A/N: Stumbled across this old guy when I was cleaning out the hard drive. Couldn't help but get sucked in and finish it. What can I say, I'm a sucker for Harry Potter and love triangles.

Merry Christmas! I'd love to hear what you all think. Leave me your thoughts!

Also written for FanFic100 – prompt .042 – Triangle.

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Ghosts

…

His eyes were trained on the ceiling. He was trying to make out some sort of pattern in the plaster. There was a flower, or, no, a Snitch. Next to that could be a goldfish, and then, if he kind of squinted one eye and tilted his head to the left, there was a torch.

It was 3:00 in the morning and he was awake, the lights were still on, the radio mumbling in the background. He wouldn't sleep tonight. He could already tell. His eyes were burning, his body lethargic, but his mind was racing. And he could hardly breathe in and out without pain so realistic twisting his gut.

Of course, he was thinking about her. And it was so clichéd that it made him sick. Because he was not the lovesick type. He was not the pining, whiny lover. He was no Romeo. He was not emotionless, by any means, but he had never felt this…this…desperate before. And he absolutely hated that.

She had left him about three weeks ago. She had claimed there was no one else – it was for their own good, she just didn't love him anymore. She had said that he deserved better, that they could still be friends and that he would always be special to her. She had promised that there was nothing he could have done differently…that they were two different people that just weren't meant to be.

He didn't cry when she walked out, but instead sat on the couch and stared out of the window, half expecting her to walk back through the doorway and apologize and half expecting to look down and a section of his stomach to be missing. When he realized that she wasn't coming back, he'd taken a long, hot shower to stop his hands from shaking. He was heartbroken, yes, but he had believed what she'd said. He believed that this was for the best.

That is, of course, until he'd found out about George Weasley.

He had been best friends with George. Well, that wasn't necessarily true. He had been teammates with George. George's superior. He, George and Fred had spent many nights talking Quidditch and he shared some of the best memories of his life with them. In fact, when Fred had passed away, Oliver was one of the first people that George had come to for comfort and distraction. But they had not kept in touch like best friend would. They had never been inseparable.

He had found out about them on accident, really. He had run into Katie Bell while running some errands about two months after the break up and she had said, "I just left Angie and George's", apparently without thinking (which was by no means rare for Katie). After that, she had promptly put her hand over her mouth and stared at Oliver with wide, guilty eyes.

"Excuse me?" He'd managed without choking on the words.

She had tried to cover up her mistake, but she was transparent. Suddenly, his depression had grown exponentially. She was with George. And if they were…he couldn't even think it…living together then they must have been, well…seeing each other…before. The very thought made him want to vomit. How could he have overlooked that?

It took him almost an entire month to come to a decision. But once it was made, he knew that he really had no other choice.

…

The knock on the door was merely two, quick raps. He hoped, desperately, that perhaps no one was home. Or that he'd gotten the wrong address. Maybe, if he were really, truly lucky, maybe he'd misheard Kates after all. Maybe she'd said Angie and I just left George's or My auntie just left George's, or –

He noticed, for the first time, the owl's perch that was just outside the flat's door. The nameplate that adorned the basket that mail would be dropped into, read Angelina M. Johnson. He smiled involuntarily, remembering when he'd finally found out that "M" stood for "Muriel". She'd been completely and totally mortified.

"Did you forget your bloody key again? Hold on – I'm coming! I thought you were going to be later, I haven't even started the roast yet –" The voice, which he recognized immediately, belonged to a face that he would have given anything not to see.

And then George's mouth fell open slightly, and the redhead leaned gently against the doorframe. "Oh. Wood."

There was a moments silence as Oliver took in the information. George Weasley. At Angelina's apartment. George and Angelina. Angelina and George.

"I just…had to see it. To believe it." Oliver finally stated matter-of-factly, sliding his hands into his pockets.

"I, um…" George didn't look away from his old captain. At least there was that. At least he was being a man about this much. "I'm sorry that you had to find out this way, Ol."

"Yeah," he nodded absently, glancing back at the nameplate. That shiny, glimmering nameplate. He fucking hated it. "Yeah, so am I."

"I wanted to tell you, really. It's just…" he shrugged and there was the trace of that jokester grin that Oliver knew so well that danced across George's face. "Didn't know how, mostly. Thought we'd give it some more time, is all."

"How long?" Oliver, strangely, didn't feel anger. Just disappointment and a slight touch of sadness. "How long were you two…"

George straightened from the doorframe, sighed and scratched the back of his head. "No point in going into that, is there mate?"

Oliver chuckled. "If there's one thing I'm not, George, it's your mate."

"Right," George crossed his arms. He sure was fidgety. Oliver guessed he always had been. "That's fair."

Silence again.

"It's kind of pathetic, don't you think?" Oliver broke it, his eyes narrowing. A warmth was spreading through his limbs. There. There was the anger. George cocked an eyebrow, steeling himself. "Not really the behavior that one of the Almighty Weasley Twins would express. Stealing someone else's girlfriend and all that. Although, to be fair, I'm sure you've been lonely since..."

"Don't you bring Fred into this," George's voice became harsh and judgmental, "don't you dare."

"But isn't this whole thing about him?" Oliver accused, and though his body language wasn't threatening, he knew his tone was. "Hasn't she always been?"

George's shoulders were tense and his eyes snapping. "I think it's about time that you left, Wood."

"No, really." He raised his hands. "I'm not here to fight you, Weasley. I really hoped that I was here on a fool's errand, honestly. That I would find nothing, that you wouldn't fucking be here. But, the truth is that you are. And the truth is, that I knew you would be. And I knew, because I know her."

He paused, and then continued with, "She wants him. I mean, let's be honest, she was only with me because she was alone, because she was sad, and of course she was. Because she lost her…" he couldn't use the word boyfriend. That didn't seem like enough. "Because she lost the love of her life."

There. Those were the right words. Those words hurt him. George still didn't look away, but his skin had gone slightly pale. His hands were trembling slightly.

"And why in the world would she stay with me when she could have the closest thing to him that exists?" He couldn't help but let his lips turn up into a smirk. If I'm going down, he thought passive aggressively, he's bloody going down with me.

George was silent, shaking, seething.

"You know that she pretends you're him when she closes her eyes – when she climbs into bed with you at night. You know that she thinks his name every time she says yours. She has to bloody look at you every day – the same fucking face as his. You really think that she sees you past his mask?" Oliver scoffed, took a step backwards. "Like I said. Pathetic. You're just a doll that she gets to dress up in his clothes, in his skin. You're just his placeholder."

He turned, fuming, but proud that he'd gotten in the last word. It was harsh, sure. But true. Completely true. They had both just pretended to believe that it wasn't.

"She's pregnant." George's voice froze him, one foot in front of the other. He hadn't been prepared for that – he'd been prepared for a punch, a string of curse words, a broom handle on the back of his knees. But not that. Never that. "Six weeks along, the Medi-Witch said. According to the charms, it's a healthy baby boy."

It suddenly became so very warm. And anger, no, fury – lividness was boiling up inside his chest. This was a mistake. This whole thing was a mistake - him being here, him saying anything to George, anything at all. He turned around, looking at the man across from him eye-to-eye.

"No matter what you fucking say to me, Wood, I'm here. Inside her fucking apartment. She's having my son. She chose me. So parade around on your high horse but remember that you're parading alone."

"I would rather be alone than her plaything." Oliver bit back, seething, his own hands shaking now. He turned, continued to walk away. And then, just before George shut the door, he called back, "I'll bet she wants to name him Fred."

The door slammed shut.

He was out on the bustling street in moments. As he breached the door he closed his eyes and inhaled. The fresh, winter air was exactly what he needed. He put his hands into his pockets and bit his lip hardly, wondering where to go from here. He needed a fucking drink. He needed to be in bed.

And then, when he opened his eyes, there she was. And he should've moved, walked faster – he hadn't been prepared to see her. Her hair was in a loose plait that was flipped over her shoulder, her cheeks rosy from the cold.

"Ollie?" Her voice was surprised and – there was no mistaking it – ashamed. "What are you – why are you here?"

He shook his head, looking down at her. He'd always thought that her looks were deceiving. She was tall, yes, but thin. Her nose, her mouth the shape of her eyes, they were so delicate for someone so strong. Physically, mentally, Angelina's greatest asset and largest weakness was that she had to be stronger than everyone else.

"I heard you were living with George." The truth, the plain honest truth was all he had the energy for. "I wanted it to be a lie. But I had to know."

She exhaled heavily. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," he nodded. "You. And Kates. And George. Everyone's really sorry. But not sorry enough to fucking tell me."

"You talked to George?" Her eyes narrowed. He knew that look. Suspicion. The beginning of irritation.

"Oh, you mean Fred's stand in? Yeah. I did."

She slapped him – hard – across the face.

He'd deserved that one.

"I can't believe you would say that," there were tears in her eyes.

Good. Fucking good.

"And I can't believe you would do this to me. You lied to me. Like a coward."

Her lip quivered. They stood there, in the middle of the crowd, for one long moment.

"I love him." She said as she shrugged. As if it was an offhand statement. As she was mentioning the weather or what she'd had for lunch, and not saying something that was going to fucking hurt him.

"Sure you do." He couldn't do this anymore. There were too many people and everything was closing in, even outside, and he had to get out of here. "I'm –I hope you're happy. Really. And congratulations on the baby."

He made to walk away, finally, away from this fucking shit storm, and her hand was on his arm.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," she admitted, tears shining in her eyes, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You're going to hurt him too, you know?" He accused, resentment tearing up his throat. He just wanted to hear her acknowledge the truth. "Just when he thinks that you're really his, you're going to slip. And he'll see that you want him to be someone else."

Her hand fell. Their eyes met. Part of him wanted, desperately wanted, to grab her neck and press his lips to hers frantically. Like he used to.

And the other part wanted to hurt her as badly as he could.

But God, he was tired. So instead, he just said, "Neither one of us can compete with a ghost, Angie."

And she replied, hollowly, "I know."

…

The knock at his front door came late that night. He wondered, fleetingly, if it were her. If she were coming here to tell him that this was all some sick, sick joke. That they could go back to before, back when it was just the two of them, back when it was easy.

But when he opened the door, it was George. And his hands were shoved in his pockets, his skin pale underneath his freckles. His cheeks were flushed from the cold and his shoulders hunched slightly from the chill.

"You were right." He muttered, shrugging one shoulder sadly. "You were right, Wood."

And instead of feeling smug, Oliver just felt incredibly sad for the both of them. He opened the door a little wider.

"Want a pint?"

…