Chapter 2
Fred, George and Angelina sat in a corner of the common room that evening. The fireplace roared. Harry Potter and co. sat by it, talking of the Triwizard Tournament or perhaps the Yule Ball. Probably the Yule Ball. Now was the time when hormones reached a fever pitch at Hogwarts and the seniors watched with patronizing fondness as the idiots stumbled through adolescence.
Fred and Angelina occupied one little sofa while George lounged in a fat red armchair. Angelina lay with her head on the armrest, her legs draped over Fred's lap. They were a lot closer since he asked her to the Ball, George noted. But they had yet to identify themselves as "a thing". George never felt like the third wheel with them. If anyone felt that way it would be Angelina, but she was too secure in herself to be uncomfortable. So all around they were comfortable with each other. They observed the younger trio, Harry, Ron and Hermione, from where they sat.
Angelina sighed. "Poor Harry! How's he going to get through this nonsense?"
"He's managed well enough so far," said Fred. "Cheeky little thing should've been dead by now."
Angelina slapped his shoulder lightly. "Don't say that!"
"Aw, what're you fretting about, Angel?" said Fred, grinning sheepishly.
"He'll be fine. He's Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. Soon to be known as The Boy Who Lived Through The Triwizard Tournament and Hufflepuff's Gloating."
She sighed again, through a smile this time. "He's not indestructible. I just don't want him to get hurt."
"Don't want to lose out on your prize Seeker, eh?" said George.
"Oh, shut it!" But she smiled a little as she did when she felt guilty. George knew her concern was genuine, but he also knew that Angelina was just about ready to punch a hole in the Fat Lady's portrait when she heard there would be no Quidditch that year and that Gryffindor's best seeker in years would be part of a competition people twice his age wouldn't manage. Her love of the sport was remarkable, her compassion for people even more so. She was remarkable. Too good for a twat like Fred.
When George thought that he had been joking, but a part of him was anxious because we often joke about the things we really believe to be true.
"So what're you wearing to the dance?" Fred inquired. "You better make yourself pretty for me, Angelina."
Angelina snorted. "Right. I'll pull out my tiara just for you, Fred. And my puffy pink ballgown."
"No, no..." he said efficiently. "You've got the wrong idea, my dear. I want easy access tomorrow night."
She sat up. "Easy access?"
Fred nodded, looking fit to burst with laughter. "And don't bother with that underwear thing either."
He dodged the slap she aimed at his head and George laughed with him, though on the inside he groaned. George was taking Katie Bell. She was fit in her own right, and a Quidditch girl. But she was no Angelina.
"Twat!" she grumbled.
"I second that," said George.
Fred shot him an impertinent look and George returned it, making Angelina laugh because they must have looked like mirrors with the wrong timing. The laugh wiped all grumpiness from her face. Her eyes sparkled and her full lips curved upwards and George wished that it was him sitting on the sofa with her legs on his lap.
"So I suppose you two are official now." He deliberately dug up the old bone of contention and Fred sent him a look that was both despairing and annoyed.
His brother looked at Angelina who stared silently, expectantly. What was he so afraid of anyhow? George mused. If he were with Angelina he would make sure she knew where she stood so that there was no danger of somebody else snatching her up. He would tell the whole bloody school.
"Well," said Fred lightly. "If the definition of official is snogging and hand-holding then I'd say we are."
"So you're fine with people thinking of you as a...thing?"
The look Fred gave him was more puzzled now and George felt a little guilty.
Only a little.
"If they've got nothing better to think about."
"So we are..." Angelina spoke up, "a thing. You and me. You are my boyfriend."
Fred grinned and slapped her thigh lightly. "I am bursting for the loo!" He took a hold of her legs and swung her off him.
"Hang on a minute, Fred!"
He stood up and strolled off without another word.
Angelina groaned and sat up. She put her face in her hands. "You know," her voice came muffled and annoyed. "I really hate it when your brother does that."
"What? Goes to the bathroom? It's only natural, Angelina."
"No." He could hear her fighting a smile. "I mean when flips out at the very implication of commitment. Like I'm trying to trap him or something. And I'm not! I swear, George. I just...I like him and I want to know that he likes me."
"You know he does, Ange," said George.
"No, I don't know. He makes me feel so muddled-up sometimes! And I'm not used to feeling muddled-up. Do you think he's waiting for someone else?"
"If he was, I'd know about it," said George earnestly. "And I would tell you. I wouldn't let him string you along, Ange. You're too good for that."
She looked up and smiled. "It's funny. Fred upsets me so easily and you make me feel better just as well. What would I do without you?"
George was horrified to feel himself blush. "Nothing," he said forebodingly, willing the blood away from his cheeks. "You'd be useless without me!" She laughed and flopped back on the couch.
And he would be useless without her, he thought, resting his chin on his fist. Because nowhere in Hogwarts was there another like Angelina Johnson
