A/N: So many things were bugging me about this. So I fixed it! And yes, I will have a third chapter up soon.

George Weasley was mindlessly angry, mindlessly ungrateful, and trying to stay mindless about everything else.

It wasn't working very well. Amidst the ruins of what had once been the inventory of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, several weeks worth of unread Daily Prophets shouted headlines up at him. He should have be glad of what they said, but headings like "DARK LORD DEAD AT LAST" only reminded him of who else was dead. The victorious faces staring up at him from the black and white prints only served to berate and mock him for believing for an instant that they could be counted among them.

George paced thoughtlessly, as he had for hours now, swiping an overturned chair out of his way with a simple gesture. Perhaps his spell had a bit too much power, because the chair crashed into a nearby metal filing cabinet and its one remaining leg cracked off. He couldn't bring himself to care. There was already so much wreckage, what did anything matter anymore?

Now he stopped suddenly, ankle deep amid the flotsam. He had spied a tarnished silver picture frame lying discarded on the gritty floor. Fingers trembling, he knelt, then sank, to the hardwood floor, clutching at the photograph. He didn't really feel the pain as a sharp, jagged piece of glass pierced his finger; he only paused to stem the flow so it wouldn't stain the picture. No, don't look, said a small voice somewhere in his head. It's like mirrors. This is just as dangerous. Indeed, as George stared achingly at the two-eared man on the left, he felt himself starting to tip, to tilt. Like he was falling off the edge of something enormous.

"Fred?" he asked aloud, his voice quavering, hoping against hope that something had changed, that maybe it was a painting instead of a picture after all, and that his brother would wink and grin even wider and say something to numb the pain. Or maybe Fred was alive, and he was just dreaming, and he would walk in the door any second now and make it all go away, make it go away. For no one in his family knew just how much George Weasley was hurting. They had cried for Fred as a brother, as a son, as a family member. They had not been able to speak at his funeral, and had instead let Professor McGonagall take over. George, though, had not thought that he would be able to speak ever again. He had not cried for a family member, as a brother. He had cried for himself, for his own soul, half of which now lay unknowing in a grave.

So really, he was being selfish. He was grieving for himself. That's what all his family seemed to think. He knew they talked behind his back. He had heard his parents whispering late into the night when he came to the burrow after the battle. He knew they were concerned that he hardly spoke to anyone, and that he wasn't eating. But he also knew that they thought he should have gotten to the point where he could speak again, that he should at least make an effort. But they didn't know that he was making as much of an effort as he possibly could. If he stopped trying, he was certain he would fall into a thousand pieces from the pain, like a shattered mirror casting a fragmented reflection.

The buzzer at the front of the store made a noise, and George turned sharply to reprimand whoever would think to come into his shop when the sign clearly said closed. His old anger, momentarily abated by the sheer sadness of the photograph in his hand, flared up again.

"Can't you see we're- I'm- closed? Come back when you've got- oh. Hello Angelina."

"Hi George. I just..?" Angelina Johnson's voice was full of concern as she looked around the ruined shop.

"Death Eaters," snapped George.

"Oh I- Do you need help...? I just mean, it's in quite a state." Angelina looked down at her toes.

"No. What are you doing here?" It didn't really even sound like a question, the way his voice fell flat.

Her faintly hopeful expression vanished. "Ah. Well. I-I just came by to say I'm sorry about-"

"You don't know how many times I've heard that," said George, his face and voice hard. "It does get old." Angelina stared at him; an odd, almost uncertain expression on her face, her coat half off.

"I'll just be going then, shall I?" Now she looked almost miserable.

George blinked once. Two emotions were playing at war behind his eyes. Then a pleasanter expression slid suddenly over his face like a mask. "No, sorry, I'm being horrible. Come and sit down, really."

"George, if you want me to go-"

"No, here, I'll take your coat." He crossed over to her in a few long strides and held out his arm for her light fleece pullover. Despite his sudden change in demeanor, it still seemed like an oddly stiff, wooden gesture.

Angelina hesitated for a moment. And then, looking almost confused and shocked at herself, she leaned towards him and pressed her lips to his.

Georges felt his body stiffen in surprise as if it weren't his own. It took almost a full second for him to realise what had just occurred. And then, without really knowing why he was doing what he was doing, he responded to the kiss. He parted his lips slightly and slid his hands gently over her shoulders. She tasted of cinnamon and summer breezes.

Then abruptly, he pulled away. His face closed once more. "I can't. Please- ungrateful- just, go. Please." His own emotions were rendering him incoherent. Angelina glanced at him.

"Ungrateful? What?"

"Nothing. Just you, and him- The Yule Ball- I can't. I don't deserve- He'll be mad."

"The Yule Ball? George that was- what are you even saying?" But despite her tone of shock, there was panic in Angelina's eyes.

"See? We can't. And Harry- haven't even thought of him- And he killed- Please, just go." He was almost pleading with her now.

"George, do you think you're ungrateful or something? Because it's only been-"

"I know how long it's been. And I've had enough apologies and excuses." His tone was final as he gestured towards the door.