George & Annie: an Unofficial Biography

Chapter 15: Summer 1995

Age 17

June 27, 1995

Dear Annie,

I'm warning you now this will not be a cheerful letter. Things here have gone to shit. During the final competition of the Tournament, one of the Hogwarts champions was killed. Cedric was a good bloke - it's a damn shame.

It gets worse. His death was apparently not an accident. Somehow the final maze trial was tampered with. I'm not sure exactly what happened, the stories get confusing at this point. It all boils down to Cedric being murdered.

Annie, we've spoken about this before, and I think you already understand that not all wizards are like my family. A long time ago, before we were born, there was one who went as bad as anyone ever has. Everyone thought He was destroyed fourteen years ago, but this now appears not to be the case. He is back, and He is who killed Cedric.

I've just found out as well that we will not be coming home for the summer holiday. I want you to understand that the idea of not being at home this summer is massively depressing to me. I was really looking forward to seeing you again. And to add insult to injury, I will not be able to write you another letter for a while, maybe until school starts again.

Don't worry about us, we're perfectly safe. I'll write you again as soon as I possibly can. And I'll miss you loads. Hope you manage to have some fun without us.

Love,

George

This couldn't be happening. She must have misunderstood. She read it again.

He's not coming home.

The letter he had sent last month to her, giving her hope that maybe they might....

He's not coming home.

She had mentally worked for weeks, building up her self-confidence. She had played out innumerable scenarios in her head, planned a hundred ways how she would get him to realize....

He's not coming home.

What was the point anymore? Why bother with summer? She wanted to punch the sun for shining so warmly.

He's not coming home.

She started to run. She didn't know if she could ever stop.

That night, Annie cried herself to sleep for the first time in over a decade.

*

July 1, 1995

Dear George,

Thanks so much for perhaps the worst letter in my life. Don't misunderstand - I'm glad you told me. I am however worried sick about all of you. How can you be sure you're safe when these terrible things have happened? Has the murderer been caught at least?

I am absolutely gutted that I will not see you this summer. I can't tell you how much I was looking forward to - no, make that relying on - seeing you again.

Please swear to me that you and Fred will be careful. I forbid you to do anything stupid, no matter how much fun it looks like. If anything ever happened to either of you - well, it should go without saying that I would be devastated at the very least.

And yes I know how pathetic I sound, thanks.

Write as soon as you can. I will try to be patient, but you know my store of patience has never been very great.

Love you more,

Annie

It had been a difficult three days, to be sure. She had frightened her Gran when she got back to the house that first evening. To be honest, she had frightened herself: she had absolutely no idea where she had been during the three hours she spent running after reading The Horrible Letter. That night had been the longest of her life.

After she woke up the following morning, she began to feel disgusted with herself and her pathetic behavior. It had been ridiculous of her to put so much store on seeing the boys each summer, she told herself. It wasn't healthy. High time to find something else to occupy her mind, to break the obsessive hold spending summers with them apparently had on her.

After all, there had been no guarantees it would have had a happy outcome even if they had come back. She might have misinterpreted the letters of earlier in the spring, of course. George might have decided to make it clear he was not interested in her in that way.

She sucked in her breath in response to the stab of visceral pain that thought had delivered. Maybe she wasn't quite ready for that degree of self-flagellation.

*

July 20, 1995

Dear George,

It's been three weeks now since your last letter. I can't tell you how miserable this summer has been. At least it's been overcast lately - sunny days are even more depressing. When I'm not obsessed with worry over you two, I'm bored out of my mind with nowhere to go and no one to have fun with.

I've been picking up all the extra shifts I can at work, saving all my money now with nothing fun to spend it on. Work and running are my only distractions - I'm up to 10K a week. Maybe I'll finally win some races.

Write when you can. Take care.

Love you more,

Annie

*

This wasn't getting any easier. The opposite was true, in fact. Time was proving completely ineffectual at relieving her heartache.

"Do you mind?" she snapped at the couple pawing each other in front of her. "I do have other tables, so if you're not going to order anything...."

"Annie?" came a voice from behind her.

Ah, shit. She shot a glare at the offensive couple. How dare they look so stricken? she fumed, then marched over to the counter. She stared insolently at her 'manager,' who was a dork that had only been a year ahead of her at school, confident she could handle whatever he had to dish out.

"Um, Annie? You seem a bit... tired. It's not too busy, so why don't you go home?" he ordered her tentatively.

"I'd rather finish the shift, if you don't mind. I need the money," she snapped.

It was a lie. She needed distraction, not money. What was there to spend it on? The idea of going anywhere fun was laughable. No place was fun anymore.

"Well, I wouldn't count on a tip from them, that's for sure. And you can't keep working so many hours. I can't let you have any more overtime. That's from the owner, not me," he dodged.

"Whatever," she sneered. She took off her apron and tossed it on the counter. She glared at the couple, who glared back at her, as she walked out the door.

Maybe she would feel better on the way home, she thought with little hope as she stretched her legs for a moment then began to jog. She never drove the truck anymore, preferring to run wherever she had to go. A reliable distraction, running. Something in this world she could count on.

*

August 1, 1995

Dear George,

I miss you terribly. Things here have gone from bad to worse.

Gran is sick. I'm not sure what's wrong yet. I'm sitting in hospital now, waiting for test results. What started out as a summer cold has suddenly turned a bit nasty. She's been coughing a lot and has trouble catching her breath.

Just one more brick to pile on my heap of depressing events this summer, I suppose.

Sorry, that was a bit melodramatic. I keep telling myself that everything is going to turn around soon. Any day now, Gran will wake up just fine, and you'll write me that this was all just a big misunderstanding, and you're coming home, and we'll laugh ourselves silly back at the beach.

Take care of yourself. Write back when you can. Feel free to come back to me soon.

Love you more,

Annie

What more was there to say? She couldn't bring herself to write about the panic she felt, listening to her Gran gasping for breath last night. The horrid wheezing sound brought tears to her eyes just thinking about it.

She had lost her grip on reality, before. Yes, she had been depressed without the twins, perhaps even behaved a bit sullenly. Okay, she had been wallowing in it, if she was being truly honest with herself. But this was different, now. Gran was threatened. She felt utterly terrified by the thought of losing her Gran: her life, her family, the only person she had left to her in the world.

Annie said another little silent prayer, just like the hundred others she had muttered over the past day. Please God, don't take her. I'm sorry. For everything. I promise to stop being such a little shit. Just let me keep her, please.

*

August 10, 1995

Dear George,

This summer sucks.

Gran has drug-resistant pneumonia. She didn't respond to the first round of treatment at all, but they have finally found a medicine that seems to be working. She's still very weak, and they tell me someone her age may take a long time to recover. At least the doctors say she should recover, eventually. That's good news.

I'm tired. My stomach hurts. Boo hoo hoo.

I'm being a baby about this, I know it, but you and Fred are not here to cheer me up. So I suppose all this is your fault, ha ha. In that case, you owe me big. Three weeks of non-stop fun at least. Plan on spending your entire bank account of wizard gold on my entertainment. If it hasn't yet been seized by the authorities, that is.

I'm going mental, in case it isn't obvious. Write to me soon.

Love you more,

Annie

Annie had been stuck in the hospital now for ten days. It felt like much longer. She had spent every minute of those days watching her Gran lie in a bed, feebly trying to breathe, wasting before her eyes. She had never looked old to Annie before. But now Gran was frail, ancient, so very awfully fragile-looking.

Annie hadn't had the luxury of running, or working, or any other distraction for a while now. The only difference was she didn't feel such a strong need for them anymore. She still thought of Fred and George often - especially George. Still felt the same longing for him in particular, still worried about their well-being. But it seemed more manageable now, somehow. Put in better perspective, at least.

Nothing in the world mattered more than Gran. There was no place else she would rather be than right here at her side, doing whatever she could to cheer her, to help her get better. She was ashamed it took such a crisis to open her eyes to the truth.

*

August 25, 1995

Dear George,

Thank God this summer is almost over. I can't take much more of it.

A bit of good news: Gran is slowly getting better. The doctor says she should be able to come home by the end of the week. She's still too weak to get around much. I'll likely miss the first week or so of school here to stay home with her.

One week from today you should be safely (?) on your way back to school. I keep reminding myself of all the times you've said how safe it is there, usually with disgust in your voice. If you value my sanity in the least, you will write to me the instant you set foot on the grounds. Send it straight to the house this time if you can.

Love you more,

Annie

Annie fixed the letter to Errol's leg, and watched him fly precariously northward once more.