Archive of Our Own

Everything is Alright (Tell Me That It's Alright) 

I'm getting better at fighting the future 

Someday you'll be fine ( Yes, I'll be just fine) 

Motion City Soundtrack

Harry hadn't thought much about what his life would look like once the war had ended. Really, he'd put very little thought into what being an adult might entail because he hadn't been sure that he would live long enough for it to matter. Now that he had, the realities of real life came down on top of his head like a herd of Hippogriffs and trampled him completely flat. 

Being an adult came with far more paperwork than Harry could have ever imagined. There were taxes and permits for everything under the sun, and it all came with due dates and late fees. It was overwhelming, and it's not as though Harry could ask for help. Who had the time to explain how property taxes worked? The bloody world had just fallen apart, not even three years ago. So Harry gritted his teeth and muddled through the best he could. 

He thought on the whole he was doing alright and got most everything sorted. Then two weeks after his birthday, he got a summons from Gringotts. 

It arrived just after breakfast in a large, expensive-feeling envelope. Harry's name was written in neat letters on the front, and he felt a bit sick when he saw it. 

Harry didn't want to open it, but he did anyway. It's not as though he could put it off. It was from Gringotts, so it must be important. 

The letter was short and to the point, requesting that he come into the bank the following day to discuss 'an urgent matter regarding the state of your account.'

Whatever that meant, it couldn't be good. 

It wasn't good. In fact, it was rather very bad. Upon Harry's arrival at the Wizarding bank, he was guided into a small room and informed in short order that he'd run out of money. 

The whole situation was rather "out of the ordinary," according to Nagnok, who had spent the last hour meticulously going over two years of statements with Harry so that he could understand exactly how he'd arrived at having a negative balance. 

There was nothing to be done; the money was gone, and before Harry left, he absently pulled out his money pouch and handed over twenty-five gallons to pull his account out of the red. 

But bills would come due, and Harry had no idea what he would do when they did. 

He drifted out of Gringotts and into the alley. It was a busy morning, and he'd only made it a few steps before a feeling of dread overtook him all at once and sent Harry ducking into the nearest alley, where he sat in a doorway, his head between his knees, trying to stop his heart from pounding so hard that it might explode. 

"Harry?" 

George peered down at Harry from the mouth of the alley. He looked like he hadn't slept, rumbled and pale, his short hair sticking up in all directions. 

Harry hadn't seen him in months. No one had; at least, that's what Ron had said the last time they'd been to the pub.

"Mum's furious with him—but then she's furious about a lot of things these days."

He sat on the stoop next to Harry and leaned into his shoulder. It was a warm feeling, grounding, and solid. "Alright?" 

Harry shook his head, sure that even if he'd had the words to explain, he wouldn't be able to make them come out. George squeezed his knee, and they sat together in silence for a long moment until the horrible knot in Harry's chest loosed enough that he could breathe without feeling like his lungs would collapse at any moment. 

"Sorry," said Harry once he could speak.

"Don't be," George said, patting Harry's knee. "You've got nothing to be sorry for—look, why don't you come round. I'll put the kettle on, and we can have a chat?" 

He stood and held out his hand, and Harry took it because he wasn't sure what else to do. 

"Right then, off we go," said George, steering Harry out of the alcove and up the street toward Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. "You'll have to pardon the mess," he continued cheerily, informing Harry that he hadn't been to the shop in ages. "I've been staying with Lee, but time waits for no man, and it's not exactly going to reopen itself. Besides, if I sit on my arse moping for another day, I think I'll go mental."

The front of the shop was dingy, its windows were still boarded up, and it had a general air of neglect. Instead of going in the front door, George led the way around the back and up a set of wooden stairs stuck precariously to the side of the building. They stopped on the first landing, and after a tussle with the door, they went inside. The air inside was warm, and stale, like no one had been here for ages. 

"Merlin's beard," grumbled George. He stomped into the front room and threw the windows open to try to coax in a breeze. Harry sneezed and rubbed his nose. Each step he took left footprints on the floor. 

"Sorry," said George. He leaned back against the window sill, sneezed twice, and cursed, rubbing at his nose. "Maybe this wasn't my best idea."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Harry replied and cleared his throat. "It's nothing a few cleaning charms can't fix."

George smiled, lopsided and self-deprecating. "Aren't I supposed to be cheering you up?"

"You are," said Harry, and then he sneezed again. 

With a little magic, it didn't take long to banish most of the dust. All of the windows were open, and the cool morning breeze filled the front room, ruffling the curtains. 

George sighed and flopped onto the sofa. Dust puffed up when he landed. "Ugh," he said, coughing, and flicked his wand, "Scourgify."

He sniffed, rubbing his nose, and patted the now dust-free cushion. "Sit," he said, "tell me all about your woes."

Harry groaned and sat, slouching low. "It's stupid."  

"Is it?"

"I feel stupid," muttered Harry. He sighed and tipped his head back, staring up at the ceiling because if he had to look at George, Harry didn't think he'd be able to explain. 

It was hard to find the words at first, but once he got started, Harry couldn't stop, and everything he'd kept bottled up spilled out all at once.

"I don't know why I'm so surprised," he said, "it's just I've never really thought about money- I should have but-"

"You had more important things to worry about."

Harry scoffed. "I suppose. But what the hell am I supposed to do now? Everyone got all these plans, and I just- well , I never really thought about what I'd do after, you know. I said I'd be an Auror, but that was just an idea, but now I'm here and I don't have any NEWTS- I just don't even know where to start."

"You can start by staying with me," said George, like the answer was obvious.

"I can't-"

"Oh, bollocks, don't give me that. You can, Harry. You can stay as long as you want."

"But I can't pay."

"So what? You don't have to, not right now anyway," said George, "you can stay and sort out your shit- because you will. I know you, and you'll sort something out. Look, we— I own the building, bought it ages ago, so there's nothing to pay right now. But I've got to get the shop open, and soon, and I don't do so well on my own. Never have, so you staying will be doing me a favour."

"A favour?"

George nodded. "Besides, once I get this place up and running again, I'll need help keeping it going; I can't do it on my own, it's too big."

"And you think I can help?"

"Can you do simple sums and fold boxes?"

Harry nodded.

"Congrats, you've got a job. It doesn't pay at the moment and will require a fair amount of mucking in, and you'll have to deal with me," said George, shooting Harry a cheek grin and wink, "but it's yours if you want it."

That wasn't the kind of offer Harry was in any position to turn down, even if he wanted to, and he didn't. Not even a little bit; staying with George and getting Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes up and running was something Harry could get excited about. A concrete goal that he could work towards, like he was part of building something and not just sort of drifting along without direction. 

Once Harry agreed that he'd move in, actually moving took no time at all. Once he was settled in the little flat over Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, it felt as though he'd been there all along. Living with George was easy. Even easier than Harry had expected. They'd always got on, and now, when they were both teetering on the edge of fragility, it felt natural to lean on each other.

George never had expectations about who Harry should be, how he should feel, or what he should do with whatever feelings he had. He just let Harry be, as he was, and didn't prod at him when Harry accidentally overslept because he'd been up half the night before with nightmares. He just poured Harry a particularly large mug of coffee, and they got on with their day. 

Three days after Harry had moved the last of his things out of the flat he'd been renting and into the other bedroom in the apartment—the one that George couldn't bring himself to look at—Harry found George down in the shop office, between the overfilled filing cabinets, with his head between his knees.  

Harry sat beside him on the filthy office floor, their sides pressed together. They didn't speak, but George took a long, shaking breath and took one of Harry's hands, holding it between his as tight as he could. 

"I don't know if I can do this," he said after a long silence. "But if I don't, then what the fuck am I going to do?"

"Do you want to?" asked Harry. 

"More than anything."

"Then we'll do it," said Harry.

"What if we fail?"

"Then we'll try again."

What else could they do but try? It's not as though Harry could promise that they wouldn't fail. They might. This whole thing could be a horrible, terrible disaster that would ruin them both. But Harry didn't think that's what would happen. George was far too clever for that, Harry was sure of it. But to know for sure, they'd have to try, and George was ready to try. It was like someone lit a fire under his arse, taking on so many projects at once it was a wonder that his head didn't explode. 

While Harry was assigned the finances because, according to George: "Anyone at all, even a niffler, would be better at sums than me." Which had, at first, been a terrifying prospect. But in practice, it wasn't all that difficult, and it wasn't long before Harry also took over George's personal finances, along with both the food shop and the cooking.

Harry liked being helpful, and this was something he was sure he could do well. After all, he'd spent the better part of the last two years trying to get a hold of his life and his own—far more complicated finances— so this was simple in comparison. Money came in, and money went out—or rather, at the moment, it just went out. But that would change, and soon—hopefully. 

Still, things were good. They were easy, and Harry was, for the most part, happy puttering around the shop. There was always something that needed to be done. Harry got to be useful; he wasn't just taking up space, and if it weren't for the fact that there was no money coming in yet, it would have been perfect. 

But money wasn't coming in. Not yet, and while George wasn't worried about it, Harry was nervous. Money made him anxious. Uncomfortable. 

It had never been something he'd ever had to think about, and now that he did, it was hard not to obsess over. Even though there was still plenty, it still trickled out of George's accounts day by day, little by little, and the idea that Harry might be the reason George ran out, sat like an itchy bug bite, a constant prickly reminder about how much he'd mucked things up for himself. 

The shop might not be open yet, but that wasn't to say that they weren't making progress,  they were. Every day they were closer, even if the list of things that still needed to be done seemed to only grow longer. 

It was the peak of summer; the days were long and sticky. A heatwave had descended on London at the start of the week, and no matter how many cooling charms they cast, they didn't seem to have much of an effect. 

All of the windows in the apartment were open in an attempt to coax in a nonexistent breeze. The idea of turning on the hob was so deplorable that Harry threw together a salad and cheese spread with whatever was in the fridge, and while it was a hodgepodge, it was still tasty. 

He'd just got everything on the table when George, still giddy after having finally secured an overseas supplier for Ashwinder eggs, came bounding up the stairs and burst into their flat, hair mussed and eyes shining fresh off a fire call with a bloke somewhere in the middle of America. 

"It went well then?" Harry asked. George just grinned at him in a slightly alarming manner before wrapping him up in a hug so tight it felt as though Harry's head might pop off. 

"We're doing it!" he crowed and gave Harry a good solid shake before pressing a smacking kiss to his cheek and wandering off to wash his hands from dinner, humming the Puddlemere fight song under his breath.  

Dinner was a lively affair, with George babbling on about the meeting between shoving salad into his gob. 

"We're getting close," he said, "we might even be able to set a date maybe in two weeks? It depends on when the order from Mulpeppers comes in, anyway, I'm thinking about the Autumn. We're fine right now, but that push to open isn't going to be cheap; we're gonna need those pre-Hogwarts sales."

George always referred to them as "we." 

"We're going to be okay."

"We're out of eggs."

Harry wasn't entirely sure how he felt about it—the "we." 

He didn't dislike it; really, a selfish little part of him loved it, adored it and wanted to hear it all the time. It made him want to stay here with George forever, wrapped in the warm, sticky feeling of belonging. Of being needed and useful and wanted.

But he couldn't just rely on George's kindness forever; Harry was going to have to sort out his shit and stop hiding from it.

Somehow George had not only pulled himself out of his own shit, but he had the strength to take Harry with him, and Harry wasn't sure how to repay him. All he knew was that George made him want to be better. 

The longer he stayed, the more it weighed on him, distracting from how happy he was.  No matter how much Harry helped, it never felt like enough, and the fact he wanted to just stay like this forever made him feel small, like a selfish child. 

But for now, the prospect of leaving was still just a prospect. The shop wasn't open yet, and leaving now—even if Harry had wanted to—wouldn't do anyone any good. 

September was coming like a storm looming on the horizon, creeping closer every day, while August fifteenth, the day they planned to open, rocketed toward them at alarming speed. Any thoughts of the future were driven out of Harry's head. He had far too many other things to focus on to worry about the future. 

They were up to their eyeballs, and while George had become something of a recluse, happy to tinker in his basement and avoid everyone but Harry,  he was happy to accept help wherever they could get it. 

Mostly from Lee, who came round  in the evenings joining George in the workshop and staying late into the night. And Angelina started dropping in daily during the week leading up to the shop opening. 

It was a little strange having someone else around the shop. Harry was so used to it just being the two of them, that it was a bit of a shock how comfortable George was with Angelina. 

It shouldn't have been. George was great with people. It shouldn't have been something to be jealous of, but it bothered Harry all the same. He wasn't sure why—he liked Angelina and hoped she'd take him up on his offer for dinner once the shop opened. 

Whenever he offered, she always promised that she'd try. 

"It's bloody impossible to do anything once Quidditch starts up," she told him, smiling wryly. "At this rate, I'll end up winning the World Cup before I can get a damn date."

George laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners, and threw an arm around her shoulders, planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek. 

"I'll always be your date," he said gleefully while she squirmed, playfully trying to shove him off. 

His words landed like a gut punch, knocking the air out of Harry's chest. It was a sharp, horrible feeling, sudden and unexpected, one that he didn't know what to do with but had been thinking about since it happened, although all that had accomplished was making him queasy. 

Not that he had long to dwell on it in the lead-up to the shop opening, and then once it had opened, there was even less time. The reopening of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was, of course, a raging success that made the rest of August feel like a never ending sprint, and by the time September rolled around, George looked as though a slight breeze might blow him over, and Harry wasn't fairing much better. 

"We'll take Sundays off," George announced over breakfast on the second of September. "The kids are all off to Hogwarts; there's no point in killing ourselves; we've just opened. I think after that madness, we deserve it—don't you?" He yawned and shoved a sausage into his mouth. "Besides, we can try and sort out how we want to run the owl order- maybe we can get it up and running by Christmas."

A day off after months of endless work was a boon. It was the most relaxing day Harry could remember since he'd arrived that spring. He even made them an early dinner. They'd just sat down, ready to tuck in, when Errol arrived, pecking incessantly at the kitchen window. George scowled, muttering to himself when he saw the old owl, but he took the letter all the same. 

He didn't open it, at least not right away. Rather, George tossed it on the table and tucked in to his dinner. Had the letter not grown tiny legs and started kicking him in the wrist, it probably would have been ignored and ended up in the bin before it got opened. 

George wasn't one to give in easily, and Harry had the pleasure of watching the letter follow him around for the next two days, occasionally ramming into his shins, its corners becoming increasingly bent and tattered before the charm finally wore off. 

George banished it in a fit of glee and returned to his Apothecary order, humming cheerfully under his breath.

He may have won that battle but had not won the war. The following morning, another letter arrived, this time addressed to Harry. 

Harry set down his toast, turned it over, and frowned. 

"I don't have to open it," he said, "not if you don't want me to." 

"And you'll feel awful about it for the next century," groused George. "Mum knows she's won. Better to just get it over with."

George was not wrong. But Harry didn't feel particularly good about opening it either. Fortunately, he was spared from the decision because George took the letter and sliced it open with his butter knife. 

It was an invitation to dinner—as expected—for the following Sunday to celebrate the reopening of Hogwarts and the coming of Autumn. Harry skirted the edge of the table, leaning in to read over George's shoulder. He smelled of citrus like he always did, bright and sharp and lovely. George shifted, tilting his head and tapping it gently against Harry's. 

"Bloody hell," he muttered, "she's really threatening me. My own mother."

"Is she?" Harry asked.

"Verbal warfare is what this is."

George sighed, leaning back in his chair. The old rickety chair protested loudly. "I'm going to have to go," he said.

"You don't." 

"She'll make us both miserable if I don't."

"So then I won't go either," Harry replied in solidarity and was almost tempted to stick out his tongue. But refrained. 

George just looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Do you really want to piss off my mum on purpose?"

Harry really didn't, and in the end, they agreed they'd go.

"It'll be more trouble than it's worth," George said, scribbling his reply on the back of the letter. "Besides, Gin's going to skin me if I keep skipping out."

The rest of the week passed with little fanfare; Sunday arrived slow and sleepy. George slept in, and while Harry would have liked to, he always woke up by a quarter to seven, whether he wanted to or not. 

Still, Harry made the most of it, lounging in bed until after eight before getting a start on a proper breakfast with eggs, sausage, and potatoes. 

They ate on the sofa in the front room, a luxury saved for the weekend. George was at the far end, slouched low, his feet on the coffee table. His plate was balanced precariously on his thigh while he flipped through a potion journal for ' inspiration '.

Harry had already finished his eggs and started drafting a list for the shops. His piece of toast clamped between his teeth while he scribbled away on a scrap of parchment. 

"You know," said George, scratching his nose with the end of his quill, "we could just stay in. Order pizza, and have a nice quiet night."

"We could do," said Harry, "but I think Gin might murder us in our sleep."

"Probably," said George, flicking over the page in his potions journal, adding, "When you do the food shop, can you get that fancy dip we saw on that bus avert?"

Harry looked up. "That one from M and S?"

"I suppose," said George, "it has all the layers."

Marks and Spencer was not part of Harry's normal shopping rotation, but he supposed he could go out of his way this once. The dip had looked good, and since he was going, he might as well get that fresh cheesy bread they both liked and stock-up Percy Pigs, too. 

Just as Harry was jotting down a few more things they needed: yoghurt, toilet roll, and frozen peas, the fireplace in the corner wooshed to life, and Ginny stepped out of the bright emerald flames. 

"Did Mum send you as our escort?" asked George.

"No," said Ginny. She shook soot off her trousers and sat perched on the arm of the sofa, ruffling George's short hair. "I came on my own; you're not leaving me with that lot. If you're not going, then I'm not going either."

"We're going," said Harry. 

"Dearest Harry, always the voice of reason," she cooed, leaning in to get a look at Harry's list. "You aren't working on the weekend, are you?"

Harry shook his head and absently replied, "I'm making a list for the food shop. George wants that fancy dip from M and S."

"The one from the bus adverts? It looks lush." Ginny sat up and jabbed George in the ribs.

"Oy!" he said, trying to shuffle away from her pointy elbow, "what that for?"

"Why is Harry doing your food shopping?" she demanded, "I swear you treat him like a house-elf. He's always round here helping you; he's got his own shopping to worry about, you know."

George shot Harry a look. "Yeah, Potter," he said, "shouldn't you be doing your own shopping instead?"

If Harry could have sent a stinging hex George's way, he would have. But he couldn't, so instead he cleared his throat.

"I am ," he replied, "I'm just doing yours too because if I didn't, you'd starve, and then where would we be?"

"Well, I'd be dead," said George, grinning mischievously. "Would you miss me?"

"Of course I would," said Harry indignantly. "If you were gone, who would authorise my pay?"

George laughed, a proper cackle, with his head tipped back. "Guess you better keep doing the shopping then."

"It's job security," said Harry, scratching a few more things onto his list. 

"You're mental," said Ginny, looking between them, her mouth slightly open. "The both of you. Merlin." 

Harry finished his list with a flourish. "What time are we expected for dinner?" he asked, happy to find a way to change the subject away from his living arrangements. Since he'd come to stay with George, Harry hadn't exactly been truthful with his friends about his circumstances.

At first, he'd been too ashamed, and then once things had started to change for the better, there was simply too much to do, and now it had been months. It's not as though Harry liked lying by omission, but he would be leaving soon enough anyway—at this point, was it even worth explaining?

He didn't think so. After all, if he did, he was sure to get an earful. Besides, the whole thing had been sorted out anyway, and George was always on about Harry not having to do things he didn't want to. And Harry didn't want to explain how his life had fallen apart and that George was the only reason that it had started to come back together. 

"Soon," said Ginny, "you know how Mum is: early is late, unless it's when dinner is on the table, and then it's always late." 

She prodded at George again. "Go put some proper clothes on. Mum'll have your head if you show up in that."

George groaned, but he got up and shuffled off towards his bedroom. "You're lucky I'm not in just my pants," he grumbled. "It's my bloody day off."

"Wearing trousers on your day off won't kill you!" Ginny shouted after him and then pulled a face. "Merlin, that sounded just like Mum, didn't it?"

"Just a bit," said Harry, eyeing Ginny's pointy elbows from his side of the sofa lest she decide to take revenge on him for speaking the truth. 

She flopped sideways off the arm, her head landing on Harry's thigh. "I'm glad you're here," she said. "I worry about him, you know, but he won't talk to me or Ron. But he talks to you. I hope you know how important it is that you're here."

The door to George's room opened before she could continue, and Ginny sat up, bouncing off the sofa.

"All right, you lot," she said, "let's get this over with."

She ushered them both toward the fireplace, tossed in a fist full of floo power, and stepped into the flames.

"The Burrow," she said, and off she went spinning through the flames. 

Once she was gone, George patted Harry on the shoulder.

"Let's get it over with, yeah?" he said, following Ginny through the floo. 

Dinner at the Burrow was never a small affair, and tonight was no different. The house thrummed with life when Harry walked out of the fireplace in the front room, covered with soot and coughing. 

Floo travel never got less terrible, and if it wasn’t so convenient, he'd never willingly use it again.  

Ginny thumped him on the back. "Alright?" 

Harry nodded, trying to clean the soot off his glasses, "Fine," he said. 

"Dinner's been delayed," she told him, "which is a shock, I'm sure."

It was not a shock; everyone knew that the rules of the Burrow were: you were to turn-up early and expect dinner to be on the table at least an hour later than planned. 

"Victoire got into the flour again, and I swear Mum about lost her mind."

"Mum lost her mind years ago," said George. He'd taken up residence on an ugly plaid sofa in the corner. 

"Are you trying to scare my pants off?" demanded Ginny, glaring at her brother. "Lurking about like some kind of lurking lurker, I swear you're worse than Snape."

George grinned sunnily at her. "Come on now," he said, "I'm not even half as dramatic."

The door to the kitchen flew open, bouncing off the wall with a bang. Bill's daughter Victoire came flying out of the kitchen on unsteady little legs and tripped on the edge of the carpet. Ginny lunged, sweeping her up into her arms, the momentum spinning them in a circle. 

"You naughty girl," Ginny crooned and poked Victoire on the nose. She giggled madly, grabbing at Ginny's finger. "Gin, Gin, Gin," she chirped.

"I am the great and formidable Gin," said Ginny, very seriously. Victoire nodded like she understood and that Ginny had just imparted some great wisdom. "And I think you ought to go back to your mummy; off we go!" 

She swept out of the front room with Victoire balanced on her hip; she turned at the door, crossed her eyes, grimaced, and mouthed, 'wish me luck' before she ducked out of sight, small child in hand. 

George patted the space next to him, beckoning Harry. Harry sat slouching low, his knee nearly bumping into the coffee table. 

"Dinners late," said George, and slung an arm around Harry's shoulder. Harry hummed and leaned against George's side, their knees bumping together in a comfortable rhythm. "Isn't it always?' 

"It's practically tradition at this point. I think Mum wouldn't know what to do if she got it done on time," said George. "I just don't know why we have to be early if we know that dinner's going to be late." 

Harry didn't have an answer for that, and while it may have been a while since he'd been to Burrow, he'd always enjoyed Sunday dinners. He liked the noise and jovial familiarity of everyone crammed together at the two long tables that shouldn't have fit in the kitchen but did. The house felt warm, so filled with love that it might burst at the seams, and Harry found it enchanting, something he'd always wanted and never had. Something precious and worth coveting.

But for George, it was something else entirely. Since they'd arrived at his parents, he'd tightened up like a drum. While Harry would never really understand what exactly about being home George hated, Harry knew what it was like to sit uncomfortable in your own skin, counting down the second until you could leave. 

But just because he could relate, it didn't mean that Harry knew how to make it better, and that ate at him, guilt borne of how apparent it was that George wanted to crawl out of his skin. The door to the kitchen swung open again, saving Harry from having to come up with a reply. 

"Hullo," said Ron cheerfully, trooping into the front room with two drinks in his hands. "Firewhiskey, anyone?"

"Please," said George, reaching to take the glass and shuffling over to make room for Ron. 

Ron dropped onto the sofa. "I think it's going to be a miracle if Gin makes it through dinner without coming to blows," he said. 

"With Fleur or with Mum?" 

“Both, honestly, I think she might have it out for Bill too at this point," said Ron. "You know they keep trying to push Victoire on her."

George hummed, sipping his fire whiskey. He held the glass out to Harry. "Drink?"

Harry nodded, took a sip, and passed it back. It was good, much better than the stuff Mr Weasley usually drank.

"It's good, isn't it?" said Ron. "I've got a mate at the office who's been making it in his basement."

"Isn't that illegal?" 

Ron sniffed. "Well," he said.

George snorted. "If he wants to get a proper distillery up and going, tell him to owl me. I'm a bloody expert of Ministry permits these days."

"You? An expert?" scoffed Ron. "I thought Harry was doing your paperwork nowadays?"

"He does," said George, "but the permitting is a group effort."

"It's a bloody nightmare is what it is," grumbled Harry. If he never had to deal with Ministry permits again, it would be too soon. In the weeks that followed sorting out the plethora of permits for the shop, the paperwork had haunted Harry's dreams. Even now, months later, whenever he was particularly stressed, he'd spend the night staring down sets of forms.

"Where's your wife?" George asked. "What's she done to get out of dinner this time?"

"She's not my wife," replied Ron, sipping his drink. "At least not yet. She's got a work dinner tonight. I told Mum she's got a headache, and as long as she doesn't end up in bloody paper again, it should be fine."

Hermione had gotten involved with the conservation of magical habitats as a hobby after she'd taken her NEWTS and had, entirely by accident, become the president of the Magical Creature Protection Coalition. This was not the career in magical law that Hermione had hoped to pursue, but she'd thrown herself into it with such a fervor that she'd quickly gained international recognition and the support of an anonymous wealthy patron. 

Ron was so proud of Hermione that he was practically a walking conservation advert, cheerfully spouting the virtues of protecting the magical world at large. It was adorable, if slightly sickening, and while Harry wouldn't ever say it, he was just a little bit jealous. It was hard not to be when, while his life teetered on the brink of collapse, his best friends turned into proper adults with a shared flat, budding careers, and plans to marry. 

It's not as though he wasn't happy for them. He was—really, he was—but it made explaining his financial troubles even more daunting. Harry didn't want to disrupt their peace. Life had not been easy for any of them, and they had stood steadfast by his side through the worst of it. Now, they deserved a break. Of course, they would have told Harry he was daft had he bothered to ask, and it wasn't as if Harry didn't know that; still, he couldn't bring himself to tell them. 

Dinner was nearly two hours later than planned, which was practically tradition, and by the time Harry and George were back in their kitchen, it was late—at least for a Sunday—nearly ten, and there was work in the morning. 

Instead of heading to bed—which would have been the sensible thing to do—George opened the window in the kitchen and climbed out onto the fire escape. 

Harry yawned and stuck his head out the window. "Alright?" he asked. 

"I'll be fine," replied George. "Are you off to bed?" 

Harry almost said that he was, but instead, he climbed out the window and settled next to George on the narrow top step. 

"Not tired," he said, only half lying. 

"Liar," said George and leaned into Harry's side.

"It's a miracle Ginny made it through dinner without hexing anyone," said Harry, and yawned again.

"She came close. When Mum brought out the salad, I thought she was going to take Fleur's head off. Merlin, the whole thing was exhausting."

George leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the sky. "Mum gets so fretful when I don't go, and then I do, and I swear she looks at me like I'm supposed to just be sad all the time."

He sighed, sat back up, and bumped Harry's shoulder. "We should go to bed, work in the morning and all."

In the weeks that followed, work once again picked up to an absolute fever pitch. They had opened the owl orders. It had been a soft opening, or as George put it, "We're just testing the waters. If it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out." 

It did work out. It worked out so well that after the first forty-eight hours, they had amassed so many orders that the prospect of filling them was daunting. The corner of the office they'd sectioned off into the designated 'packing station' had seemed comically large when they'd set it up, but now, with a towering stack of orders, it looked tiny and cramped, and on the whole, it seemed they were far over their heads. 

The plan had been that Wednesday would be their owl order day, and Harry would spend the afternoon packing orders before he went off to do the food shop and stop at the bank. 

But now that was impossible. He could spend two full days packing, and he still wouldn't get through the orders—and they were still coming in. 

Harry had started packing at noon as planned and had been at it ever since. George joined him when the shop closed, and they worked together, too focused to make much conversation beyond: "Do you have the sellotape?" "Merlin, do we need to build more medium boxes already?" or "Bloody hell! How many screaming yoyos does one bloke need? He's ordered thirty-six!"

That evening, Harry did not get the food shop done, nor did he go to the bank. Rather, he stayed in the office packing orders until a quarter past ten, when George finally called it for the night. 

"That's enough for today," he said and groaned, stretching. "We could be at this all bloody night and still not even get halfway through—I'm starved. Shall we get a takeaway?"

"Pizza again?" said Harry, surveying the sprawling mess covering the tables they'd crammed in the corner of the office. 

"Nah, not pizza."

In the end, they settled on a curry and ate out of the containers on the fire escape. George shoveled curry into his mouth with a wedge of naan at an alarming speed. Between mouthfuls, he said, "We're going to need to hire someone, aren't we?"

"Probably," said Harry. 

George groaned and beat the side of his head against the handrail. "You know," he said, "when I thought about running a joke shop, I never imagined the amount of managing people required. I thought I'd just be making things all day."

Since the shop opened, about half the time, it felt like they were about to be swept under, but slowly, as the shop grew stronger and George hired more staff, it started to smooth out. The owl orders would go through the same growing pains, and while it felt like they were about to be buried under a mountain of orders so large they'd never dig themselves back out, with a little time and some hired help, it would become just another routine. 

Maybe it wouldn't be immediate, and Harry's regular routines would be off the rails for a few weeks, but things would settle—they always did. In the meantime, the world wasn't going to end if he did the food shop and the deposit on a Friday instead of a Wednesday. 

Even if it meant that he was in for a nightmarish trip to Tesco—going in on a Friday afternoon was never a good idea—but first, he needed to stop at Gringotts to do the deposit and pick up the statements for the previous month. 

Harry didn't like going to Gringotts. Between his reputation for breaking in and stealing a dragon, and the abysmal state of his accounts, there was an overwhelming sense of dread that hung over him like a persistent cloud whenever he had to visit. Which was at least once a week, and as much as he disliked it, he was getting used to it. 

Nagnok was always efficient and got him in and out without dallying. Harry would hand over his sack of Galleons, receive a stack of bank statements in return, and then be on his way. 

It had already been a long day in a long week, and Harry still had to brave the packed aisles of Tesco when all he wanted was to go home and spend the rest of the evening being one with the sofa. 

Coffee was what he needed because it didn't matter if he wanted to go home or not; the shopping was not going to do itself. He stopped in a small cafe, ordered a latte, and sat in the window. Once he'd braced the worst, he opened his bank statement. He always dreaded looking and had been avoiding it for months. Which wasn't a good idea, but Harry had done it anyway. Much to his surprise, he was solidly in the black. 

It shouldn't have been, not with how long Harry had been getting a steady salary. He squinted at the numbers, hardly able to believe they were real. From the looks of it, he'd even got a raise. It should have been a good thing; Harry should have been excited. 

Harry had somehow managed to dig himself out from under a mountain that felt utterly insurmountable, and George wouldn't have to prop his sorry arse up anymore. As long as money kept coming in, there wouldn't be any problems. But instead of relief, it felt as though a rope had been tied around his neck. There wasn't a reason to stay with George any longer. 

Staying here had just been a favour until Harry got his shite together, and now that Harry had accomplished his goal, it was time for him to leave. 

He couldn't rely on the kindness of others forever; they'd tire of him. The idea of George ever tiring of him and wanting him to go away was far worse than the idea of living on his own. 

But that didn't mean that Harry wanted to leave. That's the last thing he wanted. Since he arrived in the little apartment over Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, he'd carved out a space for himself. The prospect of leaving it and leaving dinners on the fire escape and lazy Sundays brainstorming new products sprawled out on the sofa was horrible. It was an empty, lonely feeling, and Harry hated the idea of leaving already, but what else could he do?

No matter what, he was going to have to say something, and then Harry was going to have to figure out what to do with himself. He didn't have the little flat he'd rented before, and he certainly didn't have many things, just his school trunk. But those were problems for another day, one when he didn't have to brave the aisles of Tesco. 

The battle of the food shop was enough to make Harry forget about the whole thing until the following morning when George asked over their porridge if he'd had a look at the shop's bank statement. 

"How's the accounts doing? I need a load more boxes for the owl order, and they're bloody expensive. You think we can spare it at the mo?"

"How much is 'bloody expensive'?" 

"Eh, well, it depends. Somewhere around four thousand gallons?"

"Merlin," said Harry, "that is expensive."

"Can we swing it or not?"

"Sure we can," said Harry. 

"Brilliant," said George, and he grinned, his eyes going crinkly at the corners. He shoveled a few more spoonfuls of porridge into his mouth and stood. "Right then, I must be off. I've got to see a man about some boxes."

Harry should have called after him. He should have just got on with it and told George that he could move out any day now. But he didn't, and with the way the rest of the week swept him up a whirlwind, there was hardly a spare moment to think, let alone try to have a serious conversation. 

There were orders to pack, people to hire, and interviews to arrange, on top of everything that had to be done on a daily basis. Really, what they needed was about four-and-a-half Georges and at least five Harrys, and then they probably would have been alright. 

Unfortunately, there was only one George and one Harry, and they were both running at full tilt. On Friday, George left early for a meeting, and Harry spent most of the day working with Polly and Lucretia, who had been hired to help deal with the deluge of mail orders. 

The two girls had finished school in the spring and were happy to be together and gossip while they worked. They talked so fast it made Harry's head spin, and as grateful as he was for the help, he was relieved at the end of the day to be left alone with the rest of the not-insignificant number of orders the shop had pending. 

He didn't mind staying late to finish. It was a mindless task, almost zen. As long as he was packing, he didn't have to think about the future, moving out, or anything at all. All he had to do was make sure that the fainting fancies went in the correct box, so that is what he did. 

Harry steadily made his way through the remaining stack of orders. He wasn't sure how long he'd been working when George stuck his head in the office. 

"I was wondering where you wandered off to," he said. "Aren't you going to have your dinner?"

"Later," said Harry, "I'm still packing orders."

"Those'll keep until tomorrow."

"I don't mind-"

George sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "Come on then," he said, jabbing Harry with his elbow. "Budge up; we can't have you overworking yourself."

Harry shuffled down the length of the table to make room for George at the packing station. Harry passed over the remaining orders. 

George took the pile, split it in two, kept the larger half for himself, and got to work. Harry was glad for the help; he was hungry, and if he did the rest himself, he'd be at it for at least another couple of hours. 

"What did you do for dinner then?" he asked, slapping a label on a package going to York.

"Nothing yet," said George. "I came to find you, didn't I? Probably takeaway again."

"Not pizza," said Harry. 

George agreed. "Anything but pizza," he said, adding, "I'll be glad once we get this sorted and can have a normal dinner again—I don't think I've ever been so sick of takeaway in my life."

Harry scoffed. "It's not like my cooking's anything special."

George laughed. "That's a lie if I ever heard one. You could give Mum a run for her money if you wanted."

A blush crept up the back of Harry's neck. He cleared his throat and tried to ignore how hot his ears burned. 

"She'll murder you if she hears that kind of slander," he said, pointedly looking anywhere but at George. 

George cocked his head and leaned forward; Harry shrunk under his gaze and tried to focus on packing his order, only to put all three headless hats into the box upside down.

"Bugger," he said and dumped the box's contents back on the table.

"Are you alright?" George asked, still staring at him. "You have been, I dunno, a bit off this week."

"I've been thinking about moving out," blurted Harry, regretting it as soon as he'd opened his mouth. That was not at all what he wanted to say or how he wanted to tell George, who had stepped back, eyes wide, as though someone had slapped him. 

Silence hung between them, and Harry couldn't bring himself to look at George.

"I got my bank statement when I did the deposits last week," he said and smiled wanly, "I'm doing okay now, so there isn't any reason for me to stay-"

"Reason?" said George. "You don't need a reason. I thought-" he paused for a moment. "I guess it doesn't matter what I thought. But….” He stepped closer, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder, "I don't want you to go. Having you here, it's the best thing that could have happened, and maybe it makes me a selfish twat, but I can't do this alone. I trust you. Don't leave me."

Harry didn't know what to say to that, and after a moment of not saying anything, he finally managed a very small "Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure," said George, affronted, a look of realisation flashing across his face. "You really have no idea, do you?"

"About what?"

"That I fancy you." George leaned against the table, scrubbing his face with his hands. "Merlin, I swore you knew."

"You what?" said Harry, too surprised to say anything more coherent. 

"I shouldn't have said that," said George wistfully. "I've gone and mucked it all up, haven't I?"

George turned to leave, and while Harry was still reeling from what had just happened, he was well aware that letting George walk away was the worst thing he could do. 

"Wait," he said, grabbing George's arm and wrenching him around so that they faced each other. Harry darted forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of George's mouth before retreating, his hand still clutching tight to George's arm.

"I want to stay," he said, "I really want to stay."

George sighed, slumping against Harry, one arm wrapped tight around Harry’s waist and kissed him, soft and sweet and warm. The kind of kiss they wrote about in fairy tales, the kind that Harry hadn’t believed was real. It ended far too soon, George brushed a thumb over Harry’s cheek. 

"Then stay. Please stay," he said, and pressed his forehead against Harry’s. "I want you to stay."

So Harry did. Maybe it didn't solve all of his problems, but it felt like home, and Harry couldn't imagine being anywhere else than right here, wrapped up in George's arms.