A/N: Hello, everyone! I'm happy to announce that reports of my death (or perhaps this story's) have been greatly exaggerated. I've been working on this chapter for ages, as you can tell, and I've wrestled with it quite a bit. Hopefully there are enough of you still interested in reading it! Enjoy. Thanks for your patience.

Chapter Ten

George said he thought it would be good exercise, hefting box after box into his arms and staggering up the (dusty) stairs of the shop. She joined him, tucking her wand into her robes and pretending not to notice the cold (the shop's heating charms hadn't been reactivated).

"Put the snack-boxes in the corner. Yeah."

She followed instructions, stacking the final beaten box in the corner.

"Great," he said, without enthusiasm. "Thanks for your help."

"You're paying me."

"Thanks anyway." He turned away, pretending to reorganize a few boxes. She crossed her arms and bit her lip, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"So what's next?" she asked with false cheeriness. "We could dust the stairs—"

"You can turn the heating charms on," he said abruptly, brushing past her and heading down the stairs. "It's freezing in here."

"George—"

"Turn the damn heating charms on, Ginny!"

She moved forward and leaned over the railing of the second story, looking down at him.

"Mind not biting my head off, big brother?"

"Mum would kill me if you caught a cold," he said icily, slamming a drawer shut. "Cast the bloody charm."

She pulled out her wand and muttered the activation charm, torn between frustration and fear.

"I don't know why you're here," he said, "As if you couldn't get a job elsewhere. Was it Mum's idea?"

"No, it wasn't," Ginny snapped. "I—"

"Hermione's, then?"

He stiffened at her silence.

"This was Hermione's idea?"

"It's not what you think," said Ginny immediately.

"This is part of my… cure, then?" George turned and lead against the counter. "Hermione's got a funny way of—"

"I went to her for help," said Ginny. "I needed a job. I quit my writing, and I… well… I couldn't think of anything I was good at—except… well… I was really one of the only people who ever pranked you and Fr—"

"So you thought you'd come and take his place?" George snapped upright. "Is that it?"

"No!" said Ginny angrily. "I'd never replace Fred. No one could."

"That's what everyone says." George seized a broom and took to sweeping a random section of the floor. "As if they know."

"George—"

"Godric, Ginny!" he snapped. "I've already got a mother."

"Would you mind?"

She glared down at him from the balcony.

"We're worried for you, George," she said, "and I know it's annoying, okay? I know Mum can be… overbearing. But give her some credit. She cares, all right? And the last thing she wants is to lose another son."

He stiffened visibly. After a pause, he said, mutinously, "She's not losing another son. But I wish she'd give me time."

Ginny stared at the back of his head.

"No one blames you for grieving, George," she said, finally. "Don't take it that way."

"How else is there to take it?"

Ginny swallowed.

"Whenever Harry starts feeling…bad," she said after a moment, "Guilty or down, I mean-Hermione takes him on a walk. Just around the house a few times. Adrian told me he asked Hermione about it once."

"I don't know why you're telling me this—"

"Just listen," she said, not precisely sure why she was telling George this either. "Adrian asked because—well, the kids were worried, you know? And Hermione said, 'Sometimes, Adrian, your dad needs to be reminded of all the things he loves that are right in front of him. It helps him mourn the things he has to love from a distance.'"

Ginny paused, and— surprised to find her voice shaking, she added, "D'you know what she means?"

He didn't reply, and she gazed at the cold light pooling on the shop's floor, darkened by her brother's shadow.

"George?"

A deep sigh dragged the whole of his body downward, and he leaned heavily against the broom, in a swirl of cold dust.

"Go home, Ginny," he said, and he began sweeping again, without a sound.

Ginny didn't go home.

She stood outside the shop for a long time, scarf tied slightly too tightly around her neck. She looked down the street, sleepy in the late afternoon lull. Failure knifed through her chest and she covered her face in her hands, biting her lip to keep from crying.

She didn't know where to go. Home was bound to be haunted by her mother, who spent hours knitting furiously by the window. Ginny knew when her mother was grieving—by the way the needles clicked and flashed in the light filtering into the kitchen. Heart Haven was empty, as the Potter children were on an outing with their grandparents. Hermione was working with Luna all afternoon.

And she couldn't go back inside.

She took a deep breath, both calmed and pained by the thinking.

Then, on a whim, she Apparated.

She knew it was a mistake the moment she saw them sitting there with tomato and cheese sandwiches, cuffs unbuttoned and sleeves turned up. Neville had a splatter of tomato across his cheek, and Harry was methodically tearing the crust off of his sandwiches, eating each crust like it was a carrot stick. They looked relaxed, and with their ties askew, almost like schoolboys.

"Ginny," Neville spoke first, and the illusion broke. He straightened, almost as if he were about to get up. "Hi."

"Hi," she managed. And she stood there, stupidly, clutching at the stray end of her scar for dear life. Neville frowned, put down his sandwich and approached her.

"Is something wrong?"

"No." The word came out too brittle to be convincing, and Neville tilted his head a little to look at her, wiping the tomato from his cheek. She flushed.

Neville had a way with looks— frank, open, curious. It was something he'd practiced at school—not being one whose opinion was looked for, he made an art form of studying others instead. And he was good at it.

Which made this difficult.

"Ginny?" he said, and this time he spoke for her to hear— Harry had gotten up and moved away slightly, toward the water cooler. "Mimbulous mimbletonia."

She gaped at him, and though his expression did not alter, his eyes crinkled in gentle humor.

"Wh-what?"

"Come on, Ginny," he said, and he put his hand on her shoulder. "I have something to show you."

She allowed him to lead her out of the hallway, into an office she only half-recognized as Harry and Neville's, and he motioned her into a squashy red chair in front of the desk.

He turned toward his desk and pulled out a book, thumbing through it absently.

She sat and waited, and unexpectedly, as she gazed around Neville's corner of the office, the knot in her chest began to loosen.

"Tea?" Neville asked, still holding the book. He waved his wand before she could answer.

She almost asked him what he wanted to tell her, but knew better. He had used their signal, the one they'd used in 'class' during the war—the one they had used to alert each other to trouble. And sometimes, when they were both exhausted and beyond conversation, Neville would say, "I have something to show you."

And he would. They would sit in the Room of Requirement, and he would show her plant after plant after plant, almost exclusively in books, and he would only occasionally tell her about one of them. Sometimes, when no one was paying attention, he would read to her. And she would listen. Or sometimes, she would wait, and he would thumb through pages, eyebrows furrowed, and—as they found out—no one would bother them.

And Neville always knew, it seemed, when Ginny needed to see something.

"Gillyweed," said Neville presently, making Ginny start. "Here."

He handed her the book and leaned over her shoulder as she read.

"Weird," said Ginny, her voice sounding strangely relaxed in the quiet office. "It looks…well…"

"Harry ate it," said Neville. "I knew it after he got in the water, of course—the gills were a dead giveaway."

She smiled, almost despite herself.

She always enjoyed Neville's moments of being a know-it-all. It was more out of enthusiasm than pride, and she found it… oddly encouraging.

"During the Triwizard Tournament, you mean?"

"Yeah," said Neville. "You know, the first wizard who ate it thought it was going to make him impervious to water. It didn't end well."

He grimaced, and she laughed.

He smiled broadly.

"Funny how things work," he said. "Anyway, I'll get your tea—"

"Oh," she said, and suddenly, she remembered where she was. "No, that's—that's really okay."

He paused with a mug in one hand.

"Oh," he said. "Are you sure?"

She stood.

"I—"

And she looked at him, the familiar curve of his jaw and the long pale scar running down his cheek, the wand he'd tucked into his pocket and the mug dangling from his thumb—and she couldn't move.

He hesitated, looked away, and cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry," he said in a low voice. "I… I didn't mean to— never mind."

The confidence was gone, and somehow she couldn't bear that. The moment he'd apologized, something very special to her had disappeared— maybe it was the comfort, maybe it was the safety, maybe it was even…

"Neville," she blurted. "I— really don't have anywhere to be. I… if you don't mind—"

He looked up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Are you sure?"

"It's— it's nice of you to offer," she said. "And… well, we haven't talked in a while."

"No," he said. "We haven't."

That was the way Neville was. Sometimes, when he stated the obvious— stated a fact— he managed to imbue it with meaning.

It had its downsides.

"But," he said, as he reached for the teakettle on the windowsill, "we can talk now."

Ginny wasn't sure how she felt about that.

"So," he said, "I… guess you don't want to tell me why you're here, or anything?"

She took the tea from him, which he had managed to prepare the way she had always liked it.

"Family stuff," she said. "So… not really. But thanks."

He nodded, sitting on the edge of his desk.

"I understand."

And Ginny felt comforted by the idea that Neville really did understand.

"Neville," she said. "How— how are your parents?"

He flinched.

"Oh." He rubbed at his scar. "Well, you know Hermione and Luna are working with them. With Mum mostly."

"Yes, but— in the meantime." Ginny said, not sure if she was pushing it. "You visit them still."

"Yeah," he said. "Gran's not often up to it anymore."

He reached for an unwrapped Honeyduke's bar on his desk. He offered her some: the hazelnut creme bar, which happened to be her favorite. She wondered if he remembered. She broke off a section.

"But I… well, I think it's helping," Neville said, putting the chocolate down. "I don't know. It's hard to tell. But— I just hope she understands. Mum, I mean. I don't want to disappoint her again."

She frowned, and some odd jolt of pain went through her.

"Nev, you're not a disappointment to anyone." The nickname slipped from her quite without her consent, but she didn't care. He looked up, and he smiled— sort of.

"Thanks."

"You don't believe me?"

"I said thanks," he said, stating the obvious again.

"Neville," she said. "I know I'm not exactly your best friend, but… believe me. Your mum— she would be proud. Really proud."

She paused.

"I'm… I'm proud of you. I don't have any right to be—"

"Don't say that," he said, and he was standing straight now, standing in front of her, with his familiar eyes fixed on her. "I'm glad you're proud. I've always…"

And he flushed vividly pink.

"Valued—your opinion," he finished, lamely.

Her heart was beating so fast— and she was clutching her tea so tightly she was surprised she hadn't broken the mug.

What did he mean?

Probably what he said. Neville had never been one for subtlety. He said what he meant.

…Usually?

"You shouldn't," she heard herself say. She wasn't quite sure how she'd managed it, as her mouth had gone incredibly dry. She took a gulp of her tea and tried desperately to laugh. "I'm not a very good judge of character."

"I never said that," he said, and she really did laugh this time, hoping he didn't notice the mug shaking in her hand.

The tension had passed and she shook her head, trying to take a few deep breaths. This hadn't been what she'd bargained for.

"Ginny?"

She started, sloshing a bit of tea over the edge of the mug. Neville handed her a napkin without remarking on it.

"Yeah?" she said at last, struggling to be casual.

He swallowed, studying her face quickly, nervously. It was the way he studied lessons, back and forth and up and down, fighting not to miss a thing.

Then he bent and kissed her on the cheek.

"Ginny, I'm… I'm so sorry," he said, almost in a whisper. "For what I said."

He pulled back.

Both of them were very red, Ginny guessed. But at the moment she didn't care.

"It's okay," she said. "It's— it's always been okay. Honestly. I was… being stupid."

"No," he said, firmly. "I shouldn't have said any of that. I've— I've thought about it a lot."

"You shouldn't have," she said. "It wasn't… I—"

"It wasn't right. I was wrong. I'm always wrong. Godric."

She shook her head.

"You're not always wrong, Neville," she said. "You were smart enough to stay away from me."

He looked down.

"I never meant to stay away," he said, after a moment. "I mean… I just thought… you wanted me to."

"I did," and she cursed herself. "I mean— don't take it like that. I was… I was angry, but— you're still one of my closest friends. I missed— writing to you, and everything."

His eyes brightened.

"Even though my letters were boring as Binns?"

"They weren't 'boring as Binns,'" she said, smiling. "I liked them. They were… comforting."

"I'm glad," he said quickly. "If you want—I could—"

He took a deep breath, as if he were about to dive off a cliff.

"…write you again?" he said, and he looked up at her. Her heart beat fast again, painfully, but it warmed her to the core.

"I'd— really like that, Neville," she said, and promptly spilled her tea all over her lap. "Oh—Merlin. I didn't mean to—"

"That's okay," he said quickly, and suddenly, he laughed. A warm, rumbling laugh— one she hadn't heard in a long time. And it made her laugh, too.

"Erm—" he said. "Here. Let me take that mug."

He took the mug and waved his wand, clearing the lukewarm tea in an instant.

"I spill things all the time," he said.

"I know," Ginny said. "But you're good at cleaning things up."

He smiled.

"Lots of practice," he said. Then he glanced at the clock. "Er… speaking of which…"

Her smile faded slightly.

"Practice?"

"Teaching," he said.

"Oh," she said. "Yeah, of course. Er… I'll be going now. Tell Harry goodbye."

"I will," he promised. He glanced at her shyly, and tilted his chin a little. "Goodbye, Ginny."

"Bye, Neville," she said. He opened the door to his office, letting her walk in front of him. She looked back at him and waved.

He waved back.

"I'll write," he called. "I won't forget."

It was something he'd taken to writing at the end of her letters—something about forgetting and remembering. I won't forget to write again. I'll never forget how brave you are. I'll always remember the way the rain smelled, when you told me my ribs were broken and that I looked— well, you said I looked like hell. I didn't feel it, though. Do you remember that?

Again, that odd sparkling of hope tingling through her body. He was still standing at the doorway, and she felt a blush cross her cheeks.

"I know you won't," she said.

She turned on the spot, Apparating into the Burrow kitchen. Mrs. Weasley was knitting at the corner, gazing out the window.

"Hello, dear," she said, and she turned. Suddenly, she smiled. "I haven't seen you smile like that in a very long time, Ginny! Did things go well at the shop?"

"Oh," Ginny said, "No, not really."

"But—"

"Mum, would you mind if I went upstairs for a bit?" Ginny interrupted. "I— have to write someone."

"Oh," said Mrs. Weasley, and the knowing look in her eye made Ginny blush furiously. "Oh, yes, of course, dear. We'll talk about George later."

She lowered her knitting and smiled at her softly.

"It's about time we had some happiness in this family."