Chapter 19: Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. November 2001.

'Take it,' she said, and she thrust the sack into George's hands.

'What?' said Fred, looking flabbergasted.

'Take it,' Harry repeated firmly. 'I don't want it.'

'You're mental,' said George, trying to push it back at Harry.

'No, I'm not,' said Harry. 'You take it, and get inventing. It's for the joke-shop.'

'She is mental,' Fred said, in an almost awed voice.

Harry and George meet at the joke shop. It's past closing time but it looks like the security spells haven't been altered to lock him out, so Harry goes in, after a moment of deliberation with his hand poised on the colourful handle of the main entrance to the store, plastered with posters advertising the newest Weasley products. A small silver bell chimes pleasantly over his head, signalling his entry.

"George..."

"Harry? Give me a sec. Be right there."

"Alright."

They have tea, of all things. Harry's ready to scream out his frustration but he cannot. They are having tea. Somehow that makes it all impossibly... surreal.

They don't talk about the weather in London, thank fuck, but they do discuss enough idle gossip to make Harry want to claw his eyes out in protest. And suddenly, everything changes and on comes the point of the entire meeting.

"Harry," George's stare is intent. His hand squeezes Harry's. "There's something else you should know."

"Go on." Harry's hand twitches and it takes all the willpower not to pull it back.This is how straight blokes behave around a girl, not another bloke. It's a habit and he doesn't even realise how it will affect me, Harry tells himself. No! I have to be fair to George, he is used to holding my hand to communicate affection. Lifelong habits are hard to break. It doesn't make the gut reaction any easier to bear.

"I've met with Angelina, once. She's been helping me through this. She's a good friend."

Jealousy flares through Harry, as ugly and painful as only irrational rage and envy and hurt can be. Breathe. "Oh?"

"She said she wouldn't be opposed to dinner together. Not now. In the future, when I'm ready. Just thought you should know."

Harry takes a deep breath and with resolve pulls his hand back. Clenches and unclenches his fingers. His palms are sweaty, the new normal of his body. "And what does she need me to do? Give my bloody blessing?" he snaps.

"Harry! She's a friend. Nothing more. She encouraged me to talk to you first, just so there are no hard feelings. I thought this was very considerate of her."

Angelina was always so considerate of the Gryffindor teammates, especially girls, an ugly thought rears its head. Wouldn't want to end things on a bad note with one Harriet 'Harry' Potter, poor confused dear, would we?

Breathe. I've gotta stop thinking like this. I can't let worrying what others think of me dictate my life. It's none of my business.

Snape's suddenly-warm tone comes to mind and challenges Harry in a whole new way. Are you man enough? And that's apparently all it takes to get him to calm down. To unclench his fists. To settle into the comfort of his own skin and allow himself to be.

I know who I am. I am enough. Right now, right here.

"What's on your mind? You looked odd for a moment there."

"Nothing," Harry shakes his head. "Just remembering something Snape said."

"You're still visiting that sleazy git? Bloody hell!"

"What's it to you? You've never complained about my patrols."

"Ugh. Harry, just ugh! Have you completely lost your mind? Just promise you'll steer clear of whatever it is he tells you next. Between you and me, I can handle you stopping me from hexing the greasy bastard's nose clean off for what he did to me, and I can handle you becoming a bloke, but -"

Harry glares. Some things the people closest to him say about Snape these days stir up his temper. "'Becoming'? Oh, bloody hell no. You're speaking with a man, George," he says, quietly, insistently. He is prepared to repeat it over and over until it drives the point home. "Right now. Right here. A queer man who loves you. That's what I am. You're not queer though, and the sooner we both accept the truth, the better."

"I get this, Harry, come on, I'm not bloody daft."

"No, I don't think you are. I know you are capable of understanding, George. If you ever loved that nickname for me, or if you still do, you love a shell of me. And no matter how much I want it to be real for your sake, I won't live a lie."

"A lie! Is that all that we were to you?" Harry watches as the very idea knocks the breath out of George. He cringes. Ripping the bandaid off, yes, sometimes that's what it takes. He needs to do this, despite the pain.

"No," Harry shakes his head. "But if we ever continue this, us, it will be, George, and I won't have that. I can't do this. Not to you."

"Harry!"

"Farewell, George," he says, and it is a definite farewell, because he owes George clarity, for both their sakes. He needs to go, but not before he forces it past his lips: "You really should have that dinner with Angelina. I want to see you happy and I think this is the best way." It's the truth, as close to it as he can admit.

He hopes it gives George the closure they both need.