George Weasley pressed a fist to his lips, his knuckles white, jagged nails pressed hard into his broad palms.
He stood facing the window in his flat; it wasn't yet sunrise, but it wasn't uncommon now—he liked watching the sun rise, liked to see the sky begin at indigo, grow cerulean at the edge, begin to redden, and then to yellow...
"George?"
Angelina's voice was very quiet but still almost startled him; he turned to the bed, his eyes finding his girlfriend in the near-darkness, and relaxed against the wall, the windowsill pressing into the small of his back.
"Come to bed, love."
"I'm alright."
"No, you aren't... you haven't slept at all."
George smiled, noting with surprise that it came more easily than he'd expected. "Don't worry, Ange."
Angelina returned the smile and he thought: I love you; and it was true, more true than anything in his life. He loved his family, and he loved Harry and Hermione and Fleur, but he didn't love them like he loved Angelina Johnson; he had first loved her as he had loved Fred, and it had grown since then—deeper and stronger than he could've imagined.
"I love you," he said quietly, reaching up and running a hand through his hair, closing his eyes.
"I love you, too," she whispered; he heard the creak of bedsprings and knew that she'd stood. His eyes opened to see Angelina walking towards him; the summer's heat had infiltrated the flat and she was wearing one of his a-necks and flannel pajama bottoms, her hair hanging long and wavy down her back.
He reached for her face as she drew closer and she wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his chest; his hands rested on her back, running slowly up and down.
"I didn't sleep either," she whispered, her words a little muffled; he closed his eyes again, resting his cheek on the top of her head, breathing in her scent.
"Why?"
"I can't sleep without you next to me..."
Her voice trailed off and was swallowed by the silence in the room—it was an almost-pleasant silence, though, thick and warm.
"I love you, Angelina," he whispered finally; he wasn't sure how long the silence had been—a few seconds, or a few minutes. It didn't matter.
"I love you, George..."
She looked up at him and their eyes met, blue against deep, rich brown; looking at Angelina, he thought: you are beautiful, even after this, after months of an agony that neither of them could ever name, in words or thought, in daylight. And he saw, in her face, a young girl, her lips suggesting a smile, as though suggesting that her natural state was relaxation, and it was a state of radiance. A lock of coarse black hair fell across her cheek, over one shoulder, and George reached over and moved the lock from her cheek, carefully, cautiously, as though it were fragile. He held it with his fingertips and looked at Angelina's face.
Then his fingers closed suddenly and he raised the lock to his lips; the way his lips met it was tenderness, but the way his fingers held it, the way his hands held her, was despair.
Her hand molded to his cheek and George's breath caught in his chest.
"I love you," he whispered at long last, the lock of hair falling from his hand; he brushed the backs of his fingers across Angelina's cheek, the movement slow, tender.
"I love you..."