2.

The truth of the matter was that George wasn't sure if he had asked Angelina out on a date. He did, in fact, have a business proposition for her, one he and Fred had talked about exhaustively in the months leading up to the final battle. They needed reliable partners, reliable individuals involved in the daily machinations of the business. Angelina's name had come up on more than one occasion. Partly, George felt, because she and Fred had had their fling, but also because she was a brilliant witch, brilliant enough to match their brilliance, at least, which was exactly what they needed. Exactly what he needed, now, with the second shop and Ron running wild and Hermione pushing for a new product line. Harry backed her up, too, which was probably the worst part. I'll invest the capital, he said, I'll take the financial burden. What a little punk. All his money went straight to his head. He needed her for business. But he couldn't deny he always envied her and Fred's relationship, their intimacy, their ease with each other, an ease he sometimes thought he shared with her, but that he convinced himself he had imagined. No, this was a business affair. He put on his sports coat, his slacks, his nice shoes, ironed his shirt. Pure business. Dabbed cologne behind his ears, tied his shoes. That was all.

Angelina was slipping on earrings when he arrived at her flat, blue dress swinging above her knee, white heels accenting her calves. George cleared his throat and waited for her by her door, hands tucked into his pockets.

"So you're taking me to a classy joint?" she said, shrugging into a wool jacket.

"I run a very successful business, you know," George said, offering his arm, which she took with no reservation.

"I keep forgetting you're not the piss poor jokester you were a few years ago," Angelina said as they stepped onto the streets of Diagon Alley.

"You seem to be doing well for yourself, you know, considering your flat. Nice floors."

"I'm staying with Katie," Angelina said. "Until I can find my own."

"Better than Dean, I suppose," George said, directing her down towards the stylish side of town.

"No, not really," she said. "I mean, I'm grateful and everything, don't get me wrong, but Katie's just…she's just too much for me these days."

"Too much for you?" George laughed, moving to cross the street.

"It's always do the dishes, clean up the socks, wipe down the counter. I swear she was never like that in school."

"Are you admitting to being a slob, Angelina?"

"I'm admitting to being permissible of a certain amount of reasonable clutter and leisure, George. Not slovenliness. You'd think I was a terror the way you go on about me."

"Not true at all."

"You're bringing me to Wilson's?" Angelina said as they stepped across the threshold into a warm, red room, candles lining the walls and menus scrawled across rich parchment.

"I like their table clothes," George said, motioning to the white fabric shimmering in the candlelight.

"You would come to a posh restaurant for the table clothes."

"Their salmon isn't too bad, either."

The Maitre D seated them immediately, muttering welcomes to the esteemed Mr. Weasley and his guest.

"We'll have the usual wine," George said to the Sommelier when he came over, nodding his head and smiling mildly.

"And if I don't like wine?" Angelina said, smoothing the napkin over her skirt.

"You'll like this wine." George followed suit with his napkin and placed the order for first course without the menu, shrimp and calamari rolled in a rich butter sauce.

"And if I don't like seafood?" Angelina asked, mildly looking up from the menu.

"You'll like this seafood."

"Are you going to order my meal for me, too?" The sommelier poured two glasses of a crisp white wine.

"No."

"Well, what are you having?"

"The swordfish, of course." George sipped his wine and found it perfect for the evening, not too sweet, not too dry, and not too warm. "Everything here is good, though."

"How about the lobster?"

"If you wanted. Seafood is their specialty."

"And their chicken?"

"Excellent."

"Steak?"

"Are you going to ask me about everything on the menu?"

Angelina shrugged and put the menu down.

"Order for me," she said. "Everything sounds good."

George did as he was bid, lemon herb chicken for her, spicy tuna for him. Angelina did, in fact, like the wine and the seafood, surprise taking over her face for a delightful moment at first taste, as vibrant a smile as ever.

"This seems awfully like a date, George," Angelina said.

"I'm not the one who wore the heels."

"I'm not the one who picked the restaurant."

"Hey, I just like the table clothes."

"So this is a date."

"I didn't say that." George took a sip of wine. "This is about business."

"And what sort of business is that?"

"I want you to come on," George said. "As manager and project coordinator."

"Manager and project coordinator?" A smirk pulled at Angelina's lips. "And what, exactly, would that entail?"

"Simply put, you'd be in charge of the Diagon Alley shop and overseeing the development of a line of product designed for, as you put it, pervy teenaged boys."

"Well, I do consider pervy teenaged boys to be a specialty of mine."

"That sounds a little dirty, you know."

Angelina shrugged. George ordered dessert, cheesecake and chocolate mousse pie.

"We need to talk logistics, you know," Angelina said, twirling whipped cream around her fork.

"What kind of logistics?"

"Well, it all sounds good in vague terms," she said. "But exactly does it mean?"

"What does what mean?"

"Let's start with manager." She scooped the dollop of whipped cream into her mouth, clearly savoring the sweets. Some things never changed, George supposed, like Angelina's sweet tooth.

"Well, I think you know what manager of the shop would be. Responsible for staffing, stocking, and accounting. Balancing books, product, and troubleshooting any issues. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"How much independence?"

"Independence?"

"How much oversight are you going to have? How much of your dirty little fingers are going to be scooping the filling out of my pie?"

"Excuse me? Don't forget whose name is on those signs. It isn't Johnson's Wizarding Wheezes."

Angelina laughed, leaving George tongue tied.

"Look, George, I know you're only asking me because you think I'm capable. But I don't want you breathing down my neck if you give me the reigns to Diagon Alley, you see? And I know you've had quite a shock with Ron going bananas over there, so I'm not sure how trusting you are right now. That's all. I just want to know what I'm in for."

"Weekly check ins. Over lunch," George said. "We need open communication between us. Is that too much to ask?"

"And over project coordination?"

"I need new product. I like the idea of a line for pervy boys, but I don't want Ron anywhere near it, and I'm busy enough overseeing production and the Diagon Alley shop."

"Again, weekly check ins?"

"I would presume so."

"And what about compensation."

"Six thousand galleons annually to start, issued bi-weekly in installments."

"For both positions?"

"Not including bonuses and incentives." George swirled his wine once. "And of course you would have use of the living quarters above the Diagon Alley shop, which I assume you would be eager to inhabit as soon as possible."

"Ah, George Weasley," Angelina said, her tone low and teasing. "You know me all too well, I'm afraid."

"So I take that as a yes?"

"Of course. I can't pass it up."

"Excellent. I will oversee your first few weeks, but I expect them to run smoothly. I can lend you Dennis until you're able to hire your own help."

"I won't need him. He should stay in the Hogsmeade shop and hold down the fort."

"We'll see."

"And when can I move upstairs?"

"Give me a week."

3

Once George had entered the apartment quarters above the Diagon Alley shop, Ron slumped at the desk below him and Dennis bustling around the Hogsmeade shop, George had wished he had asked for two weeks to prepare everything for Angelina. No one had been up there in years. Dust everywhere, furniture in need of a good scrub, windows needing to be polished, dust everywhere. Someone (Ron, George suspected) had clogged the toilet and hadn't bothered to fix it. Water rings in the bath tub. And the boxes. Boxes of stuff he had left there, packed up hoping someone else would take care of them, but of course they wouldn't, and now he was left with them. Some of them full of linens and household goods that needed to be wiped down. Others full of memorabilia he hadn't wanted to take with him but couldn't get rid of. He kicked an empty bottle of firewhiskey across the floor. There was only one person he thought of up to the task and apparated to the burrow.

"Mum!" he shouted, stepping over Ginny's dog sleeping on the welcome mat, a raggedy mutt she insisted on taking in before dumping the sorry thing with their mum before heading off to the continent for quidditch training. "Mum!"

"George!" Mum shouted back, bustling in from the back garden, covered in dirt. "What're you doing here?"

"Just popping in, is all," George said and consent to a big squeeze and wet kiss on the cheek.

"That's sweet of you, but I don't believe a word of it! Here, sit, I'll fix you a sandwich."

"I'm not hungry, mum."

"You're thin as a rail. How's the business going?"

George consented to the seat as his mum started pulling lunch meat and sandwich fixings from the refrigerator.

"I heard Ron made a mess of things." She cut some bread from a loaf on the windowsill.

"He did."

"And you've fixed it up?"

"Well enough," George said. "I've hired Angelina to run the Diagon Alley shop."

"Oh! Angelina's back in England! We must have her over for the next family dinner," she said, more excited for her than any of her blood relatives, George thought. "Do you think she likes pot roast?"

"I think she likes anything you cook, mum."

She slid the massive sandwich in front of him.

"Eat up," she said. He took a tentative bite. "So what are you doing back here, Georgie?"

"Like I said –"

"The only one who comes to say hi is Percy, so don't try and fool me."

"A part of the deal for Angelina was for her to have the quarters above the Diagon Alley shop."

"Which, I'm assuming, is a right mess?"

"Right."

"So you've come here to see if I could come and help?"

"Right."

She sighed, as if she just suffered a great disappointment, and the mutt trotted into the room, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

"And here I was, thinking you just wanted to see me. It's been so long, George, you know. And I'm here alone."

"Dad's here."

"Dad's off with Shacklebolt again doing Merlin knows what."

He took another bite of sandwich.

"I'll tell you what, George," she said, sitting across from him. "I'll clean out the apartment if you do something for me."

"What?"

"Sunday dinner every week for three months," she said.

"I have a lot to do around the shop –"

"Do you want the help or not?"

George wiped mustard off his fingers. "Ok."

"And you take the dog."

"Ginny's dog?"

"Yes, Ginny's dog, what other dog do you think I'm talking about?"

George looked over at the mutt, one eye droopy and losing a spot of hair on his bum.

"His name's Jeff. He's very well behaved."

"Very bedraggled."

"Just needs a little love."

"Two months of dinners and I'll take the dog."

"Deal." They shook hands over the table. "So when do you need it done by?"

George's mum had the place ship shape in one afternoon, everything spotless and in its place. She had moved the boxes to a spare closet, spread linens on the bed, got the dust out of everything, wand in hand. George walked into the rooms and thought she had bought all new furniture and accompanying drapes.

"What is this?" he said, Jeff following after him.

"I cleaned the place," she said, now, if you'll excuse me, your father should be home soon. I'll be seeing you and Angelina Sunday?"

"Yeah," George said. "I'll have to ask her, first, though."

"Very good." She kissed him on the cheek. "I left the dog food, bed, and treats with Ron downstairs."

"Thanks, mum."

"Any time." She tentatively stepped around Jeff on her way downstairs to say goodbye to Ron.

3

"What's she doing here?" Ron demanded the first day Angelina was on the job.

"What do you mean what's she doing here, nitwit?" George demanded, taking out a measuring tape to get her robes properly hemmed.

"I mean, why's she in my shop."

"It's my shop, now," Angelina said casually, stretching her arms for George to measure. "Or did you forget you almost ran the shop into bankruptcy?"

"We weren't bankrupt!" Ron said, jumping over the counter to interrupt them.

"Not yet, anyways," Seamus said from the supply closet.

"Seamus, you're staying here," George said. "Ron, you're going to Hogsmeade."

"I don't want to go to Hogsmeade!"

"Ronald!"

"I could use his help," Angelina said quietly.

"What?" Both brothers nearly jumped at her admission.

"To produce the product line we were talking about?"

"What product line?" Ron said, eagerly appealing to the two of them.

"George?"

"Fine," George snapped, taking down the last of the measurements. "But I swear, Angelina, if this backfires –"

"Who better to produce a line for teenaged boys?"

"A line for boys!" Ron reached into his back pocket and pulled out a scrap of parchment. "I've been working on this for years! Boxer liners to make your farts smell funny, eye drops to invert colors, fake bugs to put in your mum's cooking –"

"Not that kind of line, Ron," George said, snatching the paper out of his hand. "I'll look this over, though, if that makes you happy."

"Fine," Ron said. "Then what kind of line?"

"I want to settle in here, first," Angelina said. "Before beginning development."

Ron sighed and slumped back to the desk. "So I have to put up with you all the time?"

"Don't lean on the counter, Ron," Angelina said, flipping the sign to open. "We must be professional."

George smirked as Ron rolled his eyes.