Blame it all on yourself
'Cause she's always a woman to me
[Billy Joel]

She was loud when she wanted to be.

But she never overdid it – no, she knew better. Otherwise, it would entirely lose its desired effect.

She knew there were certain times when loudness was required for the situation. Whereas other times called for deadly silence.

This was not one of those 'other times'. Merlin, no – silence was not an option today.

And whilst she much preferred circumstances that required a happier kind of loudness, she would not shirk the corresponding duty of being adequately loud during less-than-favourable affairs.

"You git!" thundered Angelina Johnson, in a way that carried through to every corner, nook and cranny of Diagon Alley as she stood outside a certain Mr. George Weasley's joke shop, her finger in said George Weasley's rather freckly and rather flabbergasted face.

"I just bloody noticed." She continued, more quietly now that the entire wizarding community in the surrounding quarter-mile radius was suitably staring in their direction. "How long's it been like that, George? How bloody long? It's not bloody funny. At all."

The threatening finger veered upward toward the joke shop sign, where it settled ostensibly within George Weasley's line of sight and lingered on the solitary punctuating mark which defined the ownership of the Wizard Wheezes that could be found within the shop.

Now, Angelina Johnson was no tyrant – nor expert – in matters of grammar, but this one thing she knew: Her (former) boyfriend, Fred Weasley, and his twin brother, George Weasley, had left Hogwarts in their 7th year to start a joke shop, and they named it "Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes" – which indicated the brothers' joint proprietorship of their business endeavour.

The sign above the shop, however, now currently read:

WEASLEY'S WIZARD WHEEZES

And she didn't need a Ravenclaw or a Hermione Granger to tell her how many Weasleys that implied.

In lieu of a proper argument on the matter, however, George attempted to weasel his way out of his due consequence by unscrupulous means.

He hugged her.

The whole of Diagon Alley flinched as a loud CRACK! subsequently assailed their eardrums. (Unless you were a first-hand witness to the scene, you might have assumed George Weasley's head had been snapped clean off. But in actual fact, Angelina had – in one fluid movement – flicked out her wand and rather violently summoned a ladder up against the building's façade.)

"Fix it." She commanded.

Or I'll fix you. Was the nonverbalised ultimatum.

And, despite having only one ear, George Weasley did not have to be told twice.

She stormed away across the Alley, looking to find something to properly throttle, as her ginger-head boy was now out of arm's (and harm's) reach, standing obediently on the rooftop of his shop. [A/N: Read the rest in When We're Dead.]

But instead of a proper whipping boy, Angelina found him.

They weren't unknown to each other. Beside the fact that every witch over the age of 13 knew who he was (whether they followed the national Quidditch leagues or not), Angelina had encountered Puddlemere United's Seeker enough, even in the brief time that she had been training with Tutshill, to consider him a professional acquaintance, at the very least.

And, it seemed, they shared a penchant for seeking solace within the sporting confines of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Benjy Williams cast a lazy glance up from the latest edition of Quidditch World News upon hearing the shop's entrance bell ring; that he found her at the receiving end tugged one corner of his mouth up into an amused smile.

It was hardly a challenge, but then, Angelina was a Johnson and Johnsons were not very particular when it came to certain things. So she rounded on the blond soundly, invading the forward nook of the shop which housed a couple over-stuffed armchairs and any-and-all vaguely Quidditch-related trade publications (which routinely arrived via owl-post on a regular basis), piled high on a low table.

"Is there something I can help you with?" She asked snippishly.

Such as wiping that stupid bloody smirk off your face? She thought to herself, as loudly as she could, in case he could read minds (one of the many rumoured talents that swirled about the Seeker's reputation).

"Sorry, love, not really." He shook his head, his grin spreading across his lips all the more as he did so. "You see, I was just admiring how tempestuous Tutshill's newest Tornadoes are…"

He set the issue of QWN down, open to the detailed spread of the latest England teams' rosters, where the players' photos (A. Johnson included) were clearly – but mutely – trading insults with their rival teams. (Except for B. Williams' profile, which appeared instead to be trying to win over the nearest Harpies players.)

"…And that's when you walked in." He merely blinked, perhaps waiting to see if she would transform into a cyclone on the spot.

"Best be careful, Mr. Williams." She volleyed a dangerous smile back at him. "'Cause you're only seeing the eye of the storm."

"Is that right…" He leaned back in the armchair and considered the witch standing before him. "Well, it's a captivating sight."

Angelina gritted her teeth, in a rare show of restraint, and plucked a new copy of Witch Weekly out of the pile of publications on the table and slowly twisted its spine back into itself.

"Don't get the wrong impression, Mr.–"

"'Benjy', please, love."

"–Williams. I'm not like other witches. You can't just charm your way out of your indiscretions with me."

He raised a brow. "I've been being indiscreet?"

"Well," She flung the Weekly at him, catching him square in the chest. "That hasn't won you any mates, I'm sure…"

"Mm." Benjy glanced at the rubbish/magazine as it slid down into his lap, then shrugged nonchalantly. "Not the first dumb thing a Quidditch player's ever said – and it won't be the last."

Fire flared briefly in Angelina's eyes. "There's a bloody big difference between stupidity and indecency."

"True…" A smile crept back onto the Seeker's features. "Ignorance is bliss."

She shook her head. "Think it's high time someone enlightened you."

"By all means." Benjy shifted into a more comfortable position and linked his hands behind his head, baring himself defenceless to the lioness pacing before him. He could see several glittering sets of curious eyes in his periphery; 'creatures' hiding safely in amongst the dense forest of shelving and its foliage of Quidditch products and bargains.

She stared him down as her hands plucked up another copy of Witch Weekly and her fingers nimbly located his latest 15 minutes of fame.

"In case you've forgotten the plot already…" She cleared her throat in a way that rattled through the shop. "It says: 'When asked what he thinks of the Department of Magical Games and Sports' recent proposal to reduce the scoring value of catching the Golden Snitch, Puddlemere United's Seeker Benjy Williams replied…"

Angelina paused a moment, as though expecting him to recite the following lines for her, "And I quote:" she continued, "'I don't have an overblown sense of self-importance… But I do know that while I'm off looking for the Snitch –" She reflexively bared her teeth. "–Everyone else is just playing with their balls.'"

A muffled commotion throughout the store suggested a bevy of savvy Quidditch-minded consumers were suddenly remembering and resuming their purchasing decisions.

To his credit, Benjy Williams nearly managed a genuine look of solemnity as the Tornadoes' Chaser bore down on him, awaiting his justification.

"Have you ever tried to impress someone, love…" He began simply.

Her eyes narrowed. "Of course."

"…And did it ever not quite work out?"

"Well, he's dead now," Angelina spat out at him. "So I wouldn't bloody well know."

"Mm." He said thoughtfully, sitting up a little straighter.

Angelina cocked her head slightly, eyeing him humourlessly. "Did you really think 'playing with their balls' was going to impress someone?"

"Sometimes blokes make mistakes." Benjy tapped the curled Weekly against his thigh. "Should've known she was a Witch reporter."

Her look darkened. "Then, I take it, you don't regret saying your not-bloody-funny little joke, you just regret getting caught with it."

"Look, love…" He tossed the tabloid onto the table. "As much as you're chasing an apology, I don't think it's actually me that you need one from…"

"Oh, is that bloody so, Mr. Will–"

"I'm a firm believer that everyone's allowed to make mistakes, love," The Seeker studied her earnestly for a moment. "So, whoever's wronged you – if they didn't mean to – then let it go."

"…And why should I?" She folded her arms across her chest.

Benjy shook his head. "I'm just trying to save you some heartache, darlin'…"

Angelina's brow arched upward defiantly. "Just what do you think you're protecting me from?"

"Mm," He thought aloud. "Missing out on the present, for the sake of… trying to fix what's already past."

"Well, the 'present' I've been given feels like an even worse joke than that." She frowned and dropped her copy of Witch Weekly onto the table with the others.

"And if it's not a joke, love…" He ventured, knowing he was well past the point of treading lightly upon the subject. "What if this was given to you for a reason?"

"I still don't want it." Angelina could feel her war wounds beginning to re-surface in her eyes. "It's a 'gift' that needs to be taken back and exchanged for something worth keeping."

"Except going back's not an option…" Benjy pushed himself up out of the chair and stepped within arm's reach of her, careful not to encroach so far as to warrant a show of claws. He tucked his hands into his pockets and leant against a display case of hand-wrought bludger bats. "Focusing on what you've lost – instead of what you've gained – is a mistake I've made myself. And I know the pain that's carried with it, so I can't in good conscience let you do the same thing."

"I thought 'everyone's allowed to make mistakes, love.'" A somewhat triumphant sneer crept into Angelina's countenance. "Bit of a double standard you've got there, if I'm not allowed to live my life, doing what you think is a 'mistake'."

"Just realise then," He gave her a sympathetic half-smile as he slipped past her. "That you can only make any mistake once – it's not an accident the second time round."

"See you on the pitch, Williams." She muttered.

He stopped and tilted his head in the direction of the abandoned Quidditch World News. "Harpies have a spot opening up next season; I'll keep my fingers crossed for you."

She growled out a deprecating laugh. "Like I could ever be a Harpy – besides, I do enough damage as a Tornado…" She paused for a moment. "But I do know a red-headed Siren, who should be ready to professionally 'play with some balls' by then."

Benjy coughed. "Is that right…"

Angelina rolled her eyes. "You can save your fingers for her if you like."

"Mm," He pulled open the shop door, the bell announcing his imminent exit. "Maybe I will."

"Just take care, Benjy," She called after him, with a wicked smile on. "'Cause she's already been spoken for by Britain's best Auror-in-training…"

And that is a mistake you won't even want to make once. Angelina thought loudly, and rather happily.