Fic: Fireworks (5/7)
Title: Fireworks (5/7)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The fifth anniversary of Voldemort's death was overcast and grey, marked by frequent bursts of cold, hard rain, and all Angelina Johnson could think about was that she hadn't seen Fred Weasley in five years. [George/Angelina]
Warnings: DH spoilers.
Disclaimer: "Harry Potter" is the property of J.K. Rowling.
1| 2| 3| 4|
5
“Razor sharp, razor clean, feel the weapon’s sensation on your back with loaded guns” -- Shiny Toy Guns, “Le Disko”
He came to three of her Quidditch matches (not counting the one he’d been at that had been Ballycastle versus Holyhead, because surely he’d been there to see his sister). After the third time she spotted his red hair in the stands, they went to a pub and ate dinner together.
It was a blustery October night, damp, full of the promise of a storm, and dark by five o’clock. They chose a Muggle pub after establishing that they had enough pounds sterling between the two of them to pay (Angelina had more, and George vowed that he would make it up to her), and when they were finished, they walked in a rather aimless fashion through the empty streets of town and out into still bright green pastureland.
“Halloween’s next week,” George remarked idly.
“Well done,” she said with a smirk.
He gave her a lofty look. “I shan’t dignify that with a response.”
“You just did.”
“That’s not important.”
She shot him a slim smile and he returned it, his grin flashing white in the darkness. “Did you have anything to say about Halloween or was that just an observation?” she asked.
“I was wondering if you’re going to Oliver and Alicia’s party?”
“Are you?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” he replied breezily.
Making a face, Angelina replied, “I never go to their parties.”
“Some friend,” he said, his tone full of mock umbrage.
“Oh, shut it, George Weasley. It’s just not quite my cup of tea.”
“Mm,” he agreed seriously. “The loud noises, the voices, the people...it must all be rather difficult for you.”
She shook her head at him, her mouth twitching in an effort not to smile. “You know, I honestly don’t like crowds.”
His face turned a bit thoughtful, and she knew that he was about to ask her something that most people would consider terribly rude. That was part of his charm, she supposed. “I thought,” he began, more delicately that she would have thought him capable of, “that your dislike of crowds had more to do with seeing people you know than the throng itself?”
“You’d be right,” she answered.
“Well,” he said, “be that as it may, do you want to go?”
It took her a beat to really register this question. “G-go?” she stuttered. “With you?”
He seemed to be fighting not to look amused. “We could show up separately, if you prefer.”
“You’re not suggesting that--” she began.
“--This is a date,” he finished. “No. Obviously.” His tone was a shade too hearty and she flicked her eyes towards him. This had always been one of George’s quirks -- he was not quite the liar that Fred had been.
“George --”
“Forget it,” he said quickly.
She gave him an exasperated look. “Stop being a twit. D’you want to go or not? And would you like me to go with you? Just because two members of the opposite sex show up at a party together doesn’t mean...anything.” The ending could use a little work, she thought critically, but the point was there.
“When you put it like that,” he said, sounding absurdly honoured, “how can I say no?”
“It’s easy, if that’s what you want.”
They stopped walking at a stone hedgerow and Angelina pivoted to face him. A scrap of cloud opened up in the sky and for a moment, the moon shone across their faces, casting both of them in surprisingly bright light. So she could see a flash of emotion in his eyes, which might have been uncertainty, or even guilt. But she couldn’t imagine why he should feel guilty, so surely it was just a trick of the ghostly light.
“If you’d give me the honour of your company, nothing would make me happier,” he told her debonairly, and whatever had been in his eyes vanished as quickly as it had come. Now, in fact, she was unsure that she’d seen it at all.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” he exclaimed suddenly, rummaging around in his coat pockets until he found a heavy brown envelope. “Happy birthday.”
“It’s not until tomorrow,” she protested, “and you certainly shouldn’t be giving me anything!”
“It’s nothing,” he said dismissively, though he sounded pleased. “But do us a favour -- open it later, okay? When you get home.”
She took it from his hands carefully and wrapped her arms around herself, hugging the envelope to her chest. “Sure,” she agreed. “And thank you.”
“Thank me when you see what it is. You may suddenly find yourself with the urge to hex me into the next county.”
“I doubt that.”
“Then you’ve got far more trust in me than you ought to.”
“That goes without saying,” she pointed out.
He laughed. “I suppose it does.”
“Anyway, the answer is yes.”
“Yes?”
“You may have the honour of my company at the Woods’ Halloween party.”
That night, she stayed out late. But after all, just because two members of the opposite sex kept making excuses for why they didn’t need to go home quite yet, it didn’t mean anything.
~
The following night, she remembered George’s gift, still tucked into the pocket of her coat. She opened the envelope carefully, exposing a note and the corner of a photo, and, with slightly shaking hands, she pulled both out.
It was, of course, a picture of her and Fred. They were in Diagon Alley and his arm was around her waist. As she watched, the then-Angelina looped her arms around Fred’s neck while he kissed her swiftly. They were, she guessed, eighteen or nineteen, and everything was still fine, or near enough fine; the world hadn’t yet turned to complete hell and wondering if the people you loved were alive or whether they were lying still beneath the sickly green light of the Dark Mark, at least not for them; it was still a world where there was the luxury of wondering if you really were in love with that handsome, devilish young man, and there was no hurry to tell him if you were, because the two of you had all the time in the world.
She bit her lip and didn’t cry, and then her eyes fell on the note, scribbled in George’s semi-legible hand.
Angelina, it read, Been holding onto this for five years. I figured it’s better off in your hands than mine. Love, George.
God, she missed Fred. She missed the person she’d been. She missed the George that wasn’t always a thought away from loneliness and grief.
The thought of George, though, eased the pain that had sprung up so suddenly. She liked to think they helped each other; certainly he had helped her. His friendship, his humour, his willingness to sit with her, doing absolutely nothing, sometimes in silence, had done more for her temperament in five months than she’d otherwise been able to accomplish in five years.
And, apparently, he signed his name with ‘love.’ Well, the twins always had managed to surprise her.
~
This last point was not something she anticipated mentioning to him, though, as she thanked him on Halloween.
“Bit of a depressing birthday present, really. But I thought you should have it.” George offered her his hand. “Shall we be off, then? We’ve got a party to attend. If,” he added, eyeing her, “you still want to go, that is.”
She took his hand, briefly though, and stepped out of her flat, shutting the door behind her. “No, let’s go.” She almost told him that he was looking very handsome -- jokingly -- but thought at the last minute that he might take her seriously.
The party, once they arrived, was loud, well-stocked with food and alcohol, and absolutely full of acquaintances and old classmates. Lee Jordan and Katie Bell were the first two people she felt any obligation to talk to (after Alicia and Oliver, the former of whom gave both her and George hugs upon arrival, while the latter shook George’s hand with a, “Good to see you, Weasley,” then ruffled Angelina’s hair affectionately, earning him a swat from her), and she couldn’t help but notice the way the two of them leaned towards each other and how frequently their eyes met. That would be interesting, she supposed, and good for Katie, who had harboured an attraction for Lee for some time. Her friend had, Angelina had always thought, been a bit jealous of her for her ability to hold Lee’s attention. But he had backed off after Fred’s death, which she was later grateful for. She’d been in a state to accept affection from anyone who’d show it to her and always regretted it the following morning.
Someone soon suggested that Lee take charge of the music, being, as he was, a rapidly ascending star at the WWN, which left Angelina and George alone with Katie.
“I hear you’ve a new boss at your department,” George remarked to Katie.
She took a swig of ale. “Yeah, Hermione’s ambitious, that’s for sure. I like her, though. She’s definitely more organized, too.” Fixing Angelina with a look, she said, “I never thought you’d come tonight.”
Angelina gestured with her bottle to George and glanced over at him, saying, “He convinced me,” which he acknowledged with a smile.
“Really?” Katie asked with raised eyebrows.
“I can be extremely convincing,” George said.
“As I think we’re all aware,” Angelina said, smirking just a bit.
George opened his mouth to respond, but then his eyes drifted past Angelina’s face and focussed on something in the room behind her. “Oh, shit,” he said.
Abruptly, he whirled and busied himself selecting an assortment of crisps, and Katie and Angelina exchanged bemused looks. “Problem, George?” Angelina asked, leaning forward so that she had a view of his profile.
“Not at all,” he replied lightly.
“You seem to have a problem with Cho Chang, actually,” Katie observed.
George’s shoulders stiffened ever-so-slightly, which Angelina noticed but Katie appeared oblivious to. “Be a bit hard for you to avoid anyone,” she said to him, quietly, “with that lovely hair of yours.”
Flicking his gaze to hers, he asked in a tone that was only half-joking, “My hair’s ‘lovely’, is it?”
“I’ll leave you two to whisper to each other,” Katie said, with a meaningful look at Angelina that she didn’t really understand, before wandering off.
Angelina glanced over her shoulder and there, sure enough, was Cho Chang, beautiful in a way she could never hope to achieve. “Is it really Chang you don’t want to talk to?”
George hesitated. “Yes.”
“Want to tell me why?” She had a funny feeling she knew.
“No.”
“Did you shag her, George?”
He rolled his eyes ceiling-ward, as if asking for strength from above. “I might’ve.”
An odd twist in her stomach at those words gave her pause. Then, she observed blithely, “Well, she’s spotted you and she’s headed this way.”
Without looking at Angelina, George said, “Amazing how when you do something stupid, it’ll always come back to haunt you.”
“Well, I’ll see you in a bit,” she said, choosing not to respond to that and leaving him to be cornered by Chang. Within a few minutes, she found herself drawn into a conversation with Kenneth Towler, Ernie MacMillan, and Verity...well, Angelina didn’t actually know her surname. They went through the typical chit-chat about what they were all doing these days and laughing about their old school days, both while drinking several bottles of ale between them. Just as Angelina began to drift out of the conversation, she was jarred back into it by MacMillan finishing a sentence with, “--Fred Weasley.”
Towler shook his head. “Damn shame that they got him, that was.”
“Horrible,” Verity agreed quietly. “It’s never been the same, working at their shop.”
“You and Fred were seeing each other, weren’t you, Angelina?”
“Er.” Her lungs felt empty of air for a second. Why were they talking about this? Was there a way to excuse herself somewhat gracefully without having to answer the question? “Yeah.”
Towler actually winked at her, at which point she noticed how unfocussed his eyes were and how red his face. “Saw you with George earlier; guess that’s one of the advantages of their being twins, yeah?”
She only narrowly restrained herself from whipping out her wand and jinxing him silly, and, in fact, she thought it was rather impressive that she didn’t punch him in the face. Instead, she just said, through gritted teeth, that she was going to the loo, when in fact she went and scooped up a bottle of wine -- still nearly full -- and went to find a stranger to dance with. After she finished the wine. Which didn’t take long. Sodding Towler, he always had been an arse. The room got much hotter very quickly, so she had to quit dancing. She was dizzy, anyway, and the music was too loud...
The stairs outside Oliver and Alicia’s flat seemed a perfectly sensible place to go. Angelina sank down on one and put a new bottle of ale between her feet. Her temples were beginning to pound, so she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the wall. It didn’t help much; the bass from the music pounded as hard as her head, but then the two beats began to keep tempo with each other, so she left her face turned against the cool wood, sinking into the patterns the grain was etching into her forehead.
The door creaked open and she nudged her bottle slightly as a concession that she might have to move, and then someone sat down next to her and put an arm around her. “Budge over a little, Johnson,” George said softly.
“I hate this song,” she said into the wall.
“Bad, isn’t it?”
“The stairs are tilting, too.”
She heard him laugh a little. “You’re drunk, darlin’.”
“’M not.”
He rubbed her shoulder. “Sorry I abandoned you earlier.”
A tear slid down her face and dropped into her lap with what seemed like a large splash, and she didn’t want to cry in front of George Weasley -- well she didn’t want to cry, it gave her a headache usually and she had one anyway -- not when he had shagged bloody Chang and Towler could make vile insinuations, and those two things didn’t really have anything to do with not wanting to cry, she supposed, but she didn’t love George just because he was Fred’s twin -- wait, she didn’t love George, full stop.
“Hey.” He had a handkerchief in his hand and gently tilted her face towards him, wiping away the tears that were dangling from her chin. “I’ve not made you cry, have I?”
She moved to swipe her hand across her eyes, but he gave her the handkerchief and she used that instead. “No,” she said with a slight sniffle. “Except why does Chang always have to look so stunning?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“You did. You had to’ve.”
“Nope.” He unstuck a strand of hair that had been plastered to her face by her tears and tucked it behind her ear. “You’re not upset about that, are you?”
She shook her head quickly and ignored the renewed sting in her eyes. “Just...people. Saying things.” There was something wonderful about the fact that his arm was still around her shoulders, and she realised she was leaning into him, but the wine had dulled her ability to care that this was exactly what she’d spent years worrying about.
“I wanna go home,” she slurred.
“Okay.” George stood up and helped her to her feet. “Want me to take you?”
“S’alright, I can make it,” she answered as she stumbled upon a step.
He shook his head and grasped her upper arm. “Better let me help.”
“I don’t need --”
“I’m undeterred, believe it or not,” George said firmly.
She slumped into him and allowed him to lead her outside, and within a minute or two they were back at her flat. He helped her up the stairs and sat her down on her bed, then knelt in front of her. “You going to be okay?”
Angelina flopped over onto her side. She felt ill. “Yeah.”
He gave her a dubious look and smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “Whatever they said to you, ignore it,” he advised.
“You didn’t hear it.”
“True, but I can use my imagination.”
“Mm. Don’t think so,” she mumbled, her eyelids drooping and her cheek pressed into her pillow. George had become a pleasant, blurry form leaning towards her. “Wager you wish I wasn’t such a mess,” she said sleepily.
“Now, why would I wish that?”
“’Cause.”
“Is there more to that?”
“Uh-uh.”
“I like you fine the way you are.”
“That’s stupid, George.”
He snorted. “Well, thank you.”
“Y’welcome.” She curled up a bit and was surprised when she didn’t hear him move. “I wish I didn’t still miss Fred so much,” she said, her voice so soft that she wondered if he heard her at all.
His voice caught a little as he replied, “I know.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” With a struggle, she opened one eye a slit and looked up at him.
The expression on his face surprised her -- it was tender, almost, and he reached out and put a hand gently to her face. “Oh, Ange,” was all he said, and she had no idea what he meant by it.
There was dead silence in the room for several minutes, and then Angelina murmured, “I’m okay now, George.”
He nodded and moved to stand up, but at the last second he hesitated, leaned down, and kissed her gently on the forehead. She opened her eyes fully and met his, wondering why she had not appreciated them properly until now. Wondering, too, why it took him so long to straighten up and what the expression on his face meant when he finally did so.
“Mind if I come by tomorrow?” he asked.
“I never mind. I always want to see you.”
A very odd look flashed across his face. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He left quietly in a few minutes and Angelina promptly fell into a sound sleep.
~
November and December passed in rain, snow, and sleet, Christmas baubles and fairy lights, and parties that Kenneth Towler was most definitely not invited to. One memorable evening halfway through December was spent playing an impromptu game of Quidditch with Ginny, Harry, and George in the middle of a snowstorm. Angelina felt a twinge as she saw Harry and Ginny cuddling by the fire afterwards, but George leaned over to her and said in an extremely serious tone, “Oh, Angelina, would you like a snuggle?” then reached for her with a dour expression on his face. She snorted and ducked his grasp, and both of them tried to look innocent when Harry and Ginny glanced back at them.
“No thank you,” she said to him primly, and Ginny looked once more over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised.
On New Year’s Eve, she went to Oliver and Alicia’s, along with Katie and Lee, and went unkissed at midnight, which didn’t bother her, of course. It was just a bit awkward, what with Oliver and Alicia and Lee and Katie there.
The following day, she decided to stay in, as sleet was pelting down rather unpleasantly. She pulled a tatty sweater over her pyjamas and stretched out on the sofa, trying to decide how best to spend her day of lazing about. The sleet came down harder, hissing on the roof, and she flipped through a few books her parents had given her for Christmas.
And then, to her surprise, someone knocked on the door, and she opened it to find George shaking slush off his robes. “Happy New Year,” he said with a grin.
“You too,” she returned, extending an arm to invite him in.
He gave her a gallant little bow and stepped inside, removing his sopping robes and hanging them on a hook. “Have a good Christmas?”
“Yeah. Quiet. You?”
“Pretty good. Definitely not quiet.”
She smiled, then glanced down at herself and said a bit sheepishly, “Sorry to inflict my attractive fashion choices upon you. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“You always look lovely,” George said unthinkingly.
“I think you may have a vision problem,” she retorted, though she felt a flush rising to her cheeks. It wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened in the past several months, and it flustered her more than she cared to admit, even fully to herself.
“Don’t think so,” he said cheerfully. “It’s my hearing that’s a bit wonky.”
She shook her head but didn’t put up any further fight on the subject. “Want something to eat or drink?”
His face darkened very slightly. “No, I just came from lunch at my parents’.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Did something happen?”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “It was just fairly unpleasant, if you don’t mind me whinging.”
She sat down on the sofa and motioned for him to join her, which he did. “Tell me.”
He hesitated before responding. “Victoire found some old pictures and started asking why there were two of me, which honestly, I thought was funny, but unfortunately, not everyone shared my opinion.”
“Your mum cry?” Angelina guessed.
He nodded tiredly. “And that set Victoire off, which upset Fleur, of course...ugh. Then Penny and Hermione tried to explain to Victoire why she shouldn’t have said what she did, and you know, try explaining to a four-year-old that one of her uncles had a brother who looked just like him, but who died, and half the time we still can’t talk about it because someone might start sobbing...”
He put a hand to his forehead, and Angelina wondered if he felt he’d said a bit too much, but then he went on, “I was ready to tell them to leave the kid alone, but Charlie manhandled me into comforting Mum. Which, normally, I’m happy to do. Sometimes I think it’s a toss-up as to which one of us took Fred’s dying worse...but there comes a point, you know?” Angelina pressed her lips together and watched him, unwilling to say that she’d had trouble finding that point, herself.
After a moment, he looked her in the eye. “I’ve gotten bloody tired of people telling me what Fred would’ve thought or done in the last five and a half years, but if Fred had seen that, he’d’ve been furious. Who bleeding cares if Victoire wants to know about him? I’ll tell her. Happy to, actually. Poor Vicky -- oh, I’m not supposed to call her that -- it shouldn’t be wrong to ask a simple question. Though,” he added with a rueful snort, “I suppose it’s not simple.”
He drew in a deep breath, as if readying himself to continue, but then he closed it again and looked at her apologetically. For a moment, Angelina considered assuring him that she didn’t care, that she was actually touched that he opened himself up to her so much, but something stopped her.
Instead, she just asked, “Are you going to tell her, then?”
George seemed surprised, but his smile crept back onto his face. “Yeah, someday. Maybe see if I can nudge her down the celebrated Fred-and-George path.”
They held each other’s gazes for a long moment, and George broke eye contact first, asking at the same time, “Want to have dinner later?”
“Sure,” she replied. He still looked troubled, so she covered his hand with hers, trying to think of the best thing to say. Nothing came, though, so she just patted his hand a bit awkwardly and asked, “Are you going to come back later or are you staying all day?”
“Was that an invitation?”
“It was more like a warning. There’s not going to be much excitement around here.”
“Well.” He glanced at her. “Your company is delightful. And fairly exciting, if you don’t mind me saying.”
She bit her lip to avoid displaying the slightly foolish smile that she felt, inexplicably, coming on. “Make yourself comfortable, then.”
“I’m comfortable,” he said easily.
Later that night, after dinner and after going to bed and falling into a sound sleep, Angelina awoke abruptly. At first, she laid in bed, listening to inebriated singing and shouting outside. For some reason, this did not annoy her in the way it normally would have done. There was something, like a warm glow, burning within her, and she didn’t know exactly why, but --
Oh. Bugger.
A realisation had just hit her.
A realisation had just hit her, rather in the manner of a train steaming cross-country. She felt flattened by it -- bowled over, run down, and beat up, and any other number of similar phrases.
Which really was a shame, because for any other twenty-six-year-old woman, it would have been a wonderful thing to comprehend.
She was in love.
Unfortunately, she’d fallen for completely the wrong person.
She was in love with George Weasley.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The fifth anniversary of Voldemort's death was overcast and grey, marked by frequent bursts of cold, hard rain, and all Angelina Johnson could think about was that she hadn't seen Fred Weasley in five years. [George/Angelina]
Warnings: DH spoilers.
Disclaimer: "Harry Potter" is the property of J.K. Rowling.
1| 2| 3| 4|
5
“Razor sharp, razor clean, feel the weapon’s sensation on your back with loaded guns” -- Shiny Toy Guns, “Le Disko”
He came to three of her Quidditch matches (not counting the one he’d been at that had been Ballycastle versus Holyhead, because surely he’d been there to see his sister). After the third time she spotted his red hair in the stands, they went to a pub and ate dinner together.
It was a blustery October night, damp, full of the promise of a storm, and dark by five o’clock. They chose a Muggle pub after establishing that they had enough pounds sterling between the two of them to pay (Angelina had more, and George vowed that he would make it up to her), and when they were finished, they walked in a rather aimless fashion through the empty streets of town and out into still bright green pastureland.
“Halloween’s next week,” George remarked idly.
“Well done,” she said with a smirk.
He gave her a lofty look. “I shan’t dignify that with a response.”
“You just did.”
“That’s not important.”
She shot him a slim smile and he returned it, his grin flashing white in the darkness. “Did you have anything to say about Halloween or was that just an observation?” she asked.
“I was wondering if you’re going to Oliver and Alicia’s party?”
“Are you?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” he replied breezily.
Making a face, Angelina replied, “I never go to their parties.”
“Some friend,” he said, his tone full of mock umbrage.
“Oh, shut it, George Weasley. It’s just not quite my cup of tea.”
“Mm,” he agreed seriously. “The loud noises, the voices, the people...it must all be rather difficult for you.”
She shook her head at him, her mouth twitching in an effort not to smile. “You know, I honestly don’t like crowds.”
His face turned a bit thoughtful, and she knew that he was about to ask her something that most people would consider terribly rude. That was part of his charm, she supposed. “I thought,” he began, more delicately that she would have thought him capable of, “that your dislike of crowds had more to do with seeing people you know than the throng itself?”
“You’d be right,” she answered.
“Well,” he said, “be that as it may, do you want to go?”
It took her a beat to really register this question. “G-go?” she stuttered. “With you?”
He seemed to be fighting not to look amused. “We could show up separately, if you prefer.”
“You’re not suggesting that--” she began.
“--This is a date,” he finished. “No. Obviously.” His tone was a shade too hearty and she flicked her eyes towards him. This had always been one of George’s quirks -- he was not quite the liar that Fred had been.
“George --”
“Forget it,” he said quickly.
She gave him an exasperated look. “Stop being a twit. D’you want to go or not? And would you like me to go with you? Just because two members of the opposite sex show up at a party together doesn’t mean...anything.” The ending could use a little work, she thought critically, but the point was there.
“When you put it like that,” he said, sounding absurdly honoured, “how can I say no?”
“It’s easy, if that’s what you want.”
They stopped walking at a stone hedgerow and Angelina pivoted to face him. A scrap of cloud opened up in the sky and for a moment, the moon shone across their faces, casting both of them in surprisingly bright light. So she could see a flash of emotion in his eyes, which might have been uncertainty, or even guilt. But she couldn’t imagine why he should feel guilty, so surely it was just a trick of the ghostly light.
“If you’d give me the honour of your company, nothing would make me happier,” he told her debonairly, and whatever had been in his eyes vanished as quickly as it had come. Now, in fact, she was unsure that she’d seen it at all.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” he exclaimed suddenly, rummaging around in his coat pockets until he found a heavy brown envelope. “Happy birthday.”
“It’s not until tomorrow,” she protested, “and you certainly shouldn’t be giving me anything!”
“It’s nothing,” he said dismissively, though he sounded pleased. “But do us a favour -- open it later, okay? When you get home.”
She took it from his hands carefully and wrapped her arms around herself, hugging the envelope to her chest. “Sure,” she agreed. “And thank you.”
“Thank me when you see what it is. You may suddenly find yourself with the urge to hex me into the next county.”
“I doubt that.”
“Then you’ve got far more trust in me than you ought to.”
“That goes without saying,” she pointed out.
He laughed. “I suppose it does.”
“Anyway, the answer is yes.”
“Yes?”
“You may have the honour of my company at the Woods’ Halloween party.”
That night, she stayed out late. But after all, just because two members of the opposite sex kept making excuses for why they didn’t need to go home quite yet, it didn’t mean anything.
~
The following night, she remembered George’s gift, still tucked into the pocket of her coat. She opened the envelope carefully, exposing a note and the corner of a photo, and, with slightly shaking hands, she pulled both out.
It was, of course, a picture of her and Fred. They were in Diagon Alley and his arm was around her waist. As she watched, the then-Angelina looped her arms around Fred’s neck while he kissed her swiftly. They were, she guessed, eighteen or nineteen, and everything was still fine, or near enough fine; the world hadn’t yet turned to complete hell and wondering if the people you loved were alive or whether they were lying still beneath the sickly green light of the Dark Mark, at least not for them; it was still a world where there was the luxury of wondering if you really were in love with that handsome, devilish young man, and there was no hurry to tell him if you were, because the two of you had all the time in the world.
She bit her lip and didn’t cry, and then her eyes fell on the note, scribbled in George’s semi-legible hand.
Angelina, it read, Been holding onto this for five years. I figured it’s better off in your hands than mine. Love, George.
God, she missed Fred. She missed the person she’d been. She missed the George that wasn’t always a thought away from loneliness and grief.
The thought of George, though, eased the pain that had sprung up so suddenly. She liked to think they helped each other; certainly he had helped her. His friendship, his humour, his willingness to sit with her, doing absolutely nothing, sometimes in silence, had done more for her temperament in five months than she’d otherwise been able to accomplish in five years.
And, apparently, he signed his name with ‘love.’ Well, the twins always had managed to surprise her.
~
This last point was not something she anticipated mentioning to him, though, as she thanked him on Halloween.
“Bit of a depressing birthday present, really. But I thought you should have it.” George offered her his hand. “Shall we be off, then? We’ve got a party to attend. If,” he added, eyeing her, “you still want to go, that is.”
She took his hand, briefly though, and stepped out of her flat, shutting the door behind her. “No, let’s go.” She almost told him that he was looking very handsome -- jokingly -- but thought at the last minute that he might take her seriously.
The party, once they arrived, was loud, well-stocked with food and alcohol, and absolutely full of acquaintances and old classmates. Lee Jordan and Katie Bell were the first two people she felt any obligation to talk to (after Alicia and Oliver, the former of whom gave both her and George hugs upon arrival, while the latter shook George’s hand with a, “Good to see you, Weasley,” then ruffled Angelina’s hair affectionately, earning him a swat from her), and she couldn’t help but notice the way the two of them leaned towards each other and how frequently their eyes met. That would be interesting, she supposed, and good for Katie, who had harboured an attraction for Lee for some time. Her friend had, Angelina had always thought, been a bit jealous of her for her ability to hold Lee’s attention. But he had backed off after Fred’s death, which she was later grateful for. She’d been in a state to accept affection from anyone who’d show it to her and always regretted it the following morning.
Someone soon suggested that Lee take charge of the music, being, as he was, a rapidly ascending star at the WWN, which left Angelina and George alone with Katie.
“I hear you’ve a new boss at your department,” George remarked to Katie.
She took a swig of ale. “Yeah, Hermione’s ambitious, that’s for sure. I like her, though. She’s definitely more organized, too.” Fixing Angelina with a look, she said, “I never thought you’d come tonight.”
Angelina gestured with her bottle to George and glanced over at him, saying, “He convinced me,” which he acknowledged with a smile.
“Really?” Katie asked with raised eyebrows.
“I can be extremely convincing,” George said.
“As I think we’re all aware,” Angelina said, smirking just a bit.
George opened his mouth to respond, but then his eyes drifted past Angelina’s face and focussed on something in the room behind her. “Oh, shit,” he said.
Abruptly, he whirled and busied himself selecting an assortment of crisps, and Katie and Angelina exchanged bemused looks. “Problem, George?” Angelina asked, leaning forward so that she had a view of his profile.
“Not at all,” he replied lightly.
“You seem to have a problem with Cho Chang, actually,” Katie observed.
George’s shoulders stiffened ever-so-slightly, which Angelina noticed but Katie appeared oblivious to. “Be a bit hard for you to avoid anyone,” she said to him, quietly, “with that lovely hair of yours.”
Flicking his gaze to hers, he asked in a tone that was only half-joking, “My hair’s ‘lovely’, is it?”
“I’ll leave you two to whisper to each other,” Katie said, with a meaningful look at Angelina that she didn’t really understand, before wandering off.
Angelina glanced over her shoulder and there, sure enough, was Cho Chang, beautiful in a way she could never hope to achieve. “Is it really Chang you don’t want to talk to?”
George hesitated. “Yes.”
“Want to tell me why?” She had a funny feeling she knew.
“No.”
“Did you shag her, George?”
He rolled his eyes ceiling-ward, as if asking for strength from above. “I might’ve.”
An odd twist in her stomach at those words gave her pause. Then, she observed blithely, “Well, she’s spotted you and she’s headed this way.”
Without looking at Angelina, George said, “Amazing how when you do something stupid, it’ll always come back to haunt you.”
“Well, I’ll see you in a bit,” she said, choosing not to respond to that and leaving him to be cornered by Chang. Within a few minutes, she found herself drawn into a conversation with Kenneth Towler, Ernie MacMillan, and Verity...well, Angelina didn’t actually know her surname. They went through the typical chit-chat about what they were all doing these days and laughing about their old school days, both while drinking several bottles of ale between them. Just as Angelina began to drift out of the conversation, she was jarred back into it by MacMillan finishing a sentence with, “--Fred Weasley.”
Towler shook his head. “Damn shame that they got him, that was.”
“Horrible,” Verity agreed quietly. “It’s never been the same, working at their shop.”
“You and Fred were seeing each other, weren’t you, Angelina?”
“Er.” Her lungs felt empty of air for a second. Why were they talking about this? Was there a way to excuse herself somewhat gracefully without having to answer the question? “Yeah.”
Towler actually winked at her, at which point she noticed how unfocussed his eyes were and how red his face. “Saw you with George earlier; guess that’s one of the advantages of their being twins, yeah?”
She only narrowly restrained herself from whipping out her wand and jinxing him silly, and, in fact, she thought it was rather impressive that she didn’t punch him in the face. Instead, she just said, through gritted teeth, that she was going to the loo, when in fact she went and scooped up a bottle of wine -- still nearly full -- and went to find a stranger to dance with. After she finished the wine. Which didn’t take long. Sodding Towler, he always had been an arse. The room got much hotter very quickly, so she had to quit dancing. She was dizzy, anyway, and the music was too loud...
The stairs outside Oliver and Alicia’s flat seemed a perfectly sensible place to go. Angelina sank down on one and put a new bottle of ale between her feet. Her temples were beginning to pound, so she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the wall. It didn’t help much; the bass from the music pounded as hard as her head, but then the two beats began to keep tempo with each other, so she left her face turned against the cool wood, sinking into the patterns the grain was etching into her forehead.
The door creaked open and she nudged her bottle slightly as a concession that she might have to move, and then someone sat down next to her and put an arm around her. “Budge over a little, Johnson,” George said softly.
“I hate this song,” she said into the wall.
“Bad, isn’t it?”
“The stairs are tilting, too.”
She heard him laugh a little. “You’re drunk, darlin’.”
“’M not.”
He rubbed her shoulder. “Sorry I abandoned you earlier.”
A tear slid down her face and dropped into her lap with what seemed like a large splash, and she didn’t want to cry in front of George Weasley -- well she didn’t want to cry, it gave her a headache usually and she had one anyway -- not when he had shagged bloody Chang and Towler could make vile insinuations, and those two things didn’t really have anything to do with not wanting to cry, she supposed, but she didn’t love George just because he was Fred’s twin -- wait, she didn’t love George, full stop.
“Hey.” He had a handkerchief in his hand and gently tilted her face towards him, wiping away the tears that were dangling from her chin. “I’ve not made you cry, have I?”
She moved to swipe her hand across her eyes, but he gave her the handkerchief and she used that instead. “No,” she said with a slight sniffle. “Except why does Chang always have to look so stunning?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“You did. You had to’ve.”
“Nope.” He unstuck a strand of hair that had been plastered to her face by her tears and tucked it behind her ear. “You’re not upset about that, are you?”
She shook her head quickly and ignored the renewed sting in her eyes. “Just...people. Saying things.” There was something wonderful about the fact that his arm was still around her shoulders, and she realised she was leaning into him, but the wine had dulled her ability to care that this was exactly what she’d spent years worrying about.
“I wanna go home,” she slurred.
“Okay.” George stood up and helped her to her feet. “Want me to take you?”
“S’alright, I can make it,” she answered as she stumbled upon a step.
He shook his head and grasped her upper arm. “Better let me help.”
“I don’t need --”
“I’m undeterred, believe it or not,” George said firmly.
She slumped into him and allowed him to lead her outside, and within a minute or two they were back at her flat. He helped her up the stairs and sat her down on her bed, then knelt in front of her. “You going to be okay?”
Angelina flopped over onto her side. She felt ill. “Yeah.”
He gave her a dubious look and smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “Whatever they said to you, ignore it,” he advised.
“You didn’t hear it.”
“True, but I can use my imagination.”
“Mm. Don’t think so,” she mumbled, her eyelids drooping and her cheek pressed into her pillow. George had become a pleasant, blurry form leaning towards her. “Wager you wish I wasn’t such a mess,” she said sleepily.
“Now, why would I wish that?”
“’Cause.”
“Is there more to that?”
“Uh-uh.”
“I like you fine the way you are.”
“That’s stupid, George.”
He snorted. “Well, thank you.”
“Y’welcome.” She curled up a bit and was surprised when she didn’t hear him move. “I wish I didn’t still miss Fred so much,” she said, her voice so soft that she wondered if he heard her at all.
His voice caught a little as he replied, “I know.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” With a struggle, she opened one eye a slit and looked up at him.
The expression on his face surprised her -- it was tender, almost, and he reached out and put a hand gently to her face. “Oh, Ange,” was all he said, and she had no idea what he meant by it.
There was dead silence in the room for several minutes, and then Angelina murmured, “I’m okay now, George.”
He nodded and moved to stand up, but at the last second he hesitated, leaned down, and kissed her gently on the forehead. She opened her eyes fully and met his, wondering why she had not appreciated them properly until now. Wondering, too, why it took him so long to straighten up and what the expression on his face meant when he finally did so.
“Mind if I come by tomorrow?” he asked.
“I never mind. I always want to see you.”
A very odd look flashed across his face. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He left quietly in a few minutes and Angelina promptly fell into a sound sleep.
~
November and December passed in rain, snow, and sleet, Christmas baubles and fairy lights, and parties that Kenneth Towler was most definitely not invited to. One memorable evening halfway through December was spent playing an impromptu game of Quidditch with Ginny, Harry, and George in the middle of a snowstorm. Angelina felt a twinge as she saw Harry and Ginny cuddling by the fire afterwards, but George leaned over to her and said in an extremely serious tone, “Oh, Angelina, would you like a snuggle?” then reached for her with a dour expression on his face. She snorted and ducked his grasp, and both of them tried to look innocent when Harry and Ginny glanced back at them.
“No thank you,” she said to him primly, and Ginny looked once more over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised.
On New Year’s Eve, she went to Oliver and Alicia’s, along with Katie and Lee, and went unkissed at midnight, which didn’t bother her, of course. It was just a bit awkward, what with Oliver and Alicia and Lee and Katie there.
The following day, she decided to stay in, as sleet was pelting down rather unpleasantly. She pulled a tatty sweater over her pyjamas and stretched out on the sofa, trying to decide how best to spend her day of lazing about. The sleet came down harder, hissing on the roof, and she flipped through a few books her parents had given her for Christmas.
And then, to her surprise, someone knocked on the door, and she opened it to find George shaking slush off his robes. “Happy New Year,” he said with a grin.
“You too,” she returned, extending an arm to invite him in.
He gave her a gallant little bow and stepped inside, removing his sopping robes and hanging them on a hook. “Have a good Christmas?”
“Yeah. Quiet. You?”
“Pretty good. Definitely not quiet.”
She smiled, then glanced down at herself and said a bit sheepishly, “Sorry to inflict my attractive fashion choices upon you. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“You always look lovely,” George said unthinkingly.
“I think you may have a vision problem,” she retorted, though she felt a flush rising to her cheeks. It wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened in the past several months, and it flustered her more than she cared to admit, even fully to herself.
“Don’t think so,” he said cheerfully. “It’s my hearing that’s a bit wonky.”
She shook her head but didn’t put up any further fight on the subject. “Want something to eat or drink?”
His face darkened very slightly. “No, I just came from lunch at my parents’.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Did something happen?”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “It was just fairly unpleasant, if you don’t mind me whinging.”
She sat down on the sofa and motioned for him to join her, which he did. “Tell me.”
He hesitated before responding. “Victoire found some old pictures and started asking why there were two of me, which honestly, I thought was funny, but unfortunately, not everyone shared my opinion.”
“Your mum cry?” Angelina guessed.
He nodded tiredly. “And that set Victoire off, which upset Fleur, of course...ugh. Then Penny and Hermione tried to explain to Victoire why she shouldn’t have said what she did, and you know, try explaining to a four-year-old that one of her uncles had a brother who looked just like him, but who died, and half the time we still can’t talk about it because someone might start sobbing...”
He put a hand to his forehead, and Angelina wondered if he felt he’d said a bit too much, but then he went on, “I was ready to tell them to leave the kid alone, but Charlie manhandled me into comforting Mum. Which, normally, I’m happy to do. Sometimes I think it’s a toss-up as to which one of us took Fred’s dying worse...but there comes a point, you know?” Angelina pressed her lips together and watched him, unwilling to say that she’d had trouble finding that point, herself.
After a moment, he looked her in the eye. “I’ve gotten bloody tired of people telling me what Fred would’ve thought or done in the last five and a half years, but if Fred had seen that, he’d’ve been furious. Who bleeding cares if Victoire wants to know about him? I’ll tell her. Happy to, actually. Poor Vicky -- oh, I’m not supposed to call her that -- it shouldn’t be wrong to ask a simple question. Though,” he added with a rueful snort, “I suppose it’s not simple.”
He drew in a deep breath, as if readying himself to continue, but then he closed it again and looked at her apologetically. For a moment, Angelina considered assuring him that she didn’t care, that she was actually touched that he opened himself up to her so much, but something stopped her.
Instead, she just asked, “Are you going to tell her, then?”
George seemed surprised, but his smile crept back onto his face. “Yeah, someday. Maybe see if I can nudge her down the celebrated Fred-and-George path.”
They held each other’s gazes for a long moment, and George broke eye contact first, asking at the same time, “Want to have dinner later?”
“Sure,” she replied. He still looked troubled, so she covered his hand with hers, trying to think of the best thing to say. Nothing came, though, so she just patted his hand a bit awkwardly and asked, “Are you going to come back later or are you staying all day?”
“Was that an invitation?”
“It was more like a warning. There’s not going to be much excitement around here.”
“Well.” He glanced at her. “Your company is delightful. And fairly exciting, if you don’t mind me saying.”
She bit her lip to avoid displaying the slightly foolish smile that she felt, inexplicably, coming on. “Make yourself comfortable, then.”
“I’m comfortable,” he said easily.
Later that night, after dinner and after going to bed and falling into a sound sleep, Angelina awoke abruptly. At first, she laid in bed, listening to inebriated singing and shouting outside. For some reason, this did not annoy her in the way it normally would have done. There was something, like a warm glow, burning within her, and she didn’t know exactly why, but --
Oh. Bugger.
A realisation had just hit her.
A realisation had just hit her, rather in the manner of a train steaming cross-country. She felt flattened by it -- bowled over, run down, and beat up, and any other number of similar phrases.
Which really was a shame, because for any other twenty-six-year-old woman, it would have been a wonderful thing to comprehend.
She was in love.
Unfortunately, she’d fallen for completely the wrong person.
She was in love with George Weasley.