's work on your hearing!'"

They had both laughed together. "It's really about you, isn't it?" he had teased her.

"What? Did you just say something? Speak up, why don't you?" she had teased back, giggling even more.

He smiled just thinking about it again.

Then a wadded up piece of paper hit him, startling him out of the reverie. His brother had tossed him a note. He surreptitiously, quietly unwadded it. It contained one word: Gillian?

George sighed and shook his head. He much preferred to be thinking of having fun with Annie and Fred at the beach. That was a far cry, to be sure, from the sticky situation last night with Gillian.

The disturbing conversation in the park between Fred and Annie last summer had stuck like a thorn in his side for months. He had discovered both his twin brother and best friend had already experienced their first kisses (thankfully not with each other!) as long ago as last year, and George had been feeling left out ever since.

He had made the decision to remedy the discrepancy as soon as possible this term, and had singled out a tall, blonde sixth-year Ravenclaw girl. She had seemed interested in him as well, at least at first. They had sat together a few times in the library to study - although the fact that he was willing to pretend to study in a library should have told him something about his desperation level. They had held hands while taking a walk one afternoon, which had led to what George hoped it would: his first kiss.

Which surprisingly had been quite a disappointment, for some reason he could not fathom. It had been sort of... cloying and flat... like a can of muggle soda left open overnight. His experience had not fit at all with what Fred had described. He couldn't understand it: she was good-looking, and a nice enough girl. What had he done wrong? Maybe Fred had been exaggerating after all....

But then he had found himself stuck. Ever since they had kissed, Gillian seemed to think the relationship was now destined for something serious. That they even had a relationship at all. And he in turn had begun to see a side of her that wasn't attractive in the least.

Last night he had been escorting her to the Ravenclaw dormitory tower after dinner, at her request - which was stupid, in his opinion: she had been here six years and could get there just fine without him - when she had unsuccessfully attempted to stifle a burp.

"You don't want to bottle that up," he had teased her, smiling. "What if you explode?" No harm intended - just having a bit of a laugh, he had thought at the time.

She had looked at him, horrified. "What are you talking about?"

"You belched. Excuse you," he laughed, thinking she was putting him on.

Suddenly, her face started to screw itself up. Dear God, he thought, she's going to cry!

"No, I didn't!" she protested, sounding hurt and angry.

"Okay," he replied, confused and beginning to feel a bit defensive. "My mistake. Sorry."

He thought he'd successfully smothered the majority of sarcasm in his voice. Evidently, he hadn't.

"I'm tired," she said resentfully. "I'd better go inside now."

I don't believe it, he marveled. She's pissed at me! Because she burped and I heard it! There had been no offer of a kiss goodbye, unlike the other nights before.

"Yeah, me as well. It's a bloody long walk back to Gryffindor from here, anyway," he said testily.

Gillian's eyes narrowed. "Sorry to be so much trouble," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe you shouldn't bother anymore."

George had looked at her then, incredulous. How had they gotten to this point? She had belched, he had laughed, and now she had turned into some sort of... bitchy thing. For the simple reason that she was human and he had witnessed it?

Gillian had turned and gone into her dormitory, leaving George standing there like an idiot. An angry, confused idiot.

He had stormed off a second later, vowing never again to spend a moment with Gillian, or any other stupid twit like her. Throughout the long walk back to his dormitory he had fumed, arguing in his head. He would swear off women, if necessary. Maybe Charlie was on to something - preferring dragons to females.

Sitting here in the classroom, he pondered the ridiculousness of the situation once more. What was so criminal about a burp? he wondered. Hell, his sister Ginny could produce one better than that. Annie could say the alphabet all the way to H, once even to K, in one go.

All at once his mood became brighter, and he was off again on another pleasant daydream trip to the beach with his friend, remembering the belching contests the three of them had any time they got their hands on muggle soda. Just last summer, when they had been camping together on the beach, Annie had brought a cooler full of the fizzy stuff along. He recalled sitting around the moonlit campfire one night, all three of them ripping off burps that would've woken the dead. He and Annie had even tried to sing in harmony while they belched "God Save the Queen." What a riot that had been!

I wonder if I could bottle this? he mused. Perhaps he could come up with a charm to conjure daydreams? He'd have to ask Fred later what he thought about the possibility. Might be worth a bit of gold, if done right....

*

November 1, 1994

Dear Annie,

Well, it's not our year, unfortunately. We didn't even get to enter - Dumbledore conjured an age line and we couldn't fool it with the potion Fred brewed (we got some cool beards for our efforts though!).

The students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrived two days ago. Talk about making an entrance! The B. students flew in the biggest carriage ever seen, pulled by enormous flying horses. The D. students were brought in a ship, which surfaced in the lake. I would like to see the inside of that ship... might have to pay a visit, invited or no, if you catch my drift.

And another big surprise: there are four champions instead of the usual three. The champions were chosen yesterday by an enchanted goblet (very theatrical, no?). The B. champion is a girl - has to be part veela. Didn't catch her name. And the D. champion is none other than Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian seeker we told you about this summer. Lucky bloke - imagine playing in the World Cup and Triwizard Tournament in the same bleedin' year!

And the biggest shock: Hogwarts has two champions (which you have already figured out being so clever at maths) - Cedric Diggory (a seventh year in Hufflepuff) and Harry Friggin' Potter. Yep. That sneaky little git somehow got his name in. Wish he would've shared how, but I don't really hold it against him. Ron seems a bit put out with him though.

Other than the spot of interest yesterday, this term has been for the most part deadly dull. I didn't realize how much time I must have been spending on quidditch, because without it I have nearly nothing to do. It can't all be down to fewer classes - I didn't spend that much time in them before. In the meantime I've been tinkering with some eavesdropping gadgets.... I'll send you some once they're working more reliably.

Thanks for the herbs. How did you find so much hyssop? I didn't see near this amount around the forest at home!

Love,

George

*

November 9, 1994

Dear George,

Sorry to hear about your bad luck. Bummer! Either of you would have made brilliant champions! And did you get a photo of yourselves with the beards? Please say yes!

So Krum is there at Hogwarts this year? Fred must be over the moon. And what exactly is a veela? You've mentioned them before, from the World Cup (they were mascots or something, weren't they?).

Weather here is even soggier than normal - we're paying for that fantastic sunny summer now. I haven't been properly dry since early September. I'm doing some extra training on my own, hoping I can improve my times when the season starts again next year. I'm sick of finishing second in every race!

I took a drive down to Beaulieu, and there was loads of hyssop there. It's really quite lovely - we should go next summer, maybe?

Miss you both terribly. I don't suppose there's any chance you will be coming home for Christmas this year?

Love you more,

Annie

*

November 27, 1994

Dear Annie,

Wow! I wish there was some way to sneak you up here to see this, like we did with the Cannons match. You would've loved it.

Dragons! That was the first trial. The champions had to steal a fake egg being guarded by a dragon (nesting females, to boot). That's why Charlie knew about the Tournament - he was one of the fellows who brought them over (there were four different ones). Anyway, Harry is now tied for first place with Krum. And has to figure out what the bleedin' egg is screaming about (it's some sort of clue).

We introduced the Canary Creams, along with the fake wands this week, to the House. You were right - we can barely make enough of them to stay ahead of demand, and that's just Gryffindor! If we hadn't had that nasty setback this summer (Mum's Raid - a day that will live in infamy!), we would have been loaded with gold by now! Argh!

Oh, well - between sales of the Wheezes and facilitating a few students in making wagers at the Tournament, we've now got enough to our names to restock some supplies, with a bit left over. Now if only Bagman will pay up, we'd be set! If he comes through by Christmas, we could even leave school entirely, and then I promise we'd stop by! It's been ages since we've spent a Christmas holiday at home....

You asked about veelas. Well, they're a nymph-like sort of creature, and some blokes find them very attractive, especially when they dance and sing (just ask Ron). Best not to piss them off though - not exactly the type of lady you want angry with you.

Write back soon. I'm bored... entertain me! Do something stupid and tell me all about it - you're usually good for a laugh.

Love,

George

*

December 11, 1994

Dear George,

Dragons?!? I hope this is the part where you are making stuff up for my entertainment! Surely nobody would be stupid enough to unleash four dragons against seventeen-year-old students! No matter how magical they are! I am no longer disappointed that neither of you are the Hogwarts champion.

That's wonderful news about the success of the Wheezes stuff! I'm not sure about planning to leave school so early though.... I can sympathize with the motivation behind it, but is it really practical for you? I mean, you'll never have another opportunity like this to do market research. Spend your remaining two years building up your client base, if nothing else!

And as for "facilitating wagers," I hope you've learned something in your dealings with a crooked bookie. Do be careful not to step in anything, if you get my meaning. Folks tend to get a bit miffed once they've been cheated, not that you would ever (frankly I'm far more worried about Fred - keep an eye on him if you can).

In case Bagman doesn't come through for us, or you change your mind about staying, Happy Christmas!

Love you more,

Annie

*

George was alone in the dormitory. Everyone else had dressed themselves up like idiot penguins and pranced down to the Great Hall for the Yule Ball an hour ago. Everyone except the children. And himself.

He wasn't entirely sure why he had decided not to go. Fred had been badgering him for days, suggesting possible dates. But George had found an excuse not to ask every one of them. Too tall. Too blonde. Too skinny. He had to admit his last excuse was the lamest: the poor girl's hair was 'too straight.'

Fred's eyes had narrowed at that one. "So let me see if I've got this right: you like petite, brunette, shapely girls with curly hair?"

George had had no idea where his brother was going with this line of questioning, and had shrugged his shoulders in reply. But at least Fred had finally stopped annoying him about it.

"Suit yourself. Mope around all night for all I care. Just don't expect me back before dawn," he had said derisively.

Fine. All he knew was that he had no interest whatsoever in dancing with some twit of a girl just for an excuse to prance around in what amounted to a straightjacket. A girl who would likely pout all night if he made the slightest misstep. Or who couldn't take a bit of good-natured teasing. That sounded like torture, not fun. Thanks, but no thanks. Been there, done that, never again.

If he was moping, and he was damn sure he wasn't, it was probably because he was still quite disappointed there was no quidditch this year. Or that he was sick to death of this boring, goddamn freezing cold castle.

Once again, he thought of the warm beach from this summer: the glorious sun, the sparkling bright sea, the exhilarating sailboard rides. He would so much rather be there with Fred and Annie, instead of this frigid stone tower that was little better than a prison.

She came to mind again, like she had hundreds times this term, whenever he was bored. Her smiling, friendly face, laughing at their teasing jokes; the awestruck look on her face when they had taken her to the quidditch match. This summer had been crack, for sure - driving around in that brilliant heap of her old truck.

He sighed, missing his home and his friend.

So what was he doing, anyway?

He opened his trunk and started digging through it until he found the package from his latest trip to Zonko's. A plan was beginning to form in his mind. Perhaps a booby-trapped bed or two might be just the thing to improve his mood. An empty dormitory was the perfect opportunity to take out his frustrations on a few unsuspecting victims, his twin brother first and foremost. As he lifted the bag out of the trunk, a small envelope caught his eye.

George was perfectly familiar with what the envelope contained. If he had ever stopped to honestly examine himself, he might have noticed that he 'stumbled' across this envelope at increasingly frequent intervals this past term. But he wasn't much for introspection, usually. He lifted out the envelope as well and pulled out the pictures.

He set the bag of pranks on the bed and grinned as he reminisced with the photos. He chuckled to himself, remembering Annie's first turn on the sailboard. She had fallen, what, ten times at least? And did she ever cry or sulk when he and Fred had teased her - and they were truly merciless, if he did say so himself - about it? Never. She usually gave as good as she got, he had to admit. Cracking girl, Annie.

Why couldn't everyone have a sense of humor like that? Why couldn't more girls be like Annie? Smiling, giggling, feisty, easy-going, pretty....

Suddenly there was no further need for 'introspection.' It knocked him upside the head, and gave him a sucker punch to the gut for good measure.

He wasn't interested in, nor could stand to be with, any of the girls here at Hogwarts, because none of them was Annie. Laughing, fun-loving, petite, brunette, curvy Annie.

Annie was the one he wanted.

Shit.

It hadn't been just a random flare of hormones that had bothered him last summer and went away soon after he came back to school. Except for the dreams, he grudgingly acknowledged: the dreams about Annie had plagued him quiet a bit since then.

Fred was right! He had been moping around this term. Like a miserable lovesick idiot.

Bloody hell!

He crashed back onto his bed, pulling the pillow over his face. He heard the bag from Zonko's hit the floor and the items in it scatter. A vision of those lovely, sparkling violet eyes framed by soft, dark curls came unbidden into his mind, and refused to leave.

Five minutes passed and he had yet to move.

She was his best friend. This was stupid! It wasn't fair! He was royally screwed, that was for sure.

"ARRGH!" he yelled out loud in frustration.

A few seconds passed.

"Everything all right?" a puny voice called out from below.

"Sod off, you nosy little git!" he barked.

Twenty minutes later he finally rose from the bed. He kicked the fallen Zonko items underneath it. He needed a shower. Preferably a cold one.

It was one in the morning before George got back to his room. He pulled out a piece of paper, laid it on a firm school book that likely had yet to be cracked open, and started to write.

Dear Annie,

Not much news here. Tonight is the Yule Ball, which is why nobody went home for Christmas holidays this year and the castle is so bloody crowded. Fred is taking Angelina Johnson. Been on the Gryffindor team a few years now - decent chaser. I didn't feel like going. Bah humbug and all that.

This term has been monumentally boring. Sure, the Tournament sounded exciting at first, but I'm not in it, am I? At least with quidditch, I kept busy practicing and playing in matches.

I sound like a whiney prat. Sorry.

Thanks for the good advice in your last letter: as much as I hate to admit it, you're right. We should be taking advantage of the opportunities here while they last. And don't worry - I'm an expert at reining in Fred's more outrageous schemes by now.

How's your school going? How is your Gran doing? How's the truck? Take care of the old girl for us.

Well, it's late. Best to sign off now. Hope Father Christmas makes all your wishes come true. Ho Ho Ho.

Love,

George

He was tempted to bin it. Though he supposed it was no more or less stupid than all his previous letters. What difference did it make? He couldn't bring himself to write what he really wanted to tell her anyway.

Actually, come to think of it, he had. At the very end. He had always signed his letters this way. But now it meant something entirely different. It actually meant something.

*

January 10, 1995

Dear George,

Happy New Year! Hope the holidays have helped to cheer you. You didn't sound like your usual bubbly self in your last letter. Write back and tell me the best joke you've heard this week. I hope it will be in sufficiently poor taste and contain enough swear words to put a smile back on your face.

Now that our season is just a few weeks away, Coach Williams has started each of us on a running schedule. I'm training for a 5K race in addition to school meets. Sadly, this is the most fun I have all week. I turn into such a pathetic old bat when you two aren't here. Nothing but school, work and sleep. Ugh. Talk about sounding like a prat!

Indeed Father Christmas was quite generous to me this year. Gran doesn't get around too much without me, so present shopping is a bit stupid. She gave me lovely cash instead, bless her. I treated myself to something special. No, I am not telling you what.

Be a dear and pinch Fred for me. Pick a nice tender spot, under the armpit perhaps. And while you're at it, do something equally nice for yourself.

Love you more,

Annie

Annie was on her knees, leaning onto the bed to write the letter. The skin on her lower back burned with pain from the fresh tattoo. How she would keep this a secret from her grandmother, she wasn't sure. Gran was bound to be furious if she found out. Not to mention how much worse it would be when she saw what it was. She wouldn't understand, that was for sure.

It was worth every penny though, every painful millimeter. She had never seen anything so lovely: a glorious St. George in full body armor, mounted on a white steed. His spear was piercing a dragon's heart.

"Can you give him red hair instead?" she had asked, handing the fellow the picture she had ripped from a book.

"Sure, whatever you want," the tattoo guy answered.

Yes, Gran would probably have kittens if she ever saw the patron saint of England tattooed on her granddaughter's lower back. It didn't exactly scream "Welsh Pride" now did it?

But Annie knew it was perfect. The best Christmas gift she had ever gotten.

*

January 31, 1995

Dear Annie,

How did the race go? Still can't wrap my head around running 5K for self preservation, let alone just for kicks. Whatever floats your feather, I suppose.

Here are my guesses what you bought yourself for Christmas:

1. A gilt frame for your precious autographed picture of Fred's ass (seriously that is creepy).

2. A face full of piercings (could be an improvement, but use caution around magnets).

3. A height implant, or maybe just stilts.

I did happen to hear a good joke recently. However, I've decided I will no longer encourage your odd, perhaps pathological obsession with filth. It was hilarious, though. Fred laughed so hard he wet himself. I pulled a muscle. But I'M NOT TELLING YOU. (How does that feel? A mite frustrating?)

You're right... I haven't been feeling my usual cheerful self lately. For some reason, I think I'm feeling particularly homesick this year. Oh well, one term down, only two more to go until we're home once more!

Write back soon, especially if you change your mind about spilling the beans.

Love,

George

*

February 15, 1995

Dear George,

I hate, loathe and despise Valentine's Day. Whoever invented it ought to be shot (well I suppose old St. Val was likely martyred, but still, you know what I mean). If I have to wait tables for another one while watching idiot cows squealing over a few ruddy roses I will go on a rampage. I can read the headlines now: "Mad Waitress Killing Spree - Dozens Dead!"

The 5K race won't happen until March - I'll let you know how I did then.

As for you being homesick, I don't see what's so enthralling about rotten old Pottery St. Butthole. Especially in winter (although weather-wise I grant you it does probably beat out Scotland... slightly). It's only fun in summer when you lot are here.

You probably just miss quidditch. You and Fred should go flying on your brooms one of these days - just because there's no Cup this year doesn't mean you can't do a bit of practicing, right? I bet the rest of the team is missing it just as much as you are (except Harry, of course).

When is the next Tournament event? You haven't said anything about that lately. And how are the inventions coming along? Anything new to report on that front?

Write back soon.

Love you more,

Annie

George had begun reading Annie's latest letter the second time through, smiling at the thought of her going berserk on some poor twit and bashing her with a fistful of roses, when his brother spoke, interrupting him.

"You know, that Katie Bell is a right cute little bird," Fred mused.

George looked up to see his brother smiling warmly at the girl seated further down their house's table. He glanced at Katie, just in time to see her look away from Fred with a shy smile of her own, returning to her breakfast.

"Marching through the team now, are you?" George chided him. Fred and Angelina had had a few more dates after the Ball. Or whatever you could call them, considering the limited options available, trapped as they all were in this crowded castle in the dead of a Scottish winter. But whatever it had been, it had fizzled since, and Fred was clearly moving on to new pastures.

"Watch yourself. You're not exactly covering your tracks very well, mate," he added for good measure.

They both glanced over at Angelina, who was staring at them sullenly. George felt sorry for her, being treated so shabbily by his brother, and for their friend Lee as well. It was no secret that Lee had fancied Angelina for ages now, and he was understandably sore that Fred had succeeded where he had failed. And now George was caught in the crossfire, unable to defend his brother, but unwilling to openly side against him, either.

"That's exactly why I'm moving on," he said, indicating Angelina's glum expression with a jerk of his head. "You snog somebody a few times, and they think they've got some sort of claim on you," he argued defensively. "Nutter," he added in a mumble.

"Imagine that," George retorted sarcastically. "Angelina upset at being dumped, and forced to watch you make a move on someone new... what, has it been four days already? And who happens to be a teammate and friend of hers, no less? She's well shot of you, if you ask me."

"I'm pretty damn sure I didn't," Fred replied grouchily, and took a bite of breakfast. "That a letter from Annie? What's new with our very own little pet muggle?"

"She'd lay you out for that one," George laughed in spite of himself.

"She'll never hear it, will she? I'd never be stupid enough to say it in front of her," he said with a roll of his eyes.

"It's nearly her birthday. What should we do this year?"

"Believe it or not, I'm way ahead of you. Been pondering that very thing this morning, in fact. What d'you think about this...?"

*

Annie awoke on her birthday with anticipation. The boys had never failed to remember it, and she couldn't wait to see what creative, hilarious gift she'd be getting this year. She had been reminiscing last night, perusing all the previous birthday gifts she had kept carefully stored in a shoebox under her bed. Most people would probably not understand how precious the trading cards and little bits of parchment were to her. Not that she could ever show anyone, anyway.

She dressed in the dark and snuck out of the house, headed for the dilapidated tree fort. It had become a sort of glorified post box, over the years. The morning sun peeked between the horizon and the low layer of clouds for just a few minutes. It was a lovely sight: the forest all lit up in rosy pink light as she dashed across the field. Ten minutes later she reached the willow tree and clambered up the branches.

There it was, lying on the floor of the fort. Her name was written in George's funny scrawl on the front where the address should be. She ran her fingers over it, tracing the trail left behind by his pen just a few hours ago, she wagered. After savoring that thought, then chastising herself for the pathetic-ness of it, she finally opened the letter.

It was a cartoon. Not just a drawing, but an actual animated cartoon. She had seen similar ones before - she was used to things moving that shouldn't actually be able to, in reality. But this one was an improvement: it talked as well as moved. Like it had been imbued with a voice recording somehow. She laughed out loud with pleasure at her newly favorite birthday gift ever.

First, two caricatures of George and Fred strolled into view on the parchment. They waved and shouted, "Happy birthday, Annie!" Then, they proceeded to sing a rather offensive version of the birthday song.

And for the finale, something that looked like a large rounded W appeared in the center of the page and wiggled itself from side to side while a falsetto voice cried, "Give us a kiss!" The twin caricatures proceeded to noisily kiss the W, which then sported the banner, "Annie's Ass" across the top. Two lip-prints now decorated the cheeks of the W, and each boy's voice called out, "Love you, Annie!" individually in turn.

How could any muggle gift top that?

*

February 28, 1995

Dear Annie,

Happy birthday! Hope you enjoy this little doodle. As for us, the term continues to drag on. We did have a spot of fun during the last Tournament task. Ron was part of it, lucky git. Harry had to save his sorry hide from drowning, poor sod. Not sure if that would be sufficient motivation to jump into a freezing cold loch, myself.

Fred and I have made a tidy little sum taking bets at the last two events. Can't fathom why anyone still bets on the Beauxbatons girl - not very resourceful at all, to my mind. She actually gave up during the latest test. Can you believe it?

We ran into Scum Bagman a while ago. Slimy asshole is going to stiff us, I just know it. Fred wants to push back harder, but I suspect it's a dry well. Where has all the honor in gambling gone? Used to be a respectable way to earn an illicit income.

Fred and I are acing apparition lessons. I promise to show you when we see you. Actually, as we'll be seventeen by this summer, therefore sans Trace, we'll be able to show you loads of cool stuff. Prepare yourself to be amazed!

Have you won any races yet? Just picture yourself running away from the scene of your murderous floral rampage - that ought to get you moving. Or maybe attempting to escape Fred's puckering mug (smooch smooch). That made you run pretty fast once before, as I recall.

I just realized there is nothing entertaining to look forward to here between now and the end of the term. Ugh. I think I'll go down to the kitchen and bury my sorrows in a pile of tarts.

Love,

George

P.S. Ha Ha! I guess that last line could be interpreted in a few ways. I'll leave you to ponder which one I mean!

*

"So then I decided to pierce my nose, nipples and navel," deadpanned Jane.

"Sorry, what was that?" asked Annie, shaking off a daydream involving a beach and a red-haired boy.

"Do I have your attention at last?" Jane laughed.

"Nipple is a word that usually rings alarm bells when heard, yes," Annie chuckled. She and her good friend were sitting in a café in Exeter, catching up during their spring holiday between terms.

"Where are you today?"

"Sorry - I'll be good from now on, I promise. Start over and I'll listen this time. You can even quiz me after."

"I'd rather you tell me what's got you so distracted," Jane countered, concerned.

Annie sighed. "Do I have to? It's too pathetic and embarrassing."

"Okay, so we've established it's about a boy. Go on," Jane urged.

"Oh, God. Is it that obvious? Bloody hell..." Annie groaned.

"Spill it. I want details - now. Do I know him?"

Annie shook her head. "He lives nearby, but he's away most of the year at... a boarding school," she fudged. That was a believable explanation, and not altogether untrue. "We've hung out together, as friends mind you, since we were little kids. I told you it was pathetic," she said, wincing.

"I wouldn't go that far - yet. So you know him pretty well, and he knows you exist. Those are both points in your favor, when it comes to crushes. That's what this is, isn't it?"

Annie nodded. "I suppose...."

"So what about recently? Since he started leaving for school?"

"Well, we've always kept in touch, writing letters, while he's been at school. And we hang out together during the summers, when he's home."

"Letters? Really? You don't hear that very often, anymore. Definitely another point in your favor. Anything mushy? In the letters, I mean."

"Not in the slightest," she laughed, recalling the latest one from her birthday.

"Tell me more about him," Jane requested.

"Well, he's tall...."

"You'd say that about everyone. Hair?"

"Ginger."

Jane's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Eyes?"

"Two..." Annie answered flippantly. "They're brown," she added a moment later as Jane scowled at her.

"Name?"

Annie sighed. No turning back now. "George." There. She finally said it out loud. And survived. For the moment.

"Very nice. Respectable. Classic. So tell me about George's abundance of excellent qualities."

Another sigh escaped Annie. This was excruciating - talking about it. About him. "He's really clever. A smart ass, for sure, but also... sweet. He's beautiful, but not self-absorbed; almost like he doesn't know it. Great sense of humor... adventurous... athletic...." Annie finally shrugged, not content with the meager list, but unsure of what else to add.

"Too perfect. Either you're exaggerating, or he can't be real," argued Jane.

"I know what you mean," Annie agreed as she buried her face in her hands.

"What brought you to the sudden realization that he was so wonderful?" Jane asked.

"It was a long time coming, I think. But the light came on for me last summer, when we were camping at the beach...."

"You and he went camping together, overnight?" Jane exclaimed in shock.

"Don't get your knickers in a knot. We've been taking trips together like that for years, all perfectly innocent. His brother always comes along, anyway...."

"Still sounds scandalous, if you ask me. However did you get your Gran to let you go?"

"She doesn't precisely know the details," Annie confessed with a grin. "She made a few assumptions along the way, and I decided not to contradict her."

"Obviously," Jane scolded, shaking her head in mock disapproval.

"Anyway, that's sort of when it hit me." Annie moaned in distress and dropped her head onto the table.

"Like the broad side of a barn, by the look of you," Jane offered sympathetically. "Do you think he's interested in you? Or could become so?"

Annie lifted her head. "I honestly don't know. There certainly wasn't any overt sign from him, the last time we saw each other. Or in the letters this year. But maybe a few odd glances, last summer. A few awkward lulls in a conversation, here and there. Could easily be wishful thinking on my part. Or even worse - maybe he knew and was embarrassed for me. Oh God!" she sighed in defeat, hiding her face in her hands.

"If you feel so strongly, why haven't you said something to him?"

Annie shook her head vehemently. "Can't risk it. We were best friends first; him and his brother and me. I can't bring myself to give that up for anything."

"You'll have to, eventually. Tell him, I mean," Jane counseled her.

"Maybe it'll just pass?" Annie asked hopefully.

"You don't really believe that - why should I?"

"He just... lives in a completely different world from me. And I wish I meant that metaphorically. The people he knows - the girls like him at his school - I can't hope to compete. It's very intimidating."

"Don't sell yourself short, Annie. You're a beautiful, clever woman. And aside from his physical description, this George sounds like he could be your long lost twin."

Annie laughed at the irony of this comment.

"I'm serious! You two sound like a great match. And I'll bet he knows it, if he's as clever as you say he is," Jane continued.

"You're biased," Annie chuckled, "at least to my face. Thanks, though. It's good to let it out: vent the pressure, a bit."

"Anytime. And I'll be ringing you every week this summer for updates and moral guidance. Have you made any plans with him yet?"

Annie shook her head. "Nothing specific. But he has mentioned in the letters a few times about being homesick, wanting to get together again."

"See what I mean? I'll bet he's just stewing there at school, feeling the same way about you."

Annie rolled her eyes at Jane's ludicrous suggestion. "Anyway, about those alarming piercings you were talking about...."

*

April 1, 1996

Dear George,

You are truly the world's biggest prat. And I mean that in the most respectful way possible. You take pratfullness to an astonishing level. I've never seen your equal, and that's saying something, because I know Fred. That tart comment certainly sounded like him. You're lucky I wasn't there, or you'd need some of that briony paste!

Yes, the 5K race went well, as have most of the others. I am pissed that I haven't yet won any, but I am finishing well ahead of the pack at least. I have been improving my times this spring, and could run circles around you, that's for sure. Here's a flash of brilliance: you should get off your lazy ass this summer and run with me. Might come in handy for you if you ever need to run from the authorities. Probably a good idea to start developing that particular skill as soon as possible, mate.

And thanks for the warning about the Trace. I haven't forgotten all those times Fred has threatened me over the years. I'll keep my distance from him for a while, but I'll be relying on you to turn me back into what passes for normal for me.

Happy birthday to you both, by the way. These are what normal people call magic tricks. Did you know there are muggles who call themselves magicians and make a career out of performing these tricks at children's parties? Maybe a sideline source of income for you?

Love you more,

Annie

P.S. I absolutely love my birthday present! You two make the most adorable ass-kissers ever!

*

"Run, George!" Annie laughed.

He obeyed. He followed her through the familiar forest they grew up in, watching her body running, yet moving curiously slowly in front of him. Her graceful legs stretched themselves to meet the ground, her back twisted from side to side as her arms swung from her shoulders with each stride. For some odd reason she was wearing that bikini from last summer....

"Catch me!" she cried.

George ran faster, but she danced just out of his reach. Her laughing voice and glittering eyes taunted him.

Suddenly, she was gone. He was alone in the dark, quiet woods. "Annie?" he called out to her, begging her to come back to him.

"I'm right here, silly boy," she purred into his ear once again, standing behind him. Her hands began to caress his back and shoulders, just like before, on the beach. The pleasure of it nearly drove him mad.

He couldn't stand it any longer. He spun around, caught her in his arms, and kissed her.

She was kissing him back. He felt her arms wrap around his neck, her body press against his....

"Annie..." he mumbled, pulling her closer.

"George!" barked a new, groggy voice.

Not Annie. She disappeared instantly. As did the forest.

"Shut the hell up!" a male voice hissed quietly.

George was fully awake now. Fury mingled with mortification within him as he realized what had just happened. He was relieved beyond measure that Fred was such a heavy sleeper, and was safely snoring away on the other side of the room. He shuddered to think of the consequences if his brother had heard him call out Annie's name in his sleep.

He hoped he could trust Lee to keep his mouth shut about this. But no matter what, Lee would pay dearly for interrupting that kiss. Even though George had had similar dreams for four nights running, he hated that this one had ended so soon.

George sighed, quietly this time, and began silently reciting Annie's latest letter from memory. His favorite part was that single line that would give him an excuse to see her more often than usual this summer. Maybe even every day, if he played it right.

Run with me, George....

The next morning was chilly and raining. He sat on his bed, alone in the dormitory, with the blank page in front of him. In his mind, he composed a reply to Annie.

Dear Annie, of course I will run with you. I want to chase you. I want to catch you, then I want to kiss you. Please kiss me back. Love, George.

That pretty much summed it up. It was a succinct outline of his recent dreams, at the very least. Ugh. Revoltingly pathetic, not to mention disgustingly creepy. It made him want to punch himself, and further he was sure Annie would be much obliged to do the job for him. Clearly, this was going to take some editing; maybe a few days worth of polishing the prose.

One thing was for sure: he wanted to send her a signal. He couldn't stand pretending anymore that everything was the same as it always had been for him. He had to let her know that he wanted to see her, to spend more time with her. Alone, if possible. Maybe if he could lay the groundwork now, it might make things a bit easier when he finally saw her again this summer....

The blank page was stifling his brain. He couldn't get beyond "Dear Annie." As he glanced out the window, he noticed the rain had stopped. Perhaps some fresh air would help clear his mind and improve his focus, he thought.

He decided to jog down to the quidditch pitch. After all, if he was going to be running with Annie this summer, he'd better not embarrass himself in her presence by not being able to keep up.

*

May 4, 1995

Dear Annie,

Oh, please! Be reasonable, will you? Have you seen your little legs? Running circles around me sounds about right - maybe a ten-foot circle, tops. I will gladly run with you every day this summer, if that's what it takes for you to learn your lesson.

Fred and I have decided to expand our product line, and are currently developing some pyrotechnics. We recently found a cheap, reliable source of explosives, much to our delight. It's all quite hush-hush (at least as quiet as explosives can be) so mum's the word. So far, nothing of any real value has been permanently damaged beyond repair, so stop worrying (I know you are). Eyebrows always grow back, don't they?

Spring is coming very slowly here this year. How is the weather back home? I wish we were back at the beach, lying on the warm sand, soaking up the sun together again. I miss it. That sounds like heaven right now.

We both want to thank you for the birthday gifts, as well as the career advice. Both were highly amusing. I suspect that's why we love you so - you're funny. Always entertaining and good for a laugh.

Can't wait for this damn school year to be over already. What a waste of my time. See you soon!

Love,

George

P.S. I will be happy to restore you to "normal," for a small fee that is, payable in advance.

Annie couldn't wipe the idiotic grin off her face. He said he wanted to go back to the beach with her. He called it heaven, echoing her own thoughts exactly. He was looking forward to seeing her again. And the best part of all: he promised to run with her EVERY GODDAMN DAY!

After screaming into her pillow like a twelve-year-old, she was able to calm down, become more rational. And that rationality lead to doubt. Of course the offer to run every day was probably just teasing exaggeration. And who wouldn't prefer a beach to a crummy, cold, damp castle? She knew she ought to be more careful.

Don't get your hopes up too high, her brain tried to warn her.

Shut the hell up! her heart cried out. Stop ruining my buzz!

Even her rational mind had to admit, the tone of George's latest letter was... well, downright flirty, at least for him. She tried to picture him writing it, which was not difficult to do considering the frequency with which she practiced the exercise. She added her favorite sly smile to his face as she watched him scribble away on the parchment in her mind. It was the one he usually wore in anticipation of taking the mickey out of her.

Annie sighed. She threw herself back onto the bed, and read the letter for the twentieth time.

*

May 30, 1995

Dear George,

Oh, it is on, you swollen-headed prat. Get used to looking at my backside, because that's the only view you're going to get this summer, until your lesson is learned. Maybe if you're lucky I'll even let you kiss it (I know it's a fantasy of yours, remember?).

Thanks for the update regarding the explosives. Please spare only enough caution to keep yourself in one piece. You look so much more pleasingly symmetrical with all your appendages intact. And I've heard that burning hair smells absolutely horrid: something to bear in mind.

Honestly though, I can't wait to see them. You know how much I love wanton destruction - do they actually blow things up or just look pretty?

The weather here is warming up nicely. And I wholeheartedly echo your sentiments about the shore. Let's plan to run off together, leave this dreary workaday world behind, and be beach bums somewhere. I'll get there first, of course, since we'll be running off - but I'll save a spot next to me just for you.

Come home soon.

Love you more,

Annie