"One, two… three," Ayla counted quietly to herself, looking around for the fourth mid-sized potato stipulated by the recipe in Mrs. Weasley's ancient book. Seeing it rolling to the edge of the countertop, she snatched it up. A bit large, she thought, tossing it up slightly and feeling its size in her hand. She bit down on the inside of her cheek contemplatively.

"Dearie, there's no need to be so precise." Mrs. Weasley chipped somewhat impatiently from beside her, plucking the potato from Ayla's hand. "I can practically hear the baker in you"

"Sorry." Ayla apologized. "I'm so used to following recipes exactly. It's hard to shake the habit."

"Well, my dear, if there's one thing I know well, it's cooking. And things like the size of a potato are inconsequential in a stew. There's no need to make a potion out of it."

"Dad always said I would've been good at potions."

"I don't doubt it." The plump witch responded with a vehement shake of her head. "You have a talent, Miss Sower. You saw how long last week's pumpkin cake lasted. Gah, you'd think it was Halloween feast at Hogwarts. Forget that I had slaved over dinner for hours, no need to eat their vegetables first…"

Ayla chuckled at Mrs. Weasley's complaining and exasperated noises, and commenced chopping the carrots.

It had been about two weeks since her first night at the Burrow, and Ayla had taken surprisingly well to living with the Weasleys. She took immense comfort in the fact that they were almost constantly entertaining company, from the occasional distant cousin to, more frequently, people who she suspected were members of the elusive Order of the Phoenix. A very pleasant girl by the name of Hermione Granger had also arrived to visit a few days before, with whom Ayla got on well with. They had read several of the same Muggle novels. The young witch was a good friend of Ron's, and the two spent so much time holed up in his bedroom that Ayla suspected they were together. Ah, first love, she thought with a fond smile, remembering her Lucas, a tall football player who had frequented her bakery in London once upon a time.

Ayla glanced out the window taking in the warm light of the sunset. George and Fred would surely be in soon from the shop. The twins had taken to eating dinner at the Burrow almost nightly now that Ayla was staying there. They wanted to make sure she wasn't "suffocated by boredom without them," as Fred had put it. After one more night of sleeping in the bed across from her, George had grudgingly gone back to staying at their flat above the shop. This was only after Ayla's many assurances that she would be alright alone, a conversation that had resulted in much discomfort and blushing from her.

She had only been back to the shop a couple of times since her father's attack, to bake as well as help the twins begin to pack merchandise into crates; they all wanted to be extra careful and prepare for any possible raids. She had also been able to go home to retrieve her clothing, and visit the hospital on several occasions. There had been no improvements in her father's condition, but Ayla was trying her best to build up her spirits herself, lest she sink into a pit of depression. Thankfully, despite Fred's worries, the Burrow and its many visitors offered a host of distractions, cooking with Mrs. Weasley being one of the most pleasurable. They had been doing things mostly the Muggle way, for Ayla's benefit and also because Molly was rather curious about it. As guilty and mopey as George often seemed to feel when he was around, Ayla doubted there was really a better place for her to be.

Another thing seemed to be looming in the minds of everyone which had nothing to do with Ayla. There was a plan to move Harry Potter soon, they had told her, leaving out a great many of the details. Everything needed to go as smoothly as possible up until then, and they wanted to take as little risk with her as possible. Unsure of what else she could do, she just sighed and tried to trust that they all knew what they were doing. It was hard to believe that moving a seventeen-year-old boy should require so much fuss. Still, the way they were all acting had managed put her on edge. It didn't help that Molly had an uncontrollable penchant for glancing worriedly at the window and fretting until Mr. Weasley arrived from the Ministry every night. Ayla suspected the witch would never be truly at ease until her entire family was seated at her table. She could only imagine how awful it would be to have to worry about such a large family.

Tonight, Molly seemed to be fretting even more than usual. She talked incessantly, and her hands trembled as she worked over the food. It was just the two of them and Ginny in the kitchen tonight.

"Where is everyone?" Ayla asked curiously. "Usually Ron and Hermione are downstairs by now, and I haven't even heard anyone since I returned from my walk in the woods this afternoon."

The knife Mrs. Weasley was holding suddenly clattered to the countertop. The shaking in her fingers was obvious now, and she picked up the knife again before replying weakly.

"Oh, they're around somewhere, I suppose…"

"Mum." Ginny's voice cut from the table where she was busy peeling boiled tomatoes. "You didn't tell her? That's completely ridiculous. We can't lie."

This took Ayla by surprise. She halted her chopping and looked up inquiringly. Mrs. Weasley swiped the back of her forearm across her forehead, looking very stressed. She sighed.

"You're right, Ginny. I'm sorry."

"W-what's going on…?" Ayla asked.

Molly gestured towards her daughter, apparently unable to articulate it herself.

"They've decided to move Harry tonight." Ginny stated. "There was a change in their plan, and it's going to involve more members of our family than we'd originally thought."

"Ohhh," Mrs. Weasley groaned, agonized. "I shouldn't've let those boys agree to help! They have to go and be so gallant. But they're too young! All of them just babies."

"Mum, they're all overage..."

"There is no overage or underage to a mother! They are always little ones. You'll understand that one day, Ginevra."

Ayla got the feeling Ginny was suppressing an eye roll out of concern for her mother's emotional state.

"Still, Mum, it was their decision. I'm worried too. But they're all capable, excellent wizards. There's no one else I'd trust to get Harry back safely. And no one knew about the plan. You-Know-Who isn't expecting it tonight."

"Right." Molly whispered, casting a sideways glance at the clock, which still labeled them all in Mortal Peril. "I hope so, dear. I hope so."

The way they were talking caused a ball of more serious anxiousness to suddenly form in Ayla's belly. Were they really in that much danger? George had made it sound grave, but until now she hadn't considered the fact that they might be taking such a serious risk. There was also a pang inside her at the fact that she wasn't included in this information. Another reminder that she was still an outsider, despite how hospitable the Weasley's had been. She wondered why not even George had mentioned anything to her.

"Sorry we didn't let you know, Ayla." Ginny piped, seeming to know where the other young woman's thoughts were. "We're all just a little bit frazzled and worried. And it all was finalized so quickly. I would've gone too if I'd been old enough."

This last statement did not garner a positive reaction from her mother.

"It's… it's alright." Ayla said, though still feeling out-of-the-loop and wondering what else they weren't telling her. She kneaded the fabric of her dress nervously in her hand. "So what exactly is the plan?" she asked.

Ginny explained that they were flying Harry out of his aunt and uncle's house, and the potion to make the decoys to throw off any possible pursuers. Fred and George would be on brooms. Brooms, Ayla thought with a shudder. If anything seemed scarier than Apparition, that surely was it.

"It's pretty much the only way they can do it now that Thicknesse's been Imperiused. They all should be back here no later than eight-thirty." Ginny explained pulling off her watch and setting it on the table. "If all goes well."

As they silently went back to preparing the food, there was a tension that was palpable. Ayla wasn't sure what to say. As the sky darkened Molly spent more and more time standing before the window and fidgeting.

George could die? Ayla didn't think she could take another tragedy. Would losing George be a tragedy to her? She had only known him for a few months, but after all he had done for her… He had become the best friend she had in the Wizarding World. They had started going on walks every evening before dinner, and he had begun to tell her less superficial things about himself: such as how he was once Beater for the Gryffindor Quidditch team-the athleticism of which curiously excited her, the shenanigans he and Fred had gotten up to in their younger days, and even family issues and about less-than-satisfying past relationships. He had listened to her vent about her father's attack and Downing in her weaker moments and offered advice. And of course there was his willingness to stay with her as she slept. There had been no more hand-holding, which made her feel slightly gloomy for no good reason, but the two had managed to become fairly close.

She started to feel nauseated. The same way she did when thinking about her father. She wondered how high and fast the brooms flew. Fred was in danger too. And Ron, though she didn't know him as well. For the next half hour all she could see was the twins' handsome, mischievous faces and hear their laughter as though it had been imprinted permanently on her mind.

"It should be anytime now, Mum." Ginny eventually said, looking at her watch. "Ron and Tonks are first."

Ayla had met Tonks a few nights ago when she came to the Burrow for dinner and a hushed meeting with Mr. Weasley and her husband Mr. Lupin in the sitting room. Ayla's immediate impression was that she was a very pleasant witch, talkative, but sweet. She wondered how they would arrive.

Molly paced back and forth in her kitchen, wringing her apron in her hands. The savory smell of the stew was only serving to make Ayla more nauseous.

"Oh, where are they?" Mrs. Weasley breathed. Almost immediately after, there was a whooshing sound from the front yard, and she dove for the door, flinging it open and barreling into the yard. The shriek sent Ayla and Ginny hurrying after her.

Molly had thrown her arms up and put her hands on her head. She sobbed as she stared at a rusty old oilcan sitting in the yard. No bodies to be seen.

"They missed their Portkey." Ginny said quietly. "Damn."

Ayla was forced to stay silent and pretend as though she knew what that meant. It hardly seemed like the time for drawing further attention to her lack of knowledge about magic. The Portkey must have been some means of transportation from the houses they were all flying to. She had learned not to discount any notion as too ridiculous for the magical world.

A moment later there was another whoosh and a beaten-up red sneaker materialized a few feet away from the oilcan.

"Ahhhh!" Mrs. Weasley cried in absolute agony.

Ginny appeared to be close to tears as well.

"Fred and Dad."

"Something's gone wrong!"

A few seconds after that, yet another whizzing noise sounded from the yard. This time there were people attached to it. Ayla gasped, and stepped backward, nearly collapsing against the door. One of them was obscenely large, a giant it seemed, the other a bespectacled boy that she immediately recognized from the pictures as Harry Potter. They odd pair had slammed onto the ground, and looked like they had been to hell and back.

Ginny and Molly both screamed and ran towards the two.

"Harry? You are the real Harry? What happened? Where are the others?" Mrs. Weasley shrieked desperately.

"What d'you mean? Isn't anyone else back?" Harry Potter demanded.

Mrs. Weasley blanched.

"The Death Eaters were waiting for us." He explained, "We were surrounded the moment we took off—they knew it was tonight—I don't know what happened to anyone else, four of them chased us, it was all we could do to get away, and then Voldemort caught up with us-."

Ayla clutched at her chest, feeling a panic unlike any she had ever felt. She watched Mrs. Weasley give Harry a hug.

"Haven't got any brandy have yeh, Molly?" the incredibly large man asked gruffly. "For medicinal purposes."

As Molly hurried back towards the house, Ayla saw the abject fear plastered all over the witch's face. She stepped into the yard and out of the way of the door. Her body was shaking uncontrollably. Ginny seemed to be explaining to Harry what had happened. "-that one," the red-headed girl pointed to the shoe, "should have been Dad and Fred's. They were supposed to be second. You and Hagrid were third and, if they made it, George and Lupin ought to be back in about a minute." She looked at her watch, which she had apparently put back on.

Ayla slumped against the shingled outside of the house, watching from the shadows as Mrs. Weasley returned with the brandy. The man was so big, that he downed the entire bottle in less than a second.

"Mum!" Ginny called suddenly, pointing into the yard at a blue light that seemed to be getting larger and larger.

Another two figures landed in the yard, swirling and collapsing into a heap. One was trying to support the other, who seemed unconscious.

George.

Ayla couldn't breathe when she realized it was him. Dressed in clothes that were not his, George's entire face and neck were crimson with streaming blood. It looked as though half of his head had been bludgeoned. Ayla's legs nearly buckled beneath her. The Potter boy ran forward and helped the other man carry George's lifeless figure past her and into the house. Scrambling up the steps again, following the trail of blood, she watched them lay him on the sitting room couch. The scarlet liquid soaked the cushions.

And she ran up the stairs, retching and tripping as she went, trying to tune out the shouts she heard from below.


A week later, Ayla heaved herself bitterly out of her cot in Ginny's tiny room. She had been trying to fall asleep for hours, only lingering in a state of dozing that was repeatedly interrupted by the noise in her mind. Attempting to be quiet, she tip-toed around Hermione's bed and pushed the door open, biting her lip nervously when it creaked. No one stirred, so she started down the stairs.

When she passed the twins' bedroom door, behind which they were surely sleeping since everyone had been staying at The Burrow, she halted for a moment. She thought of her and George's exchange in that very spot a few weeks earlier. Self discontent filled her heart, and she wondered how George was faring. In the past days she had scarcely been able to look at him, immediately excusing herself whenever he entered a room. And she had heard enough "holey" puns to drive anyone insane. He certainly noticed her avoidance, and the thought made her stomach twist into uncomfortable knots. The sight of him bleeding out on the sofa, however… It had hurt her in a way that she hadn't thought possible. At that moment, she believed that she had surely lost him, and it was just too painful to deal with in the wake of her father's attack. They were all so fragile, and no one was safe.

She was behaving so immaturely, and now it seemed that she had gone too far to ever get her friendship with George back to the way it had been fast becoming. Maybe it was better that way. She couldn't handle getting close to anyone and then have them taken away yet again. Only a little while longer, she told herself. She would be out of the Burrow and back with her Muggle family as soon as the wedding was over. Mrs. Weasley was counting on her help, and she at least owed the witch that much for allowing her to stay so long. It was high time she left the Wizarding World for good. Her father was not going to improve. And neither was this stupid war.

Swallowing, she grabbed the rail and continued down the stairs for something to drink. Hopefully no one else was awake. Being disturbed was the last thing she wanted right now. Especially given the fact that she had forgotten to grab her dressing gown and was clad only in her rather short nightdress. She raked a hand through her knotted hair, and moved into the kitchen. She reached for the rusted kettle to place on the burner. Tea sounded lovely right now.

"Hm. You've been hiding out, haven't you?" A deep, sardonic voice sent her heart into her throat. She jumped, startled at the unexpected sound. The kettle slipped through her hand and clanked loudly onto the stovetop, sloshing water from the spout.

"God." Ayla said, clutching her heart and turning to see George leaning against the doorframe of the sitting room, holding a half-empty bottle of butterbeer in his hand. His head was still wrapped in the ridiculous-looking bandage he had been sporting all week, and he peered at her unhappily. He looked tired, and was still dressed in his day clothes even though it was around three in the morning.

"George." She stated, her voice cracking. She looked down at the counter, drumming her fingers on the edge. "You scared me."

"Sorry." He said, not sounding particularly sincere. He took a swig from the bottle. "Couldn't sleep?"

"No." She replied, turning back to the stove and turning it on. He was so angry with her. She could feel his eyes boring into the back of her neck. The thought made her legs quake. She felt naked. Oh, why, hadn't she gotten her dressing gown? Now that he was here, and there was very certainly no way out, she had no idea what to say. She contemplated forgetting the tea and dashing by him up the stairs. The chances of her making it without tripping and falling into a graceless heap at his feet were slim to none.


George stared broodingly at Ayla's back, noticing the amount of pale skin exposed by the thin straps of her cream-colored nightdress. He could see more of her shapely legs than he ever had before. She clearly hadn't planned on running into anyone this late. After a few moments of silence, she began repeatedly glancing apprehensively at him over her shoulder, the corner of her lower lip secured in her teeth.

Normally he would have been somewhat aroused by this, a beautiful girl in front of him barely clothed, but now only anger swelled within him. He was at a complete loss. She had all but abandoned him after he had been cursed. It was impossible not to notice. He had thought they were becoming good friends, perhaps more than, but now she seemed to want nothing to do with him. Did she find him deformed? It seemed out of character for her to cease speaking to him for such a petty reason. Women confused him to no end.

"George." She muttered finally. "What do you want?"

He chuckled once humorlessly, crossing his bare feet and toeing the floor.

"I'm trying to work out why you're being such a hag."

Her head ducked, and he felt the smallest twang of guilt. Still, he forged on, driven by anger and annoyance.

"I thought we were friends. At the very least amiable colleagues, though that seems a bit light for how it's been up until lately." He added. "What's going on, Ayla? Why are you avoiding me?"

Her breathing seemed suddenly labored. She remained turned away from him, apparently too uncomfortable to look him in the face.

"Can we please not, George? I can't-" She said weakly.

"No." He said vehemently, making her cringe. Such a Hufflepuff, he thought.

"Ayla…" he added more quietly. "Seriously, you've got to develop a backbone. Merlin. Look at me. I'm not going to talk to the back of your head."

Slowly, she turned around, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. She trained her gaze fixedly at the floor, annoying him further. Though he was sure it was unintentional, it made her look like a petulant child.

"Well?" He insisted, impatiently. "What is it? Does it disgust you? You can't bear to even look at me now?"

Ayla closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She shook her head. "No. No, George… I just. I can't… handle losing someone else right now."

"What in the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"I can't be your friend. I have to leave." Her quiet voice trembled.

George stared at her, completely taken aback. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but that certainly wasn't it. He rolled his tongue slowly around his mouth and furrowed his brows darkly, considering her response with angry but familiar guilt.

"I don't want to tell you you can't leave, but… you can't. It's too dangerous. You know we agreed to protect you during the investigation. And you're a target now. How… how does my not having an ear make you incapable of being my friend? I'm failing to see your logic. Why is this the catalyst for you wanting to go?"

"I… I'm sorry, George." She sounded resigned to her decision.

"You've completely shoved me to the curb, Aye! I hate to sound like a whining third year, but… I almost died."

"I know you almost died!" She shrieked suddenly. Surprised at herself, she brought her hands up to her forehead. George's eyes widened and she continued. "That's why! That's exactly why. I… I can't lose someone else. Seeing you there, blood gushing from your head… I really thought you were going to die. I couldn't handle it. And that's what I see every time I look at you, George." She was crying now, but making an effort to be quiet and not wake the house. "I see you dead. In a pool of blood on that couch. When I try to go to bed at night and I close my eyes, it's all I can think about. That's why I can't sleep."

This effectively silenced him. He lowered the butterbeer to his side.

"It's like seeing my father lying beaten again." She added quietly into her hand, looking sideways, still anywhere but at him. "Everyone I care about, I lose."

"But I'm still here, Ayla." he said after a moment, almost impatiently, gesturing to himself and taking a step forward. He placed his bottle on the dining table. He wanted to tell her she was being ridiculous, to make her see that she was overreacting. "You haven't lost me. I'm not going anywhere."

She closed her eyes. Whimpering noises escaped from her mouth as she tried to stifle her crying. Uncomfortable and not wanting to stand there staring at her any longer, George sighed and stepped closer to her. Finally, when he was right at her toes, she looked at him, trembling with his abrupt proximity.

"Listen, don't cry. Please?" He implored. "I didn't mean to upset you. Not this much, anyway."

Slowly, he reached out, allowing his curled fingers to graze the bare flesh of her shoulders and upper arms. He could feel the gooseflesh appear on her skin and hear her short breaths. This close, he could see the shine of her jagged scar against the smooth skin of her collarbone: drawing his eye unavoidably to the visible swell of her breasts. Feeling an unexpected rush of protectiveness for the girl, his anger and frustration began to ebb. His brow tensed. He swallowed and opened his arms a bit, nervous. "Can I?"

Her only consent was in not pushing him away, though he realized he had effectively pinned her against the edge of the countertop. At first she kept her arms firmly across her chest, but eventually relaxed into his uncertain embrace, hiccoughing. After a moment, her hands reached timidly underneath his arms and clasped the back of his shirt. Her forehead rested against his shoulder.

Her hair smelled sweet, the top of her head just underneath his nose. Like the flowers in the back garden. And it was soft. He had never been so purposely close to her, and feeling her smallness in his arms was immensely satisfying.

"I'm fine." He assured again. "Really. I'll never get my ear back, but who bloody cares? It's a fucking ear."


George was murmuring things to her. Things that were somehow comforting despite the presence of colorful curse words. She wasn't sure why or how they had gotten into this position after days of ignoring each other. She didn't deserve how sweet he was being. Here he was, trying to comfort her when he was the one who'd nearly died. She felt wretched as she tuned in to his voice.

"You can't just write people off, Ayla. Not now when we all need each other more than ever," he said, one arm around her back with a hand holding her shoulder, and the other settling on her back at her waist. His thumbs rubbed gently back and forth, making her shudder. The pressure and heat of his hand permeated the thin fabric of her gown as though she wasn't wearing anything at all. And she couldn't even think about the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra. It seemed highly inappropriate. But also felt so incredibly delicious that she had no desire for him to ever move away. In fact, she wished he would hold her tighter, and press her harder up against the counter. She knew his arms were strong. And now she was wrapped up in them, the center of his focus. She thought of her unexpected delight seeing them flex whenever he lifted heavy boxes at the shop. Unlike Fred, sometimes he seemed to ignore the fact that he could do things with magic. The way he rolled his sleeves slightly past his elbows and impatiently loosened his bow tie first; it did strange things to her belly. She wondered if he did it on purpose, because he knew what it did to her. If he noticed her looking, he would wink suggestively, causing her to blush and smile timidly as she averted her gaze.

So easily, he was winning her over. If only he weren't such an attractive man.

"I-I'm sorry." She choked out, gaining marginal control of her tears. His patterned linen shirt was dampening, and she felt embarrassed. She pulled herself more firmly to his sturdy frame and turned her face into the warmth of his neck as if to hide, his comforting and familiar scent intoxicating her. His grip tightened with hers, sending a tremor down her spine and to her toes.

"You're right. I've been irrational. I'm so sorry for avoiding you." She breathed, giving in.

"Don't worry. It'll be alright. I'm not going to die, I promise. I'll just look a little funny from now on. It'll be good for business. Kind of annoying though. We'll have to modify the storefront when we get back." He said. For once, she couldn't tell if he was joking or not. She appreciated the "we" however.

She gave a breathy laugh and hiccoughed again, bringing a hand up to wipe her eyes. At the motion, George pulled back a bit to look at her face, forcing her to loosen her grip on him. He reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a tartan handkerchief. She kept one hand on his shoulder as she took it, sighing.

"All I ever do is cry, isn't it?"

He shook his head.

"Nah. If you did, I don't know that I'd have the energy to be your friend. In your defense, you haven't had the best of weeks here recently. Damn, I shouldn't've called you a hag. But… you really should stop. You're kind of killing me here. I'm not much good with women when they cry. This is Fred's area of expertise. He makes girls cry a lot, you see."

She laughed breathlessly. "Such a heartbreaker."

"A complete cad." He affirmed solemnly.

George was doing just fine at being comforting, she thought to herself, noting how he had yet to take his other hand away from her lower back. Neither of them seemed entirely willing to move, in fact.

"So… you're not going to leave, are you?" He asked, not hiding his concern very well.

At this point, Ayla's slight smile faltered and she raised a hand cautiously to the bandage covering George's missing ear. Her fingers stopped just short of the fabric and settled against his neck.

"I don't know."

His expression darkened, and he glanced downward.

"Would you like to see it?" He asked seriously after a weighty pause. "It might help you come to terms with this whole thing. Facing fear, you know."

After hesitating, Ayla felt her head nod slightly. "Maybe."

At that moment, the teakettle began to whistle loudly, enough to startle the two of them apart. George grinned sheepishly and reached onto the shelf to retrieve two cups for them.

"Go into the sitting room if you'd like." He said. "I'll bring the tea. You want fifteen lumps of sugar and half of the cup filled with cream, right?"

"You know me so well."


The fire had been lit; she noticed when she entered the room, still aware of her state of relative undress and gripping his handkerchief. Though the flames burned low, it cast long shadows of her legs against the floor and opposite wall. A large, leather-bound book entitled Advanced Transfiguration vol. IV. lay open and upside down on the wooden floor. It must have been what George had been doing up so late. She shivered as she sat gingerly in the middle of the couch, fingering the seam in the cushion. It was the one spot she had avoided religiously since the night of the curse.

It's okay, just steady your breathing. No more blood. There was no more blood. And George was here. Alive and well. Coming to see her right now. Surely if he thought it was safe enough to remove his bandage, then it was no big deal. Oh, what was she getting herself into? How would seeing it make it any better?

Her breathing hitched again when George joined her, sinking the cushion. Noticing her shivering, he reached back and draped the couch's soft blanket over her shoulders. She was grateful, finally feeling somewhat clothed. They drank tea in silence for a few minutes, thighs only centimeters apart.

"You're being uncharacteristically quiet." She observed, watching the burning coals in the Weasleys' gigantic stone fireplace.

He shifted beside her, tugging at the knee of his trousers with his free hand.

"Just don't know where to start, I guess."

Ayla took a long sip of tea, watching the cream swirl when she lowered it from her lips. It was as if they were on a date or something, both nervous about initiating a first kiss. But instead of a kiss they were going to compare disgusting scars. After an indeterminable amount of time, she was jerked from a reverie when George closed his fingers around the rim of her teacup and gently removed it from her hands. He placed both mugs on the floor, and turned his body towards her.

He exhaled, "Alright."

Slowly, he reached up to untie his bandage. Ayla pulled one knee up onto the couch as she faced him, foot hanging off of the edge, as if having something between them would shield her somewhat. She held her breath.

When she saw it, however, the expected feeling of repulsion never came. George turned his head to give her a view, himself staring into the dimming fire. Curiously, as though she couldn't control her movement, she raised her hand and softly pushed back a stray curl of his very red hair.

It was nothing but a dark opening. Still healing at the edges, but only a shadowy hole. There was no gaping, bloody wound. Somehow she had assumed that the curse would have taken out a part of his skull, given the amount of blood that night.

She could see him glancing sideways at her, trying to gauge her reaction.

"It's… It's not so bad." She concluded quietly, pushing her fingers through his hair and smoothing it away from where his ear used to be. Poor thing, she thought, biting her lip. "Does it hurt?"

George put on a false grimace "Yeah, a bit." He said with a grizzled timbre; like a man trying to impress and gain the affection of a worried lady. She smiled. He seemed to cheer at her reaction, giving her a crooked grin and a small wink.

"No, I can't really feel it anymore." He said more sincerely, turning his face towards her again. Her hand fell to her lap. "I mean, I try to avoid poking at it or anything. But now it's fine."

"I'm glad you're okay." She murmured, looking down and feeling deplorable.

"No more glad than I am, trust me. At least it wasn't my favorite ear."

"I feel horribly guilty." She said, watching him wrap the cloth around his head again and fumbling to retie it. "Here…" she added softly, reaching to help him. He tilted his head to give her better access before responding to her statement.

"For what? My ear being cursed off? I appreciate the sentiment, but it had nothing to do with you."

She shook her head, finishing the knot. "You know what I mean, George."

Warmth enveloped her hand as he clapped his own on top of it and squeezed her fingers.

"No harm done." He assured. "But we have a more important matter at hand here."

"What?" Ayla asked suspiciously.

"Why do you think it affected you so much that I was nearly killed?"

Ayla's mouth opened and closed.

"You're my friend-"

"As I see it," he interjected rather impishly, paying no attention to her, "you care about me quite a bit. You even said it, 'everyone I care about-,' you know? Yeah, you handled it bloody terribly, but I still have an undeniable pull over you. I can only conclude that you're hopelessly in love with me."

Ayla felt her face flush.

"Just because I said I cared? That's your reasoning?"

"And, really, who could blame you?" He continued, ignoring her again, "I'm the full package. I've even got battle scars now. I saw the way you ogled it just now."

"Stop it, please." She said dryly. This was hardly the time for him to be taking the mickey out of her.

He smiled widely, stroking her hand with his thumb, making her shudder visibly.

"You know your pulse is racing, don't you?"

"Yes, George, I know." Her face felt hot.

He laughed, a real laugh that she hadn't heard in a while. He looked incredibly handsome as his head rolled onto the back of the sofa in his mirth. She couldn't help but smile as well, realizing how much she had missed it and happy that they were on good terms again. This was the way it was supposed to be. She had been a complete idiot.

"What about you?" She asked accusingly after a moment of contented silence. "You're the one who panicked at the thought of my leaving."

"Panic is a strong word, love."

"No it isn't! You were really worried. I could see it in your eyes."

"Think what you like, Ayla." He said. "I would've been fine. A bit disappointed for a while, but fine."

She shook her head, unable to erase her grin. She rested her chin on her free hand and looked pointedly at their hands.

"Well, you haven't moved your hand yet…"

"That has absolutely nothing to do with anything. Maybe it's just comfortable there."

"Mmm-hm."

"All due respect here, but there is again a flaw in your logic. You have not moved your hand either, see? And you're trying to accuse me."

"I do see. Maybe it's just comfortable there." She whispered back, feeling shy.

"All the proof I need…" he teased quietly.

The contented silence returned, Ayla feeling happier than she would have thought possible only an hour ago. She wanted to thank him again for putting up with her and still being her friend after her being such a twat, but the time for that had passed. There was no reason to ruin the moment with seriousness. She was now overwhelmed with her desire for him to kiss her, but they had been through enough of an emotional rollercoaster tonight. Instead, as if controlled by some being that was not herself, she slowly flipped her hand and unfurled her digits so their palms were pressed together. Her heart stuttered in her chest as he allowed his fingers to fill the spaces between her own. He didn't retort with a joke, or even a smug expression, and she was grateful. Instead, his face was serious in the flickering light. She wracked her mind. She had nothing sexy to say.

"So…Advanced Transfiguration?"

"It's just some light reading."

"Volume IV?"

"It's a good series."


A/N: Thanks for being patient with me! And thanks for reading. Why, look how easy it is to review now... Fancy.