A/N: Post-War, mentions of grief. No gnomes were harmed in the making of this fic.

Limited Edition: Romance - 4. Romeo and Juliet (William Shakespeare) - (plot point) a duel

Quarterly: Carrot Cake - (word) Comfort - 1 / (dialogue) "What do I get if I win?" - 2


The Burrow was quiet. But the little patch of grass around the back of the Burrow, underneath the leaning treehouse, was anything but quiet. The hiss of spellfire and overexerted grunts filled the air. Harry shot a Leg Locker Curse that went wide, sinking into the bark of some poor unsuspecting tree.

"You'll have to do better than that, Potter," George said.

Harry huffed a laugh and ducked the next spell. Two gnomes were watching from the billowing grass, elbowing each other and snickering; George had lured them over with stolen chicken eggs and glued them to the ground. As far as Seconds went, Harry was sure they could have done better, but the last thing any sane person wanted to do on a baking hot summer's day was duel.

Harry had been one step away from insane his whole life, if you asked the papers, and George wasn't far behind him. So duelling it was. And gnomes were the only viable option.

"Pick up your feet," Harry called, sending a stunner at George's toes. He laughed as George leapt aside, cursing under his breath. "You've gotta be faster than that."

George raised his wand, and Harry braced himself.

The spell lurched towards him with menacing intent. Harry slanted his wand through the air, and the jet of light fizzled into nothing. He cast Protego immediately after, and George's offensive stance eased. It was their signal, and it never went ignored.

But it did, occasionally, get mocked.

"Quitting already?" George said, brow raised.

Harry took half a step back and laughed breathlessly, chest heaving. "Not quitting. We should take a minute and get some water though before your mum comes out to show us what a real duel looks like."

George half-smiled at him. It was the most they got out of him these days. Harry thought it suited him, in a strange, painful way, although he'd never say it out loud.

"Suit yourself, saviour," he said, and strolled off towards the Burrow.

There was a fifty-fifty chance that he'd come back. He was prone to fits of buggering off these days, and nobody could blame him. Harry dropped down in the grass and leaned back on his elbows, sweaty and sore, gazing up at the blue sky, content to wait. Clouds drifted here and there, but so far the weather was as oppressively sticky as it had been all summer.

Despite the familiar heat, it wasn't like any summer he'd ever lived through.

Grief and old, exhausted anger welled up inside him. Harry gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, but all that did was inspire a swift slideshow of memories, flashes of lost faces across the blackness. He opened them again and lay back against the grass, shoulders slumping. His wand was lax at his side. He didn't flinch when he heard footsteps, unhurried and heavy.

"Catch."

Harry snatched the water bottle out of the air before it could hit him in the chest. He sat up and drank half in one gulp, relishing the cool, icy taste. Then he sipped it slowly, blinking slowly at the grass. George flopped down beside him, a Tupperware box floating around near his head.

"Mum made them," he explained. "Wouldn't let me leave the kitchen without them."

The Tupperware box was stuffed full of biscuits. Harry took two and ate them slowly. George tossed one over to the gnomes; they watched as a miniature fight broke out, complete with raspberry-blowing and very rude signs.

"Any idea when Ron and Hermione are back?" George asked. "I want to pencil in the date, so I know when to find a new duelling partner."

"I told you I wasn't quitting."

"Sure," George said, a little dryly. "Not that it matters. I think it's Charlie's turn to babysit me next, so you're out of luck. I wouldn't even be in the country."

There was actually a schedule, which was something Harry would have found enraging if it was aimed at him. But they were just worried about him. The problem was that George didn't want to hear that, and it didn't change how he felt. Harry wasn't interested in telling him what he already knew.

"Wanna go again?" he said instead. "No trip-jinxes this time."

"The war took all the fun out of you." George pretended to think about it. "What do I get if I win?"

"If you win, I won't tell Molly that you didn't eat any of those biscuits."

The grass around George's thighs was scattered with crumbs, some lumpier than others. There was already a lady blackbird perched in the tree nearby, watching with keen interest, her meal-planner filled in for the week.

It wasn't that he was avoiding eating, just that he was nowhere near as full as Molly thought he was. Harry had been keeping an eye on it, as carefully and unobtrusively as possible.

"Guilty as charged," George said, brushing off his shorts. "That's the saying, isn't it? I've never understood that one."

"Ask Hermione when she gets back next week. We can duel, and she can lecture you on Muggle sayings." Harry finished his biscuit and stood up, leaving the water bottle in a patch of shade. He held out his hand and quirked an eyebrow. "Ready?"

George looked at his hand for a moment, almost like he didn't know what to do with it. Truthfully, Harry didn't know why he offered. He'd been stumbling through this whole thing recently, torn between wanting to offer comfort and not wanting to overstep. The worst thing about feeling fragile was the way people tip-toed around you like you might shatter, so Harry tried not to do it. It culminated in a lot of awkward stops and almost-touches.

But eventually George stopped staring and slid their palms together. He let Harry pull him to his feet, affecting a flustered swoon as soon as he was upright.

"Very forward of you, sir. What will the neighbours think?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say it's something like 'when are those pricks going to unglue our feet?'" Harry said, with a pointed glance at the sulky gnomes.

George let out a bark of laughter, abrupt and hoarse. It stunned both of them; the look of disbelief that crossed George's face left a painful gulf in Harry's chest. He wanted to do it again, to offer comfort, to reach out; the moment lodged in his throat instead. He only had a second to process it before George cleared his throat and straightened up, crossing to his side of the clearing.

"I accept your terms," George said. "If I win, you won't rat me out to my mother. What do you want if you win?"

Harry didn't need to think about it, but he pretended to anyway.

"If I win," he said eventually. "You let me come with you when Charlie comes to sweep you away."

George lowered his wand, clearly taken aback. "You want to come with us to Romania? Why?"

But Harry only raised his wand and sunk into a duelling stance. George watched him for a moment, like he couldn't decide whether to argue or not, to insist that he didn't need a babysitter. And Harry agreed. George didn't need a babysitter. But he rather thought George could use a friend, and even though part of him was grappling with the terrifying concept of wanting more than that, he was by no means settling by keeping him company. He'd take what they had right now and be quite content forever.

George must have sensed something, because he let it go, and his shrewd expression faded. His mouth quirked. "Alright, then. Very enterprising of you, squeezing a holiday out of us poor, broke Weasleys."

"I do try," Harry said.

A spell glanced off his arm, sending a shiver through his system; Harry inhaled sharply and met George's gaze, blinking in surprise. He hadn't even seen him move.

"Try harder," George said, and he was grinning, and it felt like a victory, like Harry had won before the duel had even begun.


[Word Count: 1,348]