Title: Defying Gravity; or, Two Weasleys Walk Into a Burrow
Author:
last_radioRecipient:
gyuttoRating: PG
Character(s): Weasleys: Arthur, Molly, Charlie, Fred, George, and Ginny
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: Thanks, Secret Person, for the lovely prompt. Also, my betas were super speedy and the mod exhibited the patience of a saint in dealing with my missed deadline(s), so also yay for them. And this is the first time I’ve ever written any of these characters, so concrit is even more welcome than usual.
--
The Burrow (home, still, though Fred imagines there will eventually come an end to the lexical confusion of young adulthood, and home will mean the singed, splattered rooms above the shop, and this will just be Mum and Dad's) is still as lopsided and lovely as when they left it, though with the addition of bare, skeletal tree branches and a dusting of snow. The windows glow with yellow light, and it’s probably full of warm food and clean sheets. It looks like a postcard.
"This is going to be terrible," George says from behind his scarf, kicking up snow ahead of them.
"One night," Fred says, in his best steady on, boys sort of voice. "We've suffered worse."
"I've suffered worse," George corrects. "Let me have a go at your nose, or something, and then you can talk about worse."
They reach the door, stalling and sniffling, so that Arthur opens the door before either of them makes a move to open it. "She's in a state," he says in greeting.
"Who, Ginny?" George asks, stomping the snow off of his shoes as they step inside. Fred takes off his cloak. It's warmer inside, but he can still feel a draft coming in under the door.
Arthur shakes his head. "Your mum," he says. He has lines under his eyes. "Be nice. Try not to - you know."
"Joke?" Fred offers.
George cocks an eyebrow. "Be ourselves?"
"Pity. I was about to bring the ghoul down and put it in Ron's chair," Fred says, and George looks momentarily delighted at the prospect before Arthur coughs meaningfully and, not a second later, Molly comes hurrying out of the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron.
"Fred, George," she says, hugging them both at once. "I'm so glad you made it. I know it's hard to get away, now. Everyone’s so busy."
"I, er," George says. Arthur is raising his eyebrows at them over her shoulder. "I only wish we could stay longer."
"Yes," Fred says awkwardly. "Christmas is a time for family, and all of that."
The smile Molly is giving each of them in turn wobbles. "Your room is ready," she says, though, without pause. "I have to go finish Harry's jumper - I should have finished it ages ago, but I thought - it doesn't much matter, does it? There's soup in the kitchen, and the rest should be done within the hour."
She dusts snow out of Fred's hair and pats his cheek, and straightens George’s collar. Fred can see his eyebrow twitching in the corner as he strains to contain a put-upon expression. “Thanks, Mum,” he says. “We appreciate it.”
Molly beams at them, though it’s moist- and unsure-looking, and perhaps even expectant. Then she shakes her head and leaves.
“Thanks, boys,” Arthur says. He gestures and they follow him into the kitchen, where Charlie is sitting by the radio, listening intently to the latest news from the resistance. Ginny is sitting by the window with her arms crossed, staring out at the snow.
Arthur shrinks the table and levitates the extra chairs, leading them in a disobedient line up the stairs to the attic, but the empty spaces where Bill, Percy, and Ron are supposed to be - it only makes them bigger.
*
There is really only so much sitting-and-listening that Fred is capable of, especially when the listening part involves such constant dire news. After five minutes of silent staring - mostly silent, anyway, since they can hear the crashes and thumps of Arthur trying to subdue the chairs and force them into the attic - he chances to open his mouth. "Don't worry, Ginny,” he says, hoping he sounds soothing and sympathetic and knowing he can’t quite manage it. “I'm sure your boyfriend is safe."
Ginny turns sharply in her chair, scowling. "It's not funny."
George straightens up, offended on his behalf. "He didn't mean - "
"And it's not just him, is it? Ron's out there, too. Hermione." She stands up. "Maybe I'm worried about them. Maybe I'm worried about the fact that You-Know-Who might win and there are Death Eaters running Hogwarts and - "
Fred holds up his hands. "All right. All right. Defensive, much?"
Ginny glares, tosses her hair, and starts up the staircase. "When I'm of age, I'm going to kill you both in your beds," she says, not looking back at them as she marches straight-backed up to the first floor.
"You won't," George protests, but she only slams her door in retort.
"She will," Fred says. "Remember she used to be fun? We thought she would be on our side."
"She's becoming a woman. I imagine it's trying."
Fred tilts his head. "Do you suppose that's what happened to Percy?"
George continues to stare up the stair case for a long, silent moment.
"That's very awkward, Fred," Charlie finally interjects from the table behind them. He shuts off the radio.
“Agreed,” George says. "I'm going to make a well-timed escape to the loo, now, before you add to that."
Fred nods emphatically, though he has no intentions of continuing. "Good plan," he says, and George bounds up the stairs, pounding obnoxiously on Ginny’s door as he passes it.
“And I’m due for a smoke,” Charlie
"You smoke?" Fred asks.
"Don't tell Mum."
He snorts.
Charlie frowns, pausing in the doorway. "You don't have to be so hard on her."
"We're not hard on her," Fred says. They’re just generally difficult children. There’s a difference.
"Christmas is a time for family, and all of that," Charlie mimics. “It’s not funny, you know. Not always. Sometimes you could try to - ”
"I was entirely serious. Why doesn't anyone ever take me seriously?"
Charlie rolls his eyes. "I wonder."
Fred makes a face at his back until it’s disappeared, then helps himself to soup.
*
Dinner is the quietest affair Fred can ever remember in the Burrow, even compared to funeral days. He and George thank Molly stiffly for the food, and Arthur and Charlie manage a ten-minute conversation about dragons that no one else joins. They carefully avoid talking about the Order or Harry or You-Know-Who, with Ginny sitting there and glaring at them all as if she dares them.
Fred sighs. It is a difficult job, being the comic relief in what he knows will go down as a war story - especially when your mum is Molly Weasley - but someone has to do it, just like someone has to go traipsing off into the great unknowns of Britain and never even bother to send a message home to the family telling them he's safe. Fred does like his job better, all things considered, but at the moment he can't think of a single thing -
"Could you pass the butter, Fred?" Charlie asks.
"I'm not Fred," he says, still half-distracted, even as he reaches for the butter and holds it out to Charlie. "I'm George."
Charlie doesn't take the butter. He's glaring. George - good old George - makes a noise in his throat and ducks his head down, avoiding the stricken look Molly is sending toward the ruins of his ear. Right, Fred thinks. He needs to stop forgetting they're not identical anymore.
He doubts the joke can be salvaged, especially old and tired as it already is, but he puts the butter down and, all casual innocence, covers George's ear with his hand.
Nothing.
He chances a glance at his mother - her eyes are wide and her lips are pursed, and Fred realizes he can't remember ever including Molly in a joke instead of making her the brunt of one.
That won't do. He winks, smiles a little: this is for her. Molly blinks, and sniffs, and looks down at her plate.
And then she laughs, though it's a wet sort of laughter, with tears already squeezing out the corners of her eyes, and not in the laugh-until-you-cry sort of way that Fred and George usually strive for. And it wasn't even that funny; Fred really could have done better, he thinks, if all of the solemnity in the room hadn't been distracting him.
It doesn't matter so much, though, when Arthur begins chuckling quietly from his right, and then Charlie and Ginny set in. George kicks him lightly under the table, grinning ear to remnant-of-ear, and maybe the laughter doesn't fill the room, but it warms it.