CHAPTER 9

George had a nasty hangover the following morning. Funny, that—he hadn't thought he'd had that much to drink, but probably whatever had been in the Fizzing Fountain had been more sugary poison than sophisticated cocktail. Merlin, he hated to think he was getting too old for dancing and colorful, saccharine alcohol; he was only bloody twenty-two.

Though he hadn't, on balance, been particularly sensible the previous night. Even knowing it was a work day—for him, at least—him and Angelina had stayed out for hours more after she'd brought him to the Botanic Gardens. He hadn't been able to say good-night, he'd wanted to take her hand, he'd just wanted to be with her, and they had wandered Belfast for hours talking. And he barely minded the headache and the exhaustion and that dry, sandpapery feeling in his mouth because it had been worth it for those magical hours with her.

Not that the memory it was going to stop him from downing a headache potion as soon as he managed to drag himself out of bed. It felt like someone was casting the Cruciatus Curse on his temples.

The really amazing thing was that at the end of the night, when they'd both reluctantly conceded that it would be best to try to fit in a few hours of sleep before the sun came up too much (because the eastern horizon had already been growing light by that time), Angelina had said, "We should've been doing this all along."

Tiredness had made him slow, so all he'd said was, "Doing what?" Not, in retrospect, one of his most articulate moments.

She'd waved a hand vaguely. By this point they were standing by the Belfast waterfront, watching the dark water of the River Lagan flow quietly by beneath them, but he didn't think she was referring to their specific surroundings. "Just…be together, like this. You're…" She'd stopped, looked at him; he'd waited, heart suddenly pounding much harder than it seemed like it should have been. Then, she'd looked back towards the river, before glancing at him out of the corner of her eye and finishing, "Guess I just enjoy your company, Weasley."

Even this morning, it still made him feel stupidly happy.

Unfortunately, he really did need to get up, get that headache potion down—maybe a Pepper-up Potion as well, if he'd remembered to brew any more—and get downstairs to open the shop. And then he needed to find a present for his favourite sister, as it was her birthday in only a few short days, and they'd all been invited round the Burrow for supper.

The thought came to him, suddenly, that Fred and Angelina had never had nights like the one him and Angelina had just shared. Their world had been too dangerous to spend the night wandering aimlessly, as there'd been rather an outsize risk, in those days, of encountering someone who'd had it in for blood traitors and any known associates of Harry Potter. What had they called him? Right, Undesirable Number 1. It was a strange thought, him having something with Angelina that Fred hadn't.

And then, on the heels of that thought, came a more uncomfortable one. What he really wanted was to have something with Angelina that Fred had done, and he'd a feeling that was somehow not quite on.

He wished, for the first conscious time that day, that he could talk to Fred. There'd be a million more times in the coming hours when he'd wish the same thing, but now he very specifically wanted to ask his brother what in the world he was supposed to do. Would Fred—did Fred, wherever he was—care? Was the last thing he wanted, up on his fluffy-clouded paradise or wherever it was you went when you died, for his twin to fancy his girl?

A particularly vicious burst of pain spiked through his head, and he put that train of thought aside in favor of finally getting himself out of bed to find that headache potion. There was still the vague and quickly fading hope that if he just sort of ignored, or at least, didn't act on, his feelings for Angelina, that they'd go away.

Eventually, his headache receded and his eyes felt slightly less full of sand and needles. Ron, even as unobservant as he normally was, noticed his tiredness before too much of the day had passed, asking as they both stood near the till, "You out late last night or something, mate?"

George had been surveying the shop, taking a simple, uncomplicated pleasure in how the shelves looked, stocked with his and Fred's, and his and Ron's, inventions. He loved seeing which shelves emptied fastest, where little pockets of space opened up, and imagining the laughter of whoever had brought those boxes home.

Rubbing a hand across his face blearily, George replied, "Yeah. That obvious?"

"Well, considering you were falling asleep in the stock room twenty minutes ago, I'd say yeah." Ron raised his eyebrows. "Are you seeing someone again? I thought you were going to the Ballycastle match yesterday."

"No." Had he denied it too quickly? Not that Ron seemed to have noticed anything. "I mean yeah, I was at the match. Met Angelina afterwards."

Mercifully, this got no reaction from Ron. If George hadn't worked out all of the messy and confusing implications of his feelings for Ange, then deffo the last thing he needed was to try to explain what was happening to his younger brother. "Well," Ron said, "if you want, you can have the rest of the day off. Verity and I can handle things here."

Raising an eyebrow, George said, "I can have the rest of the day off, can I?"

Ron smiled hesitantly. "Wager I can say that now." It sounded more like a question than a statement.

George punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Wager you're right. I might take you up on that, little bro. I still haven't got anything for our dear sister's birthday."

He knew he'd never take the whole day, but he could use the quieter midday hours in Diagon Alley. Anyway, he'd no idea what to get for Ginny, and figured a wander up and down the street would give him at least one decent idea. Shame she'd put her foot down on continued merchandise from the shop. Said she was getting tired of Harry knicking half the box to use them on his fellow Auror trainees.

As he walked lazily past shops, he read the signs posted on windows. Owls and cats for sale, bagpipe lessons (Pipe like Gideon Crumb!), the room above Florean Fortescue's for let, and a slightly singed flyer advertising for Skrewt Walkers Ltd—Your fiery friend will have a BLAST with us!

Walking past Florean Fortescue's always made him think of Angelina, ever since that day in March that he'd bought her an ice cream as a peace offering. Though that wasn't saying all that much, as he thought of Angelina…well, more than he didn't think about her. As he stopped in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies to study the window display, he admitted to himself that most things, these days, made him think of Angelina Johnson.

He wished, again, that he could ask Fred what to do. He wished Fred was here so they could pick out Gin's nineteenth birthday present together. But he wasn't, and the hole in his heart ached, and he kept walking. Sugarplums? No, they couldn't hold a candle to Honeydukes. Madam Primpernelle's? Might send the wrong message. He paused in front of TerrorTours. Maybe Ginny would like a nice holiday. They were advertising a new Bigfoot camping tour to the Pacific Northwest in America. 'Course, he'd have to buy a ticket for Harry, too, and he didn't think he was quite ready to start funding overnights for his little sister and her boyfriend.

Turning into Diagon Alley South, George shot a fond look at Gambol and Japes. Him and Ron were slowly driving them out of business, of course, but he owed a lot to the place. They'd been—what, seven? It must have been a trip to Diagon Alley for Bill and Charlie's school things, the first Fred and George had been allowed to accompany their mother on. Mum had been bringing Bill and Charlie to the second-hand robes shop, tutting that both of them had shot up over the summer, and George remembered the exact moment he'd seen the window of Gambol and Japes, bright, colorful, arresting. Both of their jaws had dropped open; they'd been transfixed, but Fred had had the presence of mind to tug on Mum's robes and say, "Mum, Mummy, can we go in that place?"

"What's that, dear?" Mum had asked, then, following the direction of both the twins' longing gazes, had said, "Oh, all right, but after we buy Bill and Charlie their new robes."

It had been transformative, the moment they'd finally stepped inside Gambol and Japes. Nothing had prepared them for the idea that there were toys, more than toys, to play jokes on people, to professionalise pranking. They had not, George had always thought, ever really looked back from that moment.

It wasn't right, Fred being gone. George felt for the emptiness inside him that had appeared when his twin had gone, and it hurt. Even if it wasn't as sharp as it had been for that first year, it still hurt.

He sighed, and moved on from Gambol and Japes. Twilfitt and Tatting's was across the street, and there was a pair of trousers in the window that he thought Ginny might like. The shop was the sort of place they never could have dreamt of buying anything from when they were kids. Now, George just smiled ruefully and hoped Fred, wherever he was, could appreciate how well him and Ron were doing.

Percy had wanted to save Mum the trouble of having two birthday dinners in August and had suggested combining his and Ginny's birthday, but Mum had insisted they be separate. "Ah, well, you know Mum," George said, as they sat outside after dinner, watching the sun sink lower and lower over the hills. A flock of starlings flew across the sky, birds swooping in and out to give the whole thing the appearance of an enormous, rippling blanket. The truth was that he thought Mum wanted to make sure each and every one of her children had at least one day when they felt the full force of her love, but he didn't say it out loud.

Harry and Ron were playing chess—Harry was losing badly, as usual—while Ginny and Hermione sat nearby, ostensibly watching the game but in reality paying very little attention. Though, George had to give Hermione credit for her ability to multitask—she was pretty good at noticing when Ron took one of Harry's pieces, and always 'ooohed' appropriately.

"Audrey couldn't come tonight?" George asked Percy.

"No." Percy adjusted his glasses. "She said she'll probably have to work most of the night; a Welsh Green ended up in Newcastle city centre at rush hour. They've had to cordon off the whole area and they're sure they've missed some people who saw it, so they've got Obliviators fanned out across two counties trying to track down everyone who needs their memory modified."

Taking a swig of butterbeer, George grimaced and said, "Sounds like entirely too much work, if you ask me."

At that moment, Mum came back outside, arm in arm with Dad, and his parents took the chairs next to Percy and George. George pushed two bottles of butterbeer towards them. "You're all growing up," Mum sighed, looking from Ginny and Hermione, to Ron and Harry, and finally at George and Percy.

"We all did a long time ago, Mum," George said.

Bill and Fleur came out the door and joined them, baby Victoire bundled in a blanket and sleeping peacefully. As George watched them sit down, and Fleur handed Mum the baby, he just hoped all their kids wouldn't have to grow up as fast.

Mum cooed over Victoire, who yawned squeakily and nestled further into her blanket, and then she glanced at him. "George, I thought you might bring Angelina around tonight."

"Angelina?" he asked, in a stupid way that made it sound as though he'd forgotten who that was.

"You could bring her to Percy's dinner in a few weeks," she said, and though her tone was casual, just-a-suggestion, something to think about, the look she gave him was both pointed and curious.

He looked back up at the sky, blue fading to dusty purple now, and at the last few starlings straggling to join the rest of their flock before dusk fell. "I could do," he said.

"I think that would be nice," Mum said serenely, and turned her attention back to the baby. No one else seemed to think anything at all of this suggestion, and George had to remind himself that as much as it felt that he was, he wasn't blaring his feelings for Angelina out to the world.

Well, he'd ask her. But he might leave out the fact that his Mum was clearly trying, in a way that was still mercifully somewhat subtle, to work out what, if anything, was between them.

She came to Percy's birthday dinner. She came, and she fit in perfectly, and they laughed and took a walk while it was still light out and George felt something in him slide further from his control. Angelina made him happy, happier than he'd been in a long time, and he already sensed that he'd never felt about any other woman the way he felt about her. It was becoming futile to pretend that he could turn his feelings off, but he kept trying.

And meanwhile, the year was slipping by. The rest of August passed with a glorious heat wave that had everyone outside. Angelina invited him to her flat for a barbecue. "My father would never forgive me if I let weather like this go by without one," she said.

Alicia, Oliver, Lee, and Katie came as well (the no SOs rule was still enforced, though with Alicia and Oliver marrying within the group, and George and Angelina both SO-less, that only left Lee and Katie put out. At one point during the evening, Lee leaned over to George and said, "What's up with you and Angelina, mate?"

It was a good job that he didn't choke on the beer he'd just swallowed. "What?" he coughed. "Nothing!" The look Lee gave him was less than believing, so George grinned at him. "Why, thinking of trying your luck with her?"

Lee laughed. "Only for old time's sake."

The first of September came round, and George still felt a bit like he should be heading off to King's Cross Station to board the Hogwart's Express. The last time he'd ridden it, life had been so much simpler. Well, a bit simpler—they had all been waiting for Voldemort to make his move, hadn't they? And after a summer at Grimmauld Place, with the members of the Order of the Phoenix flitting in and out, it wasn't as though him and Fred had been insensible to the danger their whole world was slowly sliding into. Thinking of it, the two of them probably could have been a bit more decent to Snape. Not that he hadn't been a git.

Still, though, when George thought about that last train ride, bringing him to his seventh year, the memory almost glowed golden. One last bit of childhood, one last journey to hold onto a world that was easy.

The last few weeks leading up to September the first were always some of the busiest at Wheezes; it was the time of year that they knew what would be big sellers, and this year just about everything was in high demand. As always, they could barely keep enough Skiving Snackboxes on the shelves, and they couldn't breed Pygmy Puffs fast enough. The Polypills, George noted happily, were a big seller as well. Of course, the Muggle tricks never moved very quickly, but there was enough interest to make keeping them worthwhile. Besides, it was Dad's favourite section of the whole shop. Him and Ron had once found him back there, long after the shop had closed, and had needed to practically drag him out.

But after the first, things quieted down. This was the time of year that they did the bulk of their brainstorming for their next crop of products. George found himself thinking, though, of Zonko's—specifically, of buying out the old Zonko's space in Hogsmeade and opening a branch of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes there. He kept remembering what Angelina had said to him about it, that it'd be a shame for there to be no joke shop in Hogsmeade once the next generation of Weasley kids started at Hogwarts. It was a bloody shame there was no joke shop there now, too. Without really meaning to, he had started to think about what a Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes: Hogsmeade might look like; how it would be laid out, what products they'd highlight there.

He still didn't feel quite ready, but…well, maybe, after Percy and Audrey's wedding…no, then there was Christmas, and it was always mad then between the shop and family and general Christmas cheer. Maybe after Christmas then, he'd put out feelers about buying the building. Of course, he'd ask Ron about it beforehand, even though he'd a feeling he knew exactly what Ron would say. His younger brother had a habit of emphasising how brilliant the books looked, and how they really should do something with the revenue surplus.

January, then. January was when he'd think about this. No—January was when he'd do something about it.

The day of Oliver and Alicia's wedding dawned clear and crisp, perfect weather for whom there was no one more deserving than Alicia Spinnet. George closed the shop in honor of the event and gave Verity the day off; she'd joked, when informed, that she wouldn't know what to do with herself for two whole days. Which made him think about how Verity had taken so few days off in the last four years that he could count them on one hand. She was the sort of person, in point of fact, that might be very good at running a second branch of the shop, should such a thing come to pass.

He set that thought aside as he got dressed for the wedding, putting on his dark purple dress robes. Mum always sighed that they clashed with his hair every time she laid eyes on them—probably why she'd bought him the new ones, come to think of it, but he'd save those for Percy and Audrey's wedding. When the appointed hour arrived, he checked the invitation one more time, and Disapparated to Whitlaw House in Hawick.

Whitlaw House was prettily decorated with flowers that bloomed, closed, and bloomed again, and ivy that scrolled around lintels, growing constantly without ever becoming overgrown. George took a moment to study it as he walked inside—it seemed like the sort of charm that might come in handy for some product or another, and he made a note to get the name of the florist. Maybe Angelina would know.

There were more blooming flowers inside in the house's foyer, and gold and pale blue-coloured paper lanterns bobbing near the ceiling. There were a few people milling around inside, but no one he recognised, so he continued on through the house, following the trail of flowers and lanterns to the Garden Room. The room was a blaze of light, with floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the house's garden. At least one hundred chairs were set up, with more prettily growing ivy making its way along their backs.

An usher approached him. "Bride's or groom's side?"

"Er, bride's, I suppose?" he guessed.

"Name?" the usher asked, sounding as though he was already tired of Alicia and Oliver's dense friends not knowing which of the two they were closest to.

"George. Weasley, that is." He wondered if Alicia and Oliver knew any other Georges.

The usher pointed. "You were right. Bride's side."

He sidled around the usher and took a seat, glancing around for anyone he knew. Angelina was in the bridal party, so he didn't expect to see her until after the ceremony. Patricia Stimpson made her way down the aisle and sat in the row in front of him, smiling as she sat down. "Hi George," she said with a small wave. The two of them made small talk for a few minutes as more and more people filtered in. Percy and Audrey arrived and were seated on the other side of the aisle. Lee and Katie walked in at the same time, with Morag MacDougal and Roger Davies, respectively, and sat in his row, while Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Ginny got there a few minutes later and arranged themselves in the row behind him, followed by Neville Longbottom, then Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, and Parvati. She met George's eyes, and he saw her look at the seats on either side of him—searching, probably, to see if he was here with someone. When he smiled at her, she waved and smiled back. It would probably be the right thing to do to talk to her later, even if it was awkward.

As the chairs filled up, it became apparent that most of the old DA had been invited and had actually showed up. George thought about it for a moment, then realised that Alicia was the first of the Army to get married. Well, they could all do with a marriage instead of a funeral. He wondered who'd be next.

Once the chairs were filled, Oliver walked down the aisle and took his place at the front of the room next to the registrar, looking extremely uncomfortable both to be wearing dress robes and to be the focus of so much non-Quidditch-related attention. He was staring fixedly at the door through which Alicia would appear, apparently trying to convince himself that he didn't have one hundred sets of eyes on him.

There was a swish of robes and the click of shoes from the doorway, and then Oliver's best man and Alicia's maid-of-honour processed towards the registrar. George knew it was the bride whose beauty was supposed to awe him, but he couldn't take his eyes off Angelina, in long dress robes of cornflower blue with delicate gold filigree on the bodice. Her hair was all gathered to one side, her curls flaring out and spilling over one side of her face. She looked like she was trying, due to the solemnity of the occasion, not to grin—but she wasn't doing a very good job of it.

And then a low, excited murmur went through the assembled witches and wizards, and they all got to their feet as Alicia appeared. Oliver's discomfort vanished when he saw her, as he seemed to forget that anyone else was there. And George couldn't blame him, really. Alicia looked radiant. Whether she was actually giving off a golden glow or it was just a charm didn't really matter—the brightness of her smile and her eyes could easily have lit the entire room. Once she'd arrived at the end of the aisle, everyone sat, and the registrar began the ceremony.

Oliver and Alicia barely appeared aware that there was a crowd of people in the room with them—they had eyes only for each other. When they were pronounced bonded for life, a shower of golden sparks rained down on them from the registrar's wand. But George's eyes were drawn inexorably to Angelina, and she looked as fiercely proud and happy as he'd ever seen her. Maybe some people would say Alicia's happiness was reflecting off her, but George knew she was radiating her own.

Then it was over; Alicia Spinnet was Alicia Wood, and the bride and groom came back up to the aisle to applause and cheers. Angelina, on Oliver's brother's arm, caught George's eye with a swift smile as they followed the couple.

Guests started to stand up and mill around, and Ron poked George in the shoulder, saying, "See you in there, we're at a different table."

"Aw, miss me, Ronniekins?" George asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not a chance," Ron replied cheerfully.

The wedding guests filed out of the Garden Room and into the larger room where the reception was being held. Large windows ringed this room as well, letting light spill in from outside. The same flowers-and-ivy decorating scheme prevailed, and the lanterns from the foyer were bobbing around the ceiling. Tables were floating into position, their tablecloths twirling around them in swirls of pale blue and gold, and one by one, chairs materialised at them. Ushers were on hand again to direct guests to their tables, and George soon found himself seated at his, with Lee and Morag MacDougal, Katie and Roger Davies, and an empty chair next to him.

Lee gestured to it. "Couldn't find anyone to come with you, then?"

"I didn't ask," George said. "I like to attend weddings alone, anyway. Makes me look sort of mysterious and eligible, don't you think?"

"No. More sad and pathetic than anything."

George shrugged. "Well, a bloke has to try these things. Morag, it's nice to see you, but I can't believe you haven't sacked this one off yet."

"No, not yet," she said in her Scottish burr, her eyes twinkling at Lee.

"Deserved that, I guess," Lee said with a wince.

"A wee bit," Morag said, grinning.

Roger Davies put an arm around Katie and said, "So, George—how's business?"

Always happy to talk about Wheezes, George said, "It's good. Brilliant, actually. We did a good business in August."

"Not surprised," Davies said. "Most of our year never had any pocket money because we were all buying your products."

"Yeah," George said with a grin, "and we appreciated it. Helped with our start-up costs, it did, driving all of you broke."

"I'll never forget when you and Fred left Hogwarts," Davies said. "Legendary, it was." Everyone else nodded appreciatively.

"I was so happy when that Umbridge hag was sentenced to life in Azkaban," Morag said fiercely. "I know I shouldn't be glad about anyone being sent there, but…"

Katie huffed. "Don't worry, we all were. It might not be right but if anyone ever deserved it…"

"It wasn't necessarily that she was worse than You-Know-Who," Lee began.

"…but then again, You-Know-Who was never Headmaster," George snorted.

At that moment, plates and cutlery appeared in front of all of them. Menus were laid across all the plates, and the five of them took a few moments to study them before requesting their starters, which then appeared in front of them. They continued to talk over their meals, but George dropped out of the conversation for a moment to look at Angelina, who was sitting at the head table next to Alicia. The four of them—Alicia, Oliver, Angelina, and Oliver's brother, were laughing about something. George felt the now-familiar lurch in his entire torso, like all his organs were trying to tango in opposite directions. She really looked beautiful.

As though sensing his eyes on her, Angelina turned her head and met his gaze. She smiled at him and mouthed, I'll be over soon.

The promise of her presence made him feel stupid, and he had to look deeply into his lamb confit and beetroot dauphinoise to hide the idiotic grin on his face.

Their meals were finished before long, and the plates cleared away with a swoosh and a pretty sparkle. Another nice effect, George noted. He'd never paid much attention to wedding charms, but clearly it was the same type of showy magic that him and Ron used in their products.

Then, with a fwump and a rustle of fabric, and a huge exhalation, Angelina sat down in the chair next to him. "Oof. Thank goodness." She was contorting her face. "I think if I smiled anymore my face would be frozen like that permanently. I must have pulled every muscle in my cheeks."

"We wouldn't want you to lose the ability to do that signature scowl of yours," George said.

"I'm glad you appreciate it," she retorted.

He grinned. "You know I have to ask—you didn't do anything to invalidate the marriage, did you?"

She leaned to one side and stuck her arm under the table, working her shoes off her feet as she responded, "Ha, ha. I'm just happy I didn't fall over in these shoes."

Katie laughed. "Those barely qualify as high heels!"

"Qualified enough for me," Angelina groaned.

Looking amused, Katie said, "This is the downside to your being fabulously tall. No need to wear heels, and sore feet when you do."

"Ugh, you can have them," Angelina said. "I should have brought trainers." Surreptitiously, she looked around. "D'you think anyone would notice if I wore them? My dress is long enough to cover them, don't you think?"

Pursing her lips, Katie said, "I think people might notice if a pair of trainers came sailing through the room when you Summoned them."

With a sigh, Angelina said, "I suppose." She slumped back in the chair, sighing, "Whoever knew a wedding would be so bloody exhausting?"

"For you, maybe," Katie said. "For them, it's the best day of their lives."

Angelina smirked, leaned close to George, and whispered conspiratorially, "It may be the best day of their lives, but I still found Alicia sleeping in the loo after the ceremony."

Katie hadn't heard. "Doesn't Alicia look beautiful?" she sighed. Both Davies and Lee looked slightly uncomfortable, as though weddings were a sort of sickness and it was catching. Maybe they were, George mused. Oliver and Alicia, they were the first of his circle, and there was Perce and Audrey's wedding fast approaching. Morag was staring dreamily at the happy couple.

Angelina leant an elbow on the table and propped her chin up on her hand. "She's lovely," she answered.

Lee sank down in his seat a little and leaned over, muttering to George, "You're lucky you're here single, mate. Dunno what possessed me to bring Morag."

"Lack of foresight?" George guessed. Lee just glared at him, and George didn't bother saying that he just didn't have it in him to pretend along with a relationship that wasn't going anywhere. That was a big part of why he'd broken things off with Parvati, after all.

And speaking of…Miss Patil was currently alone at her table, as the rest of her dinner-mates were dancing. Seamus Finnegan and Lavender Brown were cutting quite the figure on the dance floor. Out there, it was harder to stare, and the scars on Lavender's face were far worse than Bill's. "I'll be right back," George said, and unthinkingly brushed Angelina's bare shoulder lightly with his fingers.

She looked at him; glanced down at her shoulder, then to his hand, then finally back to his eyes. "Right," she said. Was he imagining things, or was she trying to sound cool and casual, when something had made her feel anything but?

Parvati caught sight of him as he approached her table, and she stood up to greet him. "Hi, George," she said, holding out a hand and giving him that enigmatic smile of hers. Still cute, he noted.

He shook her hand and said, "How are you?"

"Oh, fine." Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she said, "If you don't want to make smalltalk with your ex, I won't be offended, you know. You seemed to be enjoying yourself over there."

"Well, it's a bit like a DA reunion in here, isn't it?"

"A bit," Parvati said, laughing.

"Padma here?"

"Yeah, with her girlfriend." Parvati waved vaguely in the direction of the dance floor, and then she glanced over at his table and said, "I didn't know you and Angelina were seeing each other."

It was a real shame no one knew about his feelings for Angelina, because there was no one to appreciate how coolly he played this moment. "We're not," he said. "We're just friends."

"Oh." It must have been convincing, because she looked a little embarrassed. "Sorry, I just thought…" But she trailed off, then smiled and said, "Never mind. How are you, George? Have you had a good summer?"

As awkward smalltalk with one's ex went, it wasn't the worst conversation he supposed he could have had, but all the same, he was glad, a few minutes later, when he felt he'd fulfilled his gentlemanly duty to speak with her, and he said, "It was good to see you, Parvati."

She seemed ready to let the interaction end, as well. At least they both knew that he'd done the right thing by breaking the relationship off. He didn't feel a single lingering twinge of romantic affection for her. Before he returned to his table, though, there was one other thing he wanted to do.

He ambled to the foyer, hands in the pockets of his dress robes, and when he was standing in a spot clear of guests and staff, he murmured, "Accio Angelina's trainers." There was a moment of silence, and then, Angelina's shoes came hurtling towards him. He caught them in both hands and headed back into the reception, where he approached Angelina, got down on one knee, and grandly presented them to her on outstretched hands. "Your trainers, m'lady," he announced.

She laughed and grabbed them, slipping them on under the table. "Thanks, George—I could kiss you, you know."

There was a break in the conversation at the table at this; at least, that was how it seemed to George, and it also seemed that everyone was looking at them. He felt himself going a bit red, and Angelina was definitely flushing darker.

"Now, or did you want to find a broom cupboard somewhere?" he asked, grinning. It was something that the George-who-didn't-fancy-Angelina-Johnson would have said, and everyone would have laughed, knowing it was a joke. Including him. Which made the George-who-didn't-fancy-Angelina-Johnson into a very different person, because George knew he wasn't joking, not one bit.

Maybe Angelina took it as a joke, maybe she didn't—in any case, she laughed too, and said, "We'll see how I feel later; I think they're bringing out the Firewhiskey in a bit."

For a few more minutes, the six of them sat there, talking and sipping at the wine that had appeared on the table. Then, noticing that Alicia and Oliver were, for the moment, unmobbed by well-wishers, he said to Angelina, "Shall we go over and congratulate Mr and Mrs Wood?"

"Together?" Angelina asked.

"Sure, why not?"

"Are we here together?" Angelina asked, arching an eyebrow.

George put down his glass of wine. "Well physically we're in proximity, yeah."

She nudged him lightly with the back of her hand. "I'm joking, Weasley. Let's go talk to them." As they stood up, she remarked, "Funny how Oliver's brother's the exact opposite of him, isn't it?"

"Is he? I've barely said two words to him; dunno how I'd know."

"Oh, well, only he seems quite brainy."

George felt a weird stab of—jealousy? No, he was reasonable enough to see that there was nothing to that comment. Anyway nothing to be jealous of, it wasn't as though there was anything between him and Angelina. Reasonable, right. Which was why he found himself glowering darkly, suddenly, at Oliver's brother, who was on the other side of the room, talking to Neville and a woman who looked like she might be another Wood sibling.

Shaking that stupid thought away, he said, "Give Wood some credit—it's not that he hasn't got brains, it's just he'd rather play Quidditch."

She grinned. "Yeah, true. Anyway, he'd do those charts before Quidditch practise—remember those?—and they took a certain amount of genius to understand."

They reached the happy couple's side at that moment, and Alicia exclaimed, "Ange!"

"Didn't really have the chance to properly congratulate you yet," Angelina said.

"It's ok," Alicia laughed, hugging Angelina tightly. "Food came first."

George shook Oliver's hand and said, "Congratulations again, Wood. You're a lucky man."

Oliver looked at Alicia, a foolish smile on his face. "Yeah," he replied, "I know."

"When are you leaving for the honeymoon?" George asked.

Smiling glowingly at Oliver, Alicia replied, "Tomorrow morning. Neither of us has ever even been out of the country; I can't decide whether to be terrified or excited!"

"You'll love Greece," Angelina assured her. "The Oracle at Delphi, oh, and Oliver, you'll especially love the ruins at Olympia. The early Wizarding games are brilliant; apparently there's evidence for Bludger-esque balls there—"

"Oy, you've been to Greece?" George asked.

"When I was fifteen," she said.

"I never heard about this."

"That's because you and Fred were too busy telling everybody about your holiday to Egypt," she said breezily.

"You know," George said, "if I'm not mistaken, it sounds as though you're suggesting that Fred and I were a bit self-absorbed when we were fifteen."

"You must have misunderstood," Angelina said, a serious look on her face. "I definitely didn't mean to imply it ended after you were fifteen."

Oliver snorted. "Not sure I'd talk about maturing much beyond fifteen, Johnson."

"I resent that, Wood, especially considering how much time I spent on my makeup for your wedding." Angelina smirked at him. "Anyway, you're gone for what, two weeks?"

Alicia was positively glowing at Oliver. Their arms were casually looped together; George wasn't even sure they knew they were doing it. "Yes," she said. "Oh, and when we get back, we've got to plan something for your birthday, Ange. George, think of where we should all go, will you?"

There was something about this that made George feel inexplicably warm. Maybe it was the inclusivity of it, the presumption that he would want to celebrate Angelina's birthday with her and with their friends. A year ago, for Angelina's twenty-second birthday, he'd made a brief appearance at the pub where they were all having drinks, but when he'd found himself alone with Angelina, their conversation had sputtered, and she'd mumbled something about getting another drink, and he'd let her go. He hadn't quite realised what a hole her absence had created in his life.

"Sure," he said. "Prepare to have your socks knocked clean off, Johnson." She just shook her head and grinned at him.

Something caught Alicia's eye and she gripped Oliver's arm more tightly. "Oh—oh no, it's your uncles, Oliver…look, you two had better go, you'll be talking to them for the next hour if they get started."

"We'll get them to bring the cake out early," Oliver said to her.

George and Angelina slipped away, making their way towards the dance floor, which was becoming a much more exuberant place with every refilled glass of wine and champagne. "Want to dance?" Angelina asked him. When he just raised an eyebrow, she laughed, "I know, I know. 'You don't dance'."

"Though for you, Ange, I would."

Her smile became more unreadable. "Good to know. But you're spared this time. I'd really just like to sit down somewhere quiet and not have to act so cheery anymore."

"Want some company?" he asked.

She looked at him, then said, "Sure."

They walked outside into the little walled garden on the other side of the house. A few other guests were strolling through, but there was a stone bench that was unoccupied, and the two of them sat down on it. For a few minutes, they just sat quietly, but then, eventually, Angelina said, "I still can't really believe it. Alicia, married. To Oliver. It feels like we just all won the Quidditch Cup together." George didn't say anything. If she didn't mean to go on, well, their silences were never awkward these days.

But then, she added, "I guess in most of the important ways, though, it seems like a hundred years since that happened."

"If it's any consolation, you've aged really well."

"Shut it," she said, elbowing him and grinning. A skylark landed on a branch of a gnarled apple tree growing against the wall. It cocked its head at them, and then launched itself into the air, its song piercing the bright afternoon. Angelina's face had grown pensive, and she said, "I suppose Fred and I probably would have been married by now."

George hesitated, then said, "Probably. He was pretty keen on the idea."

She watched as the lark flitted over the house and out of sight. "We would have been so young. We were young. Even if it didn't feel like it." Then, she sighed. "I don't know, George."

The desire to take her hand seized him, but he resisted it. "We're still young," he pointed out, refraining from reminding her that she'd told him the exact same things a few months ago.

Smiling slightly at him, she said, "Maybe a little wiser, though."

"Speak for yourself." If he couldn't take her hand, George decided, then maybe he'd just lean closer to her.

He did, so that their arms were touching. He could feel her body heat through the sleeve of his dress robes. And it might have been his imagination, but it seemed like she leaned into him; just the slightest increase in pressure. Neither of them acknowledged it. "Even if I'd brought it up," she said musingly, "being so young, I mean, all we'd have ended up doing is bellowing at each other and not changing a thing."

With a snort, George said, "You and Fred, fighting? Come off it. I'm sure you two never had a disagreement."

She smirked. "Yeah, well," she said, "it was always…passionate between Fred and I."

George's gut twisted strangely when she said it. "Think I heard a bit of that," he said dryly.

"I meant the fighting," she said quickly.

With a grin, he said, "So did I." Then, innocently, he asked, "What else is there to have meant, Ange?"

This time, she snorted, but didn't respond, saying instead, "At the time I didn't think it, but now I wonder if it wouldn't have got a bit…exhausting." She seemed to be watching him carefully, like he'd be offended that she'd admitted that Fred's very cavalier attitude towards relationships had bothered her.

What bothered him was how he felt hearing her say that—hearing her suggest that she could imagine maybe a—a better life with someone else. No, not better. Different. Different and not in a bad way, and that being all right. It made his chest hurt with a mingled happiness and trepidation like he'd been punched; the happiness for hearing her say it, and the trepidation for being happy at all. He fancied a woman that he'd never have had a chance with if his brother hadn't died. Feeling pleased now felt a bit too close to being happy he was gone.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her eyes narrowing nearly imperceptibly. "I didn't mean—you know how I felt about him," she said, and what could have sounded defensive just sounded sad.

George felt frozen in indecision for a moment. She'd been Fred's girlfriend. Fred's almost-fianceé-except-for-the-War. That wasn't ever going to change. So the question was, could he handle that? There was no doubt in his mind that he fancied Angelina Johnson—maybe more than fancied her—that it had crept up on him and he'd never meant to, but he did.

Taking a chance, he reached out and touched her wrist lightly. "Nothing's wrong," he replied. "Just—you know, utterly flabbergasted to hear that Fred wasn't the consummate gentleman."

"Yes," she said, her mouth twitching into a smile. "I'm sure that must come as quite a shock."

Someday, he'd probably have to tell her how much better she made everything; that the empty space inside him didn't feel quite so gaping when he was with her.

Angelina brushed her fingertips across the top of his hand. "We should go probably go back in. This cake was apparently a serious ordeal; Alicia said she couldn't eat for an entire day because they tasted so many combinations of cake and icing."

"Well, I'd hate for Oliver and Alicia to think we didn't appreciate their sacrifice," George said seriously.

With another smile at him, she stood up to go back inside, and he followed her. He'd tell her someday how much better she made him feel, but in the meantime, he had a funny feeling that maybe she already knew.

"Did you see some of those charms at Alicia and Oliver's wedding?"

It was Sunday morning, and Ron had let himself into the flat, uninvited, and was now leaning against the table eating a piece of toast. "All those little sparkly effects—well, they don't do anything, but it's just an extra little bit of fun, isn't it?"

George looked up from the Sunday Prophet, open to a profile of the winners of this year's League Cup. "You thought so too, eh?"

"Guess I hang round you a bit too much; I've started thinking like you." Ron tilted his head, trying to see what George was reading about, and when he worked it out, he scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Magpies won the league again. I keep making myself forget, and now you've gone and reminded me."

Raising an eyebrow, George said, "Yeah, I think we were all gobsmacked it wasn't the Cannons."

"They weren't the bottom of the table," Ron said defensively.

"Only because Banchory forgot to show up to a match. Hard to lose when the other team doesn't bother playing."

Ron glowered for a moment, then said, "You know, I really thought the Bats were a dead cert this year. Meant to say something to Angelina at the wedding last night."

"Probably better you didn't," George said. "She's not exactly taking it well." This was true. When he'd seen her after her last game—it had been the following day—she'd still been raging intermittently, shooting hexes off at random, one or two of which he'd had to duck.

Shoving the rest of his toast into his mouth, Ron said as he chewed around it, "F'pofe Ginny dint eider."

Crumbs landed on the table on George's Prophet. As he brushed them off, he said, "I'm going to hope agreeing with that sentiment is harmless."

Ron swallowed. "I s'pose Ginny didn't either," he repeated.

"At least she's not using her Bat Bogey Hex on the opposing players."

"Anymore," Ron pointed out.

"She'll tell you they never proved it was her."

"Yeah, but come on, we've all been on the receiving end of that. We know what it looks like."

With a grin, George said, "I didn't say I believed her."

Ron pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. "So, anyway, I was thinking, we really should work out how to do some of those charms. I was even thinking, what if we could breed a Pygmy Puff that sparkled?"

George drummed his fingers on the table. "I like it. Only problem is, I dunno if the charm would stick from generation to generation."

"We could ask Charlie if there's something we could cross them with to get the sparkles."

"I'll owl him," George said decisively. Then, as an afterthought, he added "Good one. I think they'll be a big hit."

At this, Ron looked pleased. It made George feel a little guilty. Maybe he should dole out compliments to Ron more often. It wasn't like he didn't deserve them. He had good ideas, Ron did. Funny, because when they'd been kids, Fred and George had never much thought so. But maybe Ron had felt overshadowed by them. Or maybe they just hadn't noticed his good ideas.

"Listen," George said, "what do you think about this for a new line—buttonholes that spray Stinksap—haven't decided if it should be at the wearer or someone else yet—"

Ron's face lit up with the challenge of a new idea. "We could do two varieties, Stinksap and, I dunno, something nice, flowers or sparkles or something—"

"Three varieties," George said. "One more where you don't know what you're going to get."

"We could do a whole wedding line," Ron said, sounding a little awed at the possibility.

George laughed. "Bat-Bogey Bouquets, Steleus Centerpieces, Caterwauling Cake Toppers!"

"Wonder if anyone's thick enough to use any of that at their wedding," Ron said with a grin.

"I've learnt to never underestimate the inability of other people to misjudge what their friends and loved ones will find amusing," George said. "But we could include hex reversals that would take effect after a suitably hilarious amount of time. Some kind of limited Scourgify, you know. Stinksap's always funnier when you're not covered in it for your big day."

It could definitely work. They'd start small, of course—the Stinksap buttonholes were a brilliant idea—and see where it went from there. He'd have to tell Angelina that it wasn't exactly a hen and stag party line, but it was close. Though, come to think of it, if this wedding stuff did well, hen do products might not be the worst idea after all.

"And the good thing," Ron said, "is that wedding season's not till the summer, so we've got time to do proper testing on them."

George looked at him for a moment, then said, "You know, Ron, you've got a real flair for business."

Ron's ears turned red. Possibly another sign that George didn't pay him enough compliments—but then again, Ron would turn red if you told him he'd tied his shoelaces properly in a nice enough tone. "I like it," he said, apparently at a loss for anything more descriptive.

"Yeah, well, I'm glad." George hesitated, then cleared his throat and said gruffly, looking anywhere but at Ron, "Not sure where I'd be if you hadn't offered to help out, if you want to know the truth."

The initial splutter of unintelligible syllables wasn't entirely unexpected, but then Ron took a breath, and, still red, replied, "Well…thanks. Think I'm more cut out for this than being an Auror, anyway."

Glancing up at him, George asked, "You ever think of going back, finishing your training?" As he asked it, he realised with a start that he'd been avoiding asking this question, as though…what? As though by asking the question, he'd remind Ron that he'd quit his Auror training to come work at a joke shop? And that Ron would, once reminded, pull up his stakes in Wheezes? It sounded daft but it was close to the truth, and confronting it now made George realise that he didn't want to run Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes alone. Never had. It wasn't meant to be run by one person, anyway—it had brothers at its core.

But Ron just shook his head. "No way. You've heard Harry's stories—Auror training sounds grim." He hesitated for a second, then said, "Seriously. I've never even thought about going back. I love Wheezes."

With a grin, George said, "Glad to hear it. Er, not that I'd stand in the way if you had a change of heart about being an Auror, but…well, I'm glad you aren't."

Ron stuck his hands in his pockets. His face was still faintly red, but he looked happy, even if he was trying not to meet George's eyes. This had been a bit awkward, he supposed. Honest, emotional conversation wasn't something George had ever done well. That was the thing with having a twin—you didn't need to, because you already knew everything about each other. There wasn't any need to say any of it out loud.

Of course, Ron wasn't any good at it either, and he didn't have an excuse. "Anyway," Ron said briskly, "I figured I'd balance the ledger today. Save us having to do it tomorrow, you know."

Flicking the Prophet closed with a wordless and wandless snap of his wrist, George said, "Yeah, probably for the best. I've got some work to do in the laboratory."

"Which reminds me, the Lurgy Lollies definitely aren't doing what we want them to."

"What d'you think I'm going to work on?" George scratched his backside absently. "Though—that particular unintended side effect gave me an idea for the next update to the Snackbox line after this one."

"Rash Rhubarb and Custards?" Ron said with a grin.

"Well, it's mildly encouraging that we both got the same side effect from them." George stood up, grabbing his wand from the table and stowing it in his back pocket. "Might have to work on the name a bit, though."

Ron shrugged. "At least you got an idea out of it. All I got was a lecture from Hermione."

The two of them headed down into the shop. While Ron worked on the ledgers in the stock room, George snapped on the goggles that Charlie had given him for his birthday, lit a fire under his three-quarter inch cauldron (Percy would be proud that he knew them all by bottom thickness), and set to work determining why the Lurgy Lollies were causing an unfortunate rash in an even more unfortunate place.

It was easy for George to lose himself in an invention. Hours could, and very frequently did, pass without him realising it. Such was the case today, when the only thing that stopped him was the sound of the shop door opening, and Ron's voice saying, "Yeah, he's back here—hope he's not Petrified or something, there was an explosion a while ago, and it's been pretty quiet since then…"

George turned in his chair to see Ron, with Angelina right behind him, appear in the door. "Hi," he said, his heart lurching at the sight of her.

"Not Petrified, then," Angelina said, more to Ron than him. Then she shot him a dazzling smile. "That would've been a bit disappointing."

"Give me some credit," George said. He pushed the goggles up onto his forehead and held out his hands, which were covered with a pair of dragonhide gloves. "See? Safety first."

"Ginny made him wear those after all his fingernails fell off a couple months ago," Ron informed her. That made her laugh, and George just shrugged in tacit admission of this fact. Looking at George, Ron said, "I think I'm going to head home."

"Right, so Hermione's, then," George said. Ickle Ronniekins had been spending less and less time at his flat—not that George blamed him, as it was tiny, poorly heated, and located above Eeylops Owl Emporium. Come to think of it, it was poorly ventilated as well, and the odor of owl droppings was frequently overwhelming.

There was a time that saying something like this would have turned Ron an impressive puce color, but now he just shrugged. Something told George that this change heralded a proposal—not imminently, but he'd a feeling that sometime within the next year, Hermione would have an engagement ring on her finger. "See you tomorrow," Ron said. Then he added, "We should have dinner again—you two and Hermione and me."

Angelina and George glanced at each other. Just like a couple would, he realised, to gauge each other's reactions to this question. "Yeah, I'd like that," Angelina replied.

"Great," Ron said. "I'll talk to Hermione, work out a date." He disappeared from the doorway, and a few seconds later, the sound of him Disapparating reverberated through the shop.

George stood up and stretched, hooking his fingers around the strap of his goggles and pulling them off. "Want to come upstairs?" he asked Angelina. Maybe he should have asked if she'd come for any particular reason—but then again, he was happy to see her whatever the reason, and he didn't think she'd be shy about telling him why she was there.

"I could do," she replied. She glanced at the potion bubbling away. It was a deep vermilion, and steam was curling off the top to roll around the sides. "That looks better than most of your potions."

Taking off his gloves, he said, "You've got to brew a lot of sludge to make an omelette…or something." With a flick of his wand, he cast a Shield charm around it, in case it wasn't as stable as he thought it was. "It's got to simmer for a few hours, anyway. C'mon."

As she followed him out of the laboratory and up the stairs to the flat, she asked, "What is it, anyway?"

George glanced over his shoulder at her. "New Skiving Snackbox. We like to do a new one every year, you know, keep the Hogwarts professors on their toes."

"I'm surprised they're not using them at the Ministry yet," she said idly.

As he opened the door to the flat, he gestured towards the sofa, and she plopped down on it. "Between you and me, I think the only reason Percy's department isn't using them is because they all know he'd guess what was going on." She laughed, and he asked, "Any particular reason you came by? I mean, besides my charming personality and striking good looks."

"You know," she said, "saying stuff like that only works if you don't actually believe it."

"Blimey, I've really been doing it wrong all these years, haven't I?"

That got another laugh, and then she said, "No reason, really. I had new wrist guards on order at Quality Quidditch Supplies, and they came in today."

"So it's true, you just couldn't stay away from here." His heart did that hammering thing again. Like Angelina had never stopped by just because she was in Diagon Alley. But these days—well, these days it made him particularly happy. And she didn't seem in a rush to get anywhere else. "You want something to eat or drink? Mind, I can't guarantee there's much edible round here."

"Not at the minute." With a sly smile, she said, "We'll save that embarrassment for later, shall we?"

"Cruel, Johnson, cruel." He sat down next to her, then said, "By the way, Ron wanted to offer you his condolences on the Bats not winning the League this year."

Angelina made a face and drew one of her long legs up beneath her. This reaction was a vast improvement over their previous conversation on the subject. "I'm still annoyed we lost that first game against the Harpies. That one was winnable. Then we really would have been in contention for first."

"Well, next season."

"Yeah. It's not much of a break, I suppose. We'll be playing again before I know it."

There was a comfortable silence for a moment, the two of them together on his sofa, and then they started talking again, about anything and everything. When he'd invited her up he'd meant to entertain her somehow—have dinner, or play a game, something—but the hours started slipping by. It was a better afternoon than anything he could have planned. Not that it should have surprised him. Angelina had always been easy to talk to. There had been nights at school when she'd sat in the Common Room until late studying, and he and Fred had been—well, not studying, doing anything but, really—and if they'd succeeded in distracting her into conversation, it could sometimes be hours before they'd remember the time.

There'd been a night towards the end of spring term in their seventh year, before they'd set off the fireworks but while they were planning it, that Lee had gone up to bed, leaving only the two of them and a drowsing Angelina in the armchair next to the fire. Fred had got up and caught her Transfiguration textbook before it slid into the flames, and the movement woke her up. "You can get in a few more hours pointless studying if you can keep your eyes open," Fred had said, handing the book back to her and sitting on the arm of the chair.

"It's not pointless," she'd yawned. "Some of us want to pass our NEWTs."

George had propped his feet up on an ottoman and leaned back, his hands behind his head. "Come off it, Johnson, you'll make the rest of us look bad. Star Quidditch player and passing your NEWTs? Bit ambitious for one year, isn't it?"

She'd flipped the book back open, but as she stared at the page, her eyes had started to go boss-eyed, and she'd promptly closed it again. "Have to do something with my life, don't I? Quidditch is fine for school, but we'll be out in the real world soon."

Fred had just gaped at her for a second, a sentiment which George had quite agreed with. "Don't be a twit," he'd said to her, and Angelina had pursed her lips. "You don't want some boring Ministry job, do you?"

"Yeah, you might end up working for our git brother Percy, measuring cauldron bottom thickness to the nearest thirty-second of an inch," George had snorted.

"And thinking that's more important than not throwing your entire family under the Knight bus," Fred had said darkly.

Angelina had glanced at him, having heard this, and much worse, about Percy. "Of course not," she'd said. "But the League only has so many open spots a year."

"So try for one," Fred had said. "Easy."

"Yeah, now maybe you can help us with our problem," George had said. "It's bloody impossible to let space in Diagon Alley without meeting the landlord in person to sign the papers."

With a snort, she'd said, "Oh, you're the Weasley twins, I'm sure you'll work it out."

And, well, they had, hadn't they? They'd got 93 Diagon Alley, and she'd gone out for, and won, her spot on the Ballycastle Bats.

George looked at her and, the memory of that long-ago conversation in his mind, asked, "D'you ever think about playing for England?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "You think I'm that good?"

"Come off it, Johnson. You know you are."

She laughed. "Well, I suppose I do know it." For a second, she looked thoughtful, and then she answered, "I've thought about it. But I've never told anyone else that I'm thinking about it." She paused, then added, "Not even Alicia." She hesitated, she added, "And honestly, Weasley, I'm not sure why I'm telling you."

"My charming personality," George informed her with a grin. "We talked about this earlier, remember?" She punched him lightly on the shoulder and he laughed. "So if you've thought about it, what's stopping you?"

"Besides the fact I've not been asked?"

"Besides that. You know it's only a matter of time."

There was a thoughtful look on her face. "I guess…well, I could tell you what I've been telling myself."

"Which is?"

"That Quigley played for Ireland, and when they won the World Cup, Montrose snatched him up. It was hard for the team to lose him. I don't want to do that to them."

"But that's not the real reason."

Angelina held his eyes for a moment, then looked away. "No. The real reason is that I owe the Bats. Some days, going to practise was the only thing that kept me going. I like being part of a team. Not any more important than the others. If I played for England…" She trailed off, then shrugged. "It would just be different, and I'm not exactly there yet." With a laugh, she added, "That probably sounds daft."

"No," he said honestly. "No, it doesn't at all."

She looked at him again, and then, impulsively, she put a hand on his knee. It was only for a second. "You're really surprisingly understanding sometimes."

With a wince, George said, "I wish you wouldn't say that so loudly. The neighbours might hear, and I've got a reputation to keep up."

That made her laugh, and they lapsed into companionable silence again. George wished she'd put her hand back on his leg. With any other woman, he'd take that as a sure-fire indication that she was interested in him. With Angelina, it was impossible to tell. They'd been friends too long, been in too many grubby situations—and too many changing rooms, for that matter—for any of those signs to be helpful.

But—even if it didn't necessarily mean anything, he still wished she'd do it.

Then, she blurted, "There was never anything much between Aidan Lynch and I."

It was totally apropos of nothing and took him aback, and for a few long seconds, he had no idea how to respond. George pretended that this was ancillary to anything. Everything. Why was she bringing this up now? Not that she ever needed to bring it up—as far as he was concerned, Lynch was ancient history. "I figured, after you ditched him for what's-his-name."

"Yeah, well, there was nothing serious there either," she said, sounding uncomfortable. "Or the next bloke I went out with."

Raising an eyebrow, George asked, "There was a next bloke?"

"Briefly." She met his eyes. "I just—oh, bollocks, I don't even know why I'm saying this to you. The thing is, I always got the feeling you held it against me."

"Ange, your love-life's none of my business—" And if he was honest, he hadn't let himself think about why her love-life had given him twinges of discomfort for months.

She ploughed on, ignoring him. "Maybe it was none of your business but I could tell it bothered you because you thought I was trying to replace Fred."

Maybe at first. Recently it was because all he could think about was being with her. "And I know—"

"You were right," she interrupted again, her tone blunt. "I tried and tried, and I thought maybe if I could feel something for one of them it would've made it worth it, but the fact is…" She hesitated and then caught his eye. He knew she was remembering when he'd accused her of tarting around; he wondered if she was wondering if she'd just confirmed those words.

He smiled at her and tried to both put in and hold back everything he felt about and for her. Probably it made him look slightly batty, but something eased in her face. "The fact is?" he prompted.

There was a smile on her face. "The fact is, I can't go out with other professional Quidditch players. Seems they're not really my type after all."

It was less of a struggle than he thought it was going to be to refrain from asking her what her type was. He supposed he already knew. He wondered if it extended to ginger-haired practical jokers who were missing an ear and a twin brother.

"Ange," he began, "anything I said—did—whatever, it's only because I'm an arse. You've never owed anything to anyone. Not Fred, and certainly not me."

She shook her head. "That isn't true. It's…oh, I can't explain. I certainly owed it to him—and especially you—to not…I dunno, bollocks everything up. I just keep thinking, maybe…maybe it would have been better, maybe it would have helped, if I hadn't bloody run from the sight of you every time we saw each other."

"Maybe," he said. Then—sod it—he took her hand, squeezing it. "Still don't think you owed it to Fred, though. Anyway, you probably needed the time." He smiled at her. "It's okay; I don't hold a grudge that long. Give it another five, ten years, and I'll probably have got over it."

Her relief was palpable, and she laughed at his joke. "Noted." She was still holding his hand. "You know, it's taken me some time to realise you don't replace the people you lose. That's not how it works, not at all. You just…move on and make your happiness another way."

George stared at her for a long moment. "That's the most bloody profound thing I've ever heard you say," he finally said.

"I don't imagine it's a very long list. I was always better with a Quaffle than saying the right thing."

"Yeah, well, still."

For another moment, they held each other's gazes and hands, and then that moment ended. She let go and leaned back into the corner of the sofa, looking relaxed and casual and not at all as though she'd just given him hope that this, whatever it was, could be…something. But looking at her sitting there, he suddenly found that he didn't have a clue what he was supposed to do. Everything with Angelina was too complicated, too confusing. Merlin's balls, he didn't actually know if she was interested in him at all. That'd be exactly what he needed—to make a complete sodding fool of himself trying for a relationship with her when all she wanted was to be mates.

"Hey," she said, "d'you want to get dinner together? Haven't you mentioned an Indian takeaway you like just outside Diagon Alley?"

"You never have to ask twice about food," he said with an easy grin, which she returned.

She stayed long past the time it took them to eat, until Diagon Alley was dark and quiet and she reluctantly said she'd better go so he could get some sleep, and he gallantly offered to walk her to the door.

"Good of you," she laughed, as he joined her for the four steps that it took to get from the sofa to the door. Her fingers curled around the door knob, but she paused before opening it and said casually, "See you in a few days?"

"Yeah," he replied. They hadn't arranged anything, but somehow that didn't seem to matter. It hadn't mattered, actually, for months—most of the time, they just met up with no plans and ended up spending as much time together as they could.

"All right, then," she replied, meeting his eyes. There was a long silence, and George wondered with a start if she was waiting for something. Or was he waiting for something? But before he could work out which it was, she broke the eye contact, opened the door, and, with a swift smile over her shoulder, said, "'Night, Weasley."

There was a crack! on the stairs as she Disapparated. Show-off, he thought with a grin, and made a mental note to tell her next time. Had to turn into thin air over the edge of the step, Angelina did, when most people kept both feet on a level surface during Apparition. Not him, of course, but then, everyone knew that the Weasley twins were show-offs.

George nudged the door closed and went into his bedroom to get ready for bed, even though he wasn't tired. He should have done something while she was standing there. Problem was, he'd no bloody idea what that something should have been. This was idiotic—he'd never had any problems with women. Why would he? Charming, funny George Weasley—well, less so since he'd lost the ear and the twin, but there'd been Parvati, and that had been easy enough. Or rather, it had been simple enough, because all Parvati had wanted was something uncomplicated.

This couldn't go on, though. The time had come for desperate measures.

George took a deep, determined breath. The time had come to ask for advice.