Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters mentioned. If I did, I'd be a VERY rich woman.
A/N: Yes, I'm still alive. If you've stuck with me over the years, you'll be pleased to know that you'll be hearing from me a lot in the next few months. This is the first of five pieces I'll be posting in the HP fandom (I'm also working on pieces for Batman Beyond and Degrassi, if you're into those fandoms). This one is about as angsty as you can get without a character death (despite being short), the next one is about average, the 3rd one is filler between the 2nd and 4th, the 4th story is pretty angsty, and the last one is the return of OAS (lots of comedy in that one).
"You just don't get it, do you? The shit way that Fred treats you? That's what you do to me!"
Angelina Johnson downed her sixth shot of Ogden's, George Weasley's words echoing in her head. He was right, she reasoned; she was just like his brother. All she did was complain to him about how his twin didn't notice her other than as a mate, just like Fred who only talked about the latest bird that offered herself to him.
"I love you! Why can't you see that?!"
She did see it; she always had. That's why she constantly ran to him with her problems; she knew that he'd understand. He was always there with a hug and, when she needed it, a bottle of firewhisky.
She reached for another shot, tossed her head back, swallowed, and slammed the glass down while motioning for a new drink. The bartender placed another shot glass in front of her and muttered something about Apparating while pissed. Angelina ignored his words as she knocked it back, narrowing her eyes at the barkeep's haven't-you-had-enough face. "Keep 'em coming," she growled, knowing that he would. The dive didn't get much business, so he wouldn't deny a customer, no matter how much he disapproved of her getting pissed off her ass.
The bartender did as she requested and poured another shot. This one she savoured. She was addicted to the burning sensation of the alcohol sliding down her throat. She was a bit of masochist; she knew it. Why else would she be pining for Fred Weasley when his identical twin was right there waiting for her to love him? It bordered on sick.
"You're not the martyr that you think you are."
It was true; she did think of herself as a martyr. Just like with the firewhisky, she was addicted to the emotional pain that came with unrequited love. She was addicted to the sympathy she got from George; she was addicted to everything that came with being the victim. She thought she was being noble by listening to Fred go on about this bird's enormous knockers, or this one's sexy arse and suffering in silence. She wasn't; and deep down she knew it. That was why she was here in an out-of-the way pub – no, it didn't even qualify as a pub; this hole – drinking like there was no tomorrow. And what the alcohol couldn't wash away, the blood and razor would later. That is, if she ever made it out of there.
"You're just a scared little girl that can't even tell a bloke that she likes him."
And, really, wasn't that all it boiled down to? She couldn't say "Oi, Fred! I want to go out with you." So she used – no, abused – the only real friend she had. Alicia ceased being her friend the moment she walked in on her going at it with Fred on the Common Room couch, Katie was a bit of an airhead, Lee only wanted to sleep with her, her brother was an asshole... Without George, she was utterly alone.
"I should've said these things to you a long time ago. I didn't want to be harsh, but I needed to be to drive the point into your thick skull."
Yep. Completely utterly alone.
"Figures you'd be in the last dump I look in. I leave you alone for an hour, and you turn into a great big lushing thing. C'mon, Angel. Let's get you home."
Despite being able to barely hold her head up, Angelina managed to rise to her feet with the help of two very familiar hands.
"How much is her tab? Eight Galleons and 30 knuts? Sweet Merlin, how much did you drink, Ange?"
The voice sounded so close, as if he were there right beside her. Not just a hollow echo in her mind like it been had since he left her flat.
"Just put one foot in front of the other. It's not as hard as you're making it out to be."
Angelina found herself moving toward…somewhere. She didn't know exactly where she was headed."
"Is your fireplace connected to the Floo? I don't think…"
The voice sounded a little more distant this time, like he had turned his head away from her. She shook her head slightly in an attempt to clear out the fog she was in. Merlin, her head felt like it had been run over by a hippogriff. She was going to have a massive hangover the next day.
"George?" she asked, interrupting his sentence to the barman.
"In the smoking hot flesh," he managed to joke despite the seriousness of the situation.
"Lemme go. I can take care o' mesel'."
"Right. And after you break yourself again, who's going to fix you if I'm not there?"
" 'M not broke," Angelina mumbled.
"Yes, you are. But that's what I'm here for."
"Don' wanna be broke no more…" was the last thing she slurred before she passed out.
George scooped her up in his arms, smiled sadly, and strode toward the fireplace. "Yeah, well, we can't always get what you want."