I was asked nearly seven months ago to do a story with this pairing by SweetMya5. I am sorry it took me forever and a day to finally get to it, but I started thinking about it the other night and once I sat down to start it, so much inspiration hit me. Here you are…
Song inspiration: Moondance - Van Morrison
And all the night's magic seems to whisper and hush...
My little brother was gone. As I stood by his open casket, it felt as though the world was ending. It was just a bad dream. It had to be. My wife's hand clutching mine was barely tangible as I sunk into distress. Never again would things be the same. It wasn't his time, it wasn't fair, it wasn't right. It should have been somebody else, why not even me? I was older. It just didn't make sense. I felt the worst for George. It was so wrong to imagine him without Fred, without his other half. When I glanced over at my brother standing as if frozen in time nearly ten feet away, just staring at the casket with a blank expression on his face, the sorrow made me feel that I might explode. He looked wrong standing there by himself. He knew as well as I what was waiting to be seen, but he didn't want to see it. That much was clear. He was still in shock. Fleur's lips were at my chin then, but I kept my eyes on George. He seemed to have become a statue...
"I am tired, Bill! I am tired of waiting for you to come back to me!" Fleur screamed at me, making herself visible in front of me where I sat waiting to die in the same armchair I'd been sitting in for what felt like years. Really, it had been a year. I hadn't woken up from my nightmare. I was still in a bad dream, the one where my little brother was gone.
"Do you even hear me?! Do you even see me?" Fleur whispered violently, her eyes narrowing and the tears finally falling out. She muttered something in French, kneeling before me, begging me to acknowledge her.
"I need you back. I need you to come back. I feel like I've been living alone for over a year, Bill Weasley. When are you going to be my husband again? ...do you even see me?" she sobbed, covering her eyes with one shaky hand.
"It's like you died, too," she said under her breath. Something in that line got me, and I snapped.
"What did you say?" I asked in a voice louder than I knew I was capable of without quite yelling. Fleur backed up, surprised. I shoved her back so hard she hit the wall. I stopped and looked at my hands, registering my violent outburst. I saw myself in the window in front of me, my beard grown in, my hair too long and scraggly. I wasn't even sure the man I saw was really me.
"You've gone mad," Fleur said, backing up into the corner, standing slowly.
"No...no, I didn't–"
"Stay away from me, William...this is over! It is over!" Fleur screamed, throwing the ring I remembered working so hard for in my face. Where I sat in the Three Broomsticks, recalling this moment, my eyes burnt a bit and I held back tears, followed by my head, and the absinthe burnt my throat next. When I placed the glass back down and looked at my hand, it occurred to me that I was still wearing that ring. I didn't ever take it off, and it had been almost a month since Fleur left me. I took a deep breath and brushed my hand over my hair, which was now shoulder length and freshly cut. I signaled to the bartender and awaited my third drink. I cupped my chin in the palm of my hands and felt the smoothness with my fingers. I was doing my best to get myself back together; I was going to get my wife back, my life back on track. I closed my eyes a moment and thought back to the last time I could remember being with my wife. I remembered her gentle touch, the sandalwood scent that always accompanied her, her sweet nothings in French and broken English as she caressed the scar on my cheek. She still made love to me while I was emotionally nonextant, she tried to keep us alive while I was so dead inside. It had nothing to do with Fleur, I came to understand; it had everything to do with me, and my inability to cope with my brother's death. I had seen my family so little because it hurt to look at George and for him not to be himself. It hurt too much to speak, to breathe, to go on, yet Fleur had tried. She had tried to save me, she even kept me eating, but barely. I never wanted to move or do anything. The lights went on in the pub, as it was finally dark outside. I heard someone sit at the stool beside me and busied myself with my drink.
"Firewhisky, please," a vaguely familiar voice addressed the bartender.
"Right up, miss," he responded. I glanced to my right and found a familiar woman sitting there. She had her eyes closed, her elbows rested on the counter, and was rubbing her temples with her fingers. She looked familiar, but I wasn't sure how. Her dusky skin made it feel a bit less cold in the room, as if she carried some kind of heat. I was just looking at her, borderline drunk, when she opened her eyes and turned to me. Her face and eyes lit up in surprise.
"Bill," she said, "Is that you?"
I just blinked and looked down into my drink.
"That's my name, yes."
"It's me, Angelina," she said, and the bulb flickered above my head as I looked back at her.
"Johnson," I said, smiling slightly for the first time in a long time, "Forgive me; I didn't recognize you."
"What are you doing here?" she asked. The bartender brought her drink and left us to chat.
"Having a drink," I said, lifting it and taking another sip.
"...You don't look so good," she said, slowly pressing her glass to her lips.
"I've been better," I said plainly.
"I haven't seen you since..." she didn't finish her sentence.
"I know," I said, the both of us not needing words to understand. She had been at Fred's funeral. I remembered her crying, Katie, and Alicia, Cho, and the rest of them. It was all too vivid and I wished it weren't. I sighed and shrugged.
"Well, here we are," I said. She was quiet for a while, looking at me a bit.
"You know, I know I'm probably totally out of place to say this, or even think it, but you look really nice," I said, not knowing where it was even coming from. All I knew was that Angelina had dated my little brother and that she'd been on the Quidditch team with the two of them. She was dressed like a Muggle, I realized, looking down at her legs where she crossed them in a black, formfitting pencil skirt. The heels that must've been on her feet minutes before now sat lazily on the floor. Her toenails were a pale rose colour, popping out in contrast against her skin. She wore a firey red silk blouse and her braids were in a perfect bun almost atop her head. I didn't know if it was the absinthe getting to me or the fact that I was really now looking at her that I started to feel things I hadn't felt in over a year. My face grew heated and I looked away, cursing my pallor for giving away the blood fervently building up in my face. Angelina laughed ever so slightly.
"Oh, this? I've been in New York for a while, working in a Muggle law office. It's really rather interesting, their attire, but thanks," she said, glancing down at herself for a moment.
"Really? That sounds interesting," I said, sitting up straighter. I was feeling good, for the lack of a better word. I hadn't had a real conversation in ages. I was finally responding to human contact. Angelina had turned towards me slightly, engaging in the conversation. I put my glass down, lest I become drunk and ruin this interaction. I'd rather have gone home alone, knowing I hadn't made a bad lasting impression of myself. And as Angelina talked about New York, Fleur started to dissipate from my mind. I really thought what Angelina was doing with her life was fascinating.
"Enough about me," she finally said, "How are you? And I mean that, really. You don't have to sugar coat anything. I know it's been tough. I lost him, too," she said. I felt something warm atop my cold hand. I looked to find Angelina's there. She felt the ring and moved her hand away.
"H-how's Fleur?" she asked.
"Who?" I asked. I'd literally been lost in Angelina's eyes and voice. I knew it then that I found her interesting.
"Your wife, Fleur Delacour. You remember your wife, I hope," Angelina joked. I laughed once and then became very serious.
"I, er," I said, pondering for words, brushing my hand through my hair.
"It's...just that she, well–she–she went back to France. To visit her family for a while," I lied; she had left me.
"Been gone almost a month," I said. Angelina nodded, but something told me she knew more than she led on, as she tilted her head, as if waiting to hear me say more. I shook my head and sighed, letting my face in my palm for a minute before continuing. My eyes were teary when I looked back at Angelina.
"I lied. She couldn't put up with me. I'm sure you've heard–she left me. I don't know, I guess I'd have done the same. I couldn't be her husband, not while I mourned. I'm still mourning. It's not her fault; she tried, but I couldn't...I couldn't be there. It's like I've been dead ever since he died," I said, exhaling. When I looked into Angelina's eyes, I found her wiping them.
"I was waiting for somebody else to say that," she whispered, barely able to speak.
"Excuse me," she said, turning her head to dab her eyes with a napkin.
"No, not at all," I said, finding my hand on her knee, her lovely kneecap. It was smooth and hot to the touch. Angelina looked back at me with slightly wide eyes and paused, just looking at me. She had leant back a bit, her gaze travelling to the ring on that finger. She carefully took my hand, and just had hers atop mine for a few seconds before taking it off slowly.
"I'm so sorry that happened to you," she said, closing her eyes as if it pained her to reject me. But the way she had been so slow in moving my hand away said other things to me. It said things that neither of us could possibly have ignored. Angelina looked at me as I pulled the ring off my finger and put it in my pocket. She turned away with even wider eyes, so that she was facing the bar once again. She finished her drink.
"Did you love him?" I asked.
"Excuse me?" she asked, not looking at me.
"You know who I'm talking about," I said with slight impatience.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Do I remind you of him?" I asked. Angelina shook her head, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. I waited almost a damn minute, and she said nothing. I stood up, putting my money on the table, thanking the bartender who came by to take my half empty glass.
"Goodnight, Angelina," I said, turning away. She had closed her eyes again. I stood there, waiting for her to acknowledge me, and couldn't help but with a pang be reminded of Fleur, remember myself staring blankly at the wall while she plead with me to move, to speak, to live. I started toward the door of the Three Broomsticks, and when my hand touched the handle, Angelina's hand touched my shoulder. I stepped out into the street before turning around and disapparating home where I looked down to find her standing there, looking up at me with those deep doe eyes.