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Chapter 12

George Weasley spent the whole day Monday staring at the wall. Ginny had come to help him in the shop for the day—she enjoyed spending time there when she didn't have practice with the Harpies. Unfortunately for her, she had picked the worst day to come. The shop was slow – students were still at Hogwarts for another week and most people were at work. Every now and then a parent would bring in a gaggle of young children, let them wreak havoc and then purchase them some small prize for not completely burning down the store. After they left, Ginny would perform a quick sweep with her wand and the store would look like new again.

At half three, Ginny was ready to leave. She had maintained the store for a few hours while her brother had stared at the wall and absentmindedly played with a magic spinning top. He watched as it spun itself for hours and waved his finger when he wanted it to change directions. He was absolutely useless.

"I'm done," she yelled after a young mother pulled her screaming three year old out of the shop. "You're useless, and I'm leaving." She stormed into the back room and grabbed her purse.

George barely stirred. Annoyed, she threw her bag at his head.

"Ow! Are you mad, Gin? What are you throwing things for?" he yelled, rubbing the spot where he'd been hit.

"What on earth has gotten into you?" she yelled back. "You have been a miserable lump of uselessness all day long!"

"Have not," he said sullenly. He crossed his arms and leaned on the counter. The top stopped spinning, clinking against the slate as it fell. "Just a bit out of sorts."

"Bollocks, George, I don't know if I've even seen you move today. If this is about Angelina, don't think I didn't notice the way you looked at her yesterday. If you fancy her, then do something about it. Don't just sit there with your little spinny top and mope all day."

George's stomach flipped. That she had pinpointed his problem so easily churned the acid and unnerved him.

"You don't know anything, Gin. Even if that were the problem, it wouldn't be that simple. Thanks for the help today. Give Harry my best." George stood up and tried to brush off his sister's words, but that was difficult to do when she wouldn't leave.

"I'll tell you what I do know," Ginny said, crossing her arms. "You're a git. So was Fred. You think I don't know what you're moping about? Bollocks, I'm not stupid. She was Fred's girl, yea. But Fred never took the time for her, and now it's too late for that. God love him, our brother, but he's not here. It really is that simple, George. Now more than ever, it really is that simple. It's clear that you fancy her, and you're not getting any younger, so just bloody go for it. Stop worrying about offending Fred's memory or whatever mess is going on in your head. You know he'd get a good laugh about this all anyway."

With that Ginny leaned over the counter, kissed her brother on the forehead and left the store. It took a moment for him to fully feel the impact of what Ginny had said. Weasley women were never ones to mince their words. George glanced up at the clock. Was four in the afternoon too early to close shop? Probably. Five minutes later, he hung the sign anyway and Disapparated from Diagon Alley. Home in his flat, he looked at the green shirt that lay on his floor. He picked it up—he could smell the breezy floral scent that followed Angelina wherever she went.

"Bloody hell," he groaned as he flopped on his bed. He eventually managed to get himself up from his bed and fix himself a simple dinner of chicken and rice. He took a shower to try and wash himself out of this funk he'd fallen into, and at half ten he was back in bed. He tossed about restlessly for hours but couldn't get past the twilight stage of sleep, that one when you are on the brink of sleep but even the slightest twitch of your body will wake up again. After waking himself up by rolling over for the millionth time, George groaned and looked at his clock. It was half four and he had maybe had his eyes closed for an hour total.

He glanced at the green shirt that lay on the floor where he'd dropped it earlier. It stared back at him with a truth he had tried to avoid. He didn't want to be the guy that fell in love with his dead brother's girl. She wasn't really his girl though, nagged a voice in his head. He knew that Fred had cared about Angelina, but Ginny was right. He had been a git; he had put a relationship with her on the back burner because he was sure she'd always be there. He thought that after the war he'd be able to finally settle down with her.

George rolled to his other side and away from the shirt on the floor. He didn't have plans with Angelina this week. He was going to ignore the tension he'd felt the night before when he'd caught her out of the Floo. He was going to ignore the way his body had felt when he'd seen her in his shirt the other morning. He might be able to tell himself that she was never his brother's girl, not really, but he couldn't hide the fact that she had become his best friend, and that was a scary thing to risk losing. He wasn't sure he could admit that he'd fallen in love with her if it meant not having her there when he really needed her friendship.