I'm slightly confused at this... but like seven people have either made this a favorite story or put it on their alert list... but that doesn't explain why only two of those people left reviews...

Thank you two for making my week!

Chapter 2

Uncomfortable in a Comfortable sort of way…

"Angelina…er… I hate to ask this… what the dill happened to your head?"

Angelina huffed at him, trying to look dignified and failing on account that half her hair was sticking straight out of her head, as though she'd been struck by lightning.

It had been almost a week since she had started working here. A week… and somehow, in a way George didn't understand, business was better than it had been in a year. He had never thought of her as the shopkeeper-indoorsy type, but somehow she had added something to the room, coaxed a few new dashing displays of products and bewitched the windows to flash different advertisements throughout the day. She had even tackled some of the jobs he'd been putting off for months; such as the cleaning of the potions cabinets and the answering of owls and howlers. (Yes, the store did receive quite a few of them from annoyed parents who didn't want their kids buying mischief. It was quite a good thing that Angelina was answering them now because George always wrote responses like, "Then don't give them money. Problem solved.")

Really he shouldn't have been surprised about Angelina. She did her job like she did everything, a full and total effort, with no exceptions. She was often seen, walking around the shop with a pencil sticking out her mouth, a clipboard in her hand, mumbling, "Go to Pawn and Pokes and get another case of gobroots… get something healthy and green for George to eat because he'd probably been living on pumpkin juice and cauldron cakes like the idiotic male he is…"

She would murmur that part a little bit louder with a serious expression and twitching lips. He would smirk back at her and point out that it was better than living on Puking Pastels and Nose Bleed Nougats… and she would laugh.

Today she had left for her lunch break looking completely normal and come back with half of her cornrows undone. The dark hair that had been clamped down for so long seemed to be rebelling against her- in any case she looked absolutely ridiculous, like her hair had literally exploded from her head.

"I decided that I was tired of having it braided, so I started to take it out. There were too many to take out all at once so I took out half. I'll take out the rest when I have time." She explained, turning to the cash register as a ten year old plunked some change on the table and began counting out the price. George hid his smile.

"I see…" he said, solemnly. Then he went back to his work, handing out samples, cleaning up spills and answering questions about bargains and sales events. As the day passed, he noticed that every time he looked at her she seemed to be undoing another braid as she tallied up prices, and the fro seemed to grow larger and larger.

Finally it was time to close shop. As the last little kid took his box of mischief, he looked up at her, his expression confused.

"Hey Miss, can I ask you something?"

Angelina smiled kindly at him. She'd always been good with the first years at their school. She had a surprising amount of compassion for their timidness (the same timidness that George and Fred had always taken advantage of).

"Sure hun, what is it?" she asked cheerfully.

The boy looked up at her with wide eyes. "Was your hair normal before you started working here?"

George couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he could feel tears come to his eyes. Holding his aching side he leaned up against the wall, still hooting, his entire body shaking from laughter.

Later he realized that it was the first time he'd really laughed in almost a year.

"George, you are such a twit!"

Angelina was standing at the top of the stairs, looking at his flat in utter dismay. George, who couldn't even see why she was up here in the first place, (and was slightly annoyed that she would barge into his personal space) glared at her.

"Any particular reason I'm a twit or was I just lucky enough to be born that way?"

She was wearing that weird muggle clothing again that she always did- the strange t-shirts with weird advertisements for things like soap and cheetos (whatever they were) across her chest. Right now his attentions were focused on her eyes, which her rolling in her head as she made a huge exaggerated step over a pile of dirty robes.

"Pul-leze," she said dryly. "Are you inventing a new product made out of mold? Because it looks like you're trying to recreate the ecosystem up here."

George had had just about enough of this woman. He'd worked all day with her. He'd been snubbed because he'd tallied up the day's inventory wrong and she corrected him after yelling at him for doing it wrong in the first place. He wanted to go upstairs, mindlessly listen to the wireless and fall asleep. Period.

Clearly, she had a different idea.

"Do you have anything to drink?" she asked, opening his ice chest. "Besides Pumpkin Juice, I mean."

George gritted his teeth. "Angelina…" he ground out slowly. "I-"

"You used to like orange juice better."

Surprised, George stumbled over his words. "Er… yeah, I did…" he regathered his wits. "Ange-"

"Why don't you have any? You don't even like Pumpkin Juice."

"You can't just- wait… what? Er… I dunno, it's an acquired taste. Listen-"

"Fred did the grocery shopping, didn't he?" she asked knowingly, her dark eyes looking up at him calmly.

Stunned, George stopped again, staring at her.

She was right. Fred had hated orange juice- and oranges in general with a passion. He even refused to buy orange robes. The first time he'd gone grocery shopping, after they'd just moved in to their new flat, he'd bought pumpkin juice and told George, "Get used to it mate, I won't have that rubbish lying about."

George hadn't even thought about not buying it anymore. He'd done it out of habit, the same way he'd set up protective spells around the shop every day three months after the war was over. Habit. Second nature.

'Do not get sidetracked!'

"Angelina…" he growled again. "Why. Are. You. Here?"

She looked up at him. "My wireless broke," she said, like it was obvious. "It's Chudley verses the Harpies tonight. Do you think I'd miss that?"

Extremely annoyed, George gave a biting laugh.

"Oh sure Ange," he said sarcastically. "Hell, you don't have to ask. Just barge right in, make yourself at home… insult my cleaning abilities if you will…"

"Thanks," she said, shamelessly as she pulled out some various ingredients from the cooler. "I will."

She did too. Somehow, she ended up on his couch rooting for the Harpies; cheering loudly each time they made a particularly good play and moaning each time they didn't. She managed to somehow create a miniature casserole as she did and George, who hadn't seen his mother in two weeks, had his first real meal since then. With her there, he sat quietly, just watching her, unable to really enjoy himself, his body very rigid. Before the game was over, he fought drowsiness and lost. When he woke up the next morning, the place was cleaner, the wireless was off, and she was gone. Angrily he jumped up from the armchair, groaning at the pain of staying in such an odd sleeping position all night. The blanket that she had put on him fell to the floor and he stomped over it on his way to the cooler. He pulled out the leftovers, grabbed and fork and, still sulking, shoveled them into his mouth, not bothering with a heating charm.

He knew why he was upset, and it wasn't because she had barged in like this. Angelina had always been that way- like a human tornado, she attacked life the way most aurors attacked death eaters. There was nothing weird about her coming over and listening to the game.

What he wasn't comfortable with was the feeling it gave him. After the battle, when he'd come back to their flat-his flat- he realized that he had never been alone once in his entire life. He'd grown up with a large family, went to a school with thousands of people, went through all these years believing that Fred would be there. They'd lived together- and somehow there was this unspoken assumption that since they were born together, they would die together.

He'd been… lonely. Yes- lonely, damn it… the flat was quiet- always so freak'n quiet… and that wasn't how it was supposed to be. There were supposed be explosions of many colors and constant plans and talk of sweets and jokes and gags that would bring mischief makers to their shop demanding to see their work... Fred would take great delight in showing and explaining their schemes and work late into the night, sometimes swearing loudly when the cauldron overflowed or his skin turned a strange shade of lilac.

Fred was dead. And he was quite alone.

And rather than move in with Lee, or even worse, his mother, he'd gritted his teeth and bore it.

Last night had been the first time in ages that he'd felt comfortable sitting in his own house, because he wasn't alone.

He was absolutely furious about it.

Reviews are appreciated :) Thank you so much for reading my babbles!