George & Annie: an Unofficial Biography

Chapter 48: Genius

July 2005

George strolled across the familiar grounds. The day was surprisingly warm. In his mind, he had always associated Hogwarts with bitter cold, and the midsummer heat was disconcerting. He squinted as the sun popped out from behind a cloud. Smoke curled from a small hut near the woods - he considered perhaps stopping by to see if Hagrid was around, pay his respects, before he left. Thankfully, the memorial statue was around the other side of the castle, out of view, he thought to himself. That was the last thing he wanted to deal with this morning.

Professor McGonagall was standing in front of the massive entrance doors, waiting for him. He nervously glanced at his watch, checking that he was on time for their meeting. Five minutes to ten, it said. He was early.

Minerva McGonagall greeted him pleasantly enough - she had never been what he would've considered a warm woman, he mused. At her instruction, he followed her through the castle. As they wound their way up the staircases and down the hallways to the Headmistress's office, memories of George's school days began to creep back to mind, unbidden. They passed by the charred and still-blackened doorway which served as a memento of the time Fred dropped a jar housing a swarm of illegal Sonoran Fire Ants (resulting in a sweaty week's worth of detention spent scrubbing ovens in the kitchen). And here was the tapestry behind which they had discovered a secret passageway into Flitwick's office, granting them illicit access to his private library - the contents of which were now kept under far stricter security.

Soon he was ushered into what had been Dumbledore's office when he was in school, now McGonagall's. The large fireplace was blessedly empty of a fire, and all the windows were opened to catch any and all breezes. The portrait of Dumbledore smiled down at him in a grandfatherly way and winked. The one of Snape scowled, wrinkling his nose in distaste. He returned the expression, glaring at the man George couldn't help but think had been a traitor, even though Harry swore he wasn't.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Weasley?" she asked in her prim brogue.

George's attention was snapped back to the real world. "I've come to discuss the education of my sons, Professor," he began awkwardly.

"Yes, you mentioned that much in your letter. Of course your children will be welcome to attend Hogwarts when they reach eleven years of age," she assured him. The forced smile failed to belie how little she was looking forward to the daunting prospect of another set of Weasley twins roaming the halls. "And how old are they now?" she asked with morbid curiosity.

"They'll be seven this fall," he replied.

"Seven! My stars, George, are you sure?" she exclaimed in shock, grasping the edge of her desk to steady herself.

George chuckled. "I left Hogwarts nine years ago, Professor. We've got five all together now," he informed her.

"Good Lord," McGonagall muttered, digesting that particular bit of news: five more up and coming Weasley children - George Weasley's, no less - on their way to Hogwarts. She wondered if the new construction would be sturdy enough to withstand that particular onslaught.

"But back to the issue at hand," he said, redirecting her attention. "You see, the twins are... well, not quite what you'd expect from typical six-year-olds. We discovered they had prodigious, er... talents, for lack of a better word, quite early on."

McGonagall raised her eyebrow in dubious curiosity. She had heard a few vague rumors herself, even from no less a personage than Kingsley Shacklebolt himself, who had met the twins a year ago when Arthur Weasley brought his grandsons with him to work at the Ministry one day.

"Can you be a bit more specific, Mr. Weasley? Or perhaps I could call Professor Trelawney to help us divinate what it is you're trying to say?" she said impatiently.

"Right. Well, for starters, they were levitating multiple objects, in concert, at four months."

"Four months of age? Infants!? Oh, come now, Mr. Weasley," she tsked incredulously.

"I saw it myself; my wife as well. But that's not all. Far from it. Annie - that's my wife - taught them to read just after they turned three years old, and it's been off to the races ever since. Built a muggle car, from a kit, with my dad last year. Dad swears they did most of it, too."

"This is all very interesting, but I fail to see..."

"They can perform any spell you care to name from the Standard Book of Spells - Grade Three, mind you - without having had any direct instruction. Not sure how they got a hold of the book, actually," he added the last bit in a mutter, mostly to himself.

"Grade Three?" McGonagall sputtered. "At six years old?" she cried. "And you were stupid enough to give them wands?!"

George shook his head. "No wands," he corrected McGonagall.

She stared at him, open-mouthed, for a full minute. "You expect me to believe this... this... unbelievable bit of...?"

George shrugged. He had anticipated this reaction. It was completely unbelievable, even for him, and he lived with it each and every day. "Don't take my word for it, then. There are plenty of witnesses: ask anyone in my family. Better yet, meet them yourself."

"And what purpose would that serve?" she asked.

"Annie and I want them to start Hogwarts... this fall."

"Preposterous. Not possible," she argued, shaking her head.

"Professor... we're worried," he spoke with quiet urgency. "My sons are rapidly progressing to the point where no one in my family will be powerful enough to counteract anything they happen to do. Don't get me wrong: they're good boys. Not a malicious bone in their bodies. But what if there's an accident? My wife... my wife is a muggle, for Merlin's sake! She can't be expected to handle them for much longer, and frankly I'm worried for her. Myself as well: I don't have much beyond them at this point." He paused to note Professor McGonagall's eyes roll at what she must presume was either exaggeration or false modesty on his part. "They need to be somewhere where they can be properly directed, taught by real teachers, and I'm bright enough to know I'm not the man for the job."

"All right, Mr. Weasley," she said reluctantly after a long pause, perhaps moved by his sincerity. "Bring them 'round. I will meet with...?"

"Arthur and Fred, ma'am," he informed her.

"Of course." She smiled, slightly sadly, upon learning their names. "I will meet with Arthur and Fred, and we'll go from there. I'm making no promises, you understand, Mr. Weasley...."

George nodded eagerly. Now that McGonagall had agreed to meet the boys, he considered the battle already won, confident that no one who met with his sons could deny their gifts. "Thank you, Professor! When can we bring them by?"

McGonagall pondered for a moment. Best to get this over with as soon as possible, she reckoned. "Tomorrow? Same time?"

"Of course. Tomorrow it is." He stood to shake her hand. "Thanks again, Professor. I know you'll come to the same conclusion we have," he added.

Minerva McGonagall cast a doubtful smirk his way, and he chuckled.

"We're in!" George cried as he burst through the door of his home. He had apparated as soon as he reached the edge of Hogsmeade, so excited was he to share the news.

"What? Just like that?" The answering cry came from his wife, somewhere above him in the vicinity of the stairway. Four little bodies came running from all directions, all clamoring for his attention at once. He grabbed the nearest one, tossing it into the air and catching it with a triumphant roar before setting it back down.

"Well... nearly, anyway. She agreed to meet them, tomorrow morning," he explained as he met her anxious gaze, tickling another someone. He glanced down and identified Merrie as the squirming, squealing victim of the moment.

"Tomorrow?! That's so... so soon!"

Things were beginning to move awfully fast for Annie's taste. She had agreed with George that the twins definitely needed formal instruction in magic, but was far from convinced they were ready to be shipped off to a Scottish boarding school. They were only six, her little darling boys, after all.

Her little darlings, however, were of the quite opposite mind. They began to parade around the room, bouncing from sofa to chair and back again, singing that blasted Hoggy-Warty song. Fred and Art had been begging to go all year long, ever since last Christmas when their Aunt Hermione had given them that bloody Hogwarts: a History book. Annie was looking forward to getting her revenge on her sister-in-law for that one.

All the noise woke Joey, who had been sleeping peacefully in her little sling, nestled against Annie's body. Now she was peeking out around the edge of it, attempting to identify the source of the ruckus. Two red-haired, pig-tailed girls were each perched on strong, broad shoulders, and two curly carrot-tops had now wrapped themselves around long, sturdy legs, each one screeching as they were dragged slowly across the floor back toward the door.

"Ten a.m. tomorrow morning. I'll arrange for Mum to take the Munchkins for the day, and you and I will escort the Perps with us to the castle," he explained, using the family vernacular in reference to their children. She wondered sometimes why they had bothered with giving them names in the first place. Actual given names were only used in situations requiring the implementation of dire consequences.

"We'll be back in a bit!" her husband called out, draped in a cloak of giggling toddler girls, as he headed off to visit the Burrow, update his own parents with the news, and make the necessary arrangements for tomorrow. She could hear the boys whooping in distance, already far ahead of their father.

Peaceful silence descended on the now nearly empty house, as Annie stood in the large living room and got a foreshadowing taste of the future. "Never grow up, Joey," she admonished the infant in her arms gazing up at her in curiosity.

The next morning, Annie stood with her husband and sons in the shadow of the enormous castle. She had only been here once before, six years ago, for the memorial service. She had understandably paid very little attention on that day to the imposing structure now before her. But today, as she gazed at the hulking edifice, her courage nearly failed her: there was not a chance in hell she would abandon her children here, to spend their childhoods in this monstrosity, she swore to herself. They'd be lost inside a week in this jumbled mess of turrets and towers!

George, seemingly sensing her anxiety, squeezed her hand. "Dear old Hogwarts!" he exclaimed cheerfully, with an excited smile on his face. Annie wasn't sure if it was more for her benefit, or for that of their uncharacteristically silent twin boys. Perhaps they also felt intimidated by the behemoth towering over them. They looked up at their father's face, and smiled in response, encouraged by his tone.

"Come on, then. Mustn't be late...."

Annie nodded briskly. "We've got to make a good impression today, boys. And please, for the love of Mike, don't accidentally burn it down," she teased, plucking up her own courage.

"Unless Professor McGonagall asks you to," George amended.

"And then, by all means, blast it to smithereens!" she laughed as they trudged up the stairs to the entryway.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, my dear Weasleys!" called out a dark figure from the doorway in a lilting brogue. Annie immediately recognized the elderly witch from the memorial service. Apparently the dark, somber robes she had worn then were what she wore everyday, not just something donned for the solemn occasion so long ago. She looked like every cartoon caricature of a witch that Annie had ever seen, lacking only the green skin and warts.

"Good morning, Professor McGonagall," George replied. "Say hello to the Headmistress of Hogwarts, boys," he instructed his sons.

"It is very nice to meet you, gentlemen," she spoke gently, bending down to their level. Annie was greatly relieved to see such kindness directed to her sons from the otherwise intimidating witch. "Now, if you please, which one of you is Arthur?"

"I am, Professor," Art spoke up with perfect politeness, offering his right hand to her. Annie smiled at his bravery.

"And I am Fred, of course," added his twin, hand also extended.

"My goodness. Such very grown up young fellows," McGonagall exclaimed. She cast a look of impressed surprise at George, who was biting his lip in an effort not to laugh.

"And you must be Mrs. Weasley," she added, looking directly at Annie, who nodded as she shook her hand.

"Oh, sorry. Yes, this is my wife, Annie," George rushed to say.

"I understand you have started an infant school, down in Devon? I must say I was thrilled to hear of it. High time somebody did. You'd be shocked, I'd bet, to see the state of some of the students I get here. Some of them can barely read, for goodness' sake! Absolutely scandalous! Apparently some parents think all you need to get through life is a wand," Professor McGonagall exclaimed as she ushered them inside.

"Er... well, yes. Some of us formed a co-operative of sorts together, sharing our expertise, that sort of thing. Most of them work at the Ministry, and manage to juggle their work schedules to help out one day a week," Annie explained. The five of them were strolling through the cavernous entryway, and Annie found it somewhat difficult to concentrate on the conversation as her eyes roved over the castle's interior.

"But you are the day-to-day teacher, correct?"

"Oh, um, yes. Just the basics, of course. Reading, maths, that sort of thing. I'll be back to it full time this fall," she explained, glancing at George to judge his reaction. They had never really fought about anything else during their entire marriage, and as much as she hated to cross him, she had refused to give up the school. George gave her a half-smile, reassuring her that their compromise decision still stood.

"Mr. Weasley told me yesterday that you were able to teach these young ones to read at... well, he claims they were three years old!" the elderly said, her doubt displayed clearly on her smirking face. They had reached what to Annie looked like a large classroom, and they filed through the entrance as Professor McGonagall held the door open.

Annie nodded with a bashful smile, but was exempted from making any further explanation by her sons.

"Oh yes, Professor. We've been reading for ages. My favorite sorts of books are the ones about muggle machines, like steam engines and front-end loaders!" cried Arthur.

"Really? And what about you, Fred?" McGonagall asked, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, I like those as well. I read one yesterday about making potions, though. I think I'd like to try that," he spoke with all the seriousness a six-year-old could muster.

"And what were you doing in my library, young man? I thought I made it very clear you are not allowed..." said George sternly.

"It wasn't your library, Dad. It was Grandpa's! There's no rule about Grandpa's books!"

George sighed in frustration. Technically, his son was right. He should have seen such an obvious loophole himself, and much sooner than this. He must be losing his edge, he thought ruefully. Annie giggled softly at his side, and McGonagall smiled with amusement herself.

"Well, now, boys. Please take a seat. Has your father explained to you why you're here today?" Professor McGonagall asked them.

Both boys nodded. "Dad says that you want to see if he's full of..."

"Art!" barked George, cutting his son off.

"Dad told us you'll ask us questions," Fred explained now that his brother had been shushed into silence.

"And ask us to do magic," Art added, more subdued this time.

"To see if we can come to Hogwarts," concluded Fred.

"Would you like to?" asked Professor McGonagall.

"Oh, yes, please!" exclaimed the boys in unison.

"We even know the song!" cried Fred.

"Do you now?" chuckled McGonagall. As the boys began singing, she waved their parents out the door, whispering for them to return in about an hour and a half.

George quietly closed the door to the classroom. He took Annie's hand and led her off down the hallway. "Fancy a tour, love?" he whispered.

Annie smiled and nodded conspiratorially.

"But no funny business, mind. Show some restraint for once and keep your grabby hands to yourself," he teased, swatting her on the rump.

"You are such a troll. Some things never change, I suppose," she muttered.

He stopped just outside a very familiar door and sniffed. "Smell that?"

Annie inhaled, then screwed her face up from the stink. "That's awful!"

George knocked quietly on the door, then gently tried the doorknob. Finding it locked, he reached sneakily into his pocket and pulled out his wand.

"Please don't get us in trouble!" Annie pleaded. "You have your sons to think about, now...."

"Shh!" He opened the door to Filch's office. It was exactly as he remembered it, right down to the names on the filing cabinet. "Come see this," he whispered, dragging her into the dim room behind him and closing the door quietly.

Annie's eyes grew wide as he opened the drawer labeled "Weasley, F. & G." He had to admit, he was surprised to see Filch had kept it all these years. They each combed through the folders and papers for a few minutes. He pulled out one of them to read: this one immortalized the dozen-dungbombs in the prefect's bathroom incident, second year.

"My God, George! Did you ever even set foot inside a classroom while you were here?" she whispered in amazement. She was holding her hand up to her nose to ward off the odor that permeated the place.

"Not if I could help it, no," he chuckled. He and his brother were responsible for a sizeable number of amended rules for this place, he reckoned with pride. They had spoiled a good bit of the fun for future generations. It was part of the reason he worked so diligently each year to introduce new, creative ways for his young customers to get in to trouble: he felt he owed it to them, having personally ruined so many other good opportunities. "I can't believe he's kept this for nine whole years!"

Suddenly, they heard a loud crash behind them in the hallway. Annie slammed the file door shut and spun around, looking criminally guilty. George nearly burst out laughing at the stricken look on her face.

"Filch-ee! Filch-ee! Come and see! Sneaky buggers in your office!" cried a cackling voice just beyond the door.

Annie dove into his arms, roughly shoving him back into a dark corner. "Hide us, you idiot!" she hissed urgently.

"Sneaky creepies in the summer?" The voice was inside the room with them now. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, cheeky chums...."

George couldn't hold it in anymore. An odd, snorting chuckle escaped him.

"What's this?" cried the voice, blowing a blast of air that scattered all the papers on the desk. George felt Annie's grip around his body tighten further, her face buried into his chest.

"Red-haired rotten so and so? Bless my stars and garters, if it isn't... GEORGE WEASLEY!" A hovering spirit-being materialized in front of him and doffed his hat in respectful salute.

"Peeves! Pipe down!" he cried, his stern tone of voice undermined by the laugh that accompanied it. Annie began to loosen her grip on him slightly, allowing him to take a full breath once more.

"Oh, SIR! Such a great honor to see you again!" he cried, punctuating his greeting with a loud farting noise. "Has Filch had you locked up in the dungeon all this time? Are you starkers?" he asked hopefully.

"I'm not a student anymore, Peeves," he tried to explain. Annie lifted her head, began to peek around, trying to make out what exactly was addressing them.

"So what you doin' here, then?" demanded the poltergeist petulantly.

"I brought my sons today...."

Peeves' eyes grew wide and he blew a loud raspberry, violently dousing them both with some sort of wetness. George didn't want to think about what it might be. "What stupid cow would marry your manky mug?"

"This one," he laughed, pointing at Annie's now dripping form still wrapped around him.

Peeves snorted. "Whassa matter with her? Don't she talk?"

"Good question. I usually have trouble shutting her up," he teased, then winced in pain from the pinch beneath his ribcage.

"Hey, girlie! Are you stupid? Is that why you got stuck with him?" he shouted at her.

Annie had turned fully around and was now face to face with Peeves' leering visage. "Can't you make it go away?" she whispered to George. "Whatever it is...."

"HA!" screamed Peeves, blowing another gust of stale air right into her face. "Peeves answers to no wizard! Stupid girlie!"

"Is that the Baron I hear?" asked George, feigning innocent curiosity.

Peeves zoomed away in an instant, scattering once more all the papers in the smelly office.

"Should we try to straighten this up?" Annie asked him, attempting to wipe some of the gunk from her clothes with one of the papers. Her face was a perfectly even mixture of confusion and revulsion. It was rather entertaining indeed, and George chuckled once again.

"What's the point? At least this way, Filch'll blame Peeves, not us," he reassured her. "Tergeo," he said as he waved his wand over them both, removing the poltergeist snot far more effectively than the paper did.

"Shall we move on?" he asked her, after they were presentable again.

"Yes, let's," she giggled.

George led her down the corridor, back the way they had come, until they reached the large double doors of the Great Hall. "This is where we ate and studied," he explained, sliding his arm around her waist. "It's where all your letters were delivered to me," he whispered in her ear, pleased when a bashful smile spread across her face and a faint blush graced her cheek. "Each morning the owls would fly in from over there," he pointed to a far wall, where a louvered door was visible just under the ceiling.

Annie's eyes grew large again as she took in the enchanted ceiling. She stood for a whole minute, flabbergasted, while George looked around the room himself, remembering all the feasts and Sortings.

"Is this where you got the idea... for their rooms?" she gasped with wonder.

"I told you mine sucked in comparison," he laughed ruefully while nodding. He had attempted to similarly bewitch the ceilings of both the boys' and girls' rooms at home, but had never managed to figure out how to link it to the actual sky in real time. Instead, each ceiling was animated with a scene, much like an idle computer screen, which he would switch out as the whim struck him. Currently, the girls' room's ceiling was full of fluttering butterflies, and the boys' room had the view from the deck of a pirate ship.

Annie looked at him in surprise. "Yours are just as wonderful!" she exclaimed. "I love them!"

George smirked, but was inwardly quite pleased with her reaction. His ceilings would seem pretty impressive, he supposed, to a muggle. "Come on.... Lots more to see and little time to do it in," he said while pulling her back out of the hall. "I suppose you want to see Gryffindor Tower now, don't you?"

"Could we?" she asked with an eager smile.

"We'll see... I've no clue what the password might be," he mused. They began to trudge up the first staircase. "First floor: Muggle Studies, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and History of Magic. I suspect Binns is in there lecturing as we speak. He doesn't seem to mind that no one's been listening to him for more than a century," he joked as Annie laughed.

"He's the literally dead boring bloke, right?"

"Excellent memory, love! And here we are at the second floor: not much here but the Headmaster's... I mean Headmistress's office. Best not to be too familiar with that particular floor," he said mischievously as they continued to trudge up the grand staircase.

"Third floor: we'll take a bit of a breather here," he said since both of them were slightly winded. He directed her by pointing as he placed his cheek next to hers. "Look down that corridor there now. See that statue of a wizard there? Just behind him is the tunnel we found on our first week here..." he mused.

George fell quiet as he thought about another statue, another tunnel, just around the corner, out of sight. He stood quietly, just breathing, bracing for the crushing weight of grief that usually came whenever he found himself thinking of the events of that night.

"Oh, God, George.... It was here, wasn't it?" she asked, spinning around to face him.

His unfocused gaze came to rest on Annie, now worriedly searching his face, her eyes full of concern. Of course his clever wife would figure it out so quickly: that at that very moment, they were standing mere yards away from where Fred had met his end.

"Come on, let's keep moving," she said. She took both his hands and began trying to pull him up the next staircase, walking backwards herself. He could see her eyes were beginning to tear up. Whether in sympathy for him, or due to her own grief, he wasn't sure.

"Annie, it's okay," he said softly, following her nearly halfway up the staircase. "I'm okay. Surprisingly... I'm okay," he reassured her. And he was surprised. The dark depression he usually felt descend upon him whenever he contemplated Fred's death hadn't come, maybe wasn't going to come, after all. In its place there was... a little sadness, yes, but otherwise... nothing. Blessed nothing. It had taken eight years, but finally, just maybe, the wrecking grief was over.

George smiled at Annie. "I'm okay," he repeated, stopping and standing still.

She took his face in her hands - she was standing on the step above him, which brought her nearly level to his own height. "Good," she said, simply, earnestly, then pulled him closer for a kiss.

They had almost forgotten where they were until the staircase they were standing on began to move. Annie lost her balance, tumbling onto her backside, and pulled him down with her.

"Did I forget to mention the staircases move?" he laughed as he tried to right himself.

"Yes, you did forget that minor detail," she laughed with him. "That's going to leave a bruise," she moaned, rubbing her backside.

"I've got a good paste for that," he chuckled. "All right, slight detour..." he explained as he led her along a contorted route to get back to a staircase that led the right way again.

"Here we are, now. Fourth floor: nothing here but the library," he said, only pausing briefly on the landing and proceeding directly up the next flight.

"I'll bet you can't even find it, can you? Were you ever in it?" she needled him.

"Only for clandestine rendezvous," he teased her. It was a complete lie, but worth it for the look on her face. He laughed out loud.

"Here's the fifth floor.... I wonder if it's still there?" he said. George walked quickly down the corridor, so much so that Annie had to jog to keep up.

"Aha!" he exclaimed as he turned the corner. There before them was a remnant square yard of the swamp he and Fred had created just before leaving Hogwarts. It still bubbled and burped, emitting a foul stench that filled the corridor and enveloped them where they stood.

Ron hadn't been joking - there was indeed a plaque mounted on the wall.

This swamp conjured

In protest of Delores Umbridge

By Fred and George Weasley

Hogwarts NEWT Students

April, 1996

And perhaps even more impressively, carved into the stone walls all along the corridor, were the names, swear words, insults, cheers, and declarations of love of nearly a decade's worth of Hogwarts students, all in tribute to two of her most legendary students.

"Now who's a mythical hero?" said Annie, voice full of awe.

"I had no idea..." he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You're going to be utterly impossible to live with now, aren't you?" she asked, shaking her head as well.

"When have you ever known me to be anything but perfectly humble?" he exclaimed, pretending to be affronted.

Annie rolled her eyes and began shoving him down the hallway. "Then there's no point in standing here any longer, is there? Come on, before you get puffed up like Percy...."

George laughed and put Annie in a gentle headlock, pulling her down the hallway toward the shortcut to the Gryffindor tower. To his happy surprise, the Fat Lady's portrait was already swung open into the hallway.

"Oho! A Weasley, if I'm not much mistaken. And which one are you, darlin'?" she greeted him.

George suspected she was into her cups again. "George, ma'am," he answered with a smile.

"Well, you're all the same to me, I'm afraid. Too many of you lot to keep track of. A century of ruddy Weasleys've been comin' through this door," she complained good-naturedly. "Hang on.... You look a bit long in the tooth for a student...."

"Just giving a tour," he chuckled, indicating Annie beside him.

The Fat Lady examined his wife with a careful eye. "She a Hufflepuff?" she asked dubiously.

"Honorary Gryffindor," he said with a laugh.

"Go on in, I suppose. The elves are in there givin' it a good scrub-down. Somebody must've been runnin' a special on dungbombs last term. That Common room was in desperate need of an air-out!" she complained, then hiccupped.

"Cheers!" he offered as he led Annie around the large portrait and through the porthole opening.

Bright sunbeams streamed into the Common room, forcing George and Annie to squint. Every window was wide open, and the tower bustled with the activity of perhaps a dozen house elves. The room smelled strongly of Mrs. Scowers' Magical Mess Remover, the floors were bare of carpets, and none of the furniture had cushions; he presumed they were all somewhere out on the lawn, being beaten to within an inch of oblivion.

"Well, it's not much to see right now, but this is where we all hung out when we weren't in class," he explained. "It's where Fred and I made our first fortune," he added with a snort.

There it was - he did it again. The thought of his twin brother actually made him feel... happy. Actually, genuinely happy, to recall their days and nights here in the Tower.

Annie smiled at him and squeezed his hand. "You can't bring me this far and not show me where you slept," she whispered.

He looked at her aghast. "Mrs. Weasley, behave yourself, please! There are house elves present!" But he immediately began pulling her up the stairs to the dormitories.

"Now I know why you had such a great ass when we were in school. How much further?" she huffed.

"It's only five floors from the Common room," he laughed. "Plus seven from the ground floor. And what do you mean had a great ass? What's wrong with it now?" he asked, getting a bit breathless himself. This hadn't seemed so difficult ten years ago....

"Well, let's just say none of us are what we were back in school," she teased. "Bearing five children takes a toll on the body, you know."

"What's my excuse?" he cried as they finally reached the fifth floor dormitory. George bent over, hands on his knees, as he caught his breath. Perhaps he could get away with blaming it on the altitude? He heard a rattle of a bucket handle just as Annie reached the doorway behind him. He looked up to see a smiling house elf who was scrubbing the windows.

"Hello... Nixin, is it?" He thought he recognized the striped pillowcase the elf was wearing.

"Yes, Mr. George!" the little creature cried, apparently quite pleased to be remembered. "Hello!" he answered cheerfully as he finished wiping the window sill with a towel. "Just finishing up here, sir. Nixin'll be off in just a moment, sir...."

"No hurry," he reassured the elf. George was finally breathing normally again, and straightened up. The ceiling seemed a bit lower and the beds a tad smaller than he remembered. He walked over to the window, which Nixin was struggling to open, and helped the little elf with it. The breeze was quite a bit cooler up here than it had been down at ground level, and he stood leaning out the window sill to catch as much of it as possible.

"Which one was yours?" asked Annie from behind him. He turned around to face her, ready to spout off some smart-ass innuendo, but quickly changed his plan when he saw the look on her face. She was leaning against one of the bedposts, staring pensively at the bed.

"That one. You're leaning on it now," he answered. "This one, next to it, was Lee's, then Fred's, then Ken's. We didn't have a fifth back then," he explained. "Bill told me once that he had had Fred's bed as well, back when he was here. I think they both carved their names on it, somewhere."

Annie sat down on the bed and slowly sank backwards until she was lying down, looking up at the ceiling. She spread her arms out on the mattress, like a child making a snow angel. "I dreamed of this place a million times, you know - when you and Fred were here, so far away from me. I wished so hard that I could be here, too," she confessed softly. "I would have given anything to be like you, back then. Did you know that?"

George didn't know what to say. He had suspected it, of course - even wished the same thing a few times while he was here - but wasn't sure that was what she wanted to hear.

"I missed both of you so much, it was like an ache. My heartache, for ten months every year. And then, after that summer when we were sixteen.... I'd had no idea before then how much worse it could be. I loved you so...."

"Every night, I lay right there, just like you are now, and dreamed of you," he was moved to confess, hoping to ease her pain by admitting to sharing it. "Those were the longest two years of my life. I never thought I could hate school more than I already did." He was standing at the foot of the bed, his arms stretched out, hands grasping opposite bedposts. "Do you remember that letter I sent you, the night of the Yule Ball?"

Annie nodded. "You seemed depressed," she answered, her brilliant violet eyes turned to gaze at him.

Was he surprised that she instantly recalled that letter, one of nearly fifty he had sent her over the span of seven years? A faint echo - an aftershock of the realization that had rocked him ages ago on that very bed: that he was in love with his best friend - rattled through his gut once more.

"I was depressed," he agreed. "Utterly lovesick. It hit me that night, alone here in this room: I realized I was in love with you. I had been dreaming of you every night that term. Even daydreaming of you in class, completely clueless what was happening to me, until that night." He chuckled wryly, shaking his head with the memory.

She chuckled herself. "It sounds so romantic now, doesn't it? I just remember feeling wretched and pathetic." Then she sighed. "And now, this place is trying to steal my precious red-headed boys once again." She rolled over and curled herself into a fetal position.

George gently scooped her up off the bed and held her tightly in his arms. "It's for the best, love," he said softly. "It's the right thing for them.... They'll be safer even, with all the professors to help them learn how to manage it. I hope you can understand that...."

Annie nodded, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I do, at least in my rational mind. But that argument isn't working for my sappy, overprotective mother's heart."

George carried her down the dormitory's spiral staircase, setting her down once they reached the Common room. They walked silently hand in hand back the way they had come to wait outside the classroom door where their sons' futures were being determined.

The echoing sound of gigantic boots clomping down the hallway startled them out of their respective quiet thoughts.

"Why, hello George! Hello Annie! What brings you two here to Hogwarts?" cried Hagrid in surprise once he recognized them. He shook George's hand and thumped him on the back, nearly knocking him to the ground as Annie giggled by his side.

"Fred and Art are being interviewed by Professor McGonagall. We're trying to get them into Hogwarts early," George explained.

"Blimey! Are you really?" exclaimed Hagrid. "Tha's funny.... I just got a message from her sayin' to come up here an' see her 'bout summat...."

Just then, the door to the classroom opened. Fred and Art ran out the door into their parents' arms, eager to share all their news.

"We got to play with wands!" cried Art.

"And do all sorts of spells!" added Fred.

"Can I borrow yours someday, Dad?" asked Art with a face full of hope.

"I sincerely doubt it, Art," answered George. "You'll get your own soon enough," he said, looking to Professor McGonagall for a hint as to just how soon that might be.

But McGonagall's face offered no clue. She was turned to Hagrid, her face tilting up to him. "Ah, Hagrid, there you are. These young boys are Arthur and Fred Weasley. They are very interested to meet Witherwings the hippogriff. Do you think that might be possible, while I speak with their parents for a bit?"

"Certainly, Perfesser," agreed Hagrid, smiling at the boys. "Come along now, you two...."

Both Art's and Fred's eyes grew very wide, contemplating the idea of going anywhere with the enormous hairy man.

"Professor Hagrid is a very good friend of mine and your mum's," George assured them both with a smile and a tousle of their curly hair. "Please be on your best behavior, so he won't have to thump you," he said as he gently pushed them toward the half-giant. "You can't afford to get any smaller."

Hagrid got down on one knee as the comparatively tiny twins crept cautiously toward him. "I can tell you loads of stories 'bout your dad, and uncles and aunties to boot, when they were wee ones as well. Want to hear some?"

Both boys nodded eagerly.

"Well, come along with me, then," he chuckled. "Let me tell you about the first time your dad ever came across a Blast-Ended Skrewt..." he said as he led them down the hallway to the exit.

"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, we have quite a bit to discuss," McGonagall said as she motioned for them to enter the classroom. After everyone had found seats, she began again.

"I owe you an apology, Mr. Weasley, for doubting you yesterday. I am utterly astounded. Never have I seen this level of innate magical ability. They are truly gifted, both of them. And for a six-year-old to have any control whatsoever - to be able to govern the magic with intent - is absolutely shocking. With or without a wand, apparently.

"They must begin formal instruction immediately, of course. I will make the necessary arrangements with the Ministry. Your sons will be accepted to Hogwarts for the upcoming fall term."

"Thank you, Professor!" said George excitedly.

"Wait!" Annie cried. "Professor McGonagall... I have a few questions, if you don't mind, before we rush into this," she added, trying to be as respectful as she could, but feeling panic rise in her throat.

"Certainly, Mrs. Weasley," McGonagall answered patiently.

"First... I'm worried about my sons, Professor. They're just six years old, after all, and only half the age of the other first year Hogwarts students. Frankly, I have strong reservations about sending them off to a boarding school so young. Has this situation ever happened before?"

"Honestly, no. I did some research last night, in preparation for today. You see, I was fully planning to deny your husband's request out of hand. But after seeing with my own eyes... well, you must know yourself."

Annie nodded. "I do. And I understand the necessity of beginning their schooling early; truly, I do. It's just that... Hogwarts is so very far from Devon, from their home. What sort of accommodations are you prepared to offer for our boys?"

"That is an excellent question, Mrs. Weasley. For you see, that is a problem indeed. I have no place at all to put them. Each house has room in the dormitory for boys and girls aged eleven through seventeen; no more, no less. The only open beds in Hogwarts are the ones slotted to be filled by the incoming eleven-year-old class of first-years. Apart from housing your sons in the hospital ward, I am out of options.

"And that doesn't even address the more important issue, to my mind, and to yours, I suspect. I fully agree with you, Mrs. Weasley, that no six-year-old belongs in a boarding school, under any circumstance.

"Therefore, here is what I propose. Mr. Weasley, do you not have premises for... business..." she uttered the word in rueful distaste, "here in the village of Hogsmeade?"

George and Annie both smiled at her allusion to the Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes shop in town. George Weasley had managed to be a thorn in Professor McGonagall's side far beyond his school years, considering the volume of business brought each year to his doorstep by visiting Hogwart's students.

"I do indeed, Professor," he said with an impudent smile.

"And are these premises connected to the Floo Network?"

George nodded. He and Annie began to see where Professor McGonagall was going with this.

"So you would be able to personally deliver your sons each day to school for their lessons, and home again each night?"

"Of course!" Annie answered for him. "That would be perfect!"

"Then may I consider the matter quite settled? Your sons will begin the fall term at Hogwarts on September second, rather than the first. They will not ride the Express, nor will they be Sorted into a house, for the time being. They will begin their studies in classrooms with the other first years, with the possible exception of Charms - that would be pointless now, wouldn't it? I suspect Filius will want to meet them once he returns from his holiday in the Congo, and make his own determination of their placement in his classes. You will receive a letter next month listing all the items they will need.

"Can I answer any other questions for you, Mrs. Weasley?"

"Not at present. Thank you, Professor," she said earnestly, shaking her hand.

"Of course, my dear. I am honored to have your trust in this very important matter. And thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, for bringing your astonishing sons to Hogwarts today."