A/N: This is Beater 2 of the Chudley Cannons checking in for Season 5 Round 5 of the QLFC.

Beater 2: Poppy (as inspired by Madam Pomfrey): Write about a character being treated, or treating someone, as a consolation prize.

Additional Prompts: 2. (object) thorn and 9. (word) serene

Word count (before A/N): 1628 words

I am not JK. This is her world, not mine.

Ron fidgeted in his seat, the polyester sticking to his sweating back. He was tucked away in the corner of the Leaky Cauldron in one of its most remote booths. He'd wanted it this way, of course, but he was still nervous.

He couldn't believe it had come to this, this, of all things. A dinner date with his brother's girlfriend.

No, wait. Fiancée. She had said yes, after all, and why shouldn't she? They were in love.

Ron closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he took in a deep breath. Harry didn't believe him and Hermione said he was imagining it. But Ron knew. He knew it in his heart.

Ron knew what it was like to be second best, to be treated as a sidekick, the butt of a joke. And he knew what it was like to settle. If his brief relationship with Lavender taught him anything, it was how not to treat a person when in a relationship.

Angelina was using George.

Not in a malicious way, and probably unintentionally, too. Angelina wasn't inherently a selfish person; she was kind and strong and determined. Ron could still hear her telling him how great he was during his first-ever Quidditch match, even though they both knew he let his nerves get the better of him. She had placed a hand on his shoulder in the changing room, waited until everyone else had left, then told him he was doing really well and he'd only grow as time went on.

Yeah. Angelina, much like her namesake, was an angel, and he was about to throw a huge wrench in her happiness.

Ron wiped the sweat from the back of his neck and opened his eyes.

"Hiya, Ron!" She stood at the end of the table, an innocent smile spread across her warm, amber face. She slid into the booth across from him, the upholstery unapologetically cooperating with her. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

The waiter was on them before Ron could speak. A scruffy man with two large eyes. The waiter took down their drink orders promising to return post-haste. Usually, Ron preferred it when the waiter was quick, but today he really needed to be alone with Angelina. He needed to say his peace.

So, as calmly as Ron could, he placed both his hands on the table, folding them in prayer.

"Oh," Angelina's eyes glinted in the lantern light. "Serious Ronnie."

She laughed, and Ron was reminded of George forever teasing him just because he was younger and George could. She really would have been a good fit for him, but, well, not just yet.

"George isn't Fred."

Ron felt trapped as those three words clung to every available space around him like a dense fog. Angelina's face fell, replaced by the hungry eyes of a lioness on the prowl.

"I know that perfectly well, Ron."

"I know you do."

"Then why say it?"

"Because sometimes I think you both forget."

Which was true. Three years had passed since the Battle. Three years since Fred's body had been laid to rest. Three years since Angelina had kissed him last. Because Angelina and Fred were dating when Fred died. They had been on and off ever since the Yule Ball when Fred had so effortlessly asked her to go with him.

It never quite sat well with Ron when Angelina and George starting dating four months after the funeral.

A part of him understood, though. Ron could see exactly why the relationship started. George lost his other half but gained an ally in the only person as close to Fred as he was. Angelina lost her love but gained a partner so much alike in looks and spirit that it felt like it was the same person.

But it wasn't.

He swallowed, knowing he'd opened the can of worms. Now, he'd have to defend his side, but the waiter had returned, serene and cheerful like he didn't have a care in the world.

"Would you like—"

"Nothing yet," Ron shooed him away. "Another few minutes."

He waited until the scruffy man vanished behind the kitchen doors, his blue eyes searching out her grey ones.

"Look," he said, a lump of anxiety catching in his throat. Angelina had sunk in on herself, her arms crossing over her chest, her head drooping till her chin hit her chest. She looked smaller to Ron, like a forgotten child. But he had to tell her now. He had to because he'd already started to. He couldn't take it back, no matter how guilty he felt.

"I see the way you look at him," Ron said. "I know you love George, but there are times, little instances, where I see your eyes glaze or your face drop, like you're not really happy.

"And then there are times when I've seen George do the same. He'll smile at you and you at him, and then you'll both look away like you're ashamed of what you feel," Ron paused.

Tears threatened at the corners of Angelina's eyes.

Merlin, what was he thinking? Talking to her about this? Gods, Harry was right; Ron had gone completely mental. He really was an arse sometimes, wasn't he? Like the proverbial thorn in everyone's side. He didn't mean to make her cry; he just wanted to protect his brother from pain. He had made a promise after all. Never again would someone he cared for be treated second rate. Lavender made him promise when he and Hermione went to see her in the hospital after the Battle. She told him to always follow his heart, and never let another person he loved be a consolation prize like she was.

George would not be a consolation prize.

"Why are you telling me this?" Angelina whispered.

He was about to tell her about Lavender, about the promise, but the bloody waiter returned, his big eyes like a hawk, staring them both down.

"Are you planning on ordering?" His niceties had disappeared.

"Yes," Ron said. "But not right now."

"Well that's—"

"Oi! He said not now," Angelina barked at the man. The waiter, who acted overly offended, placed a hand on his chest and muttered a callous "well, I never" before marching back to the kitchens.

Angelina smiled at Ron.

"I believe you had something to say," she said, sadness creeping into her voice.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I truly am, because I really do care about you. But George is my brother. And my business partner, too. I can't stand to see him hurting."

Then he explained everything—sixth year, Lavender, the Battle, his promise.

"I'm his kid brother, you know. I would have said all this to him, but he'd never listen. He'd tell me I was delusional. But you, you're smart, Ange. And I know you'll believe me when I say that you two will find that unquestionable, perfect love with each other. It just—"

"It just needs more time," she finished, the tears finally flowing freely. "Oh, Ron, I-I've thought about it a lot. Did we move on too fast? Was it the right thing to do? Are we even ready? I know it's been years since Fr- since he died, but I don't think either one of us ever learned how to grieve on our own."

She wiped away some tears. Ron held his breath, his heart quickly finding a boisterous beat in his ears.

"We just, I dunno, meshed together," she continued, "And shook our fists at the sky and comforted each other without ever really healing ourselves and—"

She took a deep breath, her eyes seeking out Ron's. "I thought I was crazy for thinking like this. I thought I was trying to sabotage my own happiness because I thought I didn't deserve to be happy. Hearing it, out loud, it-it places that anger and bitterness I still feel. I love George, but I never had the chance to fall in love with him, not when I still think about what could have been if Fred was alive."

She gasped. "I'm-I'm a horrible person!"

Angelina looked like she was ready to start sobbing again, but Ron quickly grabbed her hands. "No, no. Angelina, no. You are brilliant. I truly believe one day you two are gonna figure it all out."

"Yeah?"

"Truly. I wouldn't have waited this long to say something if I didn't think it was going to work itself out, it's just…"

"Marriage."

"It's a pretty big step."

"I know," she sighed, pulling her hands away from Ron's and standing up. "I should go. I have some soul-searching to do before I talk to George."

"You want me to walk you out?" he asked.

"No, Ronnie," she ruffled his hair. He was 21 years old, and she still ruffled his hair. "You should probably order something before the waiter hexes you."

And with that, she walked out the door and onto the street, glancing back only as the wooden door shut behind her.

It has been eight years since the Battle. Eight years since Fred's body was laid to rest. Five years since George and Angelina broke up—and not for the first time either. But they've found themselves now. It took Angelina three years. It took George the whole five.

As Ron stands next to George, he watches as his brother waiting for his bride. George leans closer to him, his words barely audible over the jubilant gasps the crowd makes as Angelina enters the room. But Ron hears the gratefulness in his brother's voice, he hears the sigh of relief, the joy of a man who has it all, who is number one.

"Thank you, Ron. Thank you so much."