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It is six in the morning, and Angelina Johnson is fucking angry. Her stupid boyfriend – no, her stupid fiancé, she keeps forgetting – has gone and spilled hot chocolate down the front of her favourite shirt, the white shirt that makes her skin look golden and her eyes brighter than usual, and she’s very, very close to throwing something at him.
The stupid way he’s looking at her doesn’t help,with his rumpled morning hair and sleepy eyes – it does nothing for her temper.
(Well, it helps some, but she’s not going to admit it.).
“I can just get that off with a spell, though, Angie,” he says, and takes a cautious step towards her, hands raised as if in self-defence – good. He should be defending himself. She’s fought in a war and deals with grumpy, know-it-all Healers at work everyday, but she’s never been closer to murder than right at this second.
“It’s not the same, though,” she says, crossing her arms. “I’ll always know it was stained.”
“I’ll… buy you a new shirt?” George offers.
Angelina scoffs. “Who drinks hot chocolate in the morning, anyway?”
“You’re the one who told me not to have caffeine this early in the morning!”
“Yes, because you know the sort of headaches you get when you have too much caffeine–”
“I know, I’m just saying–” George stops, mid-word, and looks at her.
There’s a smirk on his face, and she says, “What?”
“Nothing,” he says.
“Spit it out, Weasley.”
“It’s just… well. We’re bickering like an old married couple, aren’t we?”
Angelina thinks of her parents, of her mum saying you forgot to buy sugar and now I have to take my coffee without it, you idiot to her father. Her temper settles down as easily as it had flared up, and she brings her hand up, looking at the ring on her finger, the ring that’s been there since last week. It’s a ruby in a slim gold band, and it glints in the early morning sunlight. “We are, a bit,” she says.
George steps closer to Angelina, and takes her hand, using it to pull her in for a kiss. “Good thing we’re engaged then, isn’t it?”
“Saves us time, I suppose,” Angelina says, and then loses track of the thread of the conversation as she kisses him. She thinks she might be content standing there, kissing her stupid, aggravating fiancé, forever.
“You’re getting late!” the clock shouts at them, breaking their reverie. George jumps, and the remnant of hot chocolate in the mug he’s holding spills over her shirt. She doesn’t even bat an eyelid this time.
Angelina pulls away with a sigh, and rests her head down on George’s shoulder. “Remind me never to accept gifts from your mum again.”
“The clock’s useful, though, isn’t it?” George says. He lifts the clock up, taps it with his wand to shut it up (the clock lets out an indignant squawk before going silent), and sets it back down on the nightstand.
Angelina looks down ruefully. “I think my shirt’s well and truly fucked,” she says.
“I prefer you without a shirt, anyway,” George says.
Angelina swats at him as she walks to the wardrobe to get another top for herself. “Can’t go shirtless on a family camping trip, can I?”
“You’ll never know for sure unless you try,” George says wisely.
Angelina throws a set of wadded-up Healer robes at him. She doesn’t turn around, but she can hear his laugh and the way he whistles as he walks to the kitchen. It makes her smile. Just as he always does.
*
They’re meant to arrive at the campsite bright and early, at half past seven in the morning, and because George and Angelina are nothing if not consistent, they arrive a little bit after eight, after the tents are already set up.
“You’re here,” Arthur greets them delightedly, pulling them into hugs.
It seems like everyone’s here already; the Weasley family has grown large over the last few years, and the seven tents are set up in a semicircle around a sad-looking fire pit. There’s a low thrum of activity and noise that Angelina associates with Hogwarts during meal times and with the Weasleys during… well, during any time.
“Nearly everyone’s here,” Arthur continues, confirming Angelina’s suspicion. “Apart from Charlie, he only gets here in the evening. Oh, and Percy’s bringing Audrey–”
“Is he?” George says, grinning.
“And I’ve promised him we’ll all be perfectly nice and welcoming to her.” Arthur gives George a pointed look.
“Of course I’ll be nice,” George says, “to her. Now Prefect Percy on the other hand…”
Angelina laughs.
They get swept up into it soon enough. Two minutes after George and Angelina settle down and set their small case in the tent they’re sharing with Ron, Ginny, Hermione, and Harry, Angelina finds herself in a spirited debate over whether the Chudley Canons have any hope of defeating Puddlemere United this season.
“Absolutely. The Canons are going to win, Puddlemere’s defence were terrible last year,” Ron says.
“Every part of the Canons is terrible, though,” Ginny says.
“Don’t say that, we’re improving–”
“Course they’re improving now. It’s impossible for them to get any worse, isn’t it?” Angelina puts in.
Harry and Hermione choose to ignore the Quidditch rivalry discussion and get into a conversation of their own about, of all things, the defensive measures the Ministry is teaching the newest batch of Aurors, while George watches.
“I just don’t think it’s enough, the training they’re undergoing–”
“They have more formal training than I got, Hermione.”
“That’s different, though. You had field experience, didn’t you? We all did.”
“That’s one way to put defeating old Voldy, isn’t it? Field experience,” George repeats with a snort.
“Oi,” Charlie, who’s apparently arrived now, calls out from outside, his voice ringing through the tent and making Angelina jump, “Family Quidditch game, let’s go!”
“Do you ever feel like Charlie’s gotten into the habit of talking to us all as if we’re all Welsh Greens or something?” Ron grumbles.
“Don’t get me started,” Harry says. “Last time I brought Teddy around for dinner, Charlie taught him all about dragons, and now Teddy throws a fit if we read him any book that isn’t Sven the Swedish Short-Snout. I could recite that book in my sleep.”
“Nothing more attractive than the Chosen One reading to his godson, though,” Ginny says cheerfully, and kisses Harry’s cheek as she gets up.
Angelina nudges George as they walk out of the tent together. “Look at them, flirting on a family camping trip,” she says.
“Terrible,” George agrees. “Setting a bad example for young Victoire.”
“The worst,” Angelina agrees.
“Unlike us,” George says, wrapping his arm around Angelina’s waist. “On our best behaviour and all that. Setting a good example for the youth.”
“Definitely a better example than when we were living together, ignoring your parents and my dad whenever they asked us when we’d get married.”
George pauses. They’re at the entrance of the tent, and the others have gone ahead of them. “Shit,” he says. “You’re right. We are setting a good example, aren’t we?”
He looks genuinely horrified and Angelina, laughing, leans up to kiss him. “If it helps, I’m sure you’ll still give Percy hell about Audrey and make your mum angry,” she offers.
“That does help. Thanks, Angie,” George says.
*
They only manage to play for about an hour before the golf ball they’re using for a Snitch hits Charlie’s nose and the game falls to a quick end.
“Here, Charlie,” Harry says, dismounting from his broom easily and pointing his wand at Charlie’s nose. “Episkey.”
Charlie touches his newly repaired nose. “Cheers,” he says, delighted.
“Blood’s still on your face, though,” Bill says. “Come on, Mum’ll help you get that off.” He grabs his arm and tugs him towards Molly, who’s watching them with a look of vague nervousness.
George slips his hand into Angelina’s as the rest of the group disperses, either to go help Charlie or, in Ron and Ginny’s case, to go ask Arthur if it’s time to get a move on dinner just yet.
“Do you think Charlie’ll be alright?” Angelina asks.
George waves a hand. “He’ll be fine. A golf ball’s nothing compared to a dragon, innit?”
Angelina considers that. “Sounds about right, yeah. Still, maybe we should’ve used something else for a Snitch, not a golf ball. Can’t be fun, getting hit with one.”
“You know, I almost proposed to you with a Snitch,” George says. It’s apropos of nothing, but it has Angelina’s attention immediately.
Angelina turns to look at him, and blinks. “Are you serious? Like one of the Snitches that open up and reveal a ring?”
“It was an idea,” George says. “Would you have said yes?”
“Probably,” Angelina admits. “But it would have been despite your proposal, not because of it.”
“You wound me, Angelina Johnson,” George says.
Angelina grins. “Did you go as far as to buy the Snitch?”
“Course I did. Almost had it engraved,” George says.
“I want to see it,” Angelina says immediately.
“What, so you can laugh at me?”
“A bit, yeah.”
George grins. “Sounds about right.”
*
Dinner’s a loud affair, even by usual Weasley standards; if it weren’t for the several – several – Muggle-Repellant Charms, Angelina’s sure someone would’ve found them out by now.
Ron, Harry, and Hermione help Molly with dinner; Ginny claims to be helping Arthur, but it seems like they’re just sitting by the fireplace and chatting. The rest of them watch Bill and Charlie argue about whether they need to conjure up one picnic table or two for all of them.
“It’s simple, if you just do the maths for how many people are going to eat,” Audrey says patiently. “The width of the average table that the wizard conjures up–”
“Audrey, come on. We don’t calculate in this family,” George says.
“Well, Percy does,” Charlie says fairly.
“But we don’t, which is probably how Mum and Dad ended up with as many kids as they have,” George says.
“Just you wait,” Bill tells George and Angelina. “Once you’re married, you won’t be far behind, either.”
Angelina, who’s only ever wanted two children at the most, gives George a panicked look.
“He’s right,” Fleur says, “everything changes after you get married. Now that you are engaged, you’ll see.”
“Dinner’s ready,” Molly announces.
Hermione walks up to them with a pile of cutlery in her hands and rolls her eyes. “Honestly, you still don’t have tables?”
“We tried to tell them,” Percy says, shaking his head.
Bill rolls his eyes and waves his wand, causing three tables to appear.
“Bill, you could have warned us,” Molly says, jumping out of the way before a table leg can crush her foot.
“Sorry, Mum – here, let me help you with that.”
Angelina finds herself sandwiched between Percy and Fleur for dinner, with George and Harry right opposite her.
“Let’s see the ring again,” Molly says eagerly; Angelina’s happy to oblige and hold hold her hand up.
“Oh, it’s just gorgeous. Good taste, George.”
“Cheers, Mum,” George says easily, sending some potatoes over to Angelina’s plate with a flick of his wand.
She raises her plate to catch them, exchanging a smile with him before she starts to dig in. Even in a remote campsite in the woods, Molly Weasley’s food is nothing short of delicious, and after the Quidditch match, the hot food warms up her stomach and makes her want nothing more than to dig in.
“Have you thought about the wedding yet?” Hermione asks eagerly.
“Er… no, not really,” Angelina says.
“Ginny and Harry have just started thinking about theirs, haven’t you?” Molly asks them eagerly.
Ginny nods. “In the autumn, I think. Somewhere outdoors would be nice. Like Bill’s.”
“It’ll be beautiful. We can have it at home,” Molly says.
“Who’ll be your maid of honour?” Fleur asks Angelina.
“Probably Alicia, right?” Ginny says. “Hermione’s going to be mine.”
“You’ll want to ask Alicia soon, then,” Fleur says wisely. “I remember, at my wedding…”
Angelina can feel her smile fade off her face as she listens to Fleur, and she looks across the table at George. She wonders if he feels the same familiar sinking feeling in his gut that she’s feeling, that’s taking her over. It’s gotten slower, more gradual, but never fully faded.
She thinks, for the first time, about a wedding, about all it entails. About the empty seat where her mother would be.
When she was younger, not even a teenager yet, she used to discuss her wedding with her mother. She would make her mother get out her wedding photos to show her, and tell her, When I get married, I’m going to have a pretty dress like yours, and my bridesmaids will wear golden, and we’ll eat chocolate cake, and Dad will be in charge of the music, and–
Her mother would laugh, every time, and tell her, You’re focusing on the wrong thing. If you find someone who’s wonderful enough that you want to be with them forever, everything else is just… details.
She thinks about that now. A wedding doesn’t feel like just details, it feels like something hanging over her, reminding her about how everything’s different from how she ever envisioned it, about how everything they discuss now feels almost like a reminder of everything they lost.
She thinks, like she often does, about Fred, who she and George talk about now and then, but who’s the subject of almost all their silences.
George looks a bit stricken as he looks at her. As if he knows what she’s thinking about. As if he’s thinking about something similar himself.
Harry turns and looks at them, and then says, “It’s really delicious, Mrs. Weasley.”
“Oh, thank you, dear, but I’ve told you, you can call me Molly, there’s no need to–”
Angelina tunes out the rest of their conversation and, without looking up from her plate, knocks her foot against George’s. She wonders if he’s thinking about the same thing she is; from the way he’s gone quiet, she thinks he is.
*
Angelina wakes George up in the middle of the night. She doesn’t mean to, but she can’t sleep, and when she rolls over in the bed, she hits his shoulder by mistake.
“What’s up, Johnson?” he mumbles, moving to wrap his arm around her and closing his eyes again.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re not asleep and it’s arse o’clock in the night. S’the matter?”
Angelina doesn’t want to say that Ron’s snoring kept her awake because she knows George won’t let Ron hear the end of it tomorrow. Instead, she says, “You know what’s cheesier than proposing to me with a Snitch ring?”
“What?” George asks. He still sounds sleepy, but there’s a smile spreading onto his face.
“Wizards who rent out a Quidditch pitch for the wedding.”
“Merlin. Do people do that?”
“According to last week’s Witch Weekly, they do.”
“Maybe we should suggest that to Harry and Ginny,” George says.
Angelina turns to the side to muffle her giggles against George’s shoulder. “Imagine that, your baby sister and our baby Seeker getting married on a Quidditch pitch.”
“Rita Skeeter would love that,” George says. His hand lazily traces down her arm, and she finds herself relaxing into the touch. “Don’t think it’s quite our style, though,” he says.
His voice is casual, and she forces herself to match it when she says, “No, definitely not.”
“Far too many people, for one.”
“I don’t even know if we know enough people to fill up a Quidditch pitch.”
“We do, but… probably not people we want at our wedding.”
“No,” Angelina says. “In fact…”
George looks at her. He’s got a look in his eyes that she recognises: soft and serious, the way he only seems to get with her. All his edges sanded away. “In fact what?”
“In fact, I’m not sure I’m convinced about this wedding business at all,” she says. She feels better for having said it, immediately better. It’s a load off her chest.
“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts about marrying me,” George says.
“No, you idiot,” Angelina says. “I’m certain about marrying you. I don’t think I could put up with anyone else for the rest of my life.”
“That’s sweet, that. True romance.”
“I’m convinced about the marriage,” she says. “Just… not about the wedding.”
George doesn’t say anything for a moment. “The only person I want to be my best man is my dead brother.”
Angelina brings her hand up to rest on his cheek. “Could always have a wedding without a best man,” she says quietly.
“We could,” George says.
“And without my mum.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,” she repeats.
Neither of them sound very convinced. George rolls over onto his side so he’s facing her properly, and wraps his arm around her waist. “Or…” he says.
Angelina looks up at him, at the way his eyes are beginning to light up. “Or…?”
“Or we could give my mother a heart attack,” George says, very casually, “by eloping and letting them know at the next family dinner.”
“She would have a heart attack,” Angelina says. “So would my dad.”
“Oh, he absolutely would,” George agrees. “But think of the money we’d save on a wedding.”
“And the time,” Angelina says. “Takes a lot of time to plan a wedding. We don’t have that much time.”
“Not with how busy you are at work,” George says.
“What about you? You’re opening that new shop soon, aren’t you?”
“The one in Godric’s Hollow or the one in Upper Flagley?”
“I don’t know. Either. Both?”
“We’re opening the one in Godric’s Hollow next month, yeah.”
“So not too much time to plan a wedding, right?”
“Right. We’re very busy people,” George agrees.
Angelina thinks about it for a moment, and then grins. “So… we’re doing this, then?”
George muffles a yawn against the back of his hand. “May as well,” he agrees. “Let me know when you get a day off work next, and we can go and get married. How’s that?”
“Sounds like a plan,” she agrees.
“Glad we’re settled on that, then,” George says. “Should we get some sleep?”
Angelina feels light and happy, excited in a way that’s the polar opposite of how she felt during dinner. “Yes,” she says, “Let’s.”