The Gift of the Mages

4. INTIMACY INTERRUPTED

When George Weasley got to his door that night, he found the house uncharacteristically dark. Usually Angelina was home by this time, unless she had a game, and he knew her schedule by heart. This was an off night, he was sure. Maybe she had been kept late at the shop. At this time of year with all the Yuletide parties going on, there were plenty of last-minute pleas by important clients to be fitted into the appointment book, and sometimes the boss had to help out in the trenches, painting hair, faces, and fingernails, with the occasional request for a Thigh-, Bum-, or Foot-Shrink. He knew how that was: Dennis and Verity had got all their orders for holiday fireworks out weeks ago, but just yesterday, there had come a desperate call from the Ministry. Could they please have some Whizzlers, Floating Snakes, and Catherine Wheels to liven up their Christmas luncheon?

Thank heavens for Dennis. He'd taken care of that rush order so George could watch Angie's team clobber Chudley. He felt sorry for brother Ron, who was a big fan of the Cannons, but only a little. Angie got to play the whole game and she was spectacular. George showed her just how spectacular in lots of ways later that night. Poor Dennis, he thought. He's so shy around girls. He doesn't know what he's missing.

Once inside, George realised the house was occupied. There was light flickering in the dining room and a tantalising aroma of cilantro and curry coming from the kitchen beyond. And the decor had changed--drastically. Gone were the high-backed chairs and trestle table they used for state occasions and Exploding-Snap tournaments. In their place a polished low table rested on a Persian rug of the type his father frequently confiscated in Ministry raids of flying-carpet smugglers. Instead of chairs, there were great cushions of satin and velvet all around. Scented votive candles in stained-glass cups hovered near the ceiling, scattering rainbows of light about the walls and perfuming the room with anise, vanilla, and frankincense. His senses were overloading--deliciously.

Oops, he thought, in a sudden male panic, have I forgotten something? He fought down the romantic oblivion triggered by the colors, the smells, the thoughts. Must stay alert. The last time you missed an important romantic milestone, old boy, you had to endure a burnt breakfast and a day of cold shoulders.

While he was frantically thumbing through his datebook, trying to find out if it was serious enough to warrant conjuring a bouquet of flowers or a nice bit of jewelry, a voice started humming in the kitchen. Who could mistake that husky contralto? Now she was singing--a Weird Sisters' oldie: 'Conjure-Man'. I've got it now. That was the song we danced to on our first date. But that was Christmas night, and it's almost two weeks away. So it couldn't be--

Just then, out of the kitchen waltzed his wife, his stately, sexy wife, bearing a tray loaded with his favourite dishes, wearing the robe she'd worn the night of that first date. It was a little snug now around the chest area, he noticed, but that was just fine with him. She waved the tray to the low table.

"Happy anniversary-of-the-first-time-you-got-up-the-courage-to-ask-me-out, my husband," she murmured into his good ear with studied Caribbean formality. "I have prepared for you a culinary feast, and I shall be happy to feed it to you--my--own--self."

She drew him down with her onto the nearest cushion. All his favourite exotic foods were ranged about the table: jerk chicken, blackened catfish, soursop pudding, mango chutney, jambalaya, souse, pickled pigs' feet. And of course the piece de resistance was seated beside him, pouring drinks.

"To magic," she drawled throatily, touching his glass to hers.

He lifted it to his lips, a heady brew, probably Cruzan dark beer. She took a piece of the chicken, placed it delicately between his teeth, and sucked her fingers clean of the hot sauce. He wanted to tell her she had got a little of it on her cheek, right there by her dimple, but for some reason the words wouldn't come. Instead he decided it would be a good idea, just to...lick it off for her. He leaned across her slowly, brushing her cheek and chin with his lips as he sought that tantalizing red smear and planning a more thorough exploration of those satiny, sensitive places on his return...

Suddenly there was a banging and hallooing out front. George and Angelina remained locked in a tasty embrace for about five seconds, the first pleasurable, the last excruciating, hoping whoever it was would go away. But no, the noise only got louder and more insistent, as if the number of supplicants were multiplying by the second. In fact, it seemed that they would presently break the door down.

Then George had what can only be described as a heart attack--but not in the Muggle sense of the term. Rather, his heart started beating very fast. He grabbed his wand and leaped up, possessed of an implacable compulsion to attack whoever it was on the other side of his front door.

Yes, he thought savagely, as he raced through the parlour, first I'll hit you with a Crucio! Then that stupid curse of Ginny's--what's it called?--Flying Bat Bogeys all over your face. Then a couple of Levitations with sudden drops onto the asphalt, like a frigging--white--ferret. Next, Engorgio--ah, that one brings back memories. Then a Skinning Charm, like mom uses on potatoes--oh, I'll peel you like a grape! Gits! Buggers!--, then finally-- Avada Kedavra...

Mad-Eye Moody, rest him, always said it took a deal of hatred to make the Death Curse work, but right now George felt he would have no trouble, no trouble at all mustering the necessary level of bile. He reached the door, wand at the ready, and yanked it open.

There stood Dennis with a look of such sadness on his face, that all of George's anger just suddenly leaked out of him.

Angelina, who had crept up behind, cried out, "What is it, Den, what's wrong?"

But Dennis was speechless for once, and allowed himself to be pulled inside.

"Don't tell me the store burned down!" cried George.

Dennis shook his head.

"Verity--she's all right?" asked Angelina.

"I guess," he mumbled.

"Voldie hasn't somehow come back, has he?"

Another shake.

"Your family--your parents... your crazy uncle?"

Shakes in each pause.

"Then what the blazes is it?" shouted George.

Angelina ran and got a tumblerful of Firewhisky. Dennis took a great gulp and found his voice. "Ron--your brother Ron is going to--pawn your dad's wedding gift!"

George sat stunned for about one second. Then he felt a sudden urge to do to Dennis all the awful things he had been planning earlier. This skinny kid, whom he'd come to love almost as a brother, had interrupted perhaps the most glorious evening since his wedding night--for this?!!

Angelina must have read his mind because she crooned in a conciliatory tone, "Let's have some dinner and discuss this, guys. Come on now." She coaxed her husband back into the dining room and gently, but firmly seated him on his cushion. Yes, this evening was ruined, but there would be lots of other nights--a lifetime of nights...

Dennis came wandering in, still dazed, but as he took in the scene, the lighting level, the smells, it slowly dawned on him just what it was he had interrupted.

"Oops," he said in a small voice, "guess I owe you one, bro."

"A big one--bro!" snapped George.

Angelina took this opportunity to jam another piece of chicken into George's mouth. Then she led Dennis to the table and sat between them, filling all their plates and cups repeatedly until she was sure that at least their stomachs were satisfied. No one spoke for quite a while.

"Gosh, Angelina, you sure can cook," said Dennis finally. " Or is this take-out?"

"Of course not, you ninny," retorted George. "Angelina's mother's from Barbados. All the family meals are like this."

"Wow, you got yourself a gold mine here, guys. Hey, what about adding a Caribbean restaurant onto the side of The Wheeze, George? The apothecary is moving to bigger quarters next month--"

"Shut up, will you? And tell us what's all this about Ron's watch. And why should you care anyway?"

"Aw, George, I remember you telling me that you helped your dad with all the gadgetry on that little sweetie--you know, the family-tracker and all. And how hard it was stuffing that many spells into such a small space. And that candy sniffing sensor--you worked for months on that." He sighed. "That watch is sort of like your baby--isn't it? I don't know about you, but the idea of letting it get into the hands of some ruddy shylock burns my butt big time."

George just stared at him. How could you hate a guy who had that kind of loyalty?

Angelina interrupted his thoughts. "Did you really do that, Georgie?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, Dad could never have managed all that himself. I mean that flying car of his would never have gotten off the ground if Fred and I hadn't snuck into the workshop and tweaked things a bit." He sniffed wistfully and took another pull of Cruzan Dark.

"Right," Dennis chimed in, "and how about that time you fixed your mum's knitting needles--"

"And her auto-peeler--"

"And her self-shaping corset--"

"George! Dennis! Can we please get back on the subject?" The twins looked up to see Angelina standing there, rolling her eyes at them. She had long since Banished the dishes to the kitchen sink.

"What was the subject, Ange?" asked George. "Oh yeah, the watch. Go on, Den."

Dennis took a deep breath and related all he had heard from Dung Fletcher and Tom in the Leaky Cauldron that morning, as well as his foray into Diagon Alley.

"I got my biggest lead in Knockturn Alley," he said. "There's an old hag down there, has a hock shop. Says Ron came in and showed her the watch, but she wouldn't offer him enough for it, so he lit out."

"What's he need that much money for?" wondered George. "The watch must be worth at least fifty Galleons, with all the spells we put on it."

"But that's just the point, don't you see? The spells--on a Muggle watch--" Dennis's mouth still hadn't caught up to his brain, and he paused, searching for the right words.

Angelina picked up the thread of his thought. "If Ron sells it to someone unscrupulous, they could use it to blackmail your father because--even if most of the actual work was yours--he was breaking the laws against charming Muggle artefacts."

"Laws he set up in the first place," said George. "Ironic, isn't it? Well, hell, it isn't like it hasn't happened before." He thought a minute. "Say, Ron brought me that old comic collection to sell in the shop. I thought he just finally grew out of the things and wanted to make space in the flat, so I took them on consignment. But I still don't get what he needs the money for."

Angelina replied," I think I know." She related what she'd heard from Hermione that morning.

"So they're a little short," said George, "and Hermione wants to sell her hair and buy him a watch chain. Why does Ron need to sell the watch, which, as I hope we've all noticed, would be counterproductive in the extreme?"

Dennis seemed to come out of his stupor. "Because he wants to buy her something."

"What?" said George and Angelina.

"He was also in the apothecary pricing that hair stuff girls use. What's it called? Sleakeazy? And hair ornaments--combs and such--in some other stores in the Alley. Believe me, I hit them all."

"What's that all about?" said George. "I can see spending it on clothes or food, or even that candy that Ron's always going on about, but hair ornaments?"

"I think I get it," said Angelina. "That's what Hermione wore to Yule Ball--my Spanish combs. And I used Sleakeazy to smooth her hair that night. You remember how good she looked."

"Sexy," said George.

"Smashing," said Dennis.

"Definitely not her usual poker-up-the-arse self," said George.

"George!" said Angelina.

"Sorry," said George. "So you think Ron wants to recapture the glamorous Hermione, the girl he fell for. Is that it?"

"And make her feel good about herself," returned Angelina. "She's awfully down, you know. I think she's got a bun in the oven."

"A what?"

"She's pregnant. You know, she's going to have a--"

"I know what that means. But, Ange, how do you know?"

"Well, for one, she tosses her cookies in the morning, her jeans are tight, and she cries at the drop of a hat."

"Hermione--cries?" Dennis put in, trying to picture an impossibility.

"Oh that's definitely a sign of something," put in George, "the end of the world maybe. So what do we do about it? Obviously we can't let Ron go and sell that watch."

"And we can't let Hermione cut her hair," said Angelina, and she explained about the problem Virgos had with Hair Growth Spells and potions.

"I have an idea," said George. "Here's what."