A/N: This is a little one shot I thought up that goes with "Aftermath". It's Angelina's thoughts during she and George's one night stand. You don't need to read the story to understand it, but if you like this one, why not pop over and read the other ones? ;)
Disclaimer: I own nothing involving Harry Potter, its characters or its settings and languages. This is simply an excercise in creativity, not to be used for profit in any way. Please don't copy this story and stick in anywhere else.
I've always liked the Weasley house. Of all my friends' houses, theirs felt the most like home. It might have been the constant activity, or perhaps it was the constant smells of home cooking leaking out of the kitchen. Whatever the reason, I had no qualms about spending my New Year's eve there. My sisters and parents weren't going to be doing much that night anyway. They didn't mind when I told them I was going out. I suppose they knew why I had to do it. We had spent months in hiding; Voldemort didn't much like mudbloods and my father is a Muggle. Today will mark the first occasion where we could truly celebrate. So I put on my brand new party dress, charm my hair into a sleek coif and apparate to the Weasley's.
We celebrate in style. The house is packed, even by Weasley standards. Friends from school, the Order and the war mill around, slurping down fire whiskey and butterbeer like it's water. It is almost like we have gone back in time. Lee is singing, Katie and Alicia are gossiping. Oliver is talking about Quidditch. Mrs. Weasley bustles about, keeping the crowd well-fed. I see Harry cuddled with Ginny in a corner. It takes cheek to date your best mate's sister. But I suppose Potter always was unusually brave, even for a Gryffindor. I flit about, mingling and laughing, enjoying the company of my mates. Every face has a smile. Well, nearly every face.
I can't help but notice that George's smile seems a trifle forced. Oh, he is laughing to be sure. And of course, he is joking. But it's too loud. George had always been the quieter of the pair, if only by comparison. It feels strange to see him without Fred by his side. Even in the crowded room I can feel the emptiness, see the place where Fred should have been standing. I suspect George feels it too. He is mostly occupied by his male friends and family for the night, up until midnight. Lee tries to coerce me into a kiss but I pawn him off on Alicia; she's always had a thing for him. I gently push Longbottom and that odd Lovegood girl together as I make my way across the room, trying to get to George.
I don't quite make it. The house explodes in noise as the new year rings in. I lose sight of my goal in all the resulting chaos. I let myself get caught up in the moment and indulge in another butterbeer. It gives me the liquid courage I needed to do what I had wanted to for a long time. I go after George. No one has to tell me where he will be. I simply know.
He is in his old room, lying on his back on one of the dusty twin beds. The room has the musty smell of disuse, but I don't mind. There is also the smell of the twins, the scents of sweets and cologne and the hint of something dangerous.
"I saw you dip up here and was wondering if you'd like some company," I don't recognize my own voice. I have always prided myself on my confidence. I sound timid, girlish. I have never used this voice before with George. If he notices, he doesn't let on. He just nods and pats the narrow space next to him on the bed.
I cross the room to lie down beside him. His bed is comfortable, the sheets cool beneath my bare legs. I press my head to the flat pillow, incredibly aware of our close proximity. It is nothing new; at school we had often been placed in conditions that called for us to violate the normal laws of personal space. But something about this is foreign, terrifying. My heart rattles out a frantic tattoo I am sure he can hear. Nervous, I speak again.
"You know, I've never been up here before, but somehow this is exactly the kind of room I would have guessed you'd have." The walls are papered in peeling news clippings and posters. It is colorful, cluttered and unorganized. Like the twins. Like George. I take a breath, breathing in George's cologne.
"I even like the smell. You two always smelled a bit like this, even at Hogwarts," he hadn't said anything. My nervousness increases. "Almost like gunpowder," I add. He is silent for a moment. I fear I have made a grave mistake in brining up Fred.
"Yeah," he says what feel like an eternity later. "Fred and I liked to experiment." I sigh in relief. I wasn't sure what George and I would be like now that Fred was gone. We had always been best mates, getting along effortlessly. I feared now that Fred was dead, it would all change.
"I miss him," I admit. "Especially now." it was the truth. Fred would have told me I was being a tosser for being nervous around George. He would have told me it was perfectly normal to fancy his twin brother. He would have goaded me into acting on my infatuation. But he was not here. "You're not the same without him are you?" the question slips past my lips before I can consider whether or not it is rude. I've never had to worry about being rude with George before. He doesn't answer right away.
"You know, I used to love things like this," he turns his face to look at me. Even though they were identical, I could always tell he and Fred apart. It was something in the eyes. Fred's toffee colored orbs always glittered with mischief. George's reflected something differently entirely. It was always as though he was reading my mind, like he knew exactly what I was thinking. "Fred did too," he continues, "But without him, I don't feel much like celebrating." he sighs. "It doesn't feel right."
My heart swells, not with pity, but with an overwhelming desire to assure him. He has had enough pity the last couple of months to sustain him a lifetime. He doesn't need more. He needs someone to understand. I think I might.
"You'll be alright again George. I know you will. It's just going to take some time," he looks shocked, like no one has bothered to tell him this before. I smile a bit, to let him know I mean it. He returns it. His lips part slowly over his teeth. It's the first genuine smile I've seen in weeks.
"So who did you kiss into the new 'ear?" he asks me. He knows that I had been staring at the hole where his ear used to sit. On anyone else I would find the wound distracting, disgusting even. On George, it adds color. He never seems ashamed of it, never hides it under his hair. I smile again and gently shove him.
"No one." He catches my hand in his own and I am suddenly nervous again. "There was no one near that I fancied kissing." I stutter. This is not technically a lie. George was across the room at the time. "You?"
"Same," he has rolled onto his side now and his face is inches from mine. I am so close that I can count the faint brown freckles decorating his nose. He has less freckles than Fred did. He told me once that he charmed them off when he was a child, seeking some way to distinguish himself. I stare at his lips, the color of coral. I feel myself unconsciously wet my own. I want to kiss him but I am terrified.
"Just do it," for a moment, I think that George has spoken, but his lips are still slightly pursed in a smile. I know who's voice it was. Fred. It's not strange to me that I hear Fred's voice. George confided to me that he thinks that Fred speaks to him all the time. It seems natural to me that as best mates, Fred might occasionally talk to me too.
All at once, our lips are touching. I don't know who initiated the kiss, but I know I'm powerless to pull away. He's kissing me with fervor, all at once aggressive and gentle. I vaguely question our actions, but then George winds his arms around my waist and pulls me in. He tangles the fingers of one hand in my newly unbraided hair, massaging the scalp. His lips set me ablaze. I lean forward, cradling his face between my palms. He tastes of whiskey and his mother's cooking. I instantly crave the flavor. My legs moves on their own accord along his and I feel his hand trail down my side to come to rest on my calf. It feels fantastic. He pulls one of my high heels off and tosses it before getting rid of its mate. His hands are moving now, trailing everywhere. I mimic him, tugging at his navy button down.
I fiddle with the buttons of his shirt, trying to get them undone without breaking our kiss. His broad palm pushes my slimmer fingers away. I fear that he has come to his senses but instead he works his shirt open and tosses it away. His lips leave mine only to reach for the straps of my dress. His eyes lock on mine, caramel and chocolate. I know what he wants to ask. I feel myself nod. Butterflies swarm my stomach as the silk of my dress gets tugged over my shoulders and head. I lose sight of George for the briefest of moments. It gives me a second to think. I've never gone this far with a boy before. In school I only casually dated and after that the war put a bit of a damper on my social life. In fact, the farthest I've ever gotten with a boy was with Fred, and that was just French kissing. The thought causes bile to splash against the walls of my stomach. What am I doing?
The fabric passes my ears and suddenly I'm exposed. My arms begin to shake, longing to cover myself. George is staring, his eyes unreadable. I feel like I might be sick. He reaches for me.
"Wow," he breathes. His long fingers brush along my abdomen and I shiver. I suddenly realize that I am doing what I have wanted to do for months, maybe years.
This is the last coherent thought I have. My body takes the lead, shutting my mind down. I've never done anything like this, but it doesn't seem to be a problem. George takes the lead. I allow myself to give in. He's kissing me, running his hands along my limbs. I feel his breath; it's sweet and warm and he's whispering my name over and over, like a chant. I'm powerless to stop and I don't want to.
When the moment comes, I brace myself for the pain that I've been told is inevitable. It never happens. I suppose as a witch it might sound absurd to say that it was magical, but even now, I can't help but think so. It was magic like I've never felt before, not just physically, but something more. When we finish, he collapses into me. His pale skin is pressed flush to mine, contrasting with my dark complexion. He hefts me into him, rolling us over. I lie my head on his chest, listening to the way his heart beats. It's peaceful and I find myself drifting off into sleep, the party forgotten. Our skin is slick and I shiver slightly from a chill. George tugs his blanket up around us. I'm surrounded by a comforting, cosseted feeling. It scares me to realize that I could get use to this.
I look up at George and am surprised to find him looking back at me. His lips quirk up in a smile, the way they used to in school when he teased me. I open my mouth, needing to say something, but he cuts me off. His lips crash down on mine again. The kiss is slow and sweet this time, like he's trying to savor it. I lean up towards him, cradling his neck. It feels too good to be true.
And all at once it's over. A crash sounds downstairs. It acts like a stone, crumbling the fragile and tranquil reality we've created. George's head snaps back, like he's been slapped. He looks at me and his expression suddenly changes. He looks shocked, like he can't believe what he's just done. What we've just done.
"George?" I feel like I'm on the verge of tears. I pray that he will say something.
"We should--" he stammers. He's refusing to look at me. "We should go downstairs. They'll probably be wondering where we are."
I feel my heart shatter. I can't look him in the eye for fear that what I find there will destroy me. He stands up and I follow his lead. It feels like it takes eternity to gather my clothing. He helps me, handing me my panties which somehow were tangled on his lamp. I pull on my wrinkled dress shakily. He helps me zip it up. He's already dressed; I notice his shirt is missing a button. I feel the absurd desire to laugh.
"You had better go," I mutter instead. I finger my ruined hairdo. "I need to redo my hair and it will take a while." to my horror I feel my eyes begin to tingle.
George hesitates. His mouth gapes open like a fish. He snaps it shut. I sit back down on the bed and pull out my wand. By the time I've composed myself enough to utter the spell, he's gone. It takes seconds to charm my hair back up, but much longer to calm myself down. I sob, alone in he and Fred's room.
Suddenly, I feel something, like a mental slap. "Quit being a baby! Put your game face on, Johnson!"
It's Fred again; he used to say things like that to me before a Quidditch match or a big test. It always motivated me. I feel myself laughing. I wipe my eyes off and quickly check my reflection. My eyes are a little puffy, but no one should notice. I walk to the door, pulling on my heels. I know what I have to do. It's going to take some time, but hell, I've fancied him since I was 16. A few months more won't hurt.
George Weasley, you can run, but you can't hide.