Chapter Text
March 1999
A few weeks later, George was brewing another batch of chews with Harry sitting on top of the table next to him, chattering on about nothing in particular, when George suddenly announced, “Harry, I think it’s time.”
Harry panicked for a split second, thinking this is it, he’s kicking me out, because he knows about the dreams… but no.
“I want to go downstairs.”
“Like…you want to look around? Clear out? Sell off any left-over merchandise?” Harry rattled off, delighted by this turn of events. He’d very carefully avoided pressing George about the dusty shelves and impenetrable store room below when he’d been itching to have a go at it himself.
“All of the above? Erm… I’d like to make a list, see what’s gone bad, what can be salvaged, and document what supplies I’d need If I decided to open up shop again. I would need to be up and running by the time school shopping starts for maximum profitability… It’s nearly impossible, and I don’t have high hopes, but… I’m getting tired of running in circles.”
Harry smiled at George. “Well, I think it sounds brilliant. I’d love to help you, seeing as my hamster wheel of life is going just about as productively as yours for the moment.”
The shop below was an absolute mess, and first thing, Harry tackled the dusty shelves and the dirt-crusted floors, sweeping and dusting, playing some muggle rock-and-roll on George’s ancient wireless. George worked around him, marking inventories down first, before boxing up products for temporary storage and testing. It took them the better part of two weeks to get through the entire store, and Harry and George finally stood together when it was finished, surveying the sparkling floors, the empty shelves, and the repaired glass window.
“Not bad,” Harry panted. He found he was hungry, and immediately plundered his pockets for any stray chews. He found one and popped it in his mouth.
“Not bad? Merlin, Harry, you sure know how to clean a room! I mean, even though you didn’t use magic, it looks amazing. Don’t tell Mum, but you’re better at this than she is.”
Harry beamed at George, and then realized he was beaming a bit too warmly and turned his head away, pretending to survey the shop around them. It was a blank canvas, ready to be filled.
They trudged upstairs and collapsed in the living room, George on his customary hideous terra-cotta Papasan chair, and Harry into his favorite brightly-colored beanbag.
“So, I’ve decided what products I want to bring back, and I have a few experiments in mind. It will be considerably harder without Fred because we had this system for testing, and the ideas just flowed between us, but I still have the old notes, and Angelina said she’d be willing to test when she’s not busy flying…”
Angelina. Harry’s lips pursed and he inhaled a deep breath before forcing himself to relax. “I could help you test?”
“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea… given your, ah, delicate stomach.”
Harry scowled and threw a stray pillow at George who dodged it with a grin. “Okay, fine, fair point. But, I’d like to help if I could. I swear I’m not trying to get underfoot or anything, just… I’m excited for this place to be open again.”
George sat up straighter, arms against knees. “You’ve been getting pretty decent with potions… I have a few custom recipes I’ll need brewing if you’re up for it. Oh, and some Amortentia as well. You’ve made it before, right?”
“Amortentia? Erm… no, I haven’t. But I was able to brew the antidote after a few attempts and it displayed all the appropriate characteristics. I’m sure I could manage it.” Harry nodded enthusiastically, smiling to show he was willing, albeit nervous.
For a moment they sat, thinking separate thoughts until one particular concern occurred to Harry and he found himself voicing it. “Um… isn’t Amortentia a banned substance? I mean, what all does that entail?”
“Oh. Right, Amortentia is illegal for use in its undiluted form. We used trace amounts of it for some of the patented daydream charms, and it was extremely watered down for our wonder witch love potion products. Though, past expiration, the dilution evaporates somewhat, leaving the love potion too strong for advisable use. It’s why we plastered the shit out of those boxes with all kinds of warnings and disclaimers, otherwise, the Wizarding Substance Administration would never have okayed it for sale.”
“That explains the Romilda thing from the sixth year then…” Harry breathed, thinking of the time with the chocolate cauldrons and Ron’s disastrous seventeenth birthday.
“Exactly,” George nodded.
“Well, I’m game. I just need to visit the Apothecary for ingredients, so get me the lists and I’ll go this week.”
*****
The routine became this; Harry spent the mornings brewing on one end of the table while George worked on product development design and took notes on the other end of the table. Harry napped the afternoons away (and sometimes took care of… needs) while George went on a run, now opting for outdoors again when the weather was nice. Harry would wake up in time for George to come home for dinner.
They’d eat together (well, George would eat, and Harry would chew his flavorless chews), talk long into the night, sometimes just the two of them, or sometimes Angelina or Lee, or Ron would pop by for a late visit or go out for drinks. Harry would eventually go to bed, alone, and George wouldn’t, working long into the night until he either passed out on his Papasan chair or the table right on top of his notes, and sometimes, if it had been a particularly taxing day, he’d wind up on his side of the bed, often on top of the covers, as if he couldn’t help but be ready for flight, even as he slept.
Harry found he liked their life, even with the added discomfort of his recent dreams, becoming far more common than he’d like. He tried to have the occasional wank when George was gone, or sometimes in the shower, just to get it out of his system, but it didn’t seem to be working all that well, because dreams still assaulted him during the vulnerable hours of the night, and Harry was relieved that George rarely slept in the bed, because uncontrollable wet dreams only feet away from the unwitting subject of his fantasies would be further out of Harry’s comfort zone than he could handle.
The most recent missive from Malfoy didn’t help either. They’d been exchanging letters semi-regularly, but this one took the cake and made an immediate bid for the bin.
Potter,
I’ve been having a chat with Granger about you (when she doesn’t have the both of us up to our eyeballs in exams schedules. That woman is relentless, and Salazar help me, but I’m so turned on by how fucking studious she is… Don’t tell Weasley.)
We’ve both decided you could use a little… nudge in the George direction. I recommend a few contrived scenarios for your benefit, take them or leave them, but don’t blame me if they blow up in your face. Granger forced me to write #,7 which I said was not a good idea. Best be subtle about these things…
- ‘Unintentional’ bed snuggling.
- Accidentally fall into his lap, and have a good grind to see if he returns the feeling.
- Walk out of the shower starkers and see what he does
- Find excuses to touch him
- Flirting—no wait. You’re hopeless at this. Disregard…
- Bring home a date and see if he gets jealous—Theo might be interested, I’ll ask if you want me to, but you’ll have to wait until Easter Holidays when we get a ‘break’.
- Just tell him already. He said he wasn’t serious about the other girl, so just get in there and make your move.
Kindly refrain from pointing out that I’m a hypocrite and can only boast of doing #5, though Granger doesn’t seem to have caught on. Or maybe she has but is too stressed right now to reciprocate.
Cheers and for Merlin’s sake, get laid,
Malfoy
Harry crumpled the letter into a ball the moment he finished, face reddening so darkly, that George commented on it, asking what had upset him so much. Harry settled for a contrived coughing fit and proceeded to guzzle an entire glass of water in the kitchen while surreptitiously chucking the note in the bin and resolving to send Malfoy an embarrassing Howler.
He had to admit, though… some of the ideas were not bad ones if he was seriously considering pursuing George, but… George didn’t see him that way. He was friendly and fun to be with, but he hadn’t laid so much as a finger on Harry since that day they fought when George hugged Harry from behind.
And perhaps, that was for the best, because Angelina still came around, and even though George said they weren’t together, they spent more than enough hours huddled quietly together, talking in low voices that Harry was often reminded that he was the one with feelings he hardly understood himself, and George… well. George might not like blokes the way Harry did.
So, Malfoy could eat his own words, and just stay out of Harry’s business because he wasn’t going to disrupt this perfectly satisfactory life, living with George, helping him reopen his and Fred’s business, and trying desperately to feel like as much of a whole person as he could.
*****
April 1999
“Happy Birthday, George!”
Harry grinned at his friend, a plate of sausages and eggs and toast already set, a mug of coffee steaming fragrantly on the table.
George blinked sleep from his eyes, scrubbing his hair into a frenzy.
“Oh,” was all he said, looking at the plate, the birthday card, Harry beaming at him. George’s eyes welled up with tears, lip trembling as he gasped and disappeared into their bedroom again.
“Shit,” Harry muttered, belatedly realizing his massive mistake. They’d never talked about George’s birthday, and Harry had the not-so-brilliant idea to surprise his friend. Why did Harry never learn?
He tore off his apron and walked cautiously over to their room, peering in to see George buried in his pillow, shoulders shaking. Harry wasn’t good at this. He’d been dealt loss in spades, but still, he had no idea what to say, what to do… He hardly knew when it came to himself. So, he just stood there, a complete arse; just the unwilling and unwanted audience to George’s grief.
“Erm, George?” No response. Harry stepped closer to the bed, daring to sink one knee into the mattress to start. George quieted somewhat at the squeaking sound of Harry scootching closer on the mattress. He probably shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t help himself. Harry laid his palm on George’s back and held it there, his fingers splaying over the warm fabric of George’s shirt.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Harry didn’t know how many times he’d asked the question at this point, with George always answering “no.” But it was Harry"s preferred way of saying he knew who George was thinking of without either of them ever having to say it.
So, this time when George answered “Yes,” it took Harry completely by surprise.
“Okay… I’m not sure where to go from here,” Harry gave a weak chuckle, and tried out the feeling of smoothing his hand down George’s broad shoulders to the dipping small of his back, and then up again, hypnotized by the feel of skin through cotton.
“Me neither Harry… all I can say is that I don"t think I can celebrate without him. I can’t face today knowing that I’ll always be older than him now, because he died when he was twenty, and today, I’m twenty-one.”
“It’s so unfair, George, and I’m so sorry, It’s my fa—”
“—No, Harry. No. It’s not your fault. Don’t take this on yourself, like you always try to. You’re not the universal scapegoat, try as the ministry did, try as the Daily Prophet did. The war is over, Voldemort is dead, and you are free, and that is the most worthwhile thing of all; that you don’t have to be shackled by the burdens put upon you anymore. Harry, I don’t blame you, and you shouldn’t either.”
George turned onto his back, Harry’s hand sliding with him, now to his stomach, where it was promptly folded under George’s hands. Harry closed his eyes and tried not to cry because this wasn’t his moment to be tragic right now. He forced himself to nod, and squeeze the tears back in for now so that George could mourn Fred.
Harry blinked open his eyes, and though George’s eyes were puffy and red, he was looking at Harry with the most peculiar expression. “Y’know, Harry? I feel so different being with you. Fred sort of… pulled me out of my shell by sheer force of personality. He made me—both of us, shine. I was merely the lens, and he the lamp.”
“And… what about me?” Harry was burning with curiosity, curling his fingers under George’s.
“You are quiet but determined. You don’t crave the spotlight, you embrace the darkness. It’s the reason I started making you those chews, the reason I dared to come back to live here, the reason I’m trying to open the shop again, the reason I…” George stopped himself and swallowed, seeming to shy away from his last thought.
“Anyways, I think there is healing in darkness too. You let me in, you bought the building, you tidied up, you cooked for me, and you’ve been trying to improve your potion brewing skills for some reason, and I admire the way you do these things quietly, bravely, and with the loyalty of a true friend, Harry. No, I don’t think of you as Fred’s equal or replacement, but you are the perfect foil for him, and just who I need in my life. I only hope I can be that for you someday…” George smiled then, through his damp eyes and raspy voice.
You have no idea… thought Harry, but he allowed himself to nod, unable to speak through the knot in his throat. They sat like that for a while, George with hands over Harry’s and blinking up at the ceiling, and Harry trying to ignore the flutters in his heart at the prolonged contact.
“No birthday celebration just now, okay? Let’s just go over the shipment we received yesterday, and begin assembly. Angelina and Lee should be here later to help.” George patted Harry’s hand once and then released it, sitting up to stretch.
“Okay. I’ll just go clear up breakfast, shall I?”
“NO! that is to say, I’m still very hungry. I’ll eat it in a trice.”
Harry smiled. “Of course, you will.”
*****
Harry was shifting boxes and he found something in the back that made him grin. George must have missed it in the original inventory sweep, and though they were hopelessly out of date and probably wouldn’t work, he pocketed them for later.
It had been a satisfying day, stocking the back-room shelves, and beginning to pre-assemble some of the new packaging, while the four of them chatted animatedly, trying to stave off the significance of the day by being as casual and friendly as possible. Harry even relaxed enough to enjoy Angelina’s tales of flying with the Ballycastle Bats and had to admit to himself that he missed flying very much. Perhaps he could purchase a new broomstick sometime, just to feel the wind through his hair again.
It had been a long time since Harry wanted to do something for his own enjoyment, and it felt nice to be surrounded by friends.
When they’d finished up for the night and Angelina and Lee had gone, George approached Harry, hands in pockets, a faint look of dread on his face. “I’m afraid Mum’s invited us to dinner tonight. I asked her not to do a cake or anything, but I know why she’s doing it… for me. And Fred.”
“Do you… want to go?” Harry asked.
“No. But I will. It’s just Mum and Dad and Ron, so it won’t be bad.”
Dinner was a solemn affair, and gone were the smiles and laughter of the day, and Harry itched to do something. He tore bits of bread to pieces for want of something to do and found himself actually eating them.
His stomach didn’t turn, but after a few bites, he had to stop. Bread was really rich, and how had he never realized? George had seen too, and he raised his eyebrows at Harry, who shrugged and sipped his water instead. He wasn’t sure what was happening, and he wasn’t about to question it just now.
“Ahem,” Harry cleared his throat after dinner. “I know we aren’t celebrating, but I have something for Fred today. I’ll let George decide if we should do them, but it could be a lovely send-off.” He pulled a battered, dusty box of Weasley’s Wildfire Whiz-bangs from his pocket and handed them to George, who bent to study them quietly.
A tear fell on George’s thumb, and he didn’t move to wipe it. He was looking at Harry now, something like wonder instead of anger. “I thought these had all gone…”
“Found it, buried in a box of junk. I have no idea if they’ll work…”
“Let’s do it!” George nodded, standing. Everyone followed him outside to where the sky was darkening, the air growing colder with each passing minute. Harry stood in line with Ron, Arthur, and Molly, and they all watched George light the bundle with his wand tip.
Sparks blossomed and glowed in the sky above them. A joyful celebration of Fred in the form of shocking-pink Catherine wheels, fire-breathing dragons, sparklers with a variety of profane words that Mrs. Weasley rolled her eyes at and said, “honestly,” to, and of course the beautiful long-tailed silver stars and blooming flowers of every color. They collided, and ricocheted, creating new colors and shapes, and they went on, and on, and on.
George’s hand found its way into Harry’s, and he held on for the ages that passed with the five of them standing there, thinking of Fred with eyes pointed upward, hoping he was enjoying the show.
*****
May 1999
Harry stood at this very spot almost nine years ago, a small, frightened boy who’d grown up his whole life believing he was this whole other person with an incredibly dismal outlook on life when really, he had just come home for the first time.
Harry tried to feel like it was ‘coming home’ now, but he just felt dread looking up at the castle, framed by cheerfully fluffy white clouds, the sky so blue it seemed to deny the fact that one year ago, this place was one of ash and blood and death. Tom’s death, Fred’s death, Lupin and Tonks, Colin, Lavender, Snape… and everyone else who stood in the way to protect Harry.
“Harry? Are you coming?” George called. He was meters ahead of Harry now, the rest of the Weasley family even further ahead.
“Yeah, I am.” Harry nodded. He hastened to catch up, following the long procession of people clad in black. George put his arm around Harry and pulled him along, shielding him from curious looks and the general discomfort of being a hero. He knew this day would be hardest of all for Harry, who’d comfortably melted into the shadows this last year, content to just heal in peace.
“You have your speech cards?” George murmured in Harry’s ear. Harry tensed, partly because George was so close and he had no idea what his nearness was doing to Harry’s heart, and also because his stomach gave a nervous lurch at the reminder of what Headmistress McGonagall had asked of him. He palmed the cards in his pocket and nodded, swallowing at dryness.
“Hey, you’ll do just fine. Look at me the whole time and say it as you practiced with me before, right?”
“Right. Thanks, George.” Harry darted a glance at George and then looked away, face hot because they were too close. “I’m going to go catch up with Ron, alright? We were planning to find a seat near Hermione.”
George dropped his arm. “Oh,” was all he said.
The Great Hall had been cleared of all house tables. Chairs were set in neat rows, already half-packed with students, and families of the fallen. The staff table was crammed with extra seats to include not only teachers but also ministry officials and the Minister of Magic himself. Harry gulped when he saw a lone chair at McGonagall’s right hand. He didn’t even have a chance to make good on his promise of sitting with Ron and Hermione when Filch steered him out of the queue with his clawed hand and said in an oily whisper,
“Headmistress McGonagall has asked me to retrieve you, Potter.” He gave a horrible yellowed smile that Harry jerkily returned, if only just so that Filch would stop. Harry trudged right up to the raised platform and ducked to sit quickly and unobtrusively next to Professor McGonagall.
“Mr. Potter, it’s very good to see you,” She said to him, nodding once with her beady eyes fixed on him, remorse evident in her pinched expression.
“And you as well, Headmistress.” Harry looked out at the crowd, watching them watch him. He noted that Ron and Hermione sat together, and on her other side was Malfoy, looking uncomfortable at the angry eye daggers Ron kept shooting in his direction. Harry almost laughed aloud. He scanned the crowd for other familiar faces, giving small smiles to his friends who waved at him, and settling on the Weasley row, trying to catch George’s eye.
But George kept his head low, and Harry regretted being so flighty earlier. George had only been trying to help. How could he know about Harry’s secret feelings and wants, and how could he know that holding Harry like that had such a powerful effect on him?
The memorial service began with introductions, followed by a reading of all the names of the fallen, both during the Battle of Hogwarts, as well as those during the war. There were speeches, the unveiling of the monumental obelisk that would stand in the main castle courtyard, inscribed with the names previously read, and finally, Harry was called forth to give his remarks.
He stood at the podium, hands shaking, mouth so dry he couldn’t even swallow. George was nowhere to be found now, and Harry suddenly couldn’t do this. He was too exposed, and everyone was staring. The boy who lived, their hero, and Voldemort’s downfall, rendered completely useless by stage fright.
Harry stared down at his hands and willed them to stop shaking. The Hall was completely silent, everyone’s breath held, waiting for him to just speak. Just speak, and get it over with…
“Here, let me,” George took the cards from Harry’s hand and stood next to him at the podium, magnifying his voice so that Harry’s words could be heard.
“Hi, I’m George Weasley, as you may already know, and I’ll be reading Harry’s speech. He’s been through hell, and I think he deserves a quiet life, so here goes…
“A year ago today, many of you were here, and many of you bore witness to the tragic attack on this school by Lord Vol—Voldemort. Some of you were taken to safety, and some of you fought bravely, losing loved ones, losing innocence, but never hope.
“It was your hope that lifted me and helped me complete the task I had been given by Albus Dumbledore, the task I was fated to complete because of the significance of who I was. Tom Riddle chose me, and in doing so doomed my fate to be forever entwined with his. I’m not an extraordinary man or wizard, but I had this responsibility thrust upon me, and I did the best I could, and I couldn’t have done it if not for every one of you.
“I hope this anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts can help begin to heal the cracks in our foundation, to build us up stronger together, with love and forgiveness and unity. Let us never forget that good fight for equality and justice, for the opportunity of all people to enjoy rights to dignity and freedom. The sacrifices we made were worth it, and it’s something I struggle to believe myself at times, choosing to let the guilt and sorrow drown me in despair.”
George now held Harry’s hand behind the podium, giving a squeeze as he set off to finish the hardest part. Harry’s face was streaked with tears and he just watched George use his mouth to speak Harry’s words. And it was love. Harry loved him for this alone, if not for everything else. The realization stabbed at him so forcefully that he had to stifle the gasp with his free hand.
“I dedicate this speech to the downtrodden, those who haven’t healed yet, like me. It’s a journey, and we are just doing the best we can to get there, one day at a time. For me, it’s people like the Weasleys, my best friends Ron and Hermione, and especially George, who lost his twin. They have all tried to help me through this trying year. It’s also people like Draco Malfoy or my muggle cousin Dudley who have reached out with hopes of forgiveness and reconciliation, and that has been healing too.
“I thank you for letting me speak today, and I hope that things will only get better from here. Let us go forth in gratitude and love and confidence for better things to come.”
*****
Love. That was always the answer Dumbledore gave that caused Harry to roll his eyes in exasperation. The pitiful-seeming weapon against evil, the thing that protected him from becoming Tom, even as he was Tom. All along, it was Love.
I love you. Harry thought quietly as he watched George tuck greedily into his plate later that night, practically inhaling the food Harry had carefully cooked for him. I love you, and you have no idea. George wiped his mouth with a napkin and grinned up at Harry in gratitude. I love you, and I need you, and…
“Harry, are you feeling okay? You look a bit flushed…” George reached over and pressed his cool palm to Harry’s forehead. Harry leaned into that hand like it was a wall. Don’t ever stop touching me…
George dropped his hand and Harry swayed at the loss of support, not building a convincing case for ‘feeling okay.’
“You’re really warm. I mean, Mum always did the forehead thing and then said ‘you’re burning up’ and then she carried us up to bed, and fed us pepper-up potion. Want me to carry you to bed? I don’t have pepper-up, but I can brew some quick…”
Harry started to protest this but George lifted him in his arms and carried him as if he were a measly scroll of parchment scrawled with hopeless poems, and unrequited love songs. Harry clutched the shirt on George’s back, trying in vain to ignore the ripple of muscle under skin as George dipped to set Harry on the bed.
“Stay. I’ll brew up that pepper-up in no time.” George promised, already darting out to gather up his potions kit, setting it up on the other side of the long table they never used. I love you, and I wouldn’t be alive if not for you. I love you, I love you, I love you…
Harry was asleep before George even finished.
June 1999
Ever since the memorial last month, Harry had been undecided about what to do. He’d unwisely written to both Hermione and Malfoy about it and then received another angry visit from Ron when George was out one day.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ron slugged him the moment he appeared at the top of the stairs, still dressed in his Auror robes, tie loose around his neck.
“Ow, Ron… Why’d you—”
“Er, I don’t know, perhaps it’s that you’re fucking in love with George and didn’t tell me, but you told Hermione and Malfoy! This is the ultimate betrayal. Like, worse than when you dated Ginny because at least I was there for that one.”
“First of all, it’s not betrayal, it’s my private and still very much secret feelings that I don’t want George to know about. Unrequited feelings, mind you, and second of all, I didn’t tell you because…” Harry trailed off, not sure how to articulate the next thing without offending his best mate.
“Because… because why, Harry?”
“Because I like guys too, not just girls. I didn’t even fully realize it until recently. I wasn’t sure how you’d… react. Like, maybe you’d think I’m weird.”
Ron squinted at Harry with a hard look and then shook his head. “What are you brewing anyways?”
“Amortentia. Or, at least I’m trying. George needs it for some of his products, and I’ve been helping with a lot of the brewing. I’m not bad without Snape breathing down my neck at every turn…”
Ron sniffed and moved a pile of George’s notes so he could sit on the table.
“Harry, I don’t think you’re weird. You’re my best mate, always. I do think you have terrible taste, though. I mean, George?? For Merlin’s sake, at least pick someone good-looking.”
Harry huffed indignantly. “But he is good looking… I mean, have you seen him lately? Godric, he’s fit as fuck. And I’m…”
“No, don’t do that. Harry, you’re a catch too. And you should just tell George.”
“Why would I do that? It would be weird between us if he didn’t return the feelings. I’m already far too needy as it is without adding another layer. Besides, George is dating Angelina.”
“Oh,” Ron said, scratching his head. “Well, that is… good point. Where is he by the way?”
“Er, not here, or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation. He usually goes for a run in the afternoons, so stick around for an hour and he’ll be back.”
“Nah, can’t. I have a date tonight.” Ron puffed up his chest impressively and grinned.
“Oh? You and Hermione, or…”
“No. We’re done, Harry. She let me down after the memorial, though I’ve suspected for ages. It’s only a matter of time before that sneaky little ferret swoops in and makes his move, but… I dunno. I was holding on for so long, but it was kind of a one-time fling last summer, and we haven’t been close since. It’s Parvati, believe it or not. She’s been accepted to Auror training, and we got to talking at the Memorial and things just clicked and… yeah…” Ron finished lamely, but Harry was grinning with his friend.
“Nice one! Parvati’s great. I bet it will be a good date.”
Ron hopped off the table “Thanks. I hope so. Well, I"d better be off, but I’m warning you, Harry. No more hearing shit from Hermione. Tell me stuff, and tell me when you finally grow a pair, and make your move.”
“Fine, I will…”
Far from making him feel better though, this conversation had Harry in knots, thinking about how unlikely it was for George to ever be interested in him. How was he supposed to know? To risk everything, when he could just be content living here with George until the end of time, or until George found someone else?
Harry pondered as he brewed and finally stopped after the final line of instruction, realizing that after only two attempts at this difficult potion, he’d done it.
Amortentia.
It was perfect, this brew, complete with the characteristic mother-of-pearl sheen, and steam spiraling beautifully above the cauldron.
Every other concern that had plagued him the last hour flew from his mind and Harry found himself physically drawn to the potion, unable to resist leaning in to admire his work, completely intoxicated by the color, the warmth of it on his face, and the aroma…
Treacle Tart. The woody scent of a broom handle. And…
“Good Godric, that smells amazing! Amortentia?” George clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder and Harry froze, heart throbbing, skin burning. George was back, and he hadn’t even heard him ascend the stairs after his run, far too entranced by this thing he’d created.
The potion wafted warmly into his face, causing him to lose all coherency. George was touching him. His hand squeezed gently once… twice…
“Harry, that looks perfect,” George’s voice sounded low, ragged all of a sudden.
Harry spun to see George’s blue eyes inches from him, blown wide with astonishment, and some other expression so utterly foreign on his face, that Harry didn’t think he could put a name to it, but if he had to, it would be something like desperation.
“Y—yes… it is the Amortentia you asked for…” Harry choked out and watched in fascination as George inhaled sharply, eyelashes fluttering.
“I think you got it right, Harry. It’s flawless. Absolutely...”
Harry caught himself leaning towards George, drawn to the bead of sweat trickling down his neck, the spots of damp perspiration under the arms of his running shirt, the curl of flaming hair over pink ears…
“That smells like...” George’s eyes bored into Harry’s, and it seemed for a heart-stopping second as if he were leaning closer too…
“What do you smell?” Harry whispered.
“Mum’s chocolate fudge, Fireworks, and… Harry…”
George stumbled back as if punched in the gut.
“George, what is it?” Harry gasped, flailing his arms in a panic, completely unhinged and unable to help because he was shaking from head to toe with the inescapable thirst for that ruddy potion, and the compulsion to leap on George at the same time.
“Shower. I forgot to shower after my run and… and…” George fled, slamming the bathroom door behind him.
Harry finally looked down at himself, realizing that he was ridiculously hard. If he stayed here inhaling that intoxicating scent any longer, he would self-combust. There was nothing for it, inadvisable though it was. Harry dashed for the bedroom and threw himself into the mussed sheets, clawing his pants button open, shoving his hand down his underwear to grip his length…
Every stroke was utterly reckless. Harry envisioned George, peeling his shirt off after his run and he groaned, heedless of the noises he was making… imagined George doing the same as Harry right now in the shower next door and he arched, thrusting wantonly into his hand… buried his nose in George’s pillow and suffocated himself with the familiar scent of cedar and cloves… That other, elusive smell in the Amortentia was George. Of course, it was.
Fuck.
It was too much, Harry was going to… going to…
Harry clamped his teeth over his lip and tasted salt and iron as white-hot pleasure shook him to the core. He lay in a dead swoon, covered in his own mess and completely insensate until he finally heard the shower knob squeak off through the wall. He hastened to scourgify himself and quickly ran out of the bedroom to bottle the potion before George could enjoy a mortifying repeat performance.
George emerged, water-darkened hair plastered to his forehead, pale skin glistening, towel tight around his middle. He froze, watching Harry carefully cork the potion before setting it gingerly on the table. A powder keg, if ever there was one to keep a wary eye on.
“Erm…” George panted. Merlin above, those muscles. Harry wanted to lick them but wisely kept the urge to himself. “Erm, you did an excellent job, but I’m afraid I’m having second thoughts on the wonder-witch products at present, and the er, romantically themed daydreams. We can re-introduce them another time perhaps, but for now…”
“Yes… very sensible.” Harry nodded far more vigorously than was natural while ogling George’s chest. “I mean, who knows how in demand they would be… Need to start simple…”
“R—right you are, Harry. I, er, better go get dressed.” George ducked his head and disappeared.
Harry cast a silencio on himself and silently screamed until his throat was raw.
*****
Harry begged off that night, unable to face George after what he’d just done to their bed with George right next door showering, but it was just as well because Angelina was coming over again tonight, and Dudley was having a final fantasy marathon that Harry could zone out to, and try to forget the whole affair for a few hours.
Harry managed to keep interactions as minimal as possible, until the following Monday when he and George were working quietly on their separate projects at the table.
“So, Percy’s wedding is next weekend…” George leaned over the table, crinkling his scattered notes to watch Harry brew from the list of required potions for the joke shop.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Harry nodded, stirring with a forced calm he didn’t feel at being directly addressed after the Amortentia incident. “Are you planning on bringing anyone? Like… Angelina?”
“Hmmm… thought about it, but she’s going with Lee. What about you? Things still on the outs with Ginny?”
“Oh, yeah… we had a bit of a falling out after the war. I thought you knew.”
“I guessed, but, young love is so volatile, you know?”
Harry’s heart clenched. Oh, yes, he did know. “Um, yeah… I’m not going to the wedding with Ginny. I’m not in love with her anymore, and I’ll probably just go stag.”
“Well, that’s a shame. A handsome bloke like you needs a date… Are you sure you don’t have your eye on anyone? Any… pretty girls, or… guys?” George asked slyly. Harry bumped his elbow painfully on the edge of his cauldron and shot a startled look at George.
“Wait… what?”
“Aw, come on, Harry. I’ve known for ages. There was Cedric during the Triwizard… don’t look at me like that. I don’t think you realized it at the time, but you were pretty fixated on him. And then there was Malfoy… Terrible taste, really, but I’m glad to see you got over him quickly enough.”
“Fuck. No fucking way. I’m not—That is, I haven’t—” Harry tried to protest, face growing hot with dread that George might discover just who Harry was in love with at the moment.
George smiled. “No worries, Harry. Love is love, yeah? Anyways, you’ll have to save me a dance at the wedding, then, since neither of us will have dates.”
“Oh, sure. I warn you though, I’m an atrocious dancer, and you may need to regrow a few toes when I’m through with you…”
”It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Harry chuckled nervously and gulped, studying his brew carefully until George returned to his notes, humming some tune under his breath.
So, George knew. He knew, and he didn’t think Harry was weird. Harry wanted to be comforted by this, but instead, his heart quickened as if tumbling in a final, desperate grab for some impossible prize. Harry might’ve had what seemed like all the time in the world, but instead felt as if time were running out.
*****
The scene was familiar to Harry, sitting at a table like this under a marquee behind the Weasley’s home, watching couples dancing, hearing the soft, low chatter of onlookers at their respective tables as they partook of refreshments. He didn’t know how Malfoy managed it, but he was here, dancing with Hermione. He had a sickeningly romantic expression on his stupidly pointy face. Harry made a mental note to send Malfoy some hate mail, just for the fun of it, and the idea made him feel a little better.
Harry scowled, and turned his attention to Ron, who had taken to the dance floor with Parvati. Things had been going well on that front, and it was clear to Harry that Parvati liked Ron very much, given the number of times she allowed him to mince her toes in his poor attempts at the foxtrot.
Harry was happy to be wearing his own face at this particular wedding, and he wasn’t expecting an attack, just furtively watching George as he talked and gesticulated with his hands to a smiling Angelina and Lee. He wasn’t the one who asked George to save a dance, but Harry did want to, embarrassing as such a prospect promised to be. The assorted fruits and meats and cheeses on his plate rearranged themselves under nervous fingers, and when George finally spotted Harry, he hastened to swallow whatever it was he’d mindlessly tucked in his mouth.
“Harry, you’re eating again,” George grinned, standing over him, unfairly handsome in his brand-new dress robes, nary a hair out of place on this auspicious occasion.
“Oh. Right, I suppose I am…” Harry looked bemusedly upward, trying not to betray his tempestuous interior at the moment.
“You’ve been doing that a lot lately, I’ve noticed. Perhaps the era of disgusting flavorless chews is coming to a close?”
“No! I still like them. For now, I mean,” Harry hastened to clarify when George’s nose scrunched in disgust.
“Well, Harry, there’s a waltz on now, care to make good on that saved dance?” George extended one hand down to Harry, a devilish grin on his handsome face.
“Yes,” Harry breathed, and then stood, letting George steer his clunky, charmless feet to the floor.
“I—I can’t dance. That is, I’m terrible.” Harry’s voice wobbled in his panic.
“That’s okay, I’ll guide you. Just remember it’s front, right, together, back, left, together. A box step. You can follow my feet...” George prompted helpfully.
Harry was concentrating so hard on the steps that he forgot all about the eyes on them, about the radiating heat of George’s hands guiding him carefully in a neat box. Harry settled into the rhythm and looked up into George’s smiling face, and faltered.
“Ouch! I mean, that’s alright, Harry, just… there you go. Like that.” George coaxed.
“Nice wedding,” Harry remarked haltingly.
“Yes, Penelope has lovely taste, which is amazing to me because she picked the most boring, tedious person alive to be her husband.” George made a face, and Harry’s effusive laughter bubbled up from someplace so deep he’d forgotten it existed.
“I love making you laugh. You don’t do it very often, but when you do, it’s the most magical thing I’ve ever witnessed. If I could, I would make you laugh every day.” George said, and it felt like a love letter, these words.
Harry stumbled again. He was utterly devastated by George, so in love, it was a wonder George couldn’t see it. He made Harry overflow with happiness, the likes of which he’d have never thought possible again after the deadness he’d wallowed in a year ago.
July 1999
Summer heat rose off the ground in waves. Shoppers began to appear in droves in the thick of the summer holiday, and soon Hogwarts students would arrive in Diagon Alley, lists in hand, and gold jingling in their pockets, waiting to be spent.
And where better to spend it than at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, with flyers for the grand re-opening charmed to flutter on wings through the sizzling air?
George finally flipped the sign from closed to open on that very first of many busy days to come, and paused on the threshold, looking back at Harry, who was putting some finishing touches on the display of Mr. Fickle’s Chewing Gum- Changes from delicious to disgusting in seconds! and lining up the colorfully-striped boxes until they were in a neat pyramid.
Lee was sporting the same Magenta robes and standing behind the counter, ready to demonstrate his expert wielding of the trick wand, always a crowd favorite from before. There were some new faces, as well, including Marcie Cadwallader, a cheery young woman from George’s year in Hufflepuff, currently re-labeling a mountain of skiving snack boxes, and Tracy Davis, a recently-graduated Slytherin girl who was “not quite cheerful enough,” for George. Tracy had a sour look on her face as she wandered the floor, looking like a walking advert for edible dark marks, which thankfully hadn’t made the cut this year. Harry wondered if she’d last very long, but they needed the help.
As for Harry, he darted out of sight, hiding in the back as soon as customers began to pour in, manic smiles on their faces as they scrambled to refill their depleted stocks of favorite old WWW products. He should be out there helping, shouldn’t be so worried about being seen after his disastrous memorial speech or general notoriety for defeating Voldemort, but here he was, shaking like it was only a day ago.
Long minutes passed with Harry unnecessarily rearranging stock in the back, carefully unwrapping more extendable ears; the first few people in had grabbed handfuls of them, and they would need to be restocked fairly quickly. George ducked in, slightly breathless, and smiling when he saw Harry.
“You okay back here? Oh, good, more extendables. They’re already out.” George made to grab them but paused, studying Harry carefully.
Harry still hadn’t answered his question, but he didn’t think he needed to. The panic was clear as day on his face, he was sure of it.
“Harry, I never expected you to be on the floor. I hope you know that. I mean, I hired extra help for a reason. You’ve done so much already, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to…”
“But—I want to help, George. I know how hard it is for you to do this without Fred, and it is hard, but I need to do something useful. I need you to not feel like I’m a drain—”
George moved in front of Harry and clasped his shoulders. Harry snapped his jaw shut and looked hopelessly into George’s eyes, sagging under his insecurities.
“Harry, you are never, nor will you ever be a drain. So, no more of this nonsense. I won’t stop you from helping me, but know that I don’t expect anything from you. It’s enough that you’re my friend, that you’ve brought me to this point.” George’s affectionate smile was enough to make Harry’s knees weak, and he thankfully moved back into the shop, hands full of extendable ears, leaving Harry to hyperventilate.
It had been growing harder and harder to conceal his feelings, but the scramble over the last few weeks meant that all of them had been working nearly around the clock, assembling and stocking and marking inventory, until they ended the day so exhausted that even George went to sleep at a reasonable hour and stayed asleep all night.
But now and then, in a moment of quiet, Harry caught George watching him, looking at him like that and he just didn’t know what to make of it. Ron said he should come clean, that maybe George would be interested, given the chance, and Hermione and Malfoy were nudging him in that direction as well, but it just felt like too much of a balancing act. One wrong move and it could all tip.
Harry closed his eyes and breathed. You can do this, Harry. You’ve done hard things, and if it gets to be too much, you can duck back here for a breather, no sweat. He harnessed all of his courage and jostled his way through the excitedly chattering throng, determined to see if anything else was running low.
Harry did receive a few interesting looks, but the place was so packed that he couldn"t be the center of attention. He answered a few questions, nodded and waved at various admirers, and made his own circuit around the shop, tidying and rearranging and stocking as needed.
It was quite awful, but not so bad that he had to leave, at least, not right away. There were the familiar faces of his friends coming to support George, the sight of which gave Harry a boost.
Best of all was George though, smiling and laughing as if he were almost as happy as he’d once been before Fred was a gaping hole in his life.
“We did good today,” George said later as they collapsed on chairs upstairs later that night, having a couple of celebratory drinks to commemorate the occasion.
“Yes,” Harry said, nodding. “I’m glad it was a successful first day.”
George’s smile was sweet, with sadness lurking in his eyes. “I miss him.”
“Of course, you do. That won’t go away, but hopefully, it will get easier to go on without him. And I think he’d have wanted you to open the shop again. It seems like the perfect tribute.”
George nodded. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if undecided about something. He opened it again and asked,
“Harry, I have to ask. What went through your head at the end of the war? I mean, you had every reason to be as wrecked as you were, but I still don’t understand what it was exactly that left you so… broken.”
“Do you remember when Hagrid brought my body back, and Voldemort told everyone I’d died?”
George bobbed his chin, lips tight and thin. “How could I forget? That was as horrible as when Fred…” He swallowed.
“I did die. I haven’t told anyone but Ron and Hermione that. But, I chose to come back because Voldemort had something of me keeping his last fragment of soul alive. I came back, but my soul carved out a place for him in all the long years of my life, and when he destroyed the part of his soul that was in me, I felt so sickeningly empty. It’s… hard to explain, which is why I don’t volunteer that information freely. Voldemort was like a symbiotic parasite, as Hermione puts it. We needed each other to survive in a lot of ways, and I have had to learn how to be a whole person in the months since it was finally over.”
George stared, eyes wide, mouth agape. Harry fidgeted nervously under his scrutiny. “Please, say something,” He groaned softly.
“I had no idea… that’s horrible, Harry. So much worse than I ever—and you were just fading away right before my eyes. I could’ve lost you?” George seemed horrified at the idea, gulping and eyeing Harry warily, as if he would indeed ‘fade away’ if George looked away for even a second.
“I dunno… I was slipping until you saved me. And I’m not in danger anymore, at least, I don’t think I am. It gets easier all the time.” Harry shrugged.
For a time, they sipped their drinks silently, stewing in Harry’s confession.
“We saved each other, Harry and I’m so grateful I have you.” George finally whispered.
Harry was filled with the glow of George’s words and hoped that they would be enough for him, even as his heart throbbed for more.
*****
“Why did you invite Malfoy to your birthday, anyway?” Ron grumbled under his breath to Harry.
“I didn’t. Hermione did, and I think it’s to be expected. I mean they are dating now, aren’t they?” Harry shrugged. They watched Malfoy put his arm around Hermione while they chatted with Molly, who was already smiling up at Malfoy, probably being on the receiving end of one of his charming little compliments, tailored to win her over.
“Yes… I fully blame you, you know.” Ron sighed regretfully.
“I thought you were over that?”
“I am, but it’s Malfoy, Harry.”
“Eh, he’s not so bad.” Harry shrugged, smiling at Ron’s scandalized look.
“Bollocks, not you too! Though, I’m not surprised, given you used to secretly love him.”
“I’m still not convinced of that. Pretty sure that was hate.”
“Two sides of the same coin, my friend. I mean look at them” Ron gestured helpfully.
Harry sighed, giving it up as a bad job and moving about the Weasleys downstairs, picking up snippets of the ‘party’ around him. Everyone was milling about, chatting happily and enjoying the uncommonly balmy evening air. It was a subdued affair and he suspected George had pulled Molly aside and insisted on something very casual. It was nice, being here and just enjoying the end of the warm day with his favorite family in the world.
Molly’s excellent treacle tart (she wisely made several) was sliced and portioned out on plates, all for Harry’s birthday. But the last time Harry had treacle tart, he vomited, and the last time he smelled it in the Amortentia, he lost control.
It reminded him of school, of home, of George…
“Harry, come with me,” George was saying now, cocking his head for Harry to follow, already carrying a plate with three fat slices of the tart. Harry predicted the gratuitous slabs would be gone before George even found a place to sit down.
But they didn’t end up sitting down anywhere that Harry expected. Past the door back into the house where Percy and his wife and Ron were now lounging on sofas, past the outdoor table where Hermione sat talking to Malfoy, laughing and flirting with him while Ginny watched them warily. Past the garden where Molly and Arthur were holding hands on a bench, leaning into one another as they watched garden gnomes peek out their ugly little potato-shaped heads over the tops of the bushes.
No, they went out by the Quidditch field to a little hillock and a grand oak tree adorned by an old frayed swing. George plopped down in the crackling grass in its shade and forked an enormous mouthful of tart.
“Happy Birthday, Harry,” He said around a mouthful. “You have excellent taste in desserts, and it’s a shame you don’t eat them anymore.”
Harry stood rooted to the spot, watching George continue to eat the tart, humming with each bite, like he always did. “Yes, it is a shame. I miss treacle tart…”
“Harry, it’s been over a year,” George remarked, eyes bright with a challenge. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a bite?”
“No, that’s alright. I’ll just watch the sunset with you. It’s nice up here…”
Harry was careful to sit apart, not enough to be standoffish, but enough so that he wouldn’t do anything stupid… Harry looked out into the softening horizon, to clouds painted brightest oranges and pinks.
It was some time before he realized that George was watching him. Harry snapped his gaze to George, who stabbed the tart like he was spearing a boar, so aggressively that Harry could almost hear the plate crack. He lifted the bite to his mouth and then proceeded to caress his lips with it. Back, and forth, breathing a hot exhale over the flaky pastry, the gooey golden filling. Harry could taste the tang of it, even as George darted the tip of his tongue out to lick it.
His eyes never left Harry, as he closed his lips over the fork and pulled the tines out. Harry felt the hot stab of arousal and a strange sort of jealousy for that stupid bite of tart.
“Harry, come here,” George murmured, patting the ground next to him. Harry hesitated, but couldn’t resist. Grass crinkled under his bum as he slid closer and closer until their knees knocked.
“It’s the last bite…watch.” George already had it on his fork, and was doing that thing with his lips again… Harry couldn’t help it. He leaned in and inhaled. Treacle tart smelled so good and from this close, it mingled with the scent of George as well. Harry tracked the bite as it started to disappear, heart going bonkers now as he leaned in, stealing it from George’s lips with a flick of his tongue.
“Mmmmm….” Harry hummed, the buzz of it tickling George’s mouth. Harry pulled back, startled at his audacity, but George was smiling at him in that mischievous way of his as if he’d gotten what he wanted all along. The clatter of the plate and fork tumbled away somewhere and George was pulling Harry back to him with both hands cradling his face.
“Give that back,” George growled, but he was still smiling.
Harry gasped, trying to say no, but then George’s tongue was licking into him, smearing the sharply sweet filling all over Harry’s palate, desperately trying to excavate it. Harry blocked with his tongue, sliding his lips firmly against George’s to get a better angle.
And oh, what a better angle it was… Harry melted, swallowing his bite of treacle tart at the same time as George tackled him to the grass, hands now manacling Harry’s wrists as they tumbled.
“That was my last bite, Potter, you little thief!” George huffed, half laughing, half groaning as their bodies aligned.
George had Harry’s tongue between his lips now, sucking any bit of tart he could glean from it, making more of those indecent noises that had Harry throbbing inside and out.
A throat cleared and they stiffened, looking to see Molly Weasley looking fairly shocked to see George pinning Harry down, lips red and plump from their wild snog.
“Oh my—I mean to say… that’s…I… George Weasley!” Her last words were shrill and even George who at the best of times was quite cheeky with his mother, snapped to attention, sitting up and already glossing his expression over with the appropriate look of remorse. Harry could do nothing but lay there like a beached whale after that deadly harpooning he’d received from George’s tongue.
“Y—yes Mum?” George said.
“That is not my fine ceramic plate and best silver flatware sitting carelessly in the grass is it? You will march them straight back to the house, and if I see so much as a scratch on them, you’ll be on gnome duty first thing in the morning, shop or no shop.”
“Yes Mum,” George sprang up and rushed off, abandoning Harry to his mortifying fate.
Harry winced at first, but when Molly didn’t say a word, he sat up slowly, sighing.
“I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t get a piece, Harry. I was just coming to bring you a plate.” She handed him a slice and Harry, for want of anything to do or say, took it, and then put a bite in his mouth, half expecting the bile to rise like it always did.
It was the perfect balance of tart and sweet, and the pastry was buttery crisp, and flaky… Harry swallowed, and then smiled a secret smile. Treacle Tart had never tasted so wonderful in all his life, and he was delighted to discover that he was alive after all.
“Happy Birthday, Harry dear…” Molly beamed at Harry, and he felt his eyes sting with the prickle of tears. She winked at him knowingly, and then picked her way down the hill.
Harry finished his tart alone and contented himself to simply watch the sky turn purple.
*****
George had kissed him. The reason seemed silly, though, and perhaps George had been messing around with him, acting like his typical goofy, unpredictable self. Regardless, Harry couldn’t get the feel of pulsing suction to leave his tongue, the flavor of Treacle tart mingled with George’s lips and breath, and it was in a daze that Harry returned home after the birthday party, after not finding George anywhere.
Perhaps George had regretted his actions, and was now hiding from Harry, or worse…
Harry wasn’t sure what he expected when he stepped out of the floo into their flat. Maybe George would be waiting on his favorite chair, hands folded, mouth turned down in a regretful frown. Or maybe George wouldn’t be there at all, out for a late-night run or something. But it was worse than either of those. George was home, alright, but he wasn’t alone.
Seated next to him in the cramped space of his chair was Angelina, face buried in her hands, George’s perfect, beautiful arm wrapped carefully around her shoulders, talking in low, reassuring tones.
Angelina.
How could Harry forget so easily? George and Angelina might not be officially dating, but they were together all the time, and now Harry had gone and gotten his hopes up, like an idiot. Of course, that kiss had just been George fooling around.
They hadn’t noticed Harry yet, backs to him in their shared seat. He prowled slowly to the staircase leading down into the shop and nearly made it until the top step squeaked loudly under his toe.
George looked up and his gaze met Harry’s. Harry panicked, gasping as he sprinted down the stairs two at a time, slamming the door of the shop as he ran down the street, following the street lamps twinkling in the darkness. He had to get out of there before he started crying. Had to—
“Harry!” He picked up his pace, frantic now to get away.
“Harry, wait up, will you?” He didn’t listen, the sprint making him sweaty and feverish with intent.
“I have longer legs than you, Potter, and I’ve been training…”
Harry finally gave up, bending at his hips to brace his knees. It had been entirely too long since he’d exercised properly, and it was beginning to manifest in the sharp cramping of his abdomen, the way his throat burned and clenched around gasps of air.
“Harry, I think it’s about time you and I talked,” Angelina said when she finally caught him up. She was hardly winded, standing patiently in front of him with crossed arms until he looked up. Her eyes were puffy from crying, face set and determined.
“I swear, nothing happened. It was my fault, Angelina. George didn’t cheat on you, I sort of… attacked him. It won’t happen again.” Harry said in a rush, still hoping against hope that he didn’t start crying.
“What? No. That’s—no. You’ve got it all wrong.”
Harry could only stare at her. Angelina rolled her eyes and tried again. “George and I are friends, Harry. And no, I mean just friends, no benefits. George is gay.”
The amount of calculating Harry’s brain attempted at this stunning pronouncement was both staggering and useless. He couldn’t comprehend this revelation at all, and yet… George had never said they kissed or slept together, Harry had never seen them do anything other than friendly touching or hugging…
“It’s Lee. I’m in love with Lee, and George has been trying to help me get closer to him, to convince me it’s okay to move on after Fred… And he’s been helping me cope with Fred’s death since last year when I first started coming by,” Angelina explained helpfully.
“Oh,” Harry said. “Oh, well that’s… wow. Unexpected. I mean, good for you, I hope it works out because you two would be cool together.”
Angelina rolled her eyes. “Yes, you pillock! Of course, we would. I just… really miss Fred. A lot. George is a good friend for helping me get through this, and I told him that he needed to just come clean with you because you assumed the worse, as I knew you would.”
“Come clean about… what?” Harry dreaded the answer, but it had to be asked.
“Tell you what. You just need to talk to him. I think you both have some things to say to each other, and I’m not doing the work for you. It’s time you two stopped dancing around the issue, and you need to stop using me as your scapegoat for not acting, Harry. I miss having you as a friend, and I need you to stop being so jealous when you see us together.”
Harry nodded stupidly through her entire speech, curiosity warring with terror at the implications of her words. George was gay. George was not with Angelina. George was at home, waiting for him.
“Got to go,” Harry breathed, and then he was off again, sprinting back the way he came, leaving Angelina exasperated in his wake. Hopefully, George was still there, still waiting…
A dark silhouette framed the door of 93 Diagon Alley, and Harry froze at the foot of the steps looking up at the outline that was unmistakably George.
“Harry,” His voice was low, pained. “Come here.”
Harry obeyed, unable to resist the magnetic pull of George Weasley. He slid past, melting into the shadows as the door clanged noisy shut. It was Harry, and George, and the darkness now, the memory of their tussle earlier a fresh chord of tension between them.
It was only a matter of two large strides before George pinned Harry to the shop counter with his hips, and in the dark, Harry could just make out George’s bright eyes raising to meet his, curled fingers already soft under Harry’s chin.
“I want you, Harry… I’ve been wanting you for a long time. For longer than you can imagine.” The world blurred around the edges, and even though Harry had just barely begun to catch his breath from the sprinting, George was there, stealing it away all over again when he ran his careful tongue along Harry’s lower lip.
Harry’s lips parted and he inhaled sharply, trying to capture George’s mouth with his, but George pulled just slightly out of reach, a wicked grin curving his mouth at the corners.
“We’ve waited this long, Harry. Let me have my way with you.” His provocative reproach had Harry trembling, heart palpitating beyond his control. George rolled his hips, groaning, and throwing his head back to expose the pale column of his throat to Harry, who nipped at it softly with his lips, far too impatient for there to be no more air between them.
“George, come here,” Harry whined, fingers tangling themselves in the slightly-taller man’s hair, trying to tug him closer. “Kiss me, please. I can’t stand this…”
Harry writhed eagerly against George, until George finally dropped his hands to Harry’s waist, holding him steady until he finally sank into Harry’s mouth in an exuberant kiss that filled Harry so thoroughly, he felt more alive than he ever had since beginning this new life. Theirs was a frenzied, clumsy embrace, the melding of mouths and tongues going on and on for long insatiable moments. It was a very dazed Harry that stumbled in George’s arms back up the steps, laughing as George bit his chin, twisting George’s shirt in knots until he could claw the smooth muscles of his back, right at the spot where he could feel George’s heart racing.
This felt like free fall, unstoppable, inevitable, and yet somehow, George wrenched himself away from Harry after they’d banged painfully into the island corner, for a moment they reeled, breaths hot, limbs wobbling with their mutual discomposure.
“What is it? Did you change your mind?” Harry asked, already spiraling, wondering if he’d been too forward, if George was maybe thinking of implications and consequences now that they stood in their shared space, looking closer at a place from which they couldn’t return.
George was already shaking his head though, eyes feral with desire, fingers dipping to rearrange himself, tight in his trousers. Harry tracked the movement and swallowed, willing himself not to mirror the motion.
“No… Harry… need… a second…” George carefully took Harry’s hand, signaling that they were not about to dive right back in, at least, not yet. He walked them both over to his hideous Papasan chair, which had most recently been occupied by Angelina. Just friends, Harry reminded himself, but with the glow of relief instead of worry.
George sat down and pulled Harry on top of him. They sat with Harry’s legs sideways across George’s so that they could look at one another. Harry wrapped his arms around George’s neck and buried his face in George’s cedar and clove-scented hair and inhaled.
“I just need to slow down a minute and think. And no, it’s not second thoughts… it’s intention. I want this to be intentional.” George explained giving Harry’s middle a soft squeeze. It was very distracting being here, so close to him, feeling him aroused beneath Harry’s arse as they sat calmly, about to discuss feelings instead of fucking each other like they clearly wanted to.
“Okay… you’re right.” Harry nodded, rearranging his askew glasses and sitting up so he could look at George. His George.
“I love you, Harry. I just have to start with that. I love you so much, and I cannot go any further if this isn’t that for you. I’m not in this for mindless shagging that ends in awkward maneuvering of people who suddenly can’t bear to be around each other.”
“Oh.” Harry huffed softly, taken by surprise, but also rendered speechless.
George’s face fell a fraction, as he closed his eyes to brace himself for a blow that would never come.
“George, no, it’s… I love you too. Truly, I do. Have done, ever since that speech a few months ago. But, I’d been dreaming of you even before that, at the beginning of the year.”
George was thankfully smiling again, relaxing his head back into the chair. “Well, I’ve got you beat Harry. I have loved you for years. I’m a bit sheepish to admit it, but it was something I used to be ashamed of. I mean, what kind of sick person was I that I was in love with my little brother’s best friend? You were fourteen, and I was sixteen, and at the time, the age difference felt too… inappropriate, not to mention that most boys my age, including Fred, were talking about girls, wanking to their muggle magazines. I mean, I wasn’t afraid to tell Fred that I wasn’t into girls like he was, but I didn’t tell him about you specifically until after the shop opened.
“Let’s see, you were… sixteen? And I was eighteen. It seemed a little less problematic, but not much, especially when I found out you were dating my sister, and even though I suspected that you were different too in some ways, I never thought you’d pick me. Never in a million years. It has been a long road of hoping and pining, and lots of encouragement, or should I say, needling from Angelina. She’s been trying to push me to tell you, especially when I thought you might return the feelings, but I was hesitant because it’s been such a difficult road to recovery for us both. I wanted to make sure you were ready. I still do, and I would wait for much longer than I already have waited if it means doing this right.”
George’s voice was low and even as they sank into each other, Harry getting drunk off of the beautiful words, the meaning of them, and George stroking his back in soothing circles that calmed him, made him feel utterly safe, and loved, as George had no doubt intended.
“Wow… that’s amazing. I never knew, never guessed,” Harry laughed, the sound of it so effervescent that he kept doing it, shaking with peals of laughter that even prompted George to join in. They were impossible to stifle, these laughs, and it took a long time for them both to calm down, wiping each other’s eyes with careful fingers and glowing looks.
“What does your Amortentia smell like?” Harry asked, unable to stem his curiosity.
George barked a laugh, the force of it jostling Harry in his lap. “Merlin, that day… Fuck. I was so fucking hard… had a wank in the shower after that, did you know? And… pretty much all the time after that. The third smell was you, Harry. Lilies and sandalwood.”
“Me too, George. I was picturing you naked in the shower though, and smelling your pillow when I came… You smell like fall spice and woods. Godric, I love that smell.”
“Fuck. I knew it.” George bucked his hips gently upward, reminding Harry that he was still quite ready to make good on their mutual fantasies about each other.
“George, I’m in this. I want you, this, us… All of it. All of you.” Harry whispered. And then George was kissing him again, slower this time, prying Harry’s lips and teeth apart with soft licks and gently disentangling Harry’s glasses, setting them on the table so that they could properly kiss.
“Have you ever… been with anyone?” George murmured, moving to trail kisses along Harry’s jaw and ear.
“Yes… sixth year. One time, in a broom closet. It was not great, but at the time I thought it was the pinnacle of existence.”
Harry gasped when George’s hands lifted the corner of his shirt, spreading fire all over Harry’s skin, sucking a patch of sensitive skin at Harry’s collar.
“What about you?” He ground out.
“Virgin. I’ve never been with anyone else. Done a lot of wanking though… I’m an expert at that.” The words vibrated into Harry’s skin.
“You are also an expert at that,” Harry groaned. George swept Harry’s shirt over his head and made short work of Harry’s shoulder, kissing and biting his way along, palming his ribs with his wide hands, all while Harry grew so tight he had to wriggle on George’s lap in an attempt to relieve the sharp pang of need.
“Shall we?” George winked.
“Oh, fuck yes…” Harry breathed, standing and pulling George with him to the bedroom.
How many times had Harry imagined the implications of bed-sharing, knowing he couldn’t ever act on them? To have George inches away, and sharing something so innocently? And now came the chance to meld their shared spaces into one, to lay entwined in the middle, spent from making love, promising to make it again and again.
Harry had no idea what he was doing in the technical sense, hadn’t thought beyond what he imagined it might be like to see George, to weigh him in his palm, what it might be like to taste his skin, to feel George do the same…
There would be hours, days, and years to discover these things, but for now, it was all Harry could do to restrain himself when George’s shirt puddled at their feet, when they slid each other’s buckles free, kicking at trousers legs, and finally underwear until they shone pale in the moonlight from the window. George in only his skin captivated Harry, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the compelling sight of auburn curls and the thick, rigid pole emerging forth. Harry’s was thinner, longer perhaps, but George similarly licked his lips and drank in the sight, as if he were starving.
“So red…” Harry whispered, fingers pushing past the coarse hair of George’s groin, cupping his balls in his palm while George moaned with raw need. Harry sank to his knees unbidden, desperate to submerge his face in those fiery curls. “May I?” He whispered.
“Please,” George moaned, stroking Harry’s jaw with gentle fingers. Harry buried his nose in the musky juncture of skin and hair and inhaled.
“Fuck, George, Amortentia has a fourth smell, did you know? It’s this. The space between your legs, and I just never realized…” And Harry had to taste it, to roll the flavor George in his mouth. He pushed George to sit on the edge of the bed, using George’s shirt to cushion his knees as he first kissed, and then laved that tender puddle of skin at the base of George’s cock, and then kept doing it because it was too good for words.
Each little nudge of lips and tongue had George gasping softly, fingers curling into Harry’s hair. “Don’t stop, Harry… I love this so much!” The natural thing to do might’ve been to travel up the shaft to the swollen purple head, glistening like a beacon, but Harry found himself trailing down instead, seeking out that sharper scent calling to him. Harry lifted George’s shaking thighs so he could run his tongue along the seam of George’s arse, boldly licking into the puckered ring of muscle until George cried out. Harry himself had never bothered to wonder about what pleasure could be got from such an elusive location, but now that he had his tongue buried in George’s, he yearned to know.
“Harry, what are you doing to me?” George whined, throwing his head back as his shaking arms braced him from falling back. Harry worked his lips and tongue slowly back up George’s scrotum and his cock, slurping at the salty smear of pre-come along his head, before taking George down his mouth in a luxurious suck that had George bucking into him.
George was frantic now, trying to pull Harry up to him again. “Fuck, you’re driving me insane, Harry. I am so hard… feel…” Harry ground down until their cocks lined up. Blood hummed in his ears as George snaked his hand between them to fist Harry’s cock. Harry groaned and ground into George, bringing their mouths together again in a clumsy bump. It was tripping downhill all over again, and Harry was suddenly so desperate for the consuming desire that gripped him, that he joined George, groans steadily increasing as they stroked each other, faster, harder…
George murmured a quiet fuck and he was gushing hot spend all over their stomachs, face slack with incoherent pleasure. He still worked Harry’s cock with quick tugs, pulling him after a radiating jolt of heat through his own groin. Harry buckled, trembling as he wrapped his arms around George’s neck in a fevered embrace.
They lay there, pressed together, panting in exhaustion, the quick passion of it burned out of them in mere unrestrained moments. Harry knew it was only the beginning of more to come, but all he wanted right now was to kiss George forever in the valley between their two pillows.
“I love you,” Harry murmured into George’s lips, already completely addicted to the feel of them and he kissed them again and again. George softly stroked the dip of Harry’s back, as they slowed their breathing in tandem.
“I love you,” George answered, and it was the last blissful sound Harry remembered before drifting off.
*****
Sunday Again
August 1999
It was Sunday morning, and their tangled bodies came alive under the warm rays of sunrise. They hadn’t parted for one second all that long night, and Harry hummed pleasurably as George snuggled into his chest, already laying kisses worshipfully wherever his mouth cared to wander.
Harry found he was no longer damaged, hollow, or dead inside. This feeling was the epitome of healing, the fullness of being loved and cared for, and of course, of being alive. Tom Riddle was dead, and Harry finally chose not to be.
This is how the first day of the rest of his life was to begin again; with everything, instead of nothing.