George, Please Sit Down.


WAR HEROES TO DIVORCE

George and Angelina Weasley, after twenty-five years of marriage, today filed for a divorce, citing irreconcilable differences--

George couldn’t read any more, scrunching up The Daily Prophet, and throwing it towards the bin. It bounced off the wall behind the bin, and instead fell straight into the kitchen sink. That bloody sink. Why was he sitting in the kitchen at all? He’d always hated sitting in the kitchen. Although he and Angelina were both good cooks in their own right, they hated getting in each other’s way, and so exiled each other from the kitchen while the other was busy.

That had only been relatively recently, George thought, taking another swig of Firewhisky, and feeling it burn his throat in a very satisfying manner. When they’d first moved into this house, they used to cook together all the time. He remembered it being very sunny, although given they lived in Britain, that couldn’t be right. One occasion, when they’d only been living there a few weeks, he returned from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to find Angelina in the kitchen, baking. He’d expected her to be at Quidditch practice, and so was surprised to see her there, the sunlight streaming into the basement window and shining off the beads in her braided hair.

She had looked across to him and smiled, saying that practice had finished early, and she’d thought she’d bake a cake. It was in the oven now--George hadn’t let her finish the sentence, kissing her and running his hand through her beautiful hair. He loved the feel of the braids around his fingers, of her head in his hand, the way she kissed him, her arm wrapping around his back. He’d hoisted her up onto the edge of the sink, and she’d cupped his face in her hands as she giggled, saying the bump of the sink against the counter hurt her bum. He’d suggested he soothe it, lifting her off, his hands around her buttocks. She was tall, however, and he only managed to walk a few metres when his arms gave out. Not that she cared, holding his hand and practically dragging him to the bedroom. They’d had to stop when they smelt the cake burning. 


But that was a long time ago. George looked at the table. He vaguely remembered his daughter having been there earlier that evening, and trying to help him up to his room, but he’d waved her away, and in this motion, had come into contact with her body, and sent her running. He’d hit her. Accidentally, yes, but that didn’t change it. How could he have hit his own daughter? Feeling even more disgusted with himself, he stood up, placing his hands on the table to ensure he did not fall over. Once he was sure that he was balanced, he grabbed the bottle and finished it, feeling it slip from his fingers and crash to the floor. He heard it crash and looked down to see the orange light of the street lamp just outside shine on the pieces of brown glass. He hadn’t meant to do that, but then he certainly hadn’t meant to hurt Roxanne. She’d be in her room; he would go there now, and apologise.

He swayed his way from the table to the doorway, and then realised that he would have to go up the stairs. Why did he have to go up the stairs, he thought, slamming one hand on the wall and the other on the bannister. The wall was a horrid shade of beige. That had been Angelina’s choice. She’d said they could have whatever colour they wanted in the bedrooms and the bathrooms, but for the public rooms, she insisted on beige. Of course, the fact that their bathroom was a bright shade of burgundy red, and their bedroom an emerald green, attracted more attention than the dull and bland beige of the rest of the house. When he proposed to Angelina, he hadn’t quite realised how important housekeeping was to her, although he’d been so in love with her, he would have married her anyway. It wasn’t that she cared what others thought, but that she cared about keeping up standards.

He’d never realised quite how poor Angelina had been, and the efforts her mother had gone to in order to hide that poverty. Not until he met the woman anyway, and that wasn’t until years after Fred died. It had surprised him that they had been friends so long, and still he’d never known that. Although they had been close friends during the war, they didn’t see much of each other after Fred had died. George had thrown himself on alcohol and she’d thrown herself into Quidditich, it had seemed as though they would never be able to connect without Fred. George had not quite understood this, since Fred had only dated her the once, and been in love with Alicia Spinnet for two years by the time he died. But somehow his absence, and the impossibility of him ever falling in love, ever getting married, ever having children, meant that George felt guilty whenever he thought about doing these things.

Survivor’s guilt, Hermione had told him. Ginny, when she had to play against Angelina’s team, said that she’d never seen anyone play the way Angelina did.

“As if her life depended on it,� had been Ginny’s words, and in a way, George thought, she’d been right. Her life did depend on it. He remembered Angelina saying to him that fighting made her feel alive, and she wasn’t sure how she’d survive when the war ended. Turned out she’d just pick a different fight, in this case against rival Quidditch players.

He had been planning on visiting her. With Ron’s help, Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was turning a profit, in spite of George usually falling down the stairs drunk, and having to spend the first few hours of the working day sobering up. And then she’d visited him, asking not for herself, but for Alicia Spinnet, who she was worried about. They hadn’t ended up talking about Alicia, because as they hugged, and enjoyed the comfort and strength provided by one another’s arms, he had turned his face just as she turned hers. And though that kiss was accidental, the ones following it certainly were not.

And then they had been together, for twenty five years. How could that not matter? Surely things like that had their own momentum, and once you’d put up with someone for that long, you could put up with them for another quarter of a century? He knew he certainly would have. For all her faults, and there were many, he loved Angelina, and never wanted to let her go.

How could he not have realised that she, so suddenly, no longer wanted him? She hadn’t even given him a chance to change! Had she? He was struggling to remember and realised, as he carefully negotiating the stairs one by one, that he didn’t want to.

George was glad to be out of the kitchen. The kitchen had been where they argued, the kitchen had been where she told him about The Other Man. He didn’t want to think about this, but suddenly he missed a step and as he fell, the beige carpet burning his drunken body, it was all he could think about.

“George, please sit down.�

She had said it so calmly. How could she--how dare she--say something that calmly? How long had she been thinking about it? How many nights spent lying next to him, thinking, I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this? How had he not realised that someone he loved so much was in pain?

They had just returned from something at the Ministry. He couldn’t remember what. He knew he’d arrived drunk, and Angelina had arrived from her first day as the Falmouth Falcon manager, so both had looked harassed. And maybe he’d said some stuff about the Slytherins he remembered from school now being in Ministry posts, and maybe he shouldn’t have done that, let bygones be bygones and all that, but he was drunk and had no longer cared.

Angelina had cared, bundling him from the room, and practically shoving him into a Muggle taxi. He had laughed it off, made a crap joke, tried to kiss her, because even with strands of hair awry, she looked beautiful. So very beautiful. She’d pushed him away, and then he’d realised that she was crying, and hadn’t been sure what to do; it had been so long since she’d cried. Or, rather, so long since he’d seen her cry.

“George, please sit down.�

Sit down he had, before slumping forward on the table. She was standing, by the kitchen sink, frowning at him, and her black eyes, those beautiful eyes like pools of water at night, so still. He had just wanted to fall asleep, and was wondering why she had brought him to the kitchen, when all he wanted was a bed, a warm soft bed, with her beside him, and to fall asleep to the sounds of her breathing.

“Why don’t you sit down?� he had said, loudly.

“Be quiet--they’ll hear you--� She nodded her head towards the door, through which their children were listening to the wireless. George didn’t understand his children. They were grown up--he’d been desperate to leave home, and it never ceased to amaze him that they were not desperate to do the same. It meant his and Angelina’s arguments were mostly held in hushed whispers, or the bedroom, or when their children were out.

“Oh,� he had said, shaking his head, as if hoping the drunkenness would fall from it as easily as the dandruff. “So we’re about to argue.�

He was bored with arguing with his wife. Yes, there were things to argue about, like Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes which, for five years now, Angelina had kept going from the money saved during her professional Quidditch career. And every time they argued, she made suggestions, and he did follow some of them through, some of the time, but he didn’t see why a model that had worked for longer than they’d been married should suddenly have broken. His son had tried to explain to him how old fashioned the place seemed, but George refused to change a thing, saying that gave it ‘charm.’ And it did, didn’t it? He knew that he wouldn’t look twice at a shop that shone, that had an elegant, pared back display. People wanted noise and laughter and colour and why shouldn’t this be working anymore?

“Who cares if the children hear?� he had asked, as Angelina had quietly closed the door.

“I care,� she had replied, her voice trembling. She had sat down, looking at him as if she was about to cry. George reached across to her, holding her hand, but she flinched, and withdrew her hand. He felt nauseous, suddenly. Partly due to the alcohol, yes, but also due to the look on her face when he touched her. As if he was laying claim to something which was no longer his to make claim to.

“George--� Her lip was trembling. He wanted to kiss her, but by now, through the drunken fog, he had realised that she would not like that. A single tear slipped down her cheek, and George resisted the impulse to brush it away.

She took a deep breath, and repeated herself. “George, I’m--�

A second tear followed, and then a third, and a fourth, and then she stood up, running to the sink, and vomiting into it. George tried to get up, but just stumbled, falling to the floor, and having to haul himself upright. Once this was done, he took a step towards her, but she just outstretched her hand, and said, “Please, George. Sit down.�

“George, please sit down.�

Sit down he had, and eventually she had turned to face him, and eventually the words, “I can’t do this anymore,� had left her lips. “I’m leaving you.�

And although those words had been followed by others of explanation and recrimination, and the existence of someone else she had been sleeping with, a someone else who she thought she could be happy with, all these words fell on ears which did not heed them. The only thing he had really been able to take in were the words, George, please sit down, over and over again, until he fell into a drunken stupor.

George, crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, groaned. His whole body ached, and there was a dampness on his chest, and the taste of bile in his throat.

“Dad?�

With great effort, he looked up, and saw the silhouette of his daughter looming above them. He wondered why Fred wasn’t here, and then realised that Fred had moved out with his mother. George couldn’t even remember the name of the man she was living with.

“Oh, Dad.�

Roxanne was kneeling beside him, tapping her wand to his chest. He’d vomited over himself. When had that happened? It didn’t matter, since she’d cleaned it up, and was now helping him up, looping his arm around her shoulder. She was twenty four, she should be out getting pissed. She shouldn’t be helping her plastered father up the stairs, slowly, speaking to him encouragingly, gently placing him against the wall, while she pulled back the bed sheets, before leading him into the bed.

George could feel sleep coming to claim him, and thought for a second that Roxanne had already gone. Crying out, he heard her say, “I’m just getting you water.� He watched her emerge from the bathroom with a glass, cast the spell to fill it with water, and then place it on the bedside table. She then rolled his face onto its side. She knew what she was doing. She had done this before, after all.

She turned to go, but with his last minute of consciousness, George reached out, squeezed her hand and said, “I love you, Roxy. You and Fred, and your mum. I love you all.�

There had been a few seconds of hesitation, before she said, in a voice that was on the edge of breaking, “I know you do, Dad. I just wish that was enough.�

As sleep carried him away, just as the night before and, he guessed, many nights to come, all he could think were the words: George, please sit down. George, please sit down. George, please sit down... over and over again.