With his sexual appetite satiated, Arthur had been able to enjoy the party much more than before. After mingling a bit, he found himself in a riveting conversation about Muggle motor vehicles with some cousins and nephews. He enjoyed the conversation immensely, but this particular topic caused him to miss his older brother more than usual because it made Bilius's absence more profound.
While Muggle objects always fascinated Arthur, Bilius increased his interest and understanding of motor vehicles in particular. The two brothers shared a love and fascination of Muggle artifacts more so than any of their other brothers, but Bilius managed to focus his obsession on motor vehicles, unlike Arthur who had a widespread obsession with anything remotely Muggle-related (which wasn't too unusual with the "Blood Traitor Weasleys;" they all publicly deplored their inclusion in the Pure-Blood Directory and were proud to say they didn't look down on Muggles and even claimed to have Muggle ancestors, but some family members went a step further and took an interest in Muggle history, culture, or artifacts, some more keen than others). Bilius maintained an interest in other Muggle artifacts throughout his life of course, but acquiring a job working at the garage in the predominately Muggle town of Rugeley, where the family lived, when he was young and impressionable played a major role in focusing his interest; and despite being perfectly capable of finding a job in the Wizarding World, Bilius ended up buying a small house in Rugeley and kept that job until the day he died.
Like most of his brothers, Arthur rarely came home from Hogwarts for Christmas and Easter, but during the summer, he wandered down to the garage fairly often to observe Bilius and the other mechanics repair a variety of automobiles. His older brother always took the time to answer his questions and explain how things worked. By the time Arthur left home, he knew almost as much about cars as Bilius did.
Arthur longed to own a Muggle motor vehicle to tinker with, but could never afford one and Molly always showed some resistance to the idea whenever he mentioned it. So, one could imagine Arthur's elation and Molly's dismay when Bilius surprised him on his fortieth birthday with a beat-up old Ford Anglia, which the brothers spent hours upon hours fixing up and was the current topic of conversation until it abruptly shifted to motorbikes.
With the change of topic came a change in location as well. Arthur and his cousins and nephews headed to his shed. While Arthur unlocked the door, Marie ran up to her eldest brother, Andrew, who would have been finishing his seventh year at Hogwarts if he hadn't decided to become an Auror after participating in the Battle of Hogwarts, having come of age the day before and gone undetected by his aunt and uncle.
Arthur sent an orb of light to hover near the ceiling, illuminating the shed. It briefly crossed his mind that he hadn't been in his shed since the night of Percy's wedding, which ignited a flash of other memoires to flit through his mind. A faint unsettled feeling came upon him. He quickly pushed down that feeling and all unwelcome thoughts and tried to ignore them completely.
Once everyone entered, they all crowded around a lumpy, old tarp. Arthur yanked it off to reveal Sirius's old motorbike. Various parts lay on the floor around it, both mirrors were missing while one handlebar dangled loosely behind the busted headlight, the front wheel was bent at on odd angle, and dents and scratches covered the sidecar.
"Arthur..." Cousin Rupert began, frowning at the bike, "I thought you said you had a motorbike, not a –"
"– heap of scrap metal," another cousin chimed in, earning laughter from Rupert and a couple others.
Arthur shared a look with the ones who weren't laughing and rolled his eyes. While they all showed an interest in Muggle artifacts, a select few appreciated tinkering with, disassembling, and repairing them. Rupert was one of the ones who would much rather take something apart and figure out how it worked than repair it.
"Well, it's not mine," Arthur corrected. "I'm repairing it for the owner's godson as a surprise. I've just not had much time to get out here."
"Damn, I was hoping we could ride it," Andrew muttered.
Marie sidled up to the bike to inspect it more closely. Everyone else started talking again – some about that particular motorbike, others about motorbikes in general, while a couple admired Arthur's vast collection of Muggle objects. After a minute, she spoke up.
"Why don't you just use magic to fix it?" she asked.
Her question went unheard.
The nine-year-old tugged on her brother's sleeve to gain his attention and, consequently, Arthur's as well as another cousin's since they had all been in the same conversation.
"Why don't you just use magic to fix it?" she repeated. "Daddy breaks things all the time and always uses magic to fix them."
"I suppose I could, but that would take all the fun out of it, wouldn't it?" Arthur replied.
Marie cocked her head and gave a small shrug, conceding her uncle's point.
"You need to teach this one," Arthur told Andrew.
"I've been trying, but she doesn't really have the patience for tinkering yet," Andrew said. "I'm just glad she's taken an interest."
"Uncle Artie, how in Merlin's name did you get Aunt Molly to agree to all of this?" Edward, Alexander's eldest, interrupted, gesturing to the shed full of Muggle artifacts. "Madeline and I have been married eight years and she still makes me keep my stuff in the home office."
"That is a good question," an older cousin agreed. "I'm not allowed a shed."
"I'm stuck using one of the kids' old rooms," Rupert added. "I thought once they all moved out, I would have something a little bigger, but it's been nearly twenty years now and she's using the grandchildren as an excuse to limit my collection."
Arthur smirked. "That's where you all messed up, thinking it would happen with time. I managed this fairly early on. Molly thought my little obsession was cute and endearing until she had to live with it scattered around the house," he chuckled. "I told her if I had a shed, she wouldn't have to deal with it – and so, here we are." The corners of his eyes crinkled as the smirk turned into a grin.
The others began to grumble again about how unfair it was and why no one thought to mention that to them.
"At least you all have a designated room," Andrew put in. "All I have is a corner in my bedroom – and my dad hates it if anything Muggle ends up anywhere else in the house. He blows a gasket every time – doesn't matter if it's a battery or a microwave – and he doesn't even come into my room anymore because the corner is more like a quadrant."
That didn't sound like Ian at all. Sure, he never much liked Muggle artifacts (probably from growing up with two brothers who were borderline obsessed and the problems it caused with Septimus) and the impulsivity he acquired from his Quidditch accident sometimes caused him to react before being able to fully process everything, but he was never anti-Muggle and such common, extreme reactions as what Andrew described sounded very unlike Ian. What Marie mentioned mere moments ago about their dad breaking things, Arthur had initially chalked up to a child's exaggeration and Ian's clumsiness (which also started after the accident). Now, Arthur couldn't help wondering if everything was as it seemed with his younger brother. It wasn't long ago that he himself had shattered everyone's beliefs about him, after all.
In an effort to lighten the mood, Arthur gave his nephew a lopsided grin and said, "That may be my fault – partly. Your Uncle Bilius and I left Muggle stuff lying all over the house growing up and your dad usually ended up either stepping or sitting on them. I think he actually swallowed a sixpence once – Muggle money, back then," he added at the blank stares he received from his nephews and a couple cousins. Marie had lost interest in the adult conversations almost as soon as Arthur answered her question and wandered off to see what all was in her uncle's shed.
Eyebrows knit together, Andrew asked, "How did he swallow Muggle money?"
"Oh, he was a toddler and we lived in a Muggle town so there was usually some lying around – and you know your Uncle Desmond is only nine months younger than him and was an extreme preemie, so he took up a lot of attention for a couple years, which made it easier for your dad to get into things he shouldn't."
The group broke into smaller conversations again. Not much later, most of the cousins and Edward drifted back toward the house. Oliver, who was Alexander's fourth son and the same age as Bill, along with Andrew and Rupert still hadn't gotten enough of Arthur's shed and its contents or the Muggle-centered topics of conversation. Marie remained hidden somewhere among the many cluttered shelves. None of this bothered Arthur, though; he loved discussing Muggle artifacts and showing off his collection, but he hadn't managed to keep the anxious feeling he'd gotten upon entry buried very long and a vague craving now accompanied it.
Despite that vague craving gradually growing stronger the longer they were out there, Arthur did not turn down an opportunity to try to figure out how lava lamps worked when Oliver asked.
When Marie finally reappeared, she squeezed between her brother and her uncle at the workbench and hopped onto a vacant stool. A lava lamp lay in pieces on the rough, wooden surface in front of the trio while Rupert and Oliver studied similar parts from a second lava lamp on Arthur's other side. Three others sat on a nearby shelf in various stages of assembly.
"What are you doing?" Marie asked.
"Trying to figure out how to make this work without electricity," Andrew mumbled as he turned a tapered glass bottle containing liquid and a solid substance over in his hand.
"Fire," Rupert simply stated all of a sudden.
"No, I've tried that," Arthur said. "It exploded."
"That's the fifth idea you've shot down," Oliver said, holding the hollow metal base before picking up a lightbulb and screwing it into place. He then set the base down and took the tapered bottle from Rupert as he began piecing the lamp back together.
After more suggestions and denials among the adults, Marie picked up the other lightbulb. "This gets hot, doesn't it?" she asked.
"Yeah, it lights up and gets hot," her brother answered.
"Can't you just do something similar with magic on the bottle...that isn't fire?"
The men furrowed their brows.
"Like Lumos and a Warming Charm?" Marie ventured.
"Have you tried that, Arthur?" Rupert asked.
Lost in thought unrelated to their project but pertaining to the currently strong and now-unmistakable craving, Arthur did not hear his niece's suggestion or his cousin's question.
"Arthur," Rupert repeated.
Arthur blinked then looked over at him. "What?"
"Lumos and a Warming Charm."
"That's a brilliant idea. Let's try that."
They each put on a pair of safety goggles.
A few minutes later, small orbs of light where the lightbulbs usually go lit the lamps and the solid substance inside the bottles began to separate and move throughout the colored liquid. No explosion occurred.
As the five relatives observed, another question arose.
"What's in them?" Marie piped up.
"Lava," came from Arthur and Oliver while Andrew and Rupert answered, "Not sure."
Rupert scoffed. "Lava? You actually think there's real lava in these?"
"It's in the name," Oliver calmly rebutted.
A friendly debate on whether or not the lamps contained real lava ensued. Finally, Oliver suggested they open one and find out.
Arthur removed the conical, aluminum cap that sat loosely atop the bottle to reveal a bottle cap that tightly sealed the contents of the bottle and read "Don't Open; Don't Drink."
Ignoring the sticker, he tried unscrewing the cap with his hand, but to no avail.
"Someone grab a screwdriver out of that box over there," Arthur said with a jab of his thumb over his shoulder toward the shelf by the window framing the house.
Marie hopped off of the stool without hesitation.
A moment later, a small yelp of pain immediately drew their attention away from the lamps and to Marie, who had two fingers wrapped up in her other hand. Arthur and Andrew went to her while Rupert and Oliver stayed back and watched.
"What happened?" Andrew asked.
"I think something cut me."
"Here, let me see," Arthur said, holding out his hand as he squatted.
She gave him her hand. Droplets of blood already formed on the surface of a shallow cut that went across two fingers. Arthur frowned in bewilderment. There shouldn't have been anything sharp in that box.
"Glass?" Andrew said, holding up a small shard he found in the toolbox.
It suddenly struck Arthur that he hadn't cleaned up any of the glass from the bottle he'd thrown against the wall months ago. He hadn't even realized some could've flown into unsuspecting places.
"I'm sorry, Marie," he apologized sincerely to his young niece. "Why don't you find your mum or Aunt Molly, and either of them can fix you up in a jiffy. It's just a little a nick, but I'm rubbish at Healing Spells and I've not got any Wound-Cleaning Potion out here."
No hard feelings were had as Andrew followed Marie out to find their mum.
Rupert clapped his hands together once. "Alright! Let's test this theory, shall we?" he said enthusiastically.
Arthur rubbed his forehead. "No – Um – We'll – Uh – We can do that some other time," he said distractedly. "We've been away from the party long enough anyway."
Once Rupert and Oliver exited the shed, Arthur terminated the charms on the lava lamps before turning to the larger shards of glass on the floor and casting Reparo. The shards pieced themselves together while smaller bits from nearby shelves and cracks filled in the gaps. The final product was, unsurprisingly, a Firewhisky bottle.
He picked it up with the sole intent to inspect it to ensure no pieces were missing, but he froze. An intense craving washed over him like a tsunami and the empty bottle trapped his gaze like a Veela.
The door creaked open behind him.
"Hey, Arthur –" Ian stopped short, verbally and physically, when he spotted the bottle in his brother's hand. "Arthur?" he asked warily.
Arthur remained entranced by the bottle.
Carefully closing the gap between them, Ian moved forward, cautiously placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, and firmly repeated, "Arthur."
Startled by the contact, Arthur jerked his head around to see who stood behind him. Ian looked back at him with raised eyebrows before his eyes briefly flitted to the Firewhisky bottle.
"Ian, it's not – I – This – I've not been drinking, I swear. This is from last summer. You can ask Molly. You know how hard I've been trying to –"
"I believe you," Ian stated, his dark eyes locked with Arthur's blue. "But are you alright?"
"I'm...not sure," Arthur replied dazedly, for once not using his go-to answer of "I'm fine." He turned the rest of his body to fully face his brother, who removed his hand from his shoulder and placed it back on the grip of his forearm crutch. "I think I just need to get out of here."
Ian nodded his understanding. "Alright. Well, why don't we get rid of that?"
Arthur allowed him to Vanish the empty bottle without debate. On the third try, it finally disappeared.
They stepped out of the shed, but didn't go far after Arthur locked it back up.
"So, um..." Ian began as he tried to remember why he'd come out there.
"Did you need something?" Arthur asked softly.
"Yeah – It – er –" Ian bit his lip in frustration.
"Was it about Marie?" Arthur prompted.
"Oh – Yeah! Andrew said she got cut on a piece of glass out here. Elaine and I aren't upset or anything – Marie's fine – but I was just curious as to how that happened."
"I am so sorry about that," Arthur apologized again before going on to briefly explain about the broken bottle without going into detail about how it broke. This satisfied Ian's curiosity.
The two brothers started back toward the garden. Ian used both crutches to help navigate the shadowed, uneven terrain and Arthur walked alongside him, unbothered by the slow pace. Arthur suddenly stopped when he remembered something he wanted to ask him.
"Hey, Ian."
Ian stopped and turned around.
"How are things?"
"Didn't we already go over this today?"
"Er – No," Arthur lied, knowing Ian wouldn't question it further. Since his career-ending Quidditch accident, Ian had some cognitive impairments caused by the severe traumatic brain injury he sustained on top of the obvious physical impairments caused by the spinal cord injury. While he reached the point where he was comfortable acknowledging and discussing the problems that lingered from the spinal cord injury years ago, he still avoided any mention of deficits brought on by the brain injury. So, Arthur knew Ian would go along with it if he told him they hadn't gone through this casual exchange whether he thought they had or not.
"Oh," Ian said. "Yeah, everything's been good."
"So things are good with you and Elaine, and you and the kids?" Arthur tried again, hoping this more specific wording would prompt Ian to mention something about the unusual behavior his eldest and youngest children alluded to.
Brows knit together, Ian replied, "Yeah...Why wouldn't they be?"
Arthur shrugged. "Just thought I'd ask." After a brief pause, he added, "Everything alright with you?"
"Yeah."
"Is there anything you've not mentioned that we might oughtta discuss?"
"What d'you mean?" Ian cocked his head. "Did you hear something?"
"I want to make sure that you and Elaine and all of your kids are alright," Arthur said nonchalantly. "You know you can tell me anything and I won't judge."
Ian put most of his weight on his forearm crutches to ease the pressure on his back and legs as he prepared himself for a more lengthy conversation. "Well, I mean, Elaine and I are worried about Marie because she's nearly ten and still hasn't shown any signs of magic," he confessed. "It was a miracle we were able to conceive her, so I know I should be grateful she's even here – and I am – but...what if my injuries somehow interfered with magic being passed on to her and it's my fault she's a Squib?" he asked quietly. He frowned. "Our family has never produced a Squib for as far back as the records go and nothing has been covered up, to Gramps's knowledge. I'm not worried for my sake or reputation, but how it would affect Marie and how people will view her if she's not just a Squib, but the only Squib in our family."
Slightly taken aback by this revelation, Arthur schooled his features. When a child in the family first showed signs of magic, the parents made a joyous announcement at the next family gathering. He assumed he'd missed Marie's announcement since he had distanced himself from his family during the war, but there apparently hadn't been one at all. This news concerned him more than he let on – even the youngest of his nieces and nephews, six-year-old Louisa, showed signs for the first time a few weeks ago when she'd gone outside with Desmond to get Gramps for lunch and ended up Summoning her plush Unicorn from inside the house when they found him. In an attempt to ease his brother's worries, he reasoned, "She may just be a bit behind. If you're that worried, though, have you talked to a Healer, asked if your injuries could've prevented magic being passed down or why Marie is taking so long?"
"No, not with how the climate was. We didn't want to bring any attention to it since we didn't know how You-Know-Who and his followers would treat Squibs – and we still don't want to, with the amount of prejudice Squibs have always faced. We did ask Great-Aunt Ethel, though, since she used to work in St. Mungo's maternity ward. She doesn't think my injuries would have anything to do with it. It would most likely be because of Elaine's Muggle-born grandfather – Said that magic is as hereditary as eye color, but I still feel like it's my fault."
Arthur raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement. "Well, strange things can happen. Look at Neil; he's the only one of us who somehow managed to inherit Gran's green eyes, so I doubt it would be your fault – but Marie may not be a Squib," he reiterated. "You know, she still has a little over a year left. Nothing's definite until then."
"Have you heard of anyone taking that long to show signs of magic?" Ian countered.
"I think I heard a story once that Uncle Lawrence didn't show any signs until the morning of his eleventh birthday."
"But Uncle Lawrence is a bit..."
"Barmy?" Arthur supplied. He shrugged. "So?"
"Marie is an above-average child in every aspect, except magic. I mean, she has a vast knowledge of it – names of spells, incantations, what they do, even some wand movements – but what good is any of that if she can't use it?"
"She could enable the use of Muggle artifacts in the Magical world," Arthur threw out there.
Ian gawked at him. "What?"
"She just did in fifteen minutes what I've been trying to do for five years. Andrew, Oliver, and Rupert couldn't even figure out how to make a lava lamp work, but she got it on her first try."
Ian stared at him for another brief moment before rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "I just don't understand why she hasn't shown signs of magic yet," he continued, ignoring his brother's tangent from his rhetorical question. "She and Penelope are best friends and she hasn't seemed the slightest bit bothered that Penelope has had incidents of accidental magic for years when she hasn't had any. Gran, Elaine, and I work with Marie several times a week, and nothing – We don't intentionally frighten her or make her feel unsafe," he added at Arthur's cocked eyebrow. "Just talk her through some stuff, try to get her to move a quill or change the color of a mug, give her a wand sometimes. Doesn't seem like she even tries, though. It probably doesn't help that Andrew distracts her with that Muggle junk either," he finished bitterly.
"Ian...do you think you might be pushing her too hard?"
"None of my other kids took this long. Andrew, Henry, Alexus, and Daphne all showed signs by the time they were five. Marie is twice that, so of course we're gonna nudge her a little. I don't want her living with the stigma that comes with being a Squib. I don't want her looked down on with disdain. I don't want her to feel like she doesn't belong in this world or in our family because she's different from everyone else. I don't want her to leave and never speak to us again because she's resentful or hates living in a world where she is incapable of doing what everyone else can. If she decides she wants to live among Muggles after Hogwarts, fine, as long as she visits and she's happy, but I want that to be her choice and I don't want her to face discrimination because of something she has no control over."
Arthur gazed at his younger brother with deep compassion. Squibs all too often left their families and the Wizarding world embittered by the contempt and isolation thrust upon them from an early age. While he never experienced that type of estrangement, he did know what it felt like to have your own child disown his family. No decent parent should ever have to feel that kind of hurt or experience that type of rejection. Marie's age and the statistics of Squib emigration rationalized Ian's fear, but just because it was rational, it did not mean that Marie would follow suit – or that she would even be a Squib.
"I understand you're frustrated and worried and want what's best for her, but this is something that has to occur naturally. There's nothing you can do about it. Trying to force magic out isn't going to accomplish anything. You just have to wait," Arthur gently reminded his brother. In an effort to ease Ian's fears, he added, "And if it turns out she is a Squib, not everyone will be accepting – in Wizarding society or even in our extended family – but those who are closest to her, we will make sure she knows she is loved and belongs in this family; and she may be disappointed and upset for a while, but she is very bright and has a big heart, so I'm sure she'll come to understand that some things just happen through no fault of anyone and won't estrange herself from you and Elaine and her siblings. Look, Ian, that's a bridge we will all cross together if it comes to it...but for now, give her some space, let her be a carefree kid – and if she's been picking up on this anxiety, that and the constant pressure might be contributing to a delayed presentation of magic."
"I see your point. I've not thought of that before," Ian admitted after a brief silence. "Maybe all she needs is for us to lay off...Thanks for being so supportive, too, if worse comes to worst."
"Of course – and I'm sure I won't be the only one. I know you and Elaine will love her regardless, and I'm sure the rest of your kids will, too. Molly and I won't think any less of her, and I'd hope I didn't raise any of my kids to be prejudiced. I have confidence in our brothers and sisters-in-law and most of our nieces and nephews. I know Gran and Gramps will still love her and knock anyone down a peg if they're behaving boorishly. As for the rest of our family, I don't think there would be much of a problem; who cares if the odd cousin or aunt or uncle isn't accepting?"
"I'm sorry for dumping all this on you, especially with it being your birthday and all. You probably didn't wanna deal with this today."
Arthur shrugged off his apology. "It's important – and I asked."
"Oh. You did?"
Arthur merely nodded once.
"Oh – yeah – right," Ian floundered. The dim light of the evening helped his dark auburn whiskers hide the color that rose in his cheeks. Arthur remained silent as he tried to explain away his minor oversight. "I-I guess it s-slipped my mind. There's been a lot going on recently – w-worrying about Gramps, and work, a-a-and this with Marie. I-It's just really been – been stressing me out."
"I can imagine," Arthur sympathized. Out of genuine concern and using the opportunity to segue into what he'd initially wanted to discuss, he asked, "How have you been dealing with that?"
Ian shrugged and glanced away. "I dunno."
"You've...not been taking it out on Elaine or your kids, have you?" Arthur tentatively ventured.
Ian merely blinked at him.
After giving his brother a chance to comprehend his question, Arthur clarified, "You've not been...misdirecting that stress, and anger, and frustration?"
This apparently succeeded in helping Ian somewhat understand the meaning behind the question because he shifted his weight from the crutches to his good leg and a hint of harshness accompanied his tone when he shot, "What are you trying to get at? Just because you turned into a belligerent drunk doesn't mean the rest of us are like that – and you know I can hardly stand up after two drinks, so your little accusation already has a gaping hole in it."
Despite the sting of his brother's remark, Arthur kept a straight face. "I didn't mean –" He cut himself off, deciding he should have left this conversation for another day. "You know what, never mind."
Ian blocked Arthur's path with his left crutch as he made to pass him. Arthur halted an inch away from it and frowned at the obstacle, making no other efforts to pass his younger brother. Even though Ian's balance had improved considerably since the accident, there were still days – and even moments – when he had significant difficulty or sudden unsteadiness, so his family always took great care not to disturb his equilibrium, especially if they were unsure of the state it was in, which was the case at the moment since Arthur had only seen Ian using both crutches all evening; on particularly good days, he could get around with only one crutch and his leg brace, depending on the environment, and could occasionally walk through a house without the aid of any crutches if he wore his brace and used furniture and walls to steady himself.
"No," Ian said, eyes narrowed, "you started this, so we're gonna finish it."
Electric blue eyes pierced eyes of ebony; however, Arthur's voice flowed with a consistent softness. "I'm not accusing you of anything – I am the last person who would have any room to do so. I only wanted to check in; that's all. You just told me how much stress you've been under and there were a couple comments made in passing earlier that implied you might not be handling it well. I'm sorry my concern came across as an accusation."
Arthur's approach succeeded in getting his point across without provoking Ian further or betraying his own hurt feelings because Ian's hostility dissipated and he lowered his crutch. Brow furrowed in confusion, he faintly asked, "What comments?"
"It's nothing major, really, and I don't think anyone else paid it any mind. It just raised some concern, especially since it sounded so unlike you, so I wanted to talk and see what's going on."
"What raised concern?"
"They were just a couple of random comments that made it seem like you break things often and tend to get upset easily and overreact" – Ian winced slightly and color flooded his cheeks once again – "but I know how kids can exaggerate and misconstrue things, so I wasn't making any assumptions but thought it warranted a little chat."
"Oh. Overreact kinda like I did just now?"
"I don't know specifics, just that you blow a gasket –"
"A what-sket?"
"Fly off the handle," Arthur rephrased, "apparently, when it comes to Muggle artifacts in particular. Now, I understand why you'd be disinclined to them, with what's going on with Marie, but I don't believe that would make it okay for you to get so upset because something is in a common area of the house or to go as far as avoiding Andrew's room completely."
"He thinks it's Muggle stuff I have an issue with?"
"That's the way it sounded, yeah."
Ian huffed and shook his head. "No, it's not Muggle stuff. I don't go in his room anymore because it's so disorganized and messy. When he was younger and had less stuff, I'd go in there sometimes and straighten up a bit, but that always led to an argument because he couldn't find what he needed and liked it the way it was, so I stopped going in there because all the mess and clutter makes me uncomfortable – and it's not Andrew's stuff I have a problem with lying around the house; it's all the kids' stuff. I'm gonna be equally upset if Henry and Daphne leave their Quidditch gear out, or if Alexus has books lying around, or if Marie doesn't put away her crafts. I don't get any more upset with Andrew if he leaves out a galactic hairblower.
"I will admit I overreact sometimes, but the kids never seem to grasp the importance of keeping things picked up. It's not me fussing at them because I want the house to be neat – I need it to be neat. A stray gobstone or Exploding Snap card is a major hazard for me, let alone a shoe or broomstick or any of the other shite they leave lying around. I don't wanna fall and hit my head again or do something to my back and permanently end up in a wheelchair. I already jeopardize my own safety enough as it is by not always paying attention to where I'm going without the kids leaving things around the house."
"Have you ever actually sat down with your kids and told them directly why this is such a big deal? Because I feel like if they understood it was for your safety, they would make more of an effort to keep their stuff picked up."
"I'm sure we have at some point – but they shouldn't have to be told. They're all old enough to understand and think, 'Oh, Dad uses crutches and occasionally a wheelchair, so we need to keep things out of the way.' I mean, it's not like this is anything new; I've been this way most, if not all, of their lives."
"Maybe that's why they don't realize the importance of it."
"Huh?"
"This is the version of you they've always known. Andrew and Henry may have some vague memories of you before the accident, Alexus probably doesn't have any, and Daphne and Marie definitely don't since Daphne was born while you were in the hospital and Marie came later. My point is, your kids are used to you having these impairments which you've never let hold you back. You do just about anything anyone else does and the older kids watched your impressive progress in the beginning. Because they're so used to this and you have managed so well, it may not even cross their minds that something so seemingly insignificant could be dangerous for you; all they see are their parents nagging them. They probably don't view you any differently from anyone else."
"You think?"
Arthur nodded. "I know your kids, and they are very considerate people. They wouldn't intentionally do anything that would put your safety at risk. Sit down with them and explain why putting their stuff away is so important. Even if you've already told them, they may need a reminder; they are kids, after all. Then, there may not be friction and bitterness when it comes to keeping things picked up, and maybe if they don't leave their stuff out as often, you won't lose your temper and break things."
"You've lost me again," Ian said. "I may overreact and raise my voice sometimes, but I never break anything – er – not because I lose my temper, at least. You know I'm clumsy, dropping stuff, bumping into furniture, performing a spell incorrectly or using the wrong one completely..."
"All the time?"
"Not all the time, but fairly often," Ian confessed.
"Nothing's gotten worse, has it?"
"Huh – No. No, it's been like that for years – Lot better than it used to be actually."
"Oh, alright. That's all I wanted to talk about – get things cleared up. Sorry again for how that came across."
Ian shrugged. "It's fine. I misunderstood and forgot to think before I reacted...which is also why I left that night Gramps was in the hospital," he confessed. "I realized I'd gotten a bit mixed up, so I stopped off in the toilets to give myself a couple minutes to think. I still feel bad about that."
"I think Trent does, too. I'm sorry I jumped down your throat when you tried explaining yourself that night," Arthur sincerely apologized.
With another small shrug, Ian replied, "Trent had you worked up – and everyone was tired...I'm sorry I called you a belligerent drunk a minute ago. I was out of line. I know people have given you a hard time about that, and you don't deserve it. None of you made any derogatory remarks when I'd been abusing Pain Potions, so no one should be belittling you either. I'm sure you feel bad enough already and I know you've been doing your best to move past that. Everyone should be helping you the way you all helped me."
"I appreciate that," Arthur whispered. Even though he agreed that people treating him with scorn was counterproductive and hurtful, Arthur couldn't help mentally noting a couple major differences separating his current situation and Ian's from a decade ago; Ian had suffered life-changing injuries and had trouble coming to terms with the fact that he would never make a full recovery no matter his level of determination or how hard he worked at it, and Ian never caused anyone any harm, so of course, people would naturally have more patience and understanding in that case.
He cleared his throat. "Well, since we've got that cleared up..."
"You're...gonna tell me you're a werewolf now?" Ian airily guessed out of the blue.
Arthur froze. All he meant was to finish the conversation and head back to the party, not for Ian to complete his sentence – and especially not with an absurd question that had already been answered. With raised eyebrows and a grin, he gave a bark of laughter. "Yeah, sure," he played along, thinking Ian's question was purely meant to lighten the mood.
Ian cocked his head. "Seriously?" he asked with a hint of surprise in his voice.
The amusement disappeared from Arthur's face as he briefly studied his brother. "Wait. You really don't know?"
Ian merely shook his head.
"Alexander was supposed to let you all know I'm not a werewolf –"
"– Oh, I must've been distracted and it slipped my mind or –"
"I think he just sent out owls. Maybe yours got lost," Arthur helped a pink-faced Ian make a plausible excuse. "But Trent was supposed to give everyone who entered the betting pool their money back since I found out."
Ian's brows knit together in deep thought. "Oh...Maybe that's where those extra twenty Galleons came from a few weeks ago," he muttered to himself.
Arthur gave another bark of laughter and clapped him on the shoulder. Ian hunched a little and shot his eyes downward as his face turned scarlet.
"So – um –" The younger Weasley forced a cough. "Did Alexander include what did happen in his letters, since it wasn't a werewolf?"
"I don't think so."
"Will you tell me?"
Just as he was about to refuse, Arthur stopped. His mouth hung half-open while he contemplated his decision.
The Healers discovered the curse eight weeks ago and Arthur told his wife and children shortly after. Since then, he constantly ignored the fact that he ought to tell his brothers as well, despite the obvious issues that had arisen in that time and Neil questioning him. Perhaps, it was about time he manned up and informed his brothers of his condition. Besides, every time he omitted, withheld, or otherwise distorted the truth, it always made him feel worse, no matter if it was a little white lie or something more serious. If he started off by telling them a snake attacked him, it could help ease him into the idea of telling them about the curse and soften the blow for his brothers as well.
"Snake," he said simply. "Bloody massive snake."
Ian's gaze fell to the scars on Arthur's neck. "You-Know-Who's snake," he stated after a moment, confident his guess was correct. "How'd you even survive that?"
"Harry – Dumbledore's quick thinking – I'm sure there was a good bit of luck thrown in there – and as you well know...I almost didn't."
"Yeah," Ian sighed. "I'm glad that's all over. I hated seeing you in so much pain during those months it took you to recover."
This time, instead of guilt piling on, a pang of sorrow struck Arthur. He never knew anyone other than Molly could tell how much pain he had been in after the attack, but if anyone could see through his cheerful, carefree act during that time, it would've been Ian; he lived with chronic pain since the Quidditch accident, after all. As much as he wanted to let Ian keep believing everything had cleared up, he couldn't lie to him now only to tell him later that things were probably going to get worse.
So as not to give him a false impression, Arthur said, "Well, it's still not all rainbows and unicorns."
"Never is, is it?" Ian said wisely. "Your body goes through something like that, and even with magic, it's never gonna be the same again – but it gets better, or you get used to it and learn how to cope."
"I wish it was that simple."
"Who said it was simple? It takes some time, but you'll get there eventually."
"My situation is more complicated than that," Arthur said carelessly.
"How so?"
"Huh?"
"You said it was more complicated."
Realizing his mistake, Arthur stammered, "Oh – um – it's just –" Habit told him to say "nothing," but he couldn't continue to keep such a major secret from his brothers. They had a right to know and he couldn't knowingly subject them to another unexpected death when he could have given them fair warning. Now was not the time to reveal the details of his condition, though. They would all be at Gran and Gramps's for Sunday dinner tomorrow, albeit so would their aunts and uncles since it was the first Sunday of the month, but Arthur was sure he would be able to talk to his brothers and sisters-in-law privately at some point. Maybe that would be a good time to tell them. He made a mental note to ask Molly about it later. "It just is," he told Ian for the time being.
Ian studied him briefly, but said nothing more.
"Why don't we get back, eh?"
"Yeah."
As they made their way back to the house, Arthur quickly and subtly reminded Ian of what they discussed about Marie and his other kids in case he'd forgotten or missed something.
The two brothers parted company at the garden wall. An isolated group of redheads on the side of the house piqued Arthur's interest on their way back from the shed, so he decided to investigate while Ian went off in search of Marie.
The all-consuming cravings, which hadn't completely disappeared, replaced Arthur's curiosity when he approached the rowdy group of relatives. The enticing aroma of a mixture of various types of alcohol pervaded his nostrils before he even saw any flasks or bottles.
He stopped in his tracks a few feet away and swallowed hard.
"Finally decide to join the real party, Uncle Artie?" Trenton's third son, Elijah, called, bringing everyone's attention to Arthur before he had the chance to slip away unnoticed.
"Ho!" Uncle Stuart exclaimed when he turned around and saw his nephew. "There's the birthday boy!"
"What are you waiting for? Get on in here!" Great-Uncle Josiah, Gramps's eldest brother, said from his place on a stool he must have Conjured. Uncle Stuart and Cousin Bartholomew moved to either side to create room for Arthur in the circle of about a dozen Weasleys.
Arthur held a hand up. "No. I-I-I was just seeing what was going on," he stuttered.
"Nonsense!" Uncle Stuart exclaimed. With virtually no warning, he pulled Arthur into the gap. "The birthday boy has to have a drink."
Being dragged into the circle allowed Arthur to get a better look at the individuals it was composed of. Not one person's presence surprised him; these were the uncles, cousins, and nephews who either almost always had to have a drink in hand or tended to cause trouble. Of course, no one should have expected anything less from the two stubborn, old men; Great-Uncle Josiah and Uncle Stuart always did whatever they wanted without giving a damn about what anyone else thought, and Cousin Gerard was already over halfway there. It was safe to assume Arthur's other three cousins present – Bartholomew, Lawrence, and Richard – would have kept their flasks hidden while at the Burrow that night if they hadn't found out they weren't the only ones who brought alcohol.
As for his nephews, Noah and Mason were no surprise; where Logan had matured since he became a father, Noah continued to be the same mischief-maker he always had been, despite his upcoming nuptials, and Mason had not yet outgrown what seemed to be a compulsion to flout authority whenever possible. Benjamin was not unexpected, but a little surprising; all of Alexander's sons were well-brought-up, but unfortunately, his youngest did not remain so because Benjamin fell in the same year as Noah at Hogwarts and they became fast friends while living in the same dormitory; however, Benjamin did maintain a certain level of decorum. Most unexpected in the group was Elijah; surprisingly, not one of Trenton's four sons ended up following in his footsteps where drinking habits and immaturity were concerned, Kathleen having done a fantastic job of raising them, but that went out the window for Elijah with his mother's sudden passing and the poor way in which Trenton handled it; since he hadn't seen his extended family much during the war, Arthur had only heard about Elijah's shift in behavior, but did not realize how drastic this change had been in the young man who had been seventeen at the time of his mother's death.
Uncle Stuart's hand came down hard on the back of his neck and squeezed hard. Arthur winced. He kept a tight grip on his nephew as he leaned in uncomfortably close. "Quite the selection tonight," Uncle Stuart continued. He gestured with the flask in his other hand to each person as he spoke. "Bart's got Bungbarrel Spiced Mead – Gerard's got some single malt – You know Dicky always has vodka in his flask – Lawrence has gin – Mason's drinking red currant rum – Noah has Dragon Barrel Brandy – Benji..." Stuart frowned as he tried to remember what Benjamin had. When he gave up after a few seconds, he dismissively said, "Well, of course, Benji brought some prissy drink –"
"Berry Ocky Rot," Benjamin said with a hint of annoyance, showing the label on the bottle of wine, "and it's Benjamin."
Uncle Stuart ignored him and continued. "Eli's been drinking Simison Steaming Stout, but was bragging a little while ago about how he discovered how to use an Undetectable Extension Charm on a flask so he could put a couple Lobe-Blasters in it for later –"
"And you better believe I made them extra strong," Elijah chimed in. "And I wasn't actually going to share, but I guess I'll let you have some since it's your birthday – and my dad says you always were a riot."
"Of course, Uncle Josiah and I have Ogden's Old Firewhisky."
But Arthur didn't have to be told what Uncle Stuart was drinking with the smell of Ogden's accompanying every word that came out of his mouth.
"Take your pick," Uncle Stuart told him.
Arthur shook his head. "No, thanks," he stated firmly. "I need to get back to the actual party. There are a lot of people I haven't talked to yet."
"You've not talked to us," Lawrence pointed out.
"That's not my fault, is it? You all came to hide out in the most secluded area under the Warming Charm."
"Well, it's not our fault Aunt Molly's a buzzkill," Mason retorted.
"Yeah, that wife of yours is the reason we can't openly enjoy ourselves," Gerard chimed in.
"You're the man of the house, you wanna tell her how ridiculous she's being and let us smoke and drink where we want?" Richard said.
"No, I'm not gonna do that. I stand by what she said," Arthur backed up his wife.
"Those restrictions she put in place are absurd! 'Strictly no alcohol allowed, Smoking is to be confined to the front porch,'" Gerard mocked. "I saw her go off on Trent and Uncle Malcolm earlier for lighting up in the garden – a right shrew that woman is." He looked directly at Arthur. "No wonder you moved in with Gran and Gramps for a while. I would too if I put up with being henpecked for as long as you have."
"I met her great-aunt today," Richard said casually. "Well, if you call getting lambasted in response to introducing yourself a meeting. I swear, that's what Molly's gonna be like in sixty years, 'cept I reckon she'll get frumpier with age, unlike the old hag who looks like she's tryna be some sort of elite Pureblood. Not even middle-age and I think it's safe to say Molly's already a battle-axe, so it's not a stretch to assume –"
"Oi!" Arthur exclaimed, causing his cousin to fall silent. "Dicky, Gerard, how about the two of you shut your mouths before I make it physically impossible for you to speak," he shot. "That's my wife you're talking about, the woman I'm married to."
"But not happily," Gerard said with a shrug.
"Yes, happily. I ended up with Gran and Gramps because of things I did, not because of Molly."
Gerard held his hands up in surrender. "Geez, alright."
Richard took a swig from his flask then took out a pack of cigarettes. A cigarette slid halfway out with the flick of his wrist. He put it between his lips and pulled it out the rest of the way before placing the pack back in his pocket and lighting the cigarette. Bartholomew moved out of the way when Richard took a step toward Arthur.
"Look," Richard began, "you may think you're happy now, but I don't wanna hear you whining in forty or fifty years when you can't spend a moment sober around her because she's turned into just as big of a harpy as her great-aunt. If you don't get out when you have the chance, you're gonna end up living the rest of your life being criticized and manipulated, all the while having to listen to any and all gossip that comes across her radar – if it's not a rumor she made up."
"Dicky," Great-Uncle Josiah said, but Richard ignored him and the hot anger rising in Arthur's face.
"I'm willin' to bet that within the next ten years, you'll be reduced to nothing more than a beaten dog wearing a collar that's so tight it's suffocating you and getting dragged around on a leash so short you're practically hanging from it, but it'll be too late for you to do anything because you would've lost your balls without realizing it a long time ago. So instead, for the rest of your life, you'll pray to be put out of your misery only to be highly disappointed every single day, so you'll try to speed along the process by pickling your liver."
"Richard," Great-Uncle Josiah tried again at the same time Arthur formed a fist.
"Even now, you have no control over what happens in your own house. Don't you see she's taunting you? She's holding your balls just out of reach, tricking you into believing you have some control while, in reality, you're a bigger pussy than the one that pushed out your seven kids. You may think Molly's a Veela now, but time is slowly revealing her for the wretched Harpy she truly is."
With his left hand, Arthur punched Richard square in the jaw. Richard fell backward into Gerard, who would have fallen as well if Lawrence hadn't put a hand out to catch him. Immediately, Bartholomew threw an arm in front of Arthur at the same time Uncle Stuart grabbed Arthur's shoulder from behind; however, any external restraint was unnecessary because Arthur somehow found it within himself not to advance.
Gerard hoisted Richard up and helped steady him. Blood trickled from a cut on his face created by Arthur's wedding band. He spat. Blood and two teeth landed on the ground at Arthur's feet. He slowly reached up and tenderly touched his jaw then gawked at Arthur.
Having not moved from his stool, Great-Uncle Josiah said, "Oh, Dicky, don't look so surprised. It's not like you weren't asking for it."
"He did warn us," Gerard reminded Richard.
"Doesn't give 'im the right to break my jaw!"
"All he did was knock out a couple little teeth, but if you're that worried about it, go find one of the Healers that're here," Great-Uncle Josiah lazily replied, cigarette smoke billowing out of his nose and mouth as he spoke.
As he stalked off, Richard spat out more blood.
"Hey, Dicky!" Arthur called after him.
Still rubbing his jaw, Richard turned around.
"If you ever say a word against my wife or my family again, I'll give you more than a couple missing teeth," Arthur threatened, his face as red as his hair.
They watched Richard's retreating back. Once he disappeared around the corner of the house, Uncle Stuart patted Arthur on the shoulder and handed him his flask. Without thinking, Arthur accepted it...and drank.