Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Third in The Ones Left Behind Trilogy.
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Angelina loved Fred, had ever since she laid eyes on his dopey grin in their first year. There was a sense about him that differed from the rest of his family - even his own twin. Fred always had been special. He'd made her smile when she was sad, kept an eye out for her when the Quidditch Pitch was free so she could practice in private. He hadn't been her first kiss - she wasn't one to wait around - but she'd imagined, foolishly, that he'd be her last.
She loved George, but not in the same way. She'd catch herself thinking of the way Fred had held her, the way Fred had kissed her, the way Fred had told the very same joke and made her laugh - really laugh, not the cautious laughter she had with George. Shards of him and her memory of him wove their way into her life. She supposed she should feel guilty for thinking it, but she couldn't bring herself to sully his memory with that emotion.
Angelina was almost proud at the fact that she didn't call out Fred's name when she and George were having sex - they never called it 'making love', never took it slow enough to be classed as that. Fred had called sex 'making love', and neither of them could bring themselves to say it, no matter that he'd meant it in a joking way. So, it was always sex, just a way to find release in the comfort of the arms of someone familiar and who knew the pain they were feeling. Later, it would be for children because they were something they both wanted. The future generations to be told of their uncle's loving smile, his prankster nature, his love of life.
George's eyes were haunted, his right ear no longer working, the scars from glass on knuckles and under feet now white and faded. Angelina had scars too, just not visible to the rest of the world. She was broken inside, her mind the wrong fit for her body, it seemed. Pieces and slivers and shards of herself stuck together the wrong way, put in backwards, upside down, placed in a body that was inside out. Sometimes she'd blank out, and come to to find herself standing outside, the sun already set and no memory of it. It frightened her sometimes, but it wasn't frequent enough to go to St. Mungo's again. They'd just tell her it was a common thing for soldiers in the war. Post traumatic stress. Nothing to be done about it except soldier on, excuse the pun. If she heard that one more time, she'd give them a war worthy of every dead "soldier".
She still couldn't look at Percy without her hands balling into fists. The desire to scream and yell and hit and punch and hate him overwhelmed her at every monthly "Weasley Family Dinner". He was the reason she couldn't be with the one she loved. Fred had saved Percy for whatever reason - it wasn't because he liked him, that was for sure. If she had a Knut for every time he'd muttered and whinged about his "prat of a brother who had a broomstick up his arse most of the time, and a wand up it for the rest of it", she'd've been a very wealthy witch. Sometimes she'd catch George glaring over at Percy too. It wasn't Percy's fault, of course, but neither one could truly forgive him. They'd both lost Fred because of him. When Angelina caught George glaring, they soon left with a myriad of excuses, just so there wouldn't be a homicide. A small joke about a magical Bonnie and Clyde team, a grin that was actually genuine, but it all soon slipped back to normal.
Normal. Fred dead, six feet under, pushing up daisies, and she'd married his carbon copy, just so she'd never have to forget what he looked like. She knew that George had only married her because she'd loved Fred as much as he had, even though it was in a different way. She didn't mind that he had. What they had was still a form of love, it just included a reminder of the past they'd lost to the war, a way to keep the hope alive that it could all be that way again, despite knowing that it never could be.
Ginny sometimes came over in the middle of the night, unable to stay with her husband and son for whatever reason, or unable to stay away from George, Angelina didn't know. They never planned it or talked about it, but he always seemed to know when his sister was coming, gave her a smile to say don't wait up, and stayed staring at the fire until Ginny arrived in a flurry of pain and tears and scars. Most times, Angelina sat at the top of the staircase, listening to their private meeting. She didn't listen because of jealousy or even annoyance at being left out. It was a much simpler reason, really. She stayed so she would be able to feel something other than the aching in her chest. As Ginny talked of it, she too could feel the phantom feeling of shards beneath her skin, tiny pieces of glass digging into her limbs and body, the scars white but never fully healed, always reminding of the pain and the loss and everything they'd been left behind to deal with. As she listened, she felt the stabbing and sharp pain echoed in her own body, and the aching in her chest seemed to lessen. Sometimes, she could even imagine Fred sitting next to her, his arm around her as she drifted off to sleep.
Angelina loved George, really. He made her laugh softly, brought her ice cream when she was sad, held her in the night. He did everything that Fred had done, and sometimes he even did more. But their relationship was always lacking in one ultimate aspect. George wasn't Fred. He never could be, but sometimes, Angelina would see shards of Fred showing in her husband, and that was enough.
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The end.
Thank you for reading.
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