George & Annie: an Unofficial Biography

Chapter 23: Calm Before a Storm

Spring - Summer 1997

George stared out Annie's window at the nearly day-bright light emanating from the miserable yellow ball looming high in the sky. He was sitting on her bed, back propped up against the headboard, feeling quite put-out.

"I think I hate the full moon. I'm beginning to appreciate a werewolf's point of view," he complained sullenly. "It's not fair. Your birthday was far more enjoyable."

"Didn't you have a nice time at the restaurant?" she asked him in a taunting voice. She was sitting next to him on her bed, holding his hand while leaning her head on his shoulder, keeping an ear out for her Gran.

He understood why. It was still somewhat new, this particular sort of sneaking around: being together in her bedroom. If it wouldn't have disrupted more things than it silenced, he could have put a soundproof charm on the room. But except for the convenience of apparating, George had discovered that magic was of no help at all to him here.

He sighed. "Yes. It was nice. Thank you," he answered her without sounding or feeling very sincere. He should have seen it coming sooner, he supposed. The fun was going to have to come to an end at some point, at least temporarily. Biology will out, after all.

She giggled almost silently.

He turned to look at her, discovering a half-smothered smile on her face. He was beginning to feel rather annoyed at her lack of sympathy. "Don't see what's so damn funny about it. Maybe I should just go," he said petulantly, and shifted toward the edge of the bed.

"Careful. You'll shoot yourself in the foot, if you're not," she warned him in a surprisingly seductive tone.

He looked at her again - more carefully this time. Annie now had a sly smile and smoldering glint in her eyes. All right, then, he decided, curiosity getting the better of him. Couldn't hurt to sit tight for a bit longer....

Annie then climbed into his lap, facing him, and began to kiss him.

He responded, at first reluctantly - because this could only end up in frustration, after all - then with more enthusiasm, despite himself. Perhaps a bit of a snog was better than nothing at all, he consoled himself.

He began unbuttoning her shirt, kissing her collarbone, then followed her bra strap down her chest where it began to swell into soft fullness. It was one of his favorite activities now: undressing her. Hard to resist under the best of circumstances.

Now that they had taken their relationship to the next level (and he couldn't imagine a more accurate euphemism for the state of things between them since the night of her birthday), every minute he spent with Annie held the magnetic potential of being the greatest ever. Nothing else could compare to it: no spell he could imagine, not the most spectacular magical creature, not even the best day of quidditch.

She leaned close to his ear and whispered, "Have you ever heard of fellatio, George?"

He paused in his kisses, but continued pushing her shirt the rest of the way off her shoulders. He shook his head slightly, barely heeding her question. "Sounds like a spell," he commented distractedly as he returned to kissing her neck, caressing her breasts.

Odd thing to bring up, actually. He immediately dismissed it from his mind. He could see no point in expending much effort thinking about it now. If it was that important, they could talk about it later. There were far more pressing things to occupy his thoughts at the moment.

She began to move again, easing herself onto all fours, while kissing him. But then she had soon crawled out of his reach, for some frustrating reason.

"Lie down," she told him.

He squirmed his way down the bed until his head was on a pillow. His curiosity was piqued, that was for sure. It certainly wasn't typical: Annie ordering him about like this. After a moment's consideration, George decided he maybe liked it, perhaps quite a bit. Kind of... sexy. Certainly arousing. As if she needed any help in that department.

Then she reached for his belt and began to unfasten it.

He grabbed her hands. "What are you doing?" he asked, truly confused now. It wasn't like Annie to tease him.

She gently pushed his hands away, then up above his head. "I'm giving you your birthday present," she said softly, reassuring him with a few more passionate kisses.

He could feel his confusion dissolving into a far more potent mix of desire and frustration. Then she returned to his trousers, unfastening them and hauling them off, with no further argument from him. He no longer had the mental resources for it.

She brought her lips back to his mouth, kissing him, lightly twirling her fingers in his hair, around his ears. It was impossible now to focus his mind on trying to figure out what was going on. His body was utterly confident it didn't matter anyway.

"Not a sound, remember," she whispered into his ear, nibbling on his earlobe.

That was a strange warning, he thought. Again, with the orders? Why was she so chatty tonight? While he was distracted, pondering her last command, she casually pushed his shirt up, but not off, to expose his stomach and part of his chest.

What the hell is going on? his brain demanded.

Why do you care? shouted his every nerve ending in concert.

Slowly, she began to kiss her way down his neck, chest, and stomach. Again, he lost his train of thought as he felt her lips and fingers on his skin. They were everywhere at once, it seemed.

And then, suddenly, she was kissing him there. Without warning, her mouth and tongue and lips and hands and fingers had focused onto one place.

Dear God.

He grabbed a pillow and shoved it onto his face, barely in time to muffle an otherwise unstifled groan of pleasure. He bit down on it in an attempt to follow her instruction for quiet.

He had never felt all of her concentrated efforts restricted to such a narrowly-defined area before. And the part of his body she had chosen to grace with her attentions! He had never imagined such a thing; would never have thought of it in his wildest dreams, and he had had a few, he reckoned. Had she invented this? Had anyone ever felt like this before?

The sensations were too intense to experience in silence. It was maddening.

Warm.

Wet.

Soft.

Another moan escaped him. It was too much....

Annie smiled as she kissed her way back up George's torso, then pulled away slightly to look at him. He lay there, motionless, with a pillow on his face.

She giggled to herself and reached up to pull it off. It resisted her initial tug for a moment, then pulled away as she heard his teeth snap shut. Had he really been biting it? she wondered in surprise.

George's face, fully illuminated by the bright moonlight streaming in from the window, was smiling slightly in stunned, silent bliss. He slowly turned to look at her, amazement gracing his features now. Gone was the face dripping with self-pity that had been evident just a few short minutes ago. He pulled her closer to him and held her in a tender embrace, stroking her hair, kissing the top of her head absently.

She pondered the humorously sharp contrast between his expression now and the shock and disappointment on his face when she pointed out two days ago the convergence of his upcoming birthday and the full moon. He'd been pouting about it ever since. The first day of her period always came on the day of the full moon, ever since puberty began. And poor George's birthday hopes had gotten crushed by the coincidence; at least, she had let him think so. Perhaps in retrospect that had been a little cruel?

That had been when she had gotten the idea, upon seeing his look of utter dejection. His was a silly reaction, actually, considering what they had been up to throughout the month of March, since the night of her own birthday. A few days of going without wouldn't have hurt them. But that heartbroken look on his face had pulled on her heartstrings, and massaged her ego as well, to the point that she had become determined to reward him for it.

Annie was no less innocent than George when it came to experience with sex. But growing up as she had in a world that used it to sell everything from television programs to vehicles to cosmetics, she had been unable to escape a wider exposure to the depth and breadth of the subject. Her years in the local school had at least familiarized her with many sexual concepts and ideas that were apparently completely foreign to him. It had only taken about five minutes, searching on the internet, to learn what she needed to know.

Another memory came to mind: the first time she had ever heard of oral sex. She had been fourteen when a boy at school had told her someone had written something about her on a bathroom stall door, and he wondered if it was true. She had gotten detention for punching him in the face, then for sneaking into the boys' toilet to read it herself.

"Annie Jones
gives
great head"

She had set off the school fire alarm in her attempt to burn it off the metal door. How ironic to find it had been a prophetic statement after all.

*

He knew. They knew he knew. He knew they knew he knew, and so on. And therein lay all the fun.

George had never confessed to it outright. Never let the barest acknowledgement slip through his lips. Fred had not yet been able to cajole, tease, or trick him into telling the truth. But he hadn't given up trying, either. The challenge was irresistible. And so utterly entertaining. He simply couldn't help himself.

As if it mattered that they were. As if he didn't know the truth already.

It was as plain as the brightly blushing looks on their faces, whenever he needled them about it. It was as obvious as the collection of bruises on his body in various stages of healing, resulting from Annie's pinches in retaliation for alluding to it. It was as clear as the smothered smiles, darting looks, and squirming evasions that were intended to convince him of exactly the opposite, but were in truth confirming every suspicion.

No one on earth came closer to knowing exactly what was going through the head of his brother like he did, Fred reckoned. Not even little Miss Annie Jones, no matter what she thought otherwise. As a united front, Fred and his twin could lie like the most accomplished of criminals. And one doesn't develop such consummate skill without learning to recognize a tell - especially ones as blatant as these.

George and Annie were having sex. A lot of it, if Fred was any judge.

George seldom spent three nights in a row at their London flat anymore. Tried to get him to believe instead that he was staying at the Burrow (Mum needed something fixed... sure), or Bill's place (Ha! As if Bill wasn't enjoying his bachelorhood, living out from under Mum's watchful eyes as much as the rest of them), or even that he had spent the night in the flat whenever Fred had not (Fat chance he'd let an opportunity like that pass him by).

Whatever. As good a liar as George could be - and Fred had seen George's artistry in falsehood for himself a myriad of times - he was not fooling his twin brother about this for a second.

And good for them. He meant it when he had said his brother George deserved his success. He meant it when he had said his friend Annie was entitled to some fun. And while their blind, exclusive commitment to each other seemed a bit extreme from Fred's point of view, he didn't begrudge them that either.

She was cute, he granted George that much. Annie had always been good for a laugh, quick with a warm smile, which certainly enhanced her attraction. And she had a nice figure - couldn't discount that, either. If it hadn't been for his brother's infatuation, Fred might have been tempted to have a go at her himself.

On second thought - no, I wouldn't. Fred knew his friend Annie well enough to know that she was not the sort of girl who would ever have consented to anything casual. And even if she could have been convinced, or maybe gotten drunk enough, to have ever said yes to him, it would have become an unmitigated disaster in record time. And as shallow as he admittedly was when it came to most women, he valued Annie's friendship far too much to risk it for a roll, no matter what.

Good for George, he said to himself once again. To each his own. Leaves more for the rest of us....

They were sitting in a bar in Plymouth at the moment, listening to one of Fred's favorite bands performing live. Annie had gotten him tickets, claiming it was a sort of belated birthday present; the mention of which made George look away and light up like a flare.

Good grief, he had thought, get over yourselves already.

They had driven Annie's truck over, eaten a delicious supper in a pub, then found themselves a booth with a good view of the stage. The crowd was a mix of ages: older couples who liked to dance to the traditional songs, and younger people who just liked the music.

"Ready, Annie?" he asked his friend. The song beginning now had a nice, quick beat, and would serve his purpose well.

"Sure, Fred," she replied, smiling as she slid out of the booth.

George smiled at them both, and took another sip of his pint. "Have fun," he offered.

Fred led Annie out onto the dance floor. It was what they always did, whenever the three of them went out dancing: Fred would have the first dance with his friend, who was very good, he admitted - one of the few girls who could actually keep up with him. It meant nothing more than friendship, of course, and all three of them knew it. George would have all subsequent dances with Annie, and Fred would have all the rest of the girls at the bar as dance partners afterward.

They were younger than the rest of the dancers on the floor by a half-century at least. The song moved quickly, and Fred spun Annie around at a nearly break-neck pace, leaving the elderly couples in their wake.

The bait was working: he could see that several girls scattered about the place were watching him with interest. They would be impressed that a young, handsome fellow like himself could dance so well. And they would be imagining what it would be like to dance with him themselves. Excellent.

The song ended, and a much slower one began. Fred and Annie returned to the booth. Annie and George kissed, then began to cuddle a bit, swaying in their seat to the slow beat of the song.

Fred knew that his audience's curiosity would now be piqued: he had been dancing with a girl, who was now clearly unavailable to him. All the girls that had been watching him previously would now be planning how best to catch his unattached eye. Excellent.

"So, Fred," Annie said, once she caught her breath from the exertion of the dance. "I've always wondered how you came to be a dancer. Doesn't seem likely, actually, that you would ever be interested, or have the patience to learn something so... civilized."

Fred snorted dismissively. He suspected Annie was being thick on purpose. "I have Minerva McGonagall to thank for that. God bless that dear old battle axe!" he said, holding up his pint.

"Hear, hear," laughed George, joining him in the toast.

"Poor McGonagall has no idea how many randy Romeos she set loose with those Yule Ball dance lessons," Fred laughed. "The moment I saw how eager every single girl in the room was to be asked to dance, not to mention how pathetically chicken most of the other blokes were, I knew that this would be a useful lesson for a change."

"I should have known," Annie sighed, shaking her head.

"Yes, you should have," agreed George, laughing.

"Dancing is an excellent way of vetting girls, I've found," Fred added, looking to stir the pot a little more.

"Vetting girls?" she echoed, getting slightly riled.

Fred smiled. Excellent, he thought. Of course a clever, modern girl like Annie would pick up on his meaning, and get a tad offended. And if his audience saw Annie looking a bit put out with him, they might presume she might get a bit jealous, and that would fuel the fires even more. Catty things, girls; they enjoyed nothing more than thinking they were stealing a boy out from under another girl's nose....

"Absolutely. Dancing with me requires a good bit of coordination, balance, flexibility, and stamina, as you well know. All qualities that promise to serve well in other, less public pursuits," he said with a smug smile.

"You are a pig, Fred Weasley!" she said indignantly.

Fred shrugged. He had found there were plenty of females who could care less that he was the way he was. And he never pretended to be otherwise. The most attractive ones usually felt the same as he did, in fact.

"Plus, it's a good way to see how well we'd fit together, if you catch my drift," he added with a wink, perversely enjoying her look of shock and disgust.

"I am never dancing with you again!" she cried.

"Don't get yourself all bent!" he said, laughing. "You're far too short, mouthy, and not to mention vicious," he added, sucking in his breath as her sharp little foot connected with his shin, "to hold any attraction for me. I'll leave that little fetish to George, thank you very much." He rubbed what promised to be yet another new bruise on his leg.

"No, thank you, Fred," laughed George, putting his arm around Annie and kissing her cheek. Her anger instantly diffused, and she leaned back into his brother, lacing her fingers through his.

How sweet, Fred thought sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Well, I'm off. There's a blonde at the bar that's nearly got herself brave enough to come over here, and I certainly don't need any comments from you lot to interfere. See you later... or not," he added pointedly, then chuckled at the fact he could get the two of them to blush on command.

"Did you really not know you were bait?" asked George after his brother had sauntered off toward his latest quarry.

"I had my suspicions, of course," she said, giggling.

George watched his brother steering the blonde girl around the dance floor. She was smiling, batting her eyes, and generally soaking up the charm that was Fred. "He's the better dancer, I admit," he said.

"Not really," Annie disagreed. "With Fred, everything is a competition. He's always testing me, to see if I can keep up. The furthest thing from romantic, that's for sure."

"You always do keep up, though," he pointed out. He was as impressed as the rest of the audience had been.

"I'm not letting Fred beat me in anything," she said pointedly, smirking.

"Good girl!" George laughed.

They sat a minute longer, enjoying the music, sipping their pints. Annie broke the companionable silence first. "Any news?"

George knew exactly what she was referring to. Odd, dangerous things had been happening at Hogwarts this year, with the cursed necklace and the poisoned mead. Ron was now fully recovered, thank goodness, but as of yet no one knew anything more about the who, how or why of the incidents.

"Got a letter from Ginny yesterday," he said, nodding. "I never realized just how sneaky she could be.... I'll remember to watch what I say around her in the future," he added with a half smile.

"Spill it, already," Annie urged him impatiently.

"Apparently, Ron and Hermione are speaking to each other once again, now that the other girl is out of the picture. And practically the only thing they talk about is that Harry is having some sort of private lessons with Dumbledore. Has been all year, in fact. And when Harry joins them, he mostly wants to talk about the fact that he suspects Malfoy is up to something big."

"Malfoy?" she said in alarm. She was familiar with the name, and understood the significance.

George nodded silently. "And if Harry's right, that likely spells trouble for the rest of us. That little shit doesn't have the brains or the gumption to pull off something completely of his own design. He's acting on orders, mark my words. And I'll give you a guess who might be pulling the strings...."

"The father," she stated as if it was obvious.

"Clever girl," he replied.

Annie rolled her eyes. "So what is it? Malfoy's plan?"

George shrugged. "Either they don't know, or Ginny didn't overhear them discuss it. Hopefully, Harry's told all of this to Dumbledore, especially since they're spending so much extra time together," he explained.

"All of this cloak and dagger business is getting tiresome," she sighed.

"Sorry to bore you," he teased, deliberately misunderstanding her.

"You know that's not what I meant," she said, butting him with her shoulder.

They sat together in silence for a few more minutes, listening to the music and watching Fred dance with yet another eager girl.

"I suppose you're waiting for me to ask you to dance?" George offered.

"Not at all. That would be the polite thing for you to do, see," she teased.

"Come on then, hag." He scooted along the booth, roughly shoving her out of it ahead of him with his hip.

"My favorite thing about you is how utterly suave you are. My Troll Prince Charming...," she said as she was bumped along the seat despite her uncooperative resistance. She giggled as he took her hand and led her to the dance floor.

*

Annie lay on her back, alone in the darkness, and kicked off the sheet. It was too hot to sleep, and her brain would not shut off. She gazed out the window at the waning moon as her mind reviewed for the hundredth time that night, the millionth time that week, what she did and did not know about the current situation she found herself in.

Something magically Dark was on the move in Britain; that was for certain. A menace so terrifying, everyone feared to say his name. He and his mad followers were strategically positioning themselves, recruiting like-minded bigots and intimidating anyone weaker, most likely in preparation to make a grab for absolute power.

And why did this concern her?

The least important reason, to her mind, was that the nameless evil and his cult - Annie shuddered now to think of their name: Death Eaters - had a very low opinion of non-magical people like herself. Big deal, she thought. Since when have I ever been anything but unpopular?

Far more importantly, they did not care at all for people who stood up to their bigotry in defense of reason and justice. People like her kind, friendly, generous neighbors: the magical Weasley family. More than merely neighbors now, they were her dear friends - even the ones she hadn't met in person yet, she reckoned.

Worst of all, in the Death Eaters' power-mad eyes, were people like George: pure-blooded wizards who chose to associate with muggles like her. Blood traitors, they were called. Regardless of how hard George had tried to shield her from the truth, she had a very good idea what would happen to him if he were ever caught by the enemy, if they ever learned of their relationship - torture, likely followed by death. He would serve as a warning to anyone else with similar ideas: wizard blood must be kept pure at all costs.

Annie took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. Thank goodness there were people like George's family. The Weasleys and others like them were willing to take a stand in these increasingly dangerous times. They put their own safety on the line to stand up for what was right. She admired them immensely for their courage.

The specifics of their activities were kept shrouded in secret, and not just from Annie. George and the rest of his family, while eager to assure her they vociferously disagreed with the pure-blooded mania and dark agenda of the Death Eaters, were also careful to remain vague about the details of their fight. Annie understood: they were loyally protecting each other from possible discovery. She respected this and never pressed for more than they were willing to share.

She was clever, though, and had figured out a few things on her own. The resistance group met with some frequency, and had been meeting for some time now. Who was included or where they met she did not specifically know, and only understood what it was they discussed in the most general terms. They were also in a recruitment mode, trying to gain support and learn more about their enemy's plans.

One thing, however, was patently clear: they regarded Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, as their leader. According to them, he was the most powerful, wisest wizard there was. So powerful, even You-Know-Who feared to cross him. They trusted his instructions implicitly, and had every confidence that with him in charge, they were sure to defeat the nameless evil one in the end.

It was for this reason that one week ago, a tragedy of unfathomable enormity rocked the Weasleys and their wizard comrades to the core: Dumbledore was killed. Their brilliant leader with his secret plans to defeat the enemy was gone. And seemingly with his death the odds of their victory had now plummeted.

Annie recalled the night a week ago when George had told her the news. She had never seen him so rattled before in her life. He couldn't speak at first.

"Something really bad has happened," he had finally managed to say.

Annie had felt her stomach drop to the floor. She had never before heard this tone of real fear in George's voice. "What is it?" she had whispered, dreading the answer.

He had told her then about the devastating blow to their cause. "They killed Dumbledore."

"Who?" she gasped.

"Snape. And Malfoy," he said, his voiced wracked with fury and disgust.

Annie recognized the names, and now began to fear them nearly as much as she loathed them.

The first she had disliked ever since the twins began school at Hogwarts. The vindictive potions professor had failed to recognize her friends' talents, or appreciate their sense of humor. He had been overzealous in his criticism and over-harsh in his punishments to the point of driving them from his classroom. Before the skirmish this week, she had regarded him as little more than a small setback in the otherwise stellar future outlook she had foreseen for Fred and George. His refusal to teach them simply meant they would have to discover for themselves what they needed to know about potion making, and Annie had every confidence they were more than sufficiently intelligent and driven to do so.

But now they had discovered this former turncoat, this double-agent spy was not what he seemed - or rather, was indeed what many of them had suspected all along - a traitor in their midst. A traitor who had been assisting a Death Eater family of the highest rank: Malfoy. The name alone made the bile rise in her throat. The viperous family who never seemed to rest in their dogged pursuit of Dumbledore over the years, not to mention the persecution they directed toward the Weasleys at every opportunity. And they had finally succeeded in both - Dumbledore was dead, and everything the Weasleys stood for, fought for, was crippled as a result.

Her dearest friends, the good guys in this battle, were plunged into chaos. What were they to do without Dumbledore? Where would it even be safe for them to meet, since one of their own had betrayed them so gravely? What was the next best plan of defense, much less attack?

Only one thing was certain - one thing remained clear. Harry Potter was still the key to it all; their last, best chance of victory. Dumbledore had always thought so, and had taken great pains to keep him safe. Harry was the one on whom they now pinned all their fragile hopes. He had been marked by the nameless one as his greatest threat ever since his birth. He had been with Dumbledore when he died; had spent all that extra time with him over the past term; perhaps even knew his plans for defeating the enemy.

Harry Potter was the weapon that was left to them.

So what did that mean for her, and for George? She understood that every moment he spent with her made him vulnerable to the enemy - put him in danger. The thought made her blood run cold, even on this sweltering summer night, and she shivered.

She considered for a moment making the noble sacrifice: giving him up for his own good. But she knew it remained a bluff for her to even consider the possibility, just like it had been the night he had told her about Dumbledore's death. She was not that strong, not that good-hearted, not that selfless. It would be suicide. She could not live without George; not now, in the full knowledge of what it meant to be loved by him.

It had been excruciating to hear his own half-hearted attempt to say it himself. "Maybe.... Maybe we should.... Maybe it's best if we didn't..." he had stammered.

"Are you breaking up with me?" she had asked him, feeling a steel rod pierce her soul as she spoke.

George shook his head involuntarily. "I don't want to, but...."

"Then don't," she pleaded, feeling the steel rod twist, entangling her organs like spaghetti.

"I don't want to.... It's too dangerous." He sighed then.

"If you think you or your family is in danger, then you have to do what you need to do. Living without you but knowing you're all safer that way is more important to me than the alternative." It had been like chewing glass, saying the words to release him. But she would swallow a truckload, if it kept all of them safe and alive.

"What? No, not me! You! You're the one I'm worried about!" he cried.

"Then why are you killing me right now?" she had choked, cursing herself for losing control in front of him at that moment.

He had grabbed her roughly then, squeezed her so hard she could not breathe. "I had to try! I had to give you a chance.... But I'm too weak to do it right, for real. I'm sorry...."

Suddenly then, crushed in George's arms, she had remembered her brief meeting with the odd old man last summer. If she hadn't been told about his greatness, she certainly would never have suspected it herself, from her own experience. But George had told her all the stories of his amazing feats, the articles of proof, and she had been forced to agree: Dumbledore was a great and wise man. And she recalled the words he had said to her, regarding her and George in particular.

Love is vital to our cause.

"This is what they want, isn't it? For people like you and me to be afraid, maybe even frightened enough to abandon each other?" she whispered.

George had nodded silently, then a tiny smile began to tug at the corner of his mouth. "We can't let them win, can we? It's our duty..."

"To stay together," she had said, finishing his thought. As if she had any other choice.

She clung to that part of the memory, those words, as she lay in her bed alone, praying once again for the safety of her own true love. Bring him home again to me, she commanded the universe. Safe and sound, for me to love.