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Five Rebeccas by llyralen

Format: Short story collection
Chapters: 4
Word Count: 3,564
Status: WIP

Rating: Mature
Warnings: Mild Language, Mild Violence, Scenes of a Sexual Nature, Substance Use or Abuse, Sensitive Topic/Issue/Theme

Genres: Humor, Romance, Angst
Characters: Charlie, OC, OtherCanon
Pairings: Other Pairing

First Published: 03/29/2010
Last Chapter: 07/03/2010
Last Updated: 07/03/2010


Love was never meant to be taken lightly. It was meant to be whole, full and enduring. Charlie Weasley had five great loves.

And all of them shared a single name.

A Charlie Weasley short story collection.

Chapter 1: Rebecca The First
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Standard Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter and the title is from the song "5Rebeccas" by The View.




It was the summer of my childhood to which all other summers would be measured against. The April showers disappeared as if granting me the gift of playing out doors everyday and the scent of the air was pollen free as if giving me the permission to enjoy it.

I had become obsessed with living things and watching them as grew. The park was my haven and everything in it, from the caterpillars to ladybugs to the occasional stray garden gnome, was fodder for the imagination.

In my mind, everything was perfect and nothing could improve upon perfection.

Then I met her.

She was a vision in pink, like a twelve tier birthday cake. She had freckles under her eyes that looked like cat whiskers. She had sandy blonde hair that always had sand in it. She had eyes the color of toilet cleaner flavor jellybeans.

She was Rebecca Foster.

And I was in love.

I was five when we first met. She was eight, which made her the older woman in a closely gapped May-December romance. Something about her clear sophistication around finger-paints, her self-restraint around party candy and her polite way of asking people for the sugar flowers made me feel like biting any other guy who asked to push her on the swings. As far as I was concerned: we were made for each other! She had freckles, I had freckles. She had toilet cleaner jellybean eyes, I had toilet cleaner jellybean eyes. She had sandy blonde hair, and she was blonde enough for the both of us.

I told Bill that I would marry her one day so we could have play dates whenever we wanted.

Of course, being the sagely older brother, he offered me valuable advice to recognize my dreams into reality.

“That’s easy!” he told me. “All you need to do is get a ring and put it on her finger. When she says yes, then you’re married!”

Was it that easy? I thought to myself. Give the girl a ring and she would be yours exclusively? No more sharing cakes with other boys. No more letting them push her on the swings? No more standing in the side while someone else played with her in the sandbox? It seemed almost too easy, but being naïve and gullible, I took Bill’s word for it and went off in search of a ring.

It wasn’t that hard. I walked around Ottery St. Catchpole and in a matter of minutes; I found an empty soda can lying on the ground!

Perfect! I thought to myself. I twisted the ring off the top and shoved it in my pocket without a second thought and ran back for home.

I wasted no time. I went straight for my Mum’s crafts room and asked her to take me to the park. I knew Rebecca would be there. Her Mum always took her to the park for the afternoon. She would be on the swings and no boy would push her but me! As soon as I gave her the ring and she said yes, we would be married and Mum could take us out to Diagon Alley for iced cream.

I tired Mum out in a matter of minutes and she finally took Bill and me to the park. As I thought, Rebecca was there and she was making her way for the swings. I dashed out to meet her, leaving my mother and hers to talk amongst themselves. They were going to be so happy when I told them that they were going to be related!

Rebecca was getting on the swing but I tugged her perfectly pleated hair and bashfully handed out the soda can ring. She took it from me and examined it for a while.

My heart raced with anticipation. All I wanted was to hear her sweet voice say yes. The excitement ate at me! The suspense was too much! I could hardly breathe.

Then, she threw the ring away and asked Bill to push her on the swings.

I sank as they both laughed and took turns on the swing. My own brother shrugged at me as if he didn’t know what a gem he’d found. Rebecca Foster chose him over me.

I was broken-hearted and knew I would never to love again.

Chapter 2: Rebecca The Second
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Standard Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. JK owns. The following songs: "Girlfriend in a Coma", "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" and "I Know Its Over" are all by The Smiths. The quote, "Andy – you have left The Smiths. Goodbye and good luck, Morrissey." was rumored to be put on a post-it telling a former member that he was kicked off The Smiths. No offense was meant towards Morrisey, Johnny Marr or any of the members of The Smiths. Their mention and the said opinions here was just to highlight some fan reactions at the time of their split.



It was the winter of despair and I seemed to live under the dark shroud of mourning. The Smiths had disbanded and the end of an era dawned in a black horizon. The world promised never to be the same again. Morrissey was still recording as a solo artist but it didn’t matter. The magic was gone and the world was deprived of its greatest musical maestros since the ever-catchy Rick Astley.

Of course, Bill didn’t care. He was still well into his Weird Sisters phase, closing his ears to wide spectrum of Muggle music that he refused to sample. Unlike him, I was still connected to the real world. A world we shared with Muggles and a world where Muggle radio existed.

Everything was crumbling and as far as I was concerned, the world was over.

Then I met her.

She had looked like a cross between an angel and Yoko Ono. She had long, black hair the color of licorice. She had dark brown eyes that made the earth seem pale in comparison. She had the face of a china doll.

She was Rebecca Huynh.

And I was in love.

We stood next in line to each other at the record store. Both in line to sample Morrissey’s first album after the band’s demise. I’d heard good things about it. People said it would be a celebration of his own unique style; a brilliant emancipation from The Smiths that would propel him to the level of classic.

Rebecca was in front of me, but as soon as she put on the earphones, she began to curse louder than the Minister of Magic in a state meeting.


The way she said it, the words sounded like most profane phrase ever uttered by man. But at the same time, it sounded like the anthem of a generation lost and betrayed by the light they hoped would never go out.

She began to yell what seemed to be curses in Vietnamese and had to be escorted out of the premises for scaring the other customers. I followed her out and found her sitting with her back against the wall, smoking a cigarette as if it were the only act keeping her sane.

I sat beside her and, without knowing who I was, let her put her head on my shoulder as she cried the tears I couldn’t.

Maybe she’d noticed my ratty t-shirt that said, "Andy – you have left The Smiths. Goodbye and good luck, Morrissey.” Or maybe she just didn’t care anymore, but I sensed that she shared my feelings. The happiness that came with finding a kindred soul.

Rebecca was a Muggle so when I introduced her to my parents, a lot of things had to be hidden in the cupboards and we had to send the Percy and the twins to Aunt Muriel’s for the afternoon. But I’d never seen my mum so happy. Or maybe happy enough to see me bring a girl home. As for Dad, he was almost as fascinated with her as I was, although for completely different reasons. He studied her more like a lab rat. Pen and paper in hand and jotting notes quicker than his brain could process.

In front of my family, Rebecca was the best girl you could ever wish for. But when we were alone, she was even better.

She introduced me to Electronic – Johnny Marr’s new band, we shared a love of non-conformity, a hatred of enclosed footwear and a child-like obsession with the slinky.

When Rebecca kissed me, it felt like raindrops and when I kissed her, it felt like summer. When I told her I was magical in more ways than one, she didn’t think I was God’s mistake.

“You were more unique than I thought,” she smiled.

We made love for the first time as Girlfriend In A Coma played in the background and were lulled to sleep by Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now.

I loved her and was sure she was going to be Mrs. Rebecca Weasley one day. We’d have children who would listen to the Smiths from the womb and eat chocolate frogs dipped in nacho cheese.

But then the day came when an owl dropped a letter on my lap.

I’d been accepted as a Dragon Keeper in Romania. They were expecting me to move out there within a month.

We danced around it for a few weeks. And when we finally talked about it, the matter was simple. She couldn’t afford to transfer schools. I couldn’t afford to turn down the job. She would not move to Romania. I would not stay in England. She didn’t want a long distance relationship. I didn’t want to be a commuter boyfriend. We loved each other. But it could not work.

Non-conformists until the end.

She didn’t say anything. She just took me to the record store where we’d first met and played a record saying it all.

I Know Its Over.

A few days latter, a man gave me an old, moldy shoe. The next thing I knew I was in Romania.

Regret ate at my heart like a worm through a rip apple. What if I wasn’t so stubborn? What if I’d stayed instead? What if I wasn’t stupid enough to leave the most amazing person (I was sure) I’d ever meet in my life?

I’d chosen a job over Rebecca Hyunh.

I was broken-hearted and knew I would never to love again.

Chapter 3: Rebecca The Third
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Standard Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter and the title is from the song "5Rebeccas" by The View. Any mentions of Seattle Grunge, Mudhoney, Leonard Cohen were all for no other reason than to enhance the feel of the fic. They belong to their respective owners. Not moi :)


1990 - present

It had been two months since I’d first arrived in Romania and already I was sick for the Rebecca that I’d left behind. Her face was burned in my head. A cigarette burn on my brain.

It hurt to think of her and it hurt even more to ignore her. She’d broken my heart and it stopped being a metaphor. My heart literally felt broken. It hurt when I tried to move, or when I tried to laugh. When I got up, I felt like I could hear the tiny pieces rattling in the open cavity that was my chest. She’d broken me but I couldn’t find the strength to hate her. Nor could I hate myself. We both did what we thought was right. And despite everything, I loved her. Broken or not, my heart was hers.

She said she would write but she never did. I waited by the mailbox and by the owl window, all in hopes of receiving even one word from her. Nothing came and I fell into a slow descent into grunge.

Grunge was my sanctuary. Seattle strained the melodies of my broken heart. I ignored my once regular trips to the barbershop, opting instead to let my hair grow down passed my shoulders and into the prison of a ponytail (much like Bill, to my deep despair). The razor became a thing of the past, enabling me at last to grow a beard Rip van Winkle would be ashamed of. Coffee and firewhiskey became the staples of my diet and I was nothing but the shadow of the happy man I used to be with Rebecca.

Then I saw her.

She was darker than the sky at the night of the new moon. She stood tall and proud with the pride and ferocity of a predator on the prowl. She had the will of an unstoppable desert storm.

She was my first dragon. And I named her Rebecca.

And it seemed, for once in my life, I could forget about love.

Even as a dragon pup, Rebecca had a way of working her magic on me. She was fierce, fiercer than what they’d prepared me for, but I wasn’t afraid of a dragon with bite.

She was mine to care for and mine to belong to. I fed her, trained her and took care of her everyday, seven days a week. I let her listen to Oasis while she preyed on the hundred pounds of steak that I threw into her pen every morning. When I took her out for a whirl in the sky, her growls seemed to sing Mudhoney’s Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge album. When I set her to sleep, she hums along to her Leonard Cohen lullaby.

She hated all the other trainers but only disliked me. When she burned my skin, it seemed like her eyes whispered a soft apology, soft enough that she wouldn’t make herself look too soft in front of the other dragons.

Working and caring for Rebecca made me forget about the one I’d left behind. Or at least, she made me think I was forgetting her. But like a cigarette burn, she was still there. Slowly healing but leaving a scar.

The days were still dark, though less so. But the feeling did not wane.

I was still broken-hearted and still knew I would never to love again.

Chapter 4: Rebecca The Fourth
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Standard Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter and the title is from the song "5Rebeccas" by The View.



The once gaping wound in my heart was now closing to be a mere shadow on the surface of my mind. I still missed the Rebecca of The Smiths, slinkies and non-conformity, but no longer ached for her as I once did. Besides, I had Rebecca the Dragon to take care of now.

She was far from the pup she’d once been when I first got her. She’d grown up into a fine Hungarian Horntail, fully capable of making any seasoned Dragon Keeper awestruck. Rebecca had a new playmate now, Norbert, a name she maintained even after the discovery of her being female. She and Rebecca got along as famously as chocolate and cheese.

I had a lot on my hands, with two dragons to care for, despite only being on the job for a little less than three years. My friends thought I could use some vacation time, time to relax and forget about dragons for a little while. I couldn’t understand it. I had just gotten back from a free trip to Egypt with my family. In my mind, that was far from lacking. But they were insistent and managed to get me away from Rebecca and Norbert, to the pub for a taste of Bucharest’s finest.

My first genuine time out of the camp, my own enjoyment was shoving previous doubts down my throat and I continued to drink my weight in firewhiskey, beer and wine. Anything alcoholic. All in large quantities.

Then I met her.

She was the only thing that stood still while the room swam into a haze of melted colors. She had short hair, showing a tiny dot on the back of her neck. She had a birthmark in the shape of a clover. She looked like she wanted to dance every moment of every day. She had a laugh that made her sound like skipping notes played on the violin.

I didn’t know her name. But I like to think that it was Rebecca.

And, for once, I wasn’t in love.

But when I looked at her, I felt like I was. Or rather, I felt dizzy. Maybe from the gallons and gallons of alcohol that I’d consumed throughout the evening. Maybe from the lack of oxygen in the crowded pub. But the sight of her made the room swirl and when I tried to stagger to the exit for some fresh air, she held the door open for me and looked on as I vomited in a garbage can.

She didn’t laugh. But she didn’t help me either. She just looked on - perhaps in the same strange fascination that you usually have while watching a train wreck. There wasn’t an ounce of judgment in her. No pity. No emotion at all. Just distance and fascination.

After I’d finished, I sat down beside the garbage can at the curb of the street and ran my hands through my overgrown hair. To my surprise, she helped me up.

“Coffee, yes?” she said to me, in her strongly accented English.

Rebecca took me to the nearest coffee shop that side of Bucharest and had me down three cups before she started talking. Neither of us had told our friends that we’d left the club, but neither of us seemed to care.

When we talked, it wasn’t like two strangers talking. Neither was it like two friends. It was just words. One after the other. Like recovering coma patients learning his first mammas and pappas all over again. She didn’t seem to understand a word of English other than Coffee, yes and no. I didn’t know a word of Romanian, period.

After an hour, I understood that she was a student of some sort. Of what, I couldn’t make out. But I could see the passion she had for it. I’d never seen someone so passionate. As if every word had the fate of the world in its letters, or as if every facial expression could stop a war. It was wonderful to look at. If she didn’t prod me to talk, I probably wouldn’t have. I would have just stared at her in awe. She seemed to have more soul than the whole world put together. Certainly more soul than I had.

But I couldn’t understand her. What irony.

I tried to tell her that I worked with dragons, but that didn’t seem to come across well either. Perhaps I lacked hand gestures or slow-loud talk. For all I knew, she might have thought I worked with spitting snakes.

But in the end, understanding each other didn’t seem to matter to us. I talked for the sake of my own sanity. I talked to keep myself awake. She seemed to talk just to know that she was still here, still alive, still existing.

After our seventh cup, she took my hand and led me through the bare, dimly lit streets of the eerily enchanting city that I’d taken for granted. I’d been so occupied pinning for the Rebecca I’d lost that I’d barely even noticed the almost fairy-like glow of the streetlamp lights as they reflected on the rippling puddles of the sidewalk. Bucharest was magical. Quiet and still, it was like the whole world had stopped and we were the only ones moving. The only ones living.

She brought me to a flat, her flat I was to assume. She took off my clothes as if she were unwrapping a present. She ran her fingers down my spine as if she were touching the keys of a piano for the first time. She whispered a Romanian song in my ear as if she’d learned it from the birds.

She kissed me.

She kissed me.

She kissed me.

I didn’t stop her.

I didn’t want her to stop.

I didn’t want to stop her.

She held me.

She held me.

She held me.

I didn’t let go.

I didn’t want her to let go.

I didn’t want to let go of her.

It all seemed like a song. We seemed like a song. Our bodies felt like the melodies. Our movements felt like the lyrics. The streetlamp’s light shone outside her window and we held each other, touched each other, loved each other, until it went out.

I left her flat the next morning. She watched me as I felt the floor for my socks and turned over all the pillows to find my keys.

There weren’t any words to explain or any attempts to.

Romanian or English, we both knew what the night had been. And we were grateful.

She kissed me on the cheek before I left.

The moment I got back to the Reserve, my mates asked me where I had been and how lucky had I gotten. I just smiled and went back to Rebecca the Dragon.

I didn’t feel broken-hearted anymore and for the first time since The Smiths, I felt like I could love again.