UPDATE: This story won Second Place in Alohaemora's "Three Prompts" Competition! My prompts were Angelina Johnson, cloak, and "You don't have a clue what you're saying."

Disclaimer: JKR owns "Harry Potter."

A New Warmth

The London air was unusually frosty for an early June afternoon, Angelina mused, as she strolled down Diagon Alley's cobbled pathway, pulling her unfortunately thin cloak more tightly around her shoulders. The streets too were uncharacteristically empty, and, through the front windows of small cafés and eateries, Angelina could see long lines of witches and wizards clamoring for warm beverages. She glanced up at the sky, which was beginning to look rather gloomy. Perhaps it was going to rain...

Shrugging her shoulders, Angelina shoved her hands into her large front pockets, rubbing them absentmindedly against the fuzzy material of her cloak's interior, so as to return some feeling to her frozen fingers. She paused for a moment outside Rosa Lee Teabag, where a gaggle of elderly warlocks was crowded around the warmth of the bluebell flames that Madam Lee had created in the center of the room to provide warmth. She shivered in pleasure at the welcoming sight, briefly considering joining the group for a cup of tea.

But then, with a jolt of realization, she shook herself, continuing instead to make her way determinedly past several more shop windows, towards Diagon Alley's enormous center courtyard.

Because today, she was a woman on a mission.

Diagon Alley's center courtyard was slightly more occupied than its alleyways. Angelina actually had to fight her way through a thick crowd of giggling Hogwarts girls and then past an even thicker clique of foreign wizards to reach the white marble stairs that formed the entrance of Gringotts.

Worrying her lip distractedly between her teeth, Angelina stalked up to a nearby marble pillar, glancing first at the bank's burnished bronze doors and then down at her watch. It was five minutes past three – she was late.

Suddenly, the bronze doors swung open, and Angelina straightened, expression clearing, as Bill Weasley hurried out, carrying in his hands several heavy-looking books and, much to Angelina's relief, a small, silver key.

"Here," Bill breathed, dropping the key in Angelina's outstretched palm. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Angelina said, stomach twisting with nervousness as she turned the key over and over between her fingers. "Where'd you find it?"

"I snooped around in their old room at the Burrow," he explained, a slightly guilty edge to his voice. "It was just... sitting there... on Fred's old bed." He stared down at his feet, shuffling the books in his arms, and Angelina shifted her feet awkwardly, her heart aching.

"Bill – " she began, but he cut her off with a slightly forced smile.

"Don't worry about me," he assured her. "Listen – I can't tell you how much it means to us – my entire family – that you want to do this. He... he's been... difficult... lately, so – er, don't be shocked if – if he – "

"I understand," she said softly. "I'll see you later, Bill."

"See you." He smiled at her, giving her a quick hug before turning around and sweeping back in through the bank's doors.

Taking a deep breath, Angelina turned around and faced the center courtyard once again. Slipping the little silver key into her cloak pocket, she shook her head. "This is going to be fun," she muttered.

Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was located right in the thick of the center courtyard, just a few blocks down from Gringotts. But luckily for Angelina, the psychotic crowd of Hogwarts students that usually hung about in front of the joke shop was not present – although, Angelina realized with a pang, that that likely had little to do with the cold weather and more to do with the fact that the store looked far less than inviting, at the moment.

Windows were boarded up, an enormous, black "closed" sign was plastered up against a nearby stretch of wall by, and, through the small glass window on the front door, she could see that aisles and aisles of shelves and products had been knocked over, littering the floor with bright colors and glittery residue.

Glancing covertly around to ascertain that nobody was in sight, Angelina pulled the tiny silver key out of her pocket and stuck it into the door's grimy-looking keyhole. With a sudden puff of blue smoke and a loud click, the door creaked open. So that's why none of the Weasleys had been able to enter the shop with a simple unlocking charm, Angelina realized with a jolt, as she tugged the key out of the keyhole and slipped inside. The shop had been sealed closed with magic.

The moment Angelina fell upon the threshold, she was bombarded with the overwhelmingly powerful stench of stale Firewhiskey. Wrinkling her nose and pushing her dark curls out of her eyes, Angelina sidestepped several large, half-opened boxes of Puking Pastilles as she made her way further into the store, glancing around at her misshapen surroundings for a sign – any sign – of human presence.

"Expelliarmus!"

"Hey – !" Angelina swiveled around, heart pounding, as she watched her wand sail out of her hand and get lost in a pile of Canary Creams.

George Weasley stood at the top of a nearby staircase, wand up and eyebrows raised.

"Angelina?"

Angelina swallowed heavily, her stomach clenching as her eyes swept over his disheveled appearance, his dirty robes, his bloodshot eyes, and, finally, the bottle of Firewhiskey that hung limply from his left hand. "Hi, George."

"What are you doing here?"

His tone was not welcoming, and Angelina bit her lip, tugging her cloak more tightly around her – blindly willing it to provide her with some protection against the unexpected coldness in George's expression.

"I came to see you," Angelina explained, fighting to keep her tone calm. "I just – I wanted to see how you were doing."

George's eyes narrowed slightly. "Oh," he said. "I'm fine, thanks."

Angelina gazed at him evenly, standing up a little straighter. "Are you?"

"Yes."

Silence.

Then – "You reek of alcohol, George," Angelina said quietly.

George's eyes flashed. "You don't have a clue what you're saying," he snapped.

It was as though he'd lit a spark within her. Clenching her fists and drawing herself up to her full height, Angelina glared at George, filled with a sudden surge of inexplicable anger towards the red-haired man. "I don't have a clue?" Angelina demanded. "I don't have a clue?"

"You don't under – !"

"I'm not stupid, George!" she interrupted him, her tone icy. "Me, your brothers, your parents – we aren't stupid, we aren't ignorant... we just went through a damn war, for Merlin's sake – all of us!"

"That's not what I – !"

"They're hurting, too!" Angelina interjected earnestly. "They're devastated – all of them! Did you know that your parents have worried themselves sick over you, these past few weeks? Or that Bill, Charlie, Fleur and Percy have visited this shop every day since the funeral and tried every possible incantation on the door? Or that, the night after the funeral, when you disappeared, Ginny – your little sister – spent the entire night visiting wizarding bars all over England with Harry, Ron, and Hermione searching for you – praying that they'd find you?"

"Ange, I just – !"

"I know you think you're making it easier for them," Angelina lowered her voice, her expression softening slightly. She stepped closer to him. "I know you think that if you avoid them, they'll have an easier time moving on." Another step closer. "But, George, it's not true – you're not making it any easier for them by shutting yourself up in this hellhole of a joke shop."

George let out a humorless bark of laughter. "Yeah, it hasn't exactly been fun for me, either," he said darkly.

Angelina almost smiled, moving to stand with him at the foot of the staircase. "I didn't think it had."

For a moment, neither of them said a word, and the only sound that could be heard was the faintest buzz of conversation from the crowd of witches and wizards in the center courtyard, outside.

Then, George cleared his throat. Angelina looked up.

"D'you... want to go out and get a cup of tea?" he asked her slowly. "It's been bloody cold in this shop all day – I can't feel my hands."

Angelina laughed gently. "I'd love to get tea," she agreed.

"Great," said George. "And then maybe," he hesitated. "Maybe, after we're done, we could... stop by the Burrow."

Angelina stared at him. Then, she exhaled softly, her facing splitting into a warm smile. "I think that would be an excellent idea."

As George hurried upstairs to change into a cleaner set of robes, Angelina retrieved her wand from the lopsided display of Canary Creams into which it had fallen and moved to wait by the front door. With a small smile, she reached up and readjusted her cloak for the third time that afternoon.

She was feeling warmer than she had all day. And when George reappeared at the top of the staircase, still a little pale-faced but looking cleaner and happier than before, she began to feel like the tingling warmth, which was quickly spreading throughout her body – from her fingers to her toes – had very little to do, in fact, with the cloak draped loosely around her shoulders.