Author's Note: Well, this is the last chapter. Thanks to everyone who read, and thanks to everyone enjoyed it, and thanks to everyone who hated it but kept reading anyway.

And thanks to J.K. for coming up with characters I enjoyed reading, because with so much crap out in the world (I'm looking at you, Stephanie Meyer), it's nice to have somewhere comfortable to relax my mind.

And for the record, real redheads? Totally sexy. True story.

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Part Thirteen

George and Harry popped onto the steps of the shop. It was dark out now, and George fumbled in his pocket for keys. He slid the key into the lock and stepped inside with a slight limp. Harry followed slowly, nervously.

They both wrinkled their noses at the smell.

"I ah… sort of got sick in the snitches," George said, motioning weakly toward the barrel.

"Burnt barf," Harry noted, seeing the scorch marks on the barrel. He took a step toward it and held a hand over the mess, muttering something. The barrel shimmered for a moment before the smell disappeared completely.

"Thanks. Handy little thing you've got there."

Harry rolled his eyes at the pun. "I've not made any ear jokes, have I?"

"Sorry, didn't catch that, my hearing's not half what it used to be." George began to limp to the stairs in the back.

They climbed the stairs, George well aware of Harry's burning gaze on his back. Heat of the moment in the graveyard was one thing, but he wasn't really sure what to expect once they were in his flat, alone.

George had not been fooling around when he'd told Harry that he wasn't sure they could make things work without Fred. Yeah, he wanted to kiss Harry, and he wanted to fuck Harry, same as he had for ages. But, physically speaking, those things just came naturally to him now, and his dick wasn't holding up its end of the conversation with his brain.

His brain was telling him that he didn't know what he needed right now. It was telling him that it hurt to think too long and too hard about life. It was telling him that there was a giant gaping hole in his heart that Fred used to occupy, and no matter how much he loved him and how well they fit together, Harry would never be able to fill it.

His dick was telling him to quit whining.

When they got to the top of the stairs, George entered the flat and closed the door behind Harry. He watched the younger man cross the room and sit down on a dingy sofa couch. They locked eyes.

Right, so dick was still not talking to brain. Because dick was saying, "He's got bedroom eyes. That means QUIT STARING AND START SCREWING." And brain was saying, "Do you really want to wake up tomorrow morning and tell him it was a mistake?"

George looked down at his feet.

"I need a drink," he mumbled and headed for the tiny kitchen. Harry watched him.

"Me being here's just adding one more thing to your plate, isn't it?" he asked as George crossed in front of him.

The redhead stopped and glanced at Harry. He shrugged wearily.

"You not being here'd be one more thing as well," George said noncommittally. He continued into the kitchen and began fumbling in the cupboards.

Behind him, he could hear Harry's feet approach. Without warning, Harry's chest pressed against his back.

"Look," Harry said in a low voice, "if this is it for us, then I want to make it count."

"I don't know if it is or not."

"Well I'm assuming it is." Harry's breath was suddenly hot on his ear and neck. "But I want one night where it IS just you and me. You owe it to me."

Harry's hands slipped around to George's hips and gripped them tightly.

George had to close his eyes as Harry pressed their bodies together. His hands moved to the countertop, flattened out, and his breath caught as Harry's fingers moved to his fly. The hips behind him rubbed against his ass, and he could feel the stiff column of Harry's cock through their pants.

"All this time," Harry murmured, as his hands reached into George's pants, "wanting it to just be you and me, George." He kissed under George's ear as his fingers slipped into the other man's boxers. "And now if I could change it back, I would."

George's throat closed. Wouldn't they both bring Fred back if they could? Fucking moronic thing to say. He leaned his head forward and his shoulders shook as he held in a sobbing noise. Harry's hands stopped moving.

"Jesus. I've got a bloody huge mouth, don't I?" Harry noted, and leaned his head against George's back. "I'm sorry."

George shook his head, but could not speak for fear of weeping.

"Generally speaking," he said finally, after swallowing the lump in his throat, "this sort of thing is meant to help me forget my troubles."

"Not make them more painful? Really? You sure about that?" Harry asked, a smile in his voice. "Look, go sit down and I'll get you a glass of brandy."

"You don't know where anything is," George said weakly, looking at the kitchenette, but allowing Harry to move past him.

"You've four cupboards and half a fridge. I think I'll manage. Go take it easy, yeah?" Harry gestured toward the couch, and George gave up, limping out to sit down.

While Harry clattered about in the kitchen, George stared at the couch and set his jaw. He was sitting on Fred's half of the couch.

It wasn't anything they'd decided specifically, just something that always happened when they sat down. Fred took the right half, George the left. He'd never taken the right side before, and he wasn't sure what had compelled him to sit here now. He was occupying Fred's spot on the couch and in life, trying to make up for the loss of half of them. A wave of nausea washed over him, and his eyes flit up to the doorway as he heard footsteps leaving the kitchen.

Harry came out with a dusty looking bottle and two glasses.

"C'mon then," he said, sitting down. He pulled the cork out of the top of the bottle and sniffed it. "Well it's not brandy, mate. Smells pretty strong, whatever it is."

"Might be paint remover," George said tiredly.

Harry poured some into a cup and handed it to him. He knocked it back swiftly and then made a face.

"I think I used this to clean the loo three months ago," he said, looking at his glass in disgust. Then he held it back out toward Harry expectantly. The younger man shrugged and poured him another.

George drank four more shots before putting his cup down and sinking back into the cushions. He could see the concern on Harry's face while he drank, and could not help but notice the relief the younger man showed when he stopped. For a moment, he wanted to be irritated by the attention, but couldn't be bothered to muster up the emotions. He sighed heavily.

"Do you want me to go?" Harry asked him softly.

George did not look at him. "I dunno."

"It's not a big deal." Harry shifted on the couch and looked at the liquor bottle. "If you want to be alone, I mean."

"I don't want to be alone." George's tone was almost annoyed at having to answer questions.

"So, then you want me to stay?"

"Not many other options if I don't want to be alone."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the hurt on Harry's face.

"I could take you to the Burrow."

"Mum starts crying whenever she sees my face." George did not like to see his mother's face crumple in disappointment and then into tears, as if she were surprised that he was still not Fred. It was no longer a question as to which twin he was. No more guessing games. Always George. Never Fred.

"Do you want me to sleep on the couch?"

George shook his head.

"Well, then where?" Harry looked at him expectantly.

"I dunno." That was a lie: he did know where he wanted Harry to sleep. But he didn't want to say it.

"I'm not going to invite myself," Harry told him sharply, crossing his arms. "You're the one breaking my heart, not the other way round."

George looked up at the ceiling vacantly.

"Right before he died," George said softly, "he found me. And he said he knew that I knew about him and you. And that he knew about me and you. And then he said it was okay, and I think he was gonna cry."

There was an oppressive silence.

He could feel Harry's body sliding down the couch, and when the other man spoke, George could tell he had moved down so that their faces were level.

"You want me to sleep in your bed, George?" Harry asked quietly.

"Yeah," George whispered, and felt his eyes burn as they stared at the ceiling.

Consolingly, Harry's fingers stroked down one of his cheeks, and George squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could, and then turned toward Harry.

Harry's arms moved around his shoulders, and George's face pressed against his chest, one arm trapped under his body, the other around Harry's waist, and they were hugging so tightly George wondered if the cells of their bodies were not fusing together.

He didn't know how long they sat like that. He didn't know if he cried or not. He didn't know if he told Harry that he would always regret not coming out to Fred. He didn't even know if Harry hushed at him, or rubbed his back, or told him to quit wailing before he frightened the neighbors.

Harry probably could have told him what exactly happened (George held on to him for fifteen whole minutes in near silence, and when he sat back, Harry's shirt was soaked through). But George would never ask him.

When he sat back at last, Harry's fingers were wiping at his cheeks, then gently running through his hair.

He had to sit up to kiss Harry, but he did so forcefully, so that Harry tried to lessen the pressure of their mouths by leaning back. George didn't want the intensity to diminish, and he got onto his knees before climbing onto Harry, pinning him against the couch cushions.

"George," Harry gasped, turning his head away from the kiss.

"Right now," George panted into Harry's ear. "Right here. C'mon, Harry."

No deliberation necessary.

"Yeah alright." Harry was breathless and they were both taking their shirts off, tossing them on the ground and going for their zippers and trousers. George sat up and Harry sat up next to him, lifting his hips and flinging his underwear onto the floor. There was a soft growl as George pulled Harry toward him, but neither of them knew who it came from. George's grip on Harry's arms forced the younger man to straddle his lap.

"Y'gonna fuck me, George?" Harry whispered as George began sucking on his throat. He ground his cock against the cloth of George's boxers as he said it, and his dick slid inside the opening, rubbing against George's erection.

The friction and use of his name at the same time made George tremble once, sharply, and the fingers that were on Harry's hips dug into the skin there tightly. One of his hands reached behind Harry and found his entrance.

"Lubri– Ah…" Harry began to whisper and broke off in a soft gasp.

George's fingers, probing delicately at the dry puckered skin suddenly felt the slick of lubricant and his middle finger slid into Harry up to the second knuckle. Harry was sitting straight up now, back perfectly stiff and long.

"Just do it," Harry breathed against George's mouth, their faces pressed against each other. When George moved his finger gently and stroked his other fingers down Harry's testicles, Harry breathed, "George. Quit fooling around. Just do it."

George moaned softly and Harry kissed him as the finger withdrew from his anus.

There was a soft pause in their movements as George reached between them to fish his cock from his boxers and lift it up to Harry's ass. Harry lowered his weight, impaling himself on George's erection.

There were no words George was capable of. He craned his neck toward Harry's chest and let the intense heat and pressure on his prick envelope him. It was so much easier to focus on the body on top of him than everything else. Harry began lifting his hips carefully and slowly.

"George," Harry mumbled feverishly, and the redhead shuddered with a grunt. Harry repeated his name as he rode the thick erection, and George's fingers gripped his ribs.

Harry said it again, and George panted raggedly, one of his hands moving between their bodies to touch the cock that was rubbing against his belly. His name was on Harry's lips again and George made an embarrassing pleading noise.

His name… on Harry's lips… It was surreal. It was upsetting. It was wonderful and terrifying and horrible and delicious and it made his lower body clench up excitedly and painfully.

"George," Harry's breathless voice was low, and it made George's stomach flip. "How's it? Y'so quiet."

"I…" George closed his eyes and moved his hips a little to add a little extra force to Harry's thrusts. "I can't… You… You're so…" He made a small desperate noise and tried to focus on tugging on Harry's erection.

"Rendered my George speechless, have I?" Harry whispered, and George shivered violently. He could hear the smile in Harry's voice. "George, George, George, George."

"I…" George's words were lost as Harry's hot breath hitched on his throat.

"Sorry," Harry murmured. "I'll stop saying it."

"Don't stop," George said in a broken voice. "Please."

Harry's fingers were gentle in his hair suddenly and there were kisses along his forehead before Harry pushed him back against the couch. He opened his eyes to see Harry brace his arms against the back of the couch and reposition his legs.

"Hold still," he said, as he began fucking himself on George's erection at a maddening pace. His arms were working with his legs to rise and lower, so that the whole couch shook with his movements.

They were silent for a long time as Harry moved, panting and occasionally moaning softly. Harry's muscles were taut and slicked with sweat, and George could barely look away from them, so totally immersed in his own lust.

"Say it again," George breathed after a few minutes, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. His hand was still around Harry's cock, but he'd stopped moving it as Harry was moving in a steady enough motion to fuck his fist.

"George," Harry gasped roughly. George could feel him trembling and shaking with the effort of maintaining a steady rhythm, could feel the sweat dripping down his back and hips. He opened his eyes to see Harry's concentrated expression and damp hair.

"Only me."

"Only ever you," Harry agreed breathlessly. His eyes were glazed over.

George's grip on Harry's cock tightened, and he mumbled, "You feel so right."

Harry grunted as he came, his chest twisting and thudding against George's. His body was still rising and lowering, but as his semen dripped down George's ribs, his rhythm became erratic.

George sat up a little and swiftly wrapped his arms around Harry's chest, lifting him and lowering him to keep the rhythm of the pressure on his cock steady.

"D'you love me?" George moved his face so that he was speaking almost directly into Harry's ear.

Harry nodded, moaning softly in assent.

"If I wanted to fuck you three more times tonight, would you let me?" George asked in a murmur against Harry's skin. Harry nodded vacantly, stroking his fingers down George's back; his hands were unsteady and shaky.

"Even if I did it so hard it hurt?" Harry nodded again, his fingers gripping George's shoulders.

"Even if I told you to get out afterwards and never come back?" Harry's head was still nodding, but he was saying nothing.

George's arms ached as he lifted Harry and thrust his hips upward into him, but the rest of him was aching so badly for release that he couldn't feel the pain. He buried his face into the crook of Harry's neck and gripped Harry so tightly that he wondered if the Boy Who Lived would be crushed.

"George…" Harry whispered.

And then the room was spinning and falling and his eyes were watering and he was gasping and growling, and holding onto Harry to try to stop the room from moving around him, and he was hot and sweating, and he couldn't remember his own name anymore, except that Harry was whispering it in his ear over and over, and he was choking on a word, on a sentence, and his dick felt so fucking good and he could feel the cum inside him leaving fast and hot.

"Christ," George gasped against Harry's chest, and blinked rapidly. He was panting for breath, and he weakly leaned back against the couch cushions, laying his head back on it to look up at the ceiling. His arms released Harry and he chuckled weakly. One of his shaky hands rose to run through his sweaty hair and he closed his eyes.

The smile from his laugh faded from his face and he raised an arm to lay over his eyes.

There was total silence in the room.

He did not want to look at Harry. He knew exactly what he was going to see on the other man's face, and he didn't want to deal with it. It made him feel sick to even imagine Harry's angry/upset/sad/broken-hearted/dead expression.

The pain and loss welled up in him, disappointingly soon. He swallowed thickly. The sex had been to forget; what was the fucking point if he could remember again only a minute or two after?

God, he didn't even know if he wanted Harry anymore, and he'd already fucked him. Harry: a tangible reminder that George would always be a twinless twin. That there would never again be someone else who looked exactly like him, but was not him.

Suddenly Harry was pressed against his chest, and holding him tightly.

George started, opening his eyes and trying to crane his neck to look down at Harry. There was silence for a moment, but it was broken as a soft sniffle came from the younger man.

"Oi, Harry?" George said weakly. "Alright, mate?"

Harry whispered so softly that George could barely hear him over the thudding of his own heart. "Don't leave me."

Ugh. A wave of terrified nausea washed over him. He didn't have an answer for Harry.

"I can't… I can't deal with everything. Not without you. Everyone's… they're… They won't leave me alone. And I can't… I…" Harry's voice broke. "All I want to do is hide."

George could feel Harry's tears running down his shoulder. He brought one hand to rest against Harry's back. Gently he leaned his cheek against the top of Harry's head. It was taking everything inside of him to not start crying again, and he closed his eyes.

"I'm so tired," he murmured into Harry's hair.

There was a loud crack and they were suddenly sitting on his bed. George was startled, wondering how they'd done it without a wand. As soon as he thought it though, he remembered once again that Harry no longer really needed a wand.

Harry seemed to be embarrassed, and he moved off of George's lap to crouch back at the edge of the mattress. George sat still for a moment before crawling under the sheets and reaching a hand out to tug at Harry's wrist.

Hesitantly, the younger man moved forward and lay down next to George. They looked at one another for a long moment, staring with tired eyes. Finally George broke their silence.

"You'll not go home while I sleep?" George asked, worry creasing his brow.

Harry shook his head.

"George… I…" Harry bit off his words and looked away.

"I'm so tired, Harry." George used the most pleading voice he could.

"Did it mean anything?" Harry asked softly. "On the couch? Was it nothing to you?"

There was a long drawn out silence. George felt bad for letting it hang so long; from the way Harry was chewing on his lower lip, it was evident the wait was making him incredibly anxious.

"It wasn't nothing. I just don't know what it meant."

Harry looked like he would cry again, but now he looked angry as well.

"Don't," George whispered, his throat and eyes aching. "You'll just get me wound up."

Nodding furiously and rolling away from him, Harry curled into a ball on the mattress. George drew the covers up over him and wiggled across the bed so that his chest pressed against Harry's back.

It was silent again, and it rather irked George that Harry had chosen today of all bloody days to talk about their unstable relationship. He put an arm around Harry's tense waist and stroked at the wiry hair on his chest.

"I love you," George said softly. And it was true.

He'd worried he would feel nothing for Harry, that perhaps he'd only loved him via Fred. But he could feel the same swell of emotions for him, the same aching of his heart when Harry was cross, the same disconnectedness when they were not touching.

Harry grunted, and George lifted his head in the darkness to try and peer at him. His hand moved up to brush against Harry's cheek; it was wet. He'd sort of hoped that his admission of love would smooth things over.

"What's that mean: you love me?" George could hear a roughness in his voice from crying.

"I dunno. That I like being around you? That I think you're fit? That you make it… easier to deal with everything? That I don't want to share you with anyone? That… I want to shag your brains out on a regular basis?"

"What's it mean in the morning?" Harry sounded angry for a moment.

Harry had a point. George was running on a post-coital high; it wasn't entirely unreasonable to assume he was feeling the endorphins telling him to love everything and everyone. It stressed George out to think that things would be different when the sun rose, and he felt his stomach roil unhappily.

"It means… Fuck, Harry. I just buried my brother."

They were quiet again. Harry rolled over slowly so that they were facing and hugged George tightly around his waist, his cheek against George's chest.

"I don't want you to leave in the morning," George said softly, and closed his eyes.

Right, so. Everything hurt to think about (once again). But if George sorted through the horrid expanse of his mind, at the very top of the very worst of all his worries was the idea that Harry would leave him alone with his thoughts. Alone with a broken heart.

"Sorry I brought this all up," Harry said into his skin. He could feel Harry's eyelashes brushing against his chest as the brunette blinked.

"Yeah, well." George ran his fingers through Harry's dark hair and sighed. They were both quiet again.

"I love you," Harry said softly. "I don't want to lose you." He hesitated, like he was going to say more but didn't know how. There was more of a pause, and then Harry spoke again. "Did they… did they tell you I died?"

"Ronnie'd mentioned it." Under no circumstances would George tell Harry how his own heart nearly stopped beating in his chest when he'd heard it. He'd known that Harry had survived, had seen him and heard him and everything, but he'd had to wait until Ron had told them how Harry had lived before his breath would return to him.

More silence as Harry struggled to speak again. "I…" George could hear his throat close and warble as he tried to speak. He stroked the top of Harry's head tenderly.

"Y'know, when life tells you to sod off and you don't listen, you've got to wonder what's wrong with you," George told him matter-of-factly. "Which makes sense, seeing as there must be something horribly wrong with you to be in love with me."

"I'm a glutton for punishment," Harry said with a trembling laugh. George could feel his smile on his chest.

"And so the lion fell in love with–"

"What are you, gay?" Harry interrupted him incredulously, lifting his head.

George laughed, glad for the reaction, and could see Harry's smile turn into a broad grin in the dim light.

"Must be," George replied as he leaned in to kiss Harry.

THE FREAKIN' END