A/N: Well, all, here it is! I know you all loathe waiting for updates, so hopefully getting two up in the span of a couple weeks will make you hate me a little less. After this chapter I'm really planning to get into the good stuff (let's be honest, the fluff is the reason we all read fanfics!). I just really feel that all of that is more satisfying once you've built up the characters and established a believable relationship. I'm enjoying writing this again, and I'm feeling good about the plot, so I promise you won't have to wait so long for updates anymore! But I won't lie, the reviews really do help. Let me know what you think, and how you think the story could be improved. I really appreciate all of my reviewers! You all are great.

Enjoy!

Steam whistled from the rusted kettle after George tapped it with his wand. As he poured the water into the old French press, the steam dispersed, immediately enveloping the ambient air with one of his favorite aromas, delectable and rich. There was little he relished more than waking up from a long, much-needed sleep and enjoying a cup of strong black coffee. Though, he only ever drank it when he was at home. Something about his mother's old press he could never replicate in the flat he shared with Fred. It was fine though. He was perfectly okay with allowing it to be something he only enjoyed on occasion. That only made it better.

After a minute or two he filled his cup to the brim and raised it to his lips. He rested his arm against the roughened countertop and gazed into the cheery, sunlit garden, where his mum was hunched over pulling weeds. What a bloody night, he thought, shuddering as the hot liquid warmed his mouth and streamed down his throat. At least he didn't have to go into the shop, as it was Sunday. He felt vaguely guilty for missing work the entirety of Saturday, typically their busiest day of the week, to be with Ayla at St. Mungo's. Fred had insisted that it wasn't a problem. George was grateful, as he had felt obligated to stay with her. No. Not obligated. He chose to. Besides, she didn't seem to have anyone else.

It was disturbing, the amount of blood that had washed off of him as he finally bathed that morning. It felt nice to be in comfortable, semi-clean, clothes. Now he was garbed in an old Quidditch World Cup shirt and pants that he had, not very quietly, stolen from Ron's room while his brother slept. Since he and Fred almost never stayed at the Burrow anymore, all of George's own clothing had been moved to his flat. He glanced at his watch. 9:23. Yep. Ron would never be awake in time to notice.

Grimly, his thoughts turned to the young woman likely still sleeping upstairs in his old bed. When he woke around an hour earlier, with a very sore neck thanks to Fred's awful mattress, Ayla was curled underneath the absurd pink blanket, her face free of expression. He was grateful for the dreamless side-effect of the potion. The last thing she needed was to relive everything in her sleep. Regardless, George knew it would still be a rude awakening.

Though they had given a valiant effort, he and Ayla were simply too late in finding her father. By the time they arrived, the healers said, the elderly wizard had already been lying there for several hours in his bludgeoned state. He had suffered multiple blows to the head, probably from being repeatedly smashed against the floor. Whoever committed this crime was trying to make a point. Even if that point was hate. It made George sick to think of it; even sicker to think of Ayla.

The healers had done everything they could, only managing to get Mr. Sower physically stabilized. Mentally, his brain had shut down. Watching him lying there on the hospital bed, unresponsive face slack and mutilated, George assumed he bore little resemblance to the man that Ayla knew and loved. She had seemed to retract into herself after that, not uttering a word for many hours.

Suddenly, a brief rapping came at the window, which was cracked only enough to allow in the morning breeze. A small grey owl hovered there, bearing a rolled piece of parchment on its leg. George set his coffee cup on the counter and waved his wand at the window to allow the owl entrance, thinking for a moment about how lazy he had become. It fluttered to the dining table, knocking over an empty vase in its path.

"Sorry, haven't got any money." he told it. He gave it a treat from the jar they kept on a shelf above the stove instead. It grudgingly accepted the meager offering as it extended its leg. George untied the scroll and recognized his brother's impatient scrawl as the owl opened its wings and exited.

G-

Not much by way of new developments. Maddie and Nymph are on the case and think it's definitely DE related. Will let you know more tonight. Tell Ay we're doing everything we can. (But she probably should plan on staying with Mum and Dad for a while. Don't think going back to London would be a good idea.)

-F

The vagueness was unsurprising. George folded the note and put it in his pocket, taking up his coffee again. Owls were getting intercepted all the more frequently, and they all had resorted to a mild code in their correspondences just as a precaution. Definitely Death Eater related. George clenched his hand around the handle of the cup, feeling like he could punch a hole through the wall with relatively little effort. He and Ayla would have to talk today. About everything. And he would need to tell her about Harry. Whether he liked it or not, she was involved in the war now, and there was no going back for her. The immense guilt came quickly bubbling back to the surface at the thought.

As he contemplated this fact and what it would mean for Ayla, he heard the sound of unsure footsteps descending the rickety and uneven staircase. He knew it wouldn't be one of his siblings; all of whom were so familiar with its peculiarities that they barreled down the stairs two or three at a time without having to pause. She must have woken.

"George?" Ayla's somewhat groggy voice inquired, confirming his suspicion, as she rounded the bend at the end of the banister. Her hair was damp and twisted into a messy knot at the back of her head, making it appear darker than it really was. She was wearing clothes that George recognized as Ginny's.

"Good morning." George said, still feeling somewhat unsure of how to conduct himself around her, and not liking that fact. It seemed ridiculous to say "good" morning after such a dreadful night. But, then again, maybe that was a perfect reason to say it. She only smiled sadly in response, her eyes still heavy-lidded.

"How did you sleep?" he asked, setting his nearly empty cup on the counter again. "Would you like some coffee?"

"I slept well enough. No dreaming, at least. And, yes, please." she replied quietly.

She slowly moved closer to him as he poured another cup from the still steaming press and handed it to her. Taking a seat at the table, Ayla reached for the sugar bowl, putting in a few more lumps than George could stand to think about without feeling ill. He sat next to her after refilling his own mug, a little further down the bench than he did on Friday evening, swinging his legs in with a practiced motion.

They sipped in silence for several moments, George still uncertain of what to say and frantically trying to come up with something. It was impossible. He was always so clever with witches, and had never had a shortage of conversation topics. Something about this was different. Maybe it was the fact that he felt responsible for what had happened. Or the fact that they had spent so many uncomfortable hours together over the past two days. He wasn't sure. Regardless, the mood had starkly changed from the last time they had sat at the table together.

"Thank you," she said abruptly, hands wrapped around the rim of the cup, which she stared at intently, "for staying last night." He noticed her bite down on her lower lip.

"Like I said, don't worry about it. I was happy to."

She nodded slightly, almost as though in a trance. He wondered if she was hearing him.

"Are you… alright?" he asked after a moment, concerned. "I mean, I don't know that I would be. I don't want you feeling as though you can't talk about it. Or, of course don't feel like you have to talk about it. Anything you need, it's fine, Ayla."

She stirred the sugar spoon slowly around her cup, and glanced up at the grandfather clock.

"I don't think I'm going to be alright for a while. But… I think I'll get there. It's hard to say now. It still doesn't seem like it even happened."

George nodded, staring at the many scars in the wood of the table.

"What happens now?" she asked.

"Oh," George said, remembering Fred's note, digging it from his pocket and holding it out to her. "Fred sent this. There haven't been any leads yet." Ayla's face became pained as she unfolded the parchment. "But, don't worry." he amended, "it's all in the early phases. Sometimes these things take time."

Her eyes scanned the words.

"I'm assuming that 'DE' means Death Eater. This says I should stay here with your Mum and Dad…" she said, confused. "George, I already feel as though I've encroached on your family."

"Ridiculous. You haven't encroached on anyone. My brother and I both consider you a friend, and we feel compelled to protect you in whatever way we can. The family too."

"I think of you as a friend also, and I can't tell you how much that means to me, but…" she said, turning her body to face his on the bench, "I can leave the magical world again. Now that my father is… I can go back to my old flat in London, or to Muggle family, George, if it would be safer there."

"That's just the thing. We don't think it would be. In fact, it would probably only put you and them in danger. We think it would be fine for you to visit your father at St. Mungo's as long as one of us goes with you, but other than that, I don't know that you should leave the Burrow or the shop. At least for a few days. Until we figure out what's going on." George rubbed his hands against his eyes, the feeling of guilt hitting him full-force. He was feeling more and more like he and Fred had inadvertently ruined this young woman's entire life. She raised her eyebrows slightly.

"Don't you think that's being a little bit dramatic?"

"No." he said eventually. "There's a reason for it. Ayla… I need to tell you everything that's going on. What I couldn't tell you in the hospital yesterday. Fred and I talked about it last night, and we think that you should probably know. It would almost be more difficult to keep it from you at this point."

"Oh." she replied, looking down again. "Alright then."

"Shall we go for a walk?" he asked, standing and offering her his hand.

The mid-morning air was crisp and cool, though the sun warmed her back, as George led her through the back door of the Burrow—to avoid his Mum for the time being, who was out working in the front garden—he had said. He was holding her hand again, pulling her rather, and Ayla wasn't sure what to make of it. Perhaps he thought she still looked rather pathetic. She supposed she did, being in someone else's clothes and without a scrap of makeup on her tired and blotchy face. She curled her fingers around his warm, calloused ones anyway. It seemed to help keep the image of her father's beaten face at bay. They made for a tree line that flanked the edge of the overgrown lawn, about 30 yards away from the house.

George appeared nervous. As nervous as he could possibly be, anyway. She had never seen him so much as fidget. Now, however, his eyes were trained firmly on the ground, and his face looked troubled. She couldn't imagine what he could possibly have to say that was so grave. Probably more blaming himself for her father's assault. She could barely keep up with his long strides.

"George…" she started carefully.

He swallowed, slowing down just when they arrived in the shade of the canopy. Ayla could now see a rather wide trail meandering through the wood.

"Ayla," he started as they moved down the path, "you know my family's involved in the resistance."

"Yes, you told me yesterday." she replied as they walked along the worn path. "Well, at least I think it was yesterday… It's all getting jumbled."

"Mhm. And you know who Harry Potter is."

"Hm…"

Ayla racked her mind. She knew she had heard the name before. But where? Aha.

"Yes, I think so." She said. "He's that criminal they're all talking about. He's all over the Daily Prophet. Just a young kid, isn't he?"

George halted in his tracks and turned to look at her.

"You don't know." he stated, not unkindly. "You and your father never talked about this?"

"Well… I guess not." she ceded. "He didn't really like talking about the war. It's always scared him."

George dropped her hand and ran his fingers through his fiery hair, which seemed to glimmer in the light streaming down through the leaves. She crossed her arms to distract herself from the sudden coldness she felt in the absence of his hand.

"This is going to be harder than I thought. Damn, you really did get out of this world a long time ago" he said, massaging the back of his neck. "I can't believe you never even heard us at the shop… Surely Harry's come up in conversation before."

She smiled feebly, shrugging.

"I'm always in the back. Who is he?" she asked.

"Uh… perhapsyou would know him as the Boy Who Lived? The one who Voldemort is after."

Now that did ring a bell, a story she had once heard her parents discussing in hushed tones as she hid from view, relishing in the thrill of hearing a serious conversation not meant for a child's ears.

"You mean the baby that defeated him the first time? Years ago?"

George nodded, seeming relieved that she wasn't entirely uninformed.

"Yeah, that's him. Well, Harry happens to be Ron's best friend now, and a rather good one of everyone else in the family. Helped me and Fred loads getting Wheezes started, actually. It's a bit more complicated with Ginny… but I don't particularly like to envision that."

"They're together?"

George cringed a bit. "Not really, sort of… I don't know anymore. But, yes, as far as old Voldy's concerned, Harry is the last thing standing between him and total dominion of the Wizarding World. The thing that makes this bad for you is that my family has sworn to protect Harry and make sure that never happens. It's not only us. There are a few more. Still, this is, and is going to be, an enormous responsibility. It makes us exceedingly unpopular people. And very, very much in danger as this situation with the war gets worse. Everyone knows what side we're on. Everyone on You-Know-Who's side is going to be watching our every move, waiting for a chance at Harry. That's why we have the enchantments around the house, that's why we can't Floo in and out of here, and that's probably why the Death Eaters have targeted you. To taunt Fred and I and our booming business, and further torment the family."

"So," she mused, "Harry Potter isn't a criminal."

"Of course not. You can't believe that rubbish in the Prophet." he said, waving a dismissive hand. "You'll be meeting him soon actually, if you stick around. But that's an explanation for another time."

"So you think the Death Eaters nearly murdered my father, for no better reason than the fact that I know you?" Ayla continued, feeling sickened. She wrapped her arms around her middle.

George sank against the base of a large tree and dropped his face into his palms.

"You don't know… how much I hate myself right at this moment, Ayla." he groaned into his knees. "We had absolutely no business hiring anyone for the shop. I don't know what we were thinking. I suppose business was going well, and we had all these new ideas for expansion. It was selfish and stupid. I'm sorry."

Ayla stood in silence, looking around the verdant wood. She could see the house rocking in the breeze through a gap in the trees and hear it creaking. The sweet smell of honeysuckle in the air seemed to contradict the anguish of the conversation. George had always been the very firm and professional one, when he wasn't testing products on her that is, and it was strange seeing him so upset.

"So you all think they probably did it out of spite rather than for something my father may have done specifically." It was a statement rather than a question. Ayla now felt that she knew the error in this assertion, but she wanted to hear what he thought before revealing the most painful part of family's past. She wasn't looking forward to divulging her secret, but, now she realized it had to be done.

He raised his head, looking very disturbed.

"It's… it's what they do, Ayla." he explained softly, shaking his head. "It's unfathomable. Not human. It's not just aimed at us either; it's everyone that doesn't conform to what he wants. What You-Know-Who wants. Muggles, half-bloods, Muggle-borns. It's wrong. That's why we have to fight it."

She moved towards him and sat cross-legged at his feet, not sure why she wasn't crying. Too numb, she supposed.

"But I don't know what your father could have done." George continued. "My dad actually knew him a long time ago, and was telling us last night what an honest wizard he was then... If he had anything to do with the more radical resistance I'm sure my dad or Mad-Eye would have known about it."

Ayla dropped her hands to George's knotted shoe laces, and began to fiddle with them nervously as she thought. He watched her fingers, opening and closing the hand that now rested atop his knee.

"I don't think he did either. At least not recently. He's been frail for a long time. Who is Mad-Eye?"

"He's an Auror, and a member of the Order. The Order of the Phoenix." he murmured. "It's the group that we're all a part of. All of us that are sworn to protect Harry and fight against You-Know-Who."

"Is… is this all information you should be telling me?"

He shrugged. "You're involved now. You deserve to know why. I can't lie to you."

"And you trust me?"

"Of course I do."

Ayla felt a pleasant wave of something like satisfaction despite everything, but it was gone almost as soon as it came.

"But, obviously, you can't tell anyone. Especially about the Order." He looked at her, a slightly wary look in his eye.

"No need to worry." she said. "Lucky for you, you and Fred are my only friends in the Wizarding World besides Verity. So, there's really no one for me to tell."

"You seem surprisingly alright with all of this. You're not beating me to a pulp, snapping my wand, and demanding to know why I'm such an arse or anything. I'm not sure if I'm happy about that or if it worries me. You realize I do deserve that, right?"

"Sorry, I'm just taking it in." she breathed, tugging lightly on the shoestring of his worn-out left trainer. He looked so strange to her in the bright green t-shirt and muddy jeans. She sighed. "George, I don't blame you."

"And why in the bloody hell not?" he asked incredulously.

"Like I told you yesterday, I'm glad that I took the job at the shop. I had to be home with my father anyway. If not for the war, I never would have spent that time with him, as horrible as that sounds. I didn't get to see him much when I was in Muggle London. Didn't want to come back."

She gulped, furrowing her brows.

"Also… I feel there's something I should tell you as well," she started. "You mentioned a name last night. That man that's been watching the shop lately, the one that attacked me my first day."

George watched her intently, as she battled inwardly with herself. "Downing. He's the Death Eater that's probably behind this," he said.

"Yes." she exhaled, closing her eyes tightly and clenching the shoelace in her hand. "I wasn't positive at first, but it came to me while I was showering this morning." She opened her eyes quickly and blushed. "Sometimes that's the time of day when I think most clearly." she clarified, glancing at him. "Anyway, you said that he mentioned remembering me."

"Yes." George allowed, his fist getting tighter.

"Well, I think now I know from where, and I think he definitely had something to do with this." she braced herself for the painful memories to come flooding back. "A man named Downing used to work with my father at the Ministry many years ago. He was a rotten, dirty sort of fellow. Always hassling my mother whenever she came by to bring my father something or visit the office. I remember one occasion when I was young, going with my mum to the Ministry, he asked rather rudely why I hadn't shown any signs of magic yet, even though I was almost eleven. I suppose he had heard them discussing it, I don't know. My mum hurriedly rushed me out, but it was clear he didn't exactly approve of Squibs."

Ayla tucked her bangs behind her ear, meeting George's stare and immediately looking down again.

"At one point, a couple of years later, my father beat him out of a prestigious promotion. Then, I don't know, I guess Downing kind of flipped. He became a raging alcoholic, and was sacked after coming to work belligerently drunk on Firewhiskey. I don't know if he consciously wanted to exact revenge on my father, but he certainly did."

She shuddered before continuing.

"One day, a few weeks after my dad's promotion… I was out playing in our yard. At our house in the country. There would have been no one else around for miles. My mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner, and my father wasn't home from work yet. I could hear her singing—that's how I would know if I'd gone too far into the fields or woods, when I couldn't hear it. Anyway, suddenly I remember feeling this sense of dread in my stomach. Like I should go back inside. …But when I turned to head back, I was suddenly knocked to the ground. I think by a spell. Whatever it was, it paralyzed me. But soon, I felt the intense weight of him on top of my body, crushing me into the ground. I could smell the alcohol on his breath even though I couldn't move. Couldn't scream."

Ayla didn't dare look up at George now, her eyes tightly shut as she relived her worst memory.

"He whispered things at me as he alternately pummeled and… groped me, called me a Mudblood, bitch, a worthless Squib. I don't know how long it went on, but at some point he gave me this with his wand," she pulled the collar of Ginny's shirt a few milimetres to the side, revealing the jagged scar on her shoulder, still not looking at George.

"Eventually my mum came running from the house, and cursed him off of me before it could go any further. I was freed. That's when I got a good look at his face and knew who it was. I don't know how she did it. She had never cursed anyone before to my knowledge. I suppose a mother's drive to protect her children is overriding in situations like that. I was never more in awe of her. Despite her best efforts, however, he somehow managed to Disapparate. And they could never find him, even with my dad scouring the countryside himself and opening up a case at the Auror office. It was like he had vanished into thin air. I was at St. Mungo's for a few days afterward, and was pretty bruised up for weeks. It's probably the single worst experience of my life, challenged only by my mother's death and what happened to my father on Friday."

Somewhat abruptly, her story ended. She clutched her head in her hands, eyes stinging, and reeling from the painful memory of the fear she had felt, being only eleven and subjected to that level of trauma and pain. Only after several seconds of silence did she risk a look at George, who was staring at her intently with deeply furrowed brows.

"Merlin." he said eventually. "Ayla, why didn't you tell us? If we had known that about Downing…Bloody hell."

She shook her head. "He looked… different. Older. Dirtier. I didn't even start to make the connection until this morning when the name you mentioned yesterday finally registered. If I had known it was him I wouldn't have let him stay outside the shop like that. I don't think he recognized me immediately either. I look a bit older now too."

"Do you think he was a Death Eater back then?" George asked.

"Probably." she replied. "I don't really know. He was a shady person."

"Incomprehensible bastard." George seethed. "I should've killed him when I had the chance. And we should have told you about him instead of trying to handle it ourselves. This changes everything. Maybe he wasn't doing it because of our involvement with Harry."

"It could have been both." Ayla alleged, rubbing moisture from her eyes impatiently. "He really hated my father. Me as well, obviously. This could have simply been the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Exact his own revenge yet again, and also please his master."

George shook his head in disbelief, crossing his feet and wrapping his arms around his knees.

"So, is that the real reason you left?" he asked seriously, peering at her.

Ayla raised her head, taken slightly aback. Eventually she nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, it had a lot to do with it," she said. "I stayed for a few months after, but we just never felt safe again. My parents constantly worried about me and what other people would think. Whenever I went out with my mum to Diagon Alley during the school term it was glaringly obvious that I was of Hogwarts age, and shouldn't be out shopping with my mother. I should have been at school. If one man could react with such hate, who knew what others would also be capable of. After my mother's accident we decided it was best that I move in with my Muggle family."

George ran his hand through his hair again, and leaned his head back against the tree.

"Damn. I had no idea."

"No. You can't blame yourself for this one, George. Don't you see why?" she implored. "This was something beyond you. I've long since moved past the fact that I don't have any magical powers. And I'm happy with myself. Genuinely. What happened to my father was an act of ignorance and hatred. Nothing you or I, Fred, or my father did caused it to happen. And we're going to be okay. We'll find Downing, you and your Order will do what they have to for Harry Potter, and the war will end with good coming out on top. I know it."

Warmth flooded her veins as she spoke, and for the first time in a long time, Ayla felt some strength returning to her. Her voice had even gotten louder and more forceful, and she was looking George square in the eye, fully prepared to slap the guilt and pity right off of his face if need be.

"You're sure of that?" he asked, feebly.

"I am."

"Well, that makes at least one of us." he said. "I hope you're right. Come on. We need to go tell Mad-Eye. This could change his plan for the investigation."

When they stood and began walking back to the house, George took her hand into his after a moment's hesitation, holding it more lightly this time. No caresses; nothing out of turn. Perhaps he wasn't sure of what else he could do to comfort her. An embrace between them would have been awkward still, and he seemed to sense that Ayla had no desire for his pity. Despite this, she knew that they had surpassed the casual friendship of two amiable co-workers. Somewhere in the darkness and painful emotion still plaguing her, she felt a tiny flicker of happiness, and the comforting sense that she was no longer quite so alone.

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