You Found Me

Fred and George.

It was a wonderful thing for me to say, really. Slipping photographs into an album and writing their names beneath all of them was almost luxurious in the fact that it didn’t hurt at all. What was even better was writing “Fred, George, and Lacey” beside a picture of the three of us, laughing and waving and doing things people are supposed to do in pictures. My favorite was the one of us in the orchard at the Burrow. Fred was on George’s shoulders, his fat little arm waving ‘round like it was the greatest thing he’d ever done in his life. Perhaps it was, I don’t know.

He’d just had his third birthday, with a party at the Burrow. He'd stolen a doll from Victoire and Mrs. Weasley had called him a “delightful little hellion”, and told me that he was just like his father and uncle had been at his age. I’d laughed nervously, unsure of how to feel about such a statement, and she’d put a hand on the back of my neck and pulled me close to her to whisper “Not to worry, dear. Just look how his father turned out”. I’d looked across the yard to see George, grinning madly, Fred in one arm, Victoire in the other, little Teddy Lupin holding tight to one of his legs. He’d met my gaze and laughed out loud, and I’d relaxed a little, because if our son grew up to be anything like him, I’d know I’d done fine.

I was twenty-four the day I sat in the flat with my photo album. I stared around myself, marveling at how I felt simultaneously unbelievably old and like I still had all the time in the world. Thinking back over Hogwarts and my summers spent at the Burrow, I found it hard to believe that I’d ever been sixteen.

So many things had changed, I realized with a twinge of a feeling that I couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t quite a sad feeling; honestly, most of the changes had been for the better. George and I were happily married, the joke shop was still thriving, the world was safer, and Little Fred was probably the most amazing child I’d ever seen and he was ours. But it wasn’t quite a happy feeling, either. We’d lost plenty and we’d had to grow up. There really wasn’t any going back, like Georgeand I had agreedwhen Fred was born. I sat still in my chair and tried to put a name on the feeling in my gut.

I couldn’t. With a sigh, I returned my attention to my stack of moving photographs and nearly completed photo album. Little Fred screeched and giggled in the other room.

There was only room for one last photo, and I spent what felt like forever trying to decide which one to use. There was one from Little Fred’s first Christmas of the three of us in front of the tree. There was one of Little Fred in his first Weasley Sweater, a large yellow “F” emblazoned across his wee, red-clad chest. There was still another one of the Weasley family; George and myself with Little Fred, Bill and Fleur with Victoire, Charlie and Ron, Ginny and Percy, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, all standing in a great tangle of arms around shoulders and heads tilted together in the garden at the Burrow. It was one of my favorites, but it didn’t quite feel right. Not for the last page.

Without really thinking, I stood, scattering pictures and clippings over the rug as I did so (I’d clean them up later), and dashed down the hallway toward the bathroom. There were three photos there, all clustered together in what I’d thought was a nice arrangement when I’d hung them . Standing there with my arms crossed, I decided that there was no possible way to make a decent arrangement out of only three, and resolutely took one of them from the wall. I didn’t look at it as I carried it back to my album and the mess of clippings. It wasn’t very big, and, since I had no where else to put it, I figured it worked for the last page.

Actually, that’s sort of a lie. But it’s what I told myself. I could’ve found a hundred places for it, I’m sure, but I wanted it in the book because it was my favorite. I trimmed the edges a bit, inserted it into the photo slot, and then sat back to admire my work.

The sixteen-year-old versions of myself and the Twins stood grinning up at me from Platform 9 ¾, and I picked up my pen, smiling to myself and probably looking bloody barmy because of it.

Fred, Lacey, George.

And there it was: proof that I’d been sixteen once. Proof that there had been a time in my life where I was virtually carefree. Proof that the best person any of us had ever known had really stood there, breathing and grinning and probably just about to ruffle my hair the way he’d always done. Just living, which was the way I liked to remember him best. It was easy to do, really, because Little Fred looked just like his father and uncle. I didn’t think there was anything in the world that more reminded me of his namesake because he was just so alive. I just wished they would’ve gotten to meet.

“You found me!” George was shouting from another room, I couldn’t really tell which. I chuckled to myself and glanced up at the sound of two pairs of footsteps thundering down the hall and around the corner.

“Mummy!” Fred squealed, dashing headlong beneath the table to hide, laughing uproariously, behind my legs. George hung back, peeking devilishly out from behind the corner.

“Well, hello.” I said, closing the album and leaning down to look Fred in the eye. “Is Daddy being terrible?”

“Yis.” He whispered, eyes wide and fixed on something just behind me. I grinned, and George’s long arms shot out from either side of me. I leaned back against his chest, watching as he tickled Fred all about his ribs and tummy. The poor little thing was gasping for air, eyes wild, pearly little grin spread across his face which made him look even more like his father.

“And I found you.” George said in my ear, pressing his lips into the side of my neck and wrapping his arms about my (blessedly small again) waist. Little Fred was still laughing, but was leaning into my lap and staring up at George expectantly.

“Again?” George said in mock exasperation.

“Yis.” Fred squealed.

In response, George tucked his face into my shoulder. “One. Two. Three. Four…”

Fred tore off in the direction he’d come, loud as you please, obviously still not quite conscious of the 'be-quiet-while-hiding' rule. George stopped counting and chuckled.

“You know,” I sighed, “I was hoping to get him in for a nap. The way you’re carrying on, he won’t so much as lay still for more than a minute. He's all wound up.”

“Sure he will. He’s bound to get tired soon enough. I bloody well know I am.” He said, craning his neck to see around the corner. “Where’d he get to?”

“His bedroom. Under the bed.” I said lazily, lolling my head back against his shoulder.

“You’re good.”

“I’m a mother.”

“Why aren’t you playing?”

“Because I’m twenty-four years old and haven’t played hide-and-seek since I can’t even remember when.” I said and he laughed.

“You’re playing.” He said.

“Am not.”

“Are, too.”

“I’m not moving from this spot, George.” I said.

“Fine. You’ll be exceptionally easy to find.” He winked and straightened, hands over his eyes. “SIX. SEVEN. EIGHT. You might want to get a move on. NINE.”

With a sigh, I heaved myself up off my chair, leaving the album where it lay. I’d wanted to glance back through it again, to take out all my memories and hold them up to the light for a little while and remember what my life had been like before now. I might find myself in my perusing, find the Lacey I'd become without noticing. The Lacey who could track her child's footsteps and know where he was hiding. The Lacey who had somehow gone from a scared little girl who hated magic to...Something I didn't even recognize sometimes. Perhaps there would be clues somewhere in those pages. But, I had to remind myself, if they were there at all, they would be there when the game was done.

I hid in my bedroom closet, but I could still hear Fred’s giggle of “You found me!” and then George’s great, round laugh, “Let’s go find Mummy”.

When Fred flung the closet door open and saw me crouching there, his face lit up and he laughed like he’d never seen anything more delightful in his life. George stood in the bedroom doorway, grinning. Looking back and forth between the two of them, I knew I hadn’t seen anything more delightful in my life.

“You found me.” I said, and there was more truth there than I could tell either of them. I think George knew, though,because he always knew things like that.

And that's one reason I was lucky to have him in my life. Him, and our incredible child with orange hair and a face just like his father's.

I grinned and got to my feet, more than ready to be found again.