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Martha had met so many famous and important people by the time she hit thirty, that it had become like meeting any other random person in the street. Sometimes it was like meeting that one geezer every pub had, the one sat in the corner going on about his amazing exploits and fabulous past to anyone who would listen. Most celebrities were like that, in fact, blowhards with superiority (more like inferiority) complexes as large and obvious as the London Eye.
George, however, was not like that. George Weasley, she should say. Hero, inventor, shopkeeper, author. Friend. Georgie, as she was privileged to call him. Not some random bloke, and not some blowhard wannabe, but the real thing, a person become famous on the basis of things he'd done, each of which was both true and impressive. She'd met him in a typical famous person scenario however, not at his magic joke shop, but at a book signing. See, he'd written a series of books she'd devoured - Harry Potter - named after his brother-in-law and purporting to be the true story of what happened before and during the Second Wizarding War, something Martha had been aware of thanks to her job, just as she was aware of magic itself.
“When is a squib not a squib?” Is what George had said as soon as he discovered her peculiar position in the No Man's Land between Muggle and Magic worlds. And she wasn't the only honourary squib out there perplexing magical scholars.
Anyway, she'd met him at a bookstore, hitting it off with him when she commented that a prank item she'd bought at his shop had blown up an entire squad of aliens when she'd resorted to it during a mission, and now all alien bounty hunters worth their salt used Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes products in the line of duty. That made the red haired man laugh till tears ran down his face and he fell out of his chair, right there at the book signing table.
“Fred would have loved that.” he said softly, before asking Martha round to dinner that night.
But that was years ago, and now she is getting ready for a Christmas Do thrown by George at his London home. Everyone who's anyone in the magical world will be there, so she purchases a new frock and shoes (Topshop) and tries extra hard to get her eyeliner bang on. Acquiring presents for George is easy, you don't even have to spend money, just pick up whatever strange alien ingredient you come across, pop it in a zip-locked bag, and toss it his way. He'll be over the moon. Accordingly, she has several boxes worth of samples to dump in his kitchen.
Not being magical, Martha has to catch a cab across the city, but when the door opens on a smiling face, the annoyance of mundane travel is forgotten.
“Girl, aren't you gorgeous. Come here.” Angelina, also looking sleek in a new dress, throws her arms around her friend, the pair exchanging kisses and pleasantries in the entrance way before moving along the panelled corridor towards the burbling sound of voices.
“Merry Christmas, Angie. Here, pressie.” Martha hands over a prismatic gift bag full of shinies.
“Oooh! What a lovely bag! Merry Christmas to you too. George has been keen to tell you all about this new firecracker he's invented. Go over and rescue him, I'll fetch drinks." The former quidditch star gives Martha a playful push towards a cluster of men standing round a fireplace, talking about politics. An inferno of ginger hair is amongst them, George looking very bored.
Martha looks away from Angelina's retreating back, and does as she's told, passing by the famous Harry Potter as she makes for her friend. Angelina is like a sister to her, there's never been any feelings of jealousy from either side, at least never anything more than a wisp of nonsense quickly brushed aside.
Getting George away from the bores is easy, Martha simply comes at him with a problem, a bout of fan dissatisfaction.
“You never did sign the fifth book for me.” she says to him, without preamble.
He looks around, grin sharp and slightly lopsided. “Oh, didn't I?”
“No, you were too busy asking me about the efficiency of the nurgle bathbomb.”
“I'll have to remedy that forthwith. Sorry lads, don't mind me…” Taking hold of her arm gently, George leads her away, out into the garden, where his wife soon joins them, delivering drinks and then flitting away again.
“So, Merry Christmas, Mimi. How's it going? How's the fam?” he asks, tipping champagne into his mouth.
“I really do want my Order of the Phoenix book signed.”
George only just manages to turn away in time in order to spit his champagne out as a laugh takes its place.
“So I really did mess up with that one then? I thought you were making that up.”
“Yes. There’s interest accrued too so you'll have to take a selfie with me to pay for it.”
“Oooh, a muggle selfie. Don’t steal my soul now.” But George runs a hand through his hair and stands straighter. The concept of the ‘selfie’ still eludes him, but his father is enamoured with the practice. With a backdrop consisting of the idiosyncratic fairy light strung palm trees he planted in his garden in memory of an Egyptian family holiday, the selfie Martha takes comes out even better than she’d hoped. George's hair glows in the dark like a fiery halo, but it can't outshine their grins.
He taps the screen, eyebrow cocked. “Don’t show that to any excitable muggles. They might erupt in another Fairy Mania boom and everyone will start taking ‘fairy’ photos in their backyards like numpties. Hermione will blame me. Rightly, for once.”
“I'll be careful with it, Georgie, I promise.”
“I can always count on you, Mimi.”
