‹ Prequel: Look After You
Status: Complete.
You Found Me
7/12
George and I remained cordial throughout the remainder of the evening until the time came for us to put my parents up in Fred’s old bedroom. I helped my mother organize her things in the bureau while George tried to keep up a conversation with my father about Britain’s political standing. Dad wasn’t having any of it, really. He responded to everything George said with an indifferent nod or one-worded statement. George had spent all morning researching, bless him, and all his efforts were being ground out under the heels of my father’s penny loafers.
“Well, we won’t keep you.” I said once my mother had folded her last blouse into the bottom drawer of the bureau. I clapped my hands together and looked around the room awkwardly. Mum and Dad didn’t say anything for a minute.
“Thank you for the lovely evening.” Mum said stiffly.
George and I backed out of the room with lovely (completely fabricated) smiles on our faces. They dropped the instant I closed the bedroom door.
“Bloody hell.” George mouthed, looking exhausted. I put a finger to my lips and shook my head. It wasn’t until we were safely behind closed doors in our own bedroom that we spoke again, and even then, it was in whispers.
“You look ridiculous.” I said, raising my eyebrows at his tucked-in shirt and partially tamed mop of flaming hair.
“Well, I figured your parents might like me a bit more if I dressed like them.” He shrugged weakly and pulled his shirt off. He used his hands to muss his hair, and I smiled to see it fall the way it usually did. He looked exhausted.
“Imagine if I’d greeted them in my Weasleys Wizard Wheezes robes? I think your mother might’ve dropped dead.” He chuckled.
“She would have.” I agreed, stripping myself of my poorly altered jeans and scratchy sweater. I stood in only my tee-shirt, rubbing at the welts that criss-crossed my skin and wincing in particular at the one where the button had dug in just below my navel. George whistled through his teeth at the sight of me.
“Ouch.” He remarked, his eyes traveling over my swollen and abused midriff.
I had always been thin, more bones than anything else. My belly had begun to show sooner than I expected and, according to the doctors at St. Mungo's who gave me my monthly checkups, sooner than it would have had I been twenty pounds heavier.
“I swear, I’m not wearing jeans again until this child is out of there.” I prodded my belly with a wary finger and pressed my other hand into the small of my back. It ached something awful.
“You’d better get used to it, Lace,” He said, advancing and giving me a loud kiss on my cheek. “I want eighty-something kids, remember?”
“Eighty-five.” I said, “I remember. Don’t get your hopes up. Carrying another human being around somewhere between your rib cage and your pelvis is not easy work. Don’t expect me to do it again so willingly.”
I lowered myself onto our bed with a sigh of bliss. My back ached. I rolled onto my side. George was still standing in the middle of the room, a huge, stupid smile plastered across his face. I could’ve throttled him. But his hair glowed in the firelight and, for a moment, I felt that silly swooping feeling in my stomach and my heart felt like it was going to explode.
“What?” I asked, smiling in spite of myself.
“Nothing really.” He shrugged, then came to kiss me on the cheek again. “I’ve just got a ginger wife who’s carrying my ginger baby and who still manages to make me want her even though it looks like she’s smuggling quaffles under her shirt.”
“Shut up, George.” I said.
“Right.”
George was rather quiet the next morning, which was disheartening because he’d always loved his birthday. I suppose I understood, though, because it had to be difficult to celebrate your birthday when your twin isn’t there to celebrate, too. We both missed Fred that day, but I knew George missed him most.
My parents were sitting at the kitchen table when George and I came out of our bedroom. I waved my wand, instantly setting the coffee to brewing. I did this more to make a point than to be polite; I’d thought about it for most of the night and decided that I didn’t much care if magic made my parents uncomfortable. It was part of who I was, and they needed to learn to accept it.
“Morning Mum, Dad. Sleep well?” I said, summoning bread for toast, green tomatoes for frying, eggs and bacon, too.
“Fine, thank you.” Mum sniffed when I sent a steaming mug of tea soaring in her direction. It landed neatly in front of her, as did a tiny pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar. Dad looked rather amazed, and I hoped that he would end up more interested than disapproving of my lifestyle.
I made the breakfast all in this fashion, waving my wand and muttering charms when necessary, though I prided myself in my ability to do most things nonverbally. George was watching me amusedly, mostly because I hardly ever used magic for cooking. I was perfectly capable of doing everything by hand, and I think he was enjoying the fact that I was finally showing a little bit of spine. Or maybe he’d noticed that I’d lost my concentration in the middle of summoning three eggs from the other end of the counter top and ended up on my hands and knees, mopping up broken shells and yolk because I was rubbish with household cleaning spells. Either way, I didn’t really care. I was happy to see him not frowning.
Two hours later, we were en route to Ottery St. Catchpole via the Knight Bus. I would’ve preferred Floo Powder or apparition, myself, but I wasn’t sure my parents could handle such magic, so we caught the bus in London and there we were.
I was wearing a sundress that made me look as fat as fat can be (George reminded me several times that I was pregnant and, therefore, was supposed to look fat, though he substituted the word ‘fat’ for ‘voluptuous’ and wagged his eyebrows a bit), and George wore his typical jeans and tee shirt. My parents were dressed typically, also, and they stood out like sore thumbs amongst all the brightly colored robes and outlandish hats.
One thing I’d quickly learned about the Wizarding World: clothes became brighter or duller with the changing of the seasons. When winter had come around, Diagon Alley became a sea of black and grey. As soon as things had gotten a bit warmer, out came the greens and blues of spring and summer. My parents sat in their khakis and muted colors, hands in laps and tight lipped for the entire ride, looking like a pair of outcasts. I almost felt bad for them, but I could imagine the horrible things my mother was saying in her head about how ‘odd’ everyone else looked, so I swallowed my kind words and let them be.
George was holding my hand and staring out the window, looking completely unfazed by the jostling of the bus. I’d found him standing still in the center of our bedroom before we’d left the flat, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling.
“How are you?” I’d asked, closing the bedroom door and then moving closer to him. I’d wanted to wrap my arms around his middle, but I’d kept my arms at my side and just looked at him.
“Not good, really.” He’d said bluntly, looking down at me.
I hadn’t really expected another answer, but it was still rather bewildering. I wasn’t sure how to react until he’d reached out and run his fingers through my hair. I’d put my arms around him and that was that. There was nothing else I could do, and, by God, nothing I could possibly say. I just wanted him to be alright, but there wasn’t any way he was going to be so I just sort of let it go.
The Knight Bus stopped abruptly, and I glanced out the window to see the town square of Ottery St. Catchpole in all its inactivity. There was an old woman wandering about with her dog but, otherwise, the place was deserted. George, Mum, Dad, and I stepped down from the bus and watched as it disappeared. The woman with the dog hadn’t noticed us.
George took my hand and led me up the winding road toward the grove of trees where I knew the Burrow was hidden. He talked easily to my parents about the history of the town and the Wizard population of the immediate area. My mother tried hard not to show it, but I could tell she was beginning to like George a little more (maybe because he was a bit more mature since the last time they saw each other. Also because he generally dressed fairly normally, like most of the younger Wizarding generation). She and Dad listened to what he was saying with mild interest.
Ron and Harry were out on the lawn when we rounded the last bend in the road. Harry saw us first and raised his arm in greeting. George did the same, and a genuine smile came across his face for the first time all day. My father cleared his throat in question (I’d forgotten he hadn’t actually met anyone yet). I leaned back to explain.
“This is George’s parents' house. On the lawn, there? The ginger one is Ron, George’s younger brother. The other one is Harry. He’s the one who killed that horrible wizard, Voldemort. Remember? I think I told you that when you two were last in London.”
“Oh, yes, right.” Dad answered, nodding though I knew he’d completely forgotten. Voldemort hadn’t applied to him, he thought, so he’d simply forgotten everything I’d told him. Lovely. Not that it mattered anymore, though. Voldemort was gone and the world was all the better for it. It would be an utter waste of time trying to explain now.
The sun was wonderfully bright and warm across my shoulders. Stepping out from under the shade of the road and onto the Burrow’s front lawn was like stepping into a warm bath. I reveled in it for a moment.
“George!” Ron called, meeting us halfway and slapping George’s shoulder. “Happy birthday, mate!” Under the bravado, he looked a bit nervous. He caught my eye and I shook my head discreetly. His face fell.
“Thanks, Ron.” George said, dropping my hand to shake his brother’s. “Hey, Harry. Still here, then?” He grinned.
“No, not really. I’ve got a job and a place in London.” Harry grinned back.
“And you haven’t been by to see us?” I said, winking. “Harry, you disappoint me.”
I hugged the two younger boys, each of whom kept a hand’s width of space between us like they were afraid that touching my belly in the slightest would cause some horribly unspeakable complication with the baby, or whatever.
“Blimey, Lace, you’re getting big.” Ron said, his eyes going wide. “We saw you in January and… I dunno, you sort of looked like yourself.”
“Trust me, Ron, I know.” I sighed, pulling at my dress so that it was taut across my midriff, fully displaying the size of my swollen abdomen. “None of my clothes fit anymore. If I could have the thing now, I would. Wearing jeans is bloody awful.”
I caught sight of my parents, standing off to our left and looking around anxiously like they were expecting something to explode or give off sparks, or something.
“Mum, Dad,” I said, beckoning them over. “This is Ron and this is Harry. Ron, Harry, these are my parents.”
“’Lo.” Ron said, shaking their hands.
“Hi.” Harry said, doing the same. Mum and Dad nodded politely and then resumed their gazing.
Right then, so far so good.
“Where’re Mum and Dad?” George asked. Ron shook his head.
“I dunno where Dad is, but Mum’s going bonkers. She’s been cooking and cleaning all day. We’re not expecting that many, I don’t think, so I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s only your birthday.”
“Git.” George spat, punching Ron’s shoulder.
“I’m just saying, mate. She’s never been like this on my birthday.” Ron said defensively.
I leaned in toward him and muttered, “You’ve never had the bloody in-laws over for your birthday, have you?”
He laughed and shook his head, and our entire party moved toward the Burrow’s kitchen half-door. The sounds of cauldrons clanging and water running drifted out to us.
“Mum,” Ron called lazily, reaching through the open top half of the door to unlatch the bottom. “George and Lacey are here.”
Mrs. Weasley poked her frazzled head out from the depths of a sink-full of dishes and stared at us for a moment. I held my breath, half expecting her to dissolve into a mess of tears at the sight of only one twin a year older. She didn’t. She smiled her dimpled smile and dried her hands on her apron.
“George, dear. Happy birthday.” She bustled over, took his face in her hands, and gave him a kiss on each cheek. She held him there for a minute and they smiled at each other. She brushed her fingers through the ginger hair that fell pleasantly onto his forehead. “Your hair is far too long, George. I’ll cut it for you while you’re here. Ah, Lacey, you look so lovely.” She moved on to me without taking note of George’s horrified expression. He rather liked his hair, I knew. I stifled a laugh.
“Oh, positively radiant. How’s my grandchild coming along?” Mrs. Weasley pressed her hands to my stomach and beamed.
“Well, I think. I haven’t felt him move yet, though.” I said, biting my lip in spite of myself. I was more than three months along. I had never been pregnant before, but I was certain I’d’ve already started feeling little rumblings and flutters and what have you. I secretly harbored a fear that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.
“You won’t dear. Not for a little while yet. You think it’s a boy?” She took both my hands in hers.
“Oh,” I said, laughing breathlessly and blushing a bit. That was my other secret: I’d been calling it a ‘he’ for weeks, now. “Oh, no, of course I have no idea.”
“It will be a boy.” She said sagely. “This family loves boys. And these must be your parents!”
“Right,” I said, flustered, “Mum, Dad, this is Mrs. Molly Weasley. George’s mum, you know.” I stepped out of the way so they could greet each other in whatever manner they saw fit.
My parents seemed a little taken aback by this woman in her homespun sweater and wild mane of orange hair. They stood and bewilderedly let her clasp their hands and hug them, smiling awkwardly the whole time. I supposed that all one needs in order to forcefully overcome snobbishness or bashfulness is a little Weasley somewhere. Each one of my flaming haired in-laws somehow managed to lighten the mood in any situation simply by being present. Indeed, Mrs. Weasley had already ushered my parents to the kitchen table and was summoning tea and cakes. Mum didn’t look nearly as displeased as she had when I’d done the same thing that morning.
Inside, I was silently cheering.
“Well, we won’t keep you.” I said once my mother had folded her last blouse into the bottom drawer of the bureau. I clapped my hands together and looked around the room awkwardly. Mum and Dad didn’t say anything for a minute.
“Thank you for the lovely evening.” Mum said stiffly.
George and I backed out of the room with lovely (completely fabricated) smiles on our faces. They dropped the instant I closed the bedroom door.
“Bloody hell.” George mouthed, looking exhausted. I put a finger to my lips and shook my head. It wasn’t until we were safely behind closed doors in our own bedroom that we spoke again, and even then, it was in whispers.
“You look ridiculous.” I said, raising my eyebrows at his tucked-in shirt and partially tamed mop of flaming hair.
“Well, I figured your parents might like me a bit more if I dressed like them.” He shrugged weakly and pulled his shirt off. He used his hands to muss his hair, and I smiled to see it fall the way it usually did. He looked exhausted.
“Imagine if I’d greeted them in my Weasleys Wizard Wheezes robes? I think your mother might’ve dropped dead.” He chuckled.
“She would have.” I agreed, stripping myself of my poorly altered jeans and scratchy sweater. I stood in only my tee-shirt, rubbing at the welts that criss-crossed my skin and wincing in particular at the one where the button had dug in just below my navel. George whistled through his teeth at the sight of me.
“Ouch.” He remarked, his eyes traveling over my swollen and abused midriff.
I had always been thin, more bones than anything else. My belly had begun to show sooner than I expected and, according to the doctors at St. Mungo's who gave me my monthly checkups, sooner than it would have had I been twenty pounds heavier.
“I swear, I’m not wearing jeans again until this child is out of there.” I prodded my belly with a wary finger and pressed my other hand into the small of my back. It ached something awful.
“You’d better get used to it, Lace,” He said, advancing and giving me a loud kiss on my cheek. “I want eighty-something kids, remember?”
“Eighty-five.” I said, “I remember. Don’t get your hopes up. Carrying another human being around somewhere between your rib cage and your pelvis is not easy work. Don’t expect me to do it again so willingly.”
I lowered myself onto our bed with a sigh of bliss. My back ached. I rolled onto my side. George was still standing in the middle of the room, a huge, stupid smile plastered across his face. I could’ve throttled him. But his hair glowed in the firelight and, for a moment, I felt that silly swooping feeling in my stomach and my heart felt like it was going to explode.
“What?” I asked, smiling in spite of myself.
“Nothing really.” He shrugged, then came to kiss me on the cheek again. “I’ve just got a ginger wife who’s carrying my ginger baby and who still manages to make me want her even though it looks like she’s smuggling quaffles under her shirt.”
“Shut up, George.” I said.
“Right.”
-x-
George was rather quiet the next morning, which was disheartening because he’d always loved his birthday. I suppose I understood, though, because it had to be difficult to celebrate your birthday when your twin isn’t there to celebrate, too. We both missed Fred that day, but I knew George missed him most.
My parents were sitting at the kitchen table when George and I came out of our bedroom. I waved my wand, instantly setting the coffee to brewing. I did this more to make a point than to be polite; I’d thought about it for most of the night and decided that I didn’t much care if magic made my parents uncomfortable. It was part of who I was, and they needed to learn to accept it.
“Morning Mum, Dad. Sleep well?” I said, summoning bread for toast, green tomatoes for frying, eggs and bacon, too.
“Fine, thank you.” Mum sniffed when I sent a steaming mug of tea soaring in her direction. It landed neatly in front of her, as did a tiny pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar. Dad looked rather amazed, and I hoped that he would end up more interested than disapproving of my lifestyle.
I made the breakfast all in this fashion, waving my wand and muttering charms when necessary, though I prided myself in my ability to do most things nonverbally. George was watching me amusedly, mostly because I hardly ever used magic for cooking. I was perfectly capable of doing everything by hand, and I think he was enjoying the fact that I was finally showing a little bit of spine. Or maybe he’d noticed that I’d lost my concentration in the middle of summoning three eggs from the other end of the counter top and ended up on my hands and knees, mopping up broken shells and yolk because I was rubbish with household cleaning spells. Either way, I didn’t really care. I was happy to see him not frowning.
Two hours later, we were en route to Ottery St. Catchpole via the Knight Bus. I would’ve preferred Floo Powder or apparition, myself, but I wasn’t sure my parents could handle such magic, so we caught the bus in London and there we were.
I was wearing a sundress that made me look as fat as fat can be (George reminded me several times that I was pregnant and, therefore, was supposed to look fat, though he substituted the word ‘fat’ for ‘voluptuous’ and wagged his eyebrows a bit), and George wore his typical jeans and tee shirt. My parents were dressed typically, also, and they stood out like sore thumbs amongst all the brightly colored robes and outlandish hats.
One thing I’d quickly learned about the Wizarding World: clothes became brighter or duller with the changing of the seasons. When winter had come around, Diagon Alley became a sea of black and grey. As soon as things had gotten a bit warmer, out came the greens and blues of spring and summer. My parents sat in their khakis and muted colors, hands in laps and tight lipped for the entire ride, looking like a pair of outcasts. I almost felt bad for them, but I could imagine the horrible things my mother was saying in her head about how ‘odd’ everyone else looked, so I swallowed my kind words and let them be.
George was holding my hand and staring out the window, looking completely unfazed by the jostling of the bus. I’d found him standing still in the center of our bedroom before we’d left the flat, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling.
“How are you?” I’d asked, closing the bedroom door and then moving closer to him. I’d wanted to wrap my arms around his middle, but I’d kept my arms at my side and just looked at him.
“Not good, really.” He’d said bluntly, looking down at me.
I hadn’t really expected another answer, but it was still rather bewildering. I wasn’t sure how to react until he’d reached out and run his fingers through my hair. I’d put my arms around him and that was that. There was nothing else I could do, and, by God, nothing I could possibly say. I just wanted him to be alright, but there wasn’t any way he was going to be so I just sort of let it go.
The Knight Bus stopped abruptly, and I glanced out the window to see the town square of Ottery St. Catchpole in all its inactivity. There was an old woman wandering about with her dog but, otherwise, the place was deserted. George, Mum, Dad, and I stepped down from the bus and watched as it disappeared. The woman with the dog hadn’t noticed us.
George took my hand and led me up the winding road toward the grove of trees where I knew the Burrow was hidden. He talked easily to my parents about the history of the town and the Wizard population of the immediate area. My mother tried hard not to show it, but I could tell she was beginning to like George a little more (maybe because he was a bit more mature since the last time they saw each other. Also because he generally dressed fairly normally, like most of the younger Wizarding generation). She and Dad listened to what he was saying with mild interest.
Ron and Harry were out on the lawn when we rounded the last bend in the road. Harry saw us first and raised his arm in greeting. George did the same, and a genuine smile came across his face for the first time all day. My father cleared his throat in question (I’d forgotten he hadn’t actually met anyone yet). I leaned back to explain.
“This is George’s parents' house. On the lawn, there? The ginger one is Ron, George’s younger brother. The other one is Harry. He’s the one who killed that horrible wizard, Voldemort. Remember? I think I told you that when you two were last in London.”
“Oh, yes, right.” Dad answered, nodding though I knew he’d completely forgotten. Voldemort hadn’t applied to him, he thought, so he’d simply forgotten everything I’d told him. Lovely. Not that it mattered anymore, though. Voldemort was gone and the world was all the better for it. It would be an utter waste of time trying to explain now.
The sun was wonderfully bright and warm across my shoulders. Stepping out from under the shade of the road and onto the Burrow’s front lawn was like stepping into a warm bath. I reveled in it for a moment.
“George!” Ron called, meeting us halfway and slapping George’s shoulder. “Happy birthday, mate!” Under the bravado, he looked a bit nervous. He caught my eye and I shook my head discreetly. His face fell.
“Thanks, Ron.” George said, dropping my hand to shake his brother’s. “Hey, Harry. Still here, then?” He grinned.
“No, not really. I’ve got a job and a place in London.” Harry grinned back.
“And you haven’t been by to see us?” I said, winking. “Harry, you disappoint me.”
I hugged the two younger boys, each of whom kept a hand’s width of space between us like they were afraid that touching my belly in the slightest would cause some horribly unspeakable complication with the baby, or whatever.
“Blimey, Lace, you’re getting big.” Ron said, his eyes going wide. “We saw you in January and… I dunno, you sort of looked like yourself.”
“Trust me, Ron, I know.” I sighed, pulling at my dress so that it was taut across my midriff, fully displaying the size of my swollen abdomen. “None of my clothes fit anymore. If I could have the thing now, I would. Wearing jeans is bloody awful.”
I caught sight of my parents, standing off to our left and looking around anxiously like they were expecting something to explode or give off sparks, or something.
“Mum, Dad,” I said, beckoning them over. “This is Ron and this is Harry. Ron, Harry, these are my parents.”
“’Lo.” Ron said, shaking their hands.
“Hi.” Harry said, doing the same. Mum and Dad nodded politely and then resumed their gazing.
Right then, so far so good.
“Where’re Mum and Dad?” George asked. Ron shook his head.
“I dunno where Dad is, but Mum’s going bonkers. She’s been cooking and cleaning all day. We’re not expecting that many, I don’t think, so I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s only your birthday.”
“Git.” George spat, punching Ron’s shoulder.
“I’m just saying, mate. She’s never been like this on my birthday.” Ron said defensively.
I leaned in toward him and muttered, “You’ve never had the bloody in-laws over for your birthday, have you?”
He laughed and shook his head, and our entire party moved toward the Burrow’s kitchen half-door. The sounds of cauldrons clanging and water running drifted out to us.
“Mum,” Ron called lazily, reaching through the open top half of the door to unlatch the bottom. “George and Lacey are here.”
Mrs. Weasley poked her frazzled head out from the depths of a sink-full of dishes and stared at us for a moment. I held my breath, half expecting her to dissolve into a mess of tears at the sight of only one twin a year older. She didn’t. She smiled her dimpled smile and dried her hands on her apron.
“George, dear. Happy birthday.” She bustled over, took his face in her hands, and gave him a kiss on each cheek. She held him there for a minute and they smiled at each other. She brushed her fingers through the ginger hair that fell pleasantly onto his forehead. “Your hair is far too long, George. I’ll cut it for you while you’re here. Ah, Lacey, you look so lovely.” She moved on to me without taking note of George’s horrified expression. He rather liked his hair, I knew. I stifled a laugh.
“Oh, positively radiant. How’s my grandchild coming along?” Mrs. Weasley pressed her hands to my stomach and beamed.
“Well, I think. I haven’t felt him move yet, though.” I said, biting my lip in spite of myself. I was more than three months along. I had never been pregnant before, but I was certain I’d’ve already started feeling little rumblings and flutters and what have you. I secretly harbored a fear that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.
“You won’t dear. Not for a little while yet. You think it’s a boy?” She took both my hands in hers.
“Oh,” I said, laughing breathlessly and blushing a bit. That was my other secret: I’d been calling it a ‘he’ for weeks, now. “Oh, no, of course I have no idea.”
“It will be a boy.” She said sagely. “This family loves boys. And these must be your parents!”
“Right,” I said, flustered, “Mum, Dad, this is Mrs. Molly Weasley. George’s mum, you know.” I stepped out of the way so they could greet each other in whatever manner they saw fit.
My parents seemed a little taken aback by this woman in her homespun sweater and wild mane of orange hair. They stood and bewilderedly let her clasp their hands and hug them, smiling awkwardly the whole time. I supposed that all one needs in order to forcefully overcome snobbishness or bashfulness is a little Weasley somewhere. Each one of my flaming haired in-laws somehow managed to lighten the mood in any situation simply by being present. Indeed, Mrs. Weasley had already ushered my parents to the kitchen table and was summoning tea and cakes. Mum didn’t look nearly as displeased as she had when I’d done the same thing that morning.
Inside, I was silently cheering.
♠ ♠ ♠
Progress. I hope those of you who can't stand Lacey's parents are pleased. :)For those of you that have absolutely no reference for pregnancy-belly size, this is what Lacey looks like at this point in the story.
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fallingwithoutwings
asteroid
Sydney; This Is You
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HeartsxLiesxFriends
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