Hovering, I found, could be extremely unbecoming. There were few things worse than a gorgeous girl dressed for a beautiful night on the town standing around hovering. And Angelina Johnson was most certainly doing exactly that.

I carefully counted out a kindly wizard's change and handed it to him, reassuring him that his wife would absolutely love the Daydream Charms. George sat next to me behind the counter, working on a new batch of punching telescopes since there was very little else he could do. Angie had fixed up his head the night before, reassuring us both that he would be just fine, but he had been very quiet all day and felt it best if he just worked. It made me feel better, too, to have him sitting in one place. If there was any lasting damage, although I had no idea why there would be, running around the shop would only exacerbate it.

In a stunning ivory lace dress and some bright red heels, hair unbraided and pulled into a loose bun, Angelina looked stunning. She would have looked even more stunning, though, if she would only stand three or four feet farther away. Every time I moved, she would follow within a few seconds to stand just across the border of close and too close. And I did not like it. At first, I understood her nerves. Her first night sleeping with Fred followed by him announcing that he was taking her out to the theatre, in muggle London, to see Les Misèrables since she did love the book so. How exactly he intended to pay for the tickets had been a bit of a joke with Angie and I throughout the day, down until the time came for her to get ready.

Because now, of course, it was real. She had a proper boyfriend, one she lived with, who took her to plays he would not understand because she would like them, who probably had to buy a muggle suit special for the occasion. And she seemed quite flustered by it.

"Angie!" I burst when I turned from the register and nearly crashed into her. "Honestly! Sit down. You're not glued to my hip."

"Sorry. Nervous," she mumbled, sliding onto the stool I wanted to sit on. Oh, well. Such is the price one pays to get the flittering idiot to settle. "Where is he? We have to leave soon."

"He'll be here in plenty of time to Apparate there," George reminded her dully. I rarely interacted with him when he worked, but I took it as a sign of how focused he was on production that he sounded so distant and off-handed about it. Angie did as well, and she glanced towards the stairs but nodded.

"You're right, of course. Just don't want to miss the start."

"You won't." George continued to bend over his work, curled in the corner as if to take up as little space as possible. When he carefully prodded a telescope and had it punch out far more violently than any of our products should ever react, he swore and leapt away from the over-enchanted item, tripped over his stool, and would have fallen to the ground had Angie and I not quickly grabbed him. She had one of his arms, I had the other, and we awkwardly supported my love as his stool clattered to the ground and the telescope returned to its normal state with only minimal staring from nearby customers. "Shit," he swore again, staring dumbly at the now-immobile telescope. He looked at Angie, searching for some confirmation that this really just happened, found the appropriate shock on her face, and turned to me.

And then, he did something odd.

He ripped his arm out of my hands.

Now, he had been a bit off all day, but I thought very little of it until that moment when his eyes got so very dark and my fingernail ripped on a loose loop of magenta thread. Something was wrong, but I could not for the life of me figure out what it was.

So, in classic Harper fashion, I decided to smooth the problem over without addressing it. I reached to ruffle his hair, which he subtly dodged so my hand ended up on his shoulder in an oddly unromantic pat, and I faked some pep in my voice while asking, "How about I make an early dinner before you two lovebirds head out, huh?"

Angie pulled her thumb out of her mouth, frowned at the hangnail she had been chewing on, and told me, "We're eating out, actually. But thanks!"

"George?"

"Not hungry," he mumbled. He cautiously tapped the telescope with his wand, and, when it did not budge, picked it up without a fuss.

Well, fine. "You haven't eaten all day," I reminded him. "Not even a sandwich?"

"I said I'm not hungry!" he snapped. I supposed he felt Angie's wide eyes flitting between him and me as I gaped at him, the outburst freezing Fred halfway down the stairs so as not to enter in the middle of a volatile situation, because he let out a hefty sigh, squeezed his eyes shut, and ran his hand through his hair. When he spoke again, the edge was still in his voice, but he sounded much quieter and significantly calmer. "Make yourself something if you want."

"Careful, Mel," Fred warned, finally descending the stairs. "He may poison it if you turn your back."

"Yeah," Angie piped up, "what died in your porridge this morning, George?" She wrinkled her nose at her thumb, picked up her wand, and rid herself of the troublesome hangnail once and for all.

"Ah-ah, he didn't eat any porridge, remember, my lovely lady?" Fred reminded her. Angie tried to suppress her smile at the compliment, but her best efforts could not contain how happy such simple words made her. Seeing her look so beautiful and actually know it made me swell with pride, knowing I played at least a small role in bringing that joy to her face, and I smiled at the couple as they joined hands so naturally that they could have been doing it for years.

"Leave me alone," my dear dark cloud grumbled. "I've been busy working, unlike you three."

Fred let out a low whistle and gave me a wide-eyed head shake. "Good luck," he mouthed. I shrugged helplessly. He was in a funk, I thought. What could I do but stay out of his way?

So, the happy couple departed right around the time I locked up the shop, and George decided his work was not so vital that he could not help me clean up. We closed up in silence, though, that hung heavy in the air around us.

"Well," I announced with more fake cheer that George wrinkled his nose at, "I'm going to get out of this uniform!"

"Yeah," he sighed. "Me, too."

Progress. I saw this as a sign that he was not actively avoiding me, since we both had to head to our bedroom to change. Perhaps I should have been happy with that turn of events, but I could not pretend that everything was all right. So, I pushed my luck.

"George?" I asked tentatively as I pulled off the magenta shop robes and carefully hung them up. He glanced at me briefly to show I had his attention but continued changing wordlessly. "What's bothering you?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"No, you're not," I corrected gently. "Please tell me. I'm worried."

He hesitated, stopping with one arm in one of Fred's old Mrs. Weasley sweaters, deciding. Finally, he shook his head. "It's nothing."

"George, you bit my head off earlier over dinner."

"Yeeeeah," he tugged the shirt over his head, "I know. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I just want to know what's going on."

"Nothing," he insisted, leaning against the wall. "Just tired, I guess."

Liar. He knew I saw through it, but that did not motivate him to cover his tracks. Instead, he leaned against the wall as I finished changing into comfortable sleep pants and an oversized shirt that might have been his at one time but had found its way into my drawer. When I was done, I flopped on the bed and searched the nightstand for a hair tie.

"Y'know, though, it's interesting," George mused, watching me carefully. The way his eyes narrowed made me shift uncomfortably in my seat, because George normally did not look that way when he found things interesting. This look was far too serious. "I had the strangest dream last night."

"Really?" I raised my eyebrows. "What of?"

"I dunno. You and me. Talking. About things."

I rolled my eyes. "All right, I'll bite. What kind of things were we talking about, George?"

"Oh, you know," he shrugged, although he had to be aware that I certainly did not know. "Tea. And sleeping. And stubbing your toe."

My heart stopped. This sounded dangerous. This sounded very dangerous. It flirted perilously close with a conversation George should not be dreaming about. "You have…very dull dreams."

"Yeah, it was pretty dull. But it got more interesting."

"D-did it?" There must have been ten hair ties on that blasted night stand in the morning, but, damn it all, I could not find a single one now.

"Yup. But, it was just a dream, right? Nothing to worry about."

The tension finally snapped in my head, and I slammed my hands down on the nightstand, the lamp teetering dangerously but not falling. "What are you getting at, George? What are you trying to say?"

George shrugged again and pushing himself off of the wall. "I remember." My stomach dropped. "And I don't know if I'm more upset that you drugged me or that you couldn't tell me otherwise."

"George…"

"You're going to die, Mel!" he shouted at me, and I flinched at the anger he never ever showed me. "You and Fred are going to… and you couldn't even tell me!" He slapped his hand against our dresser. "All the times I ask what's on your mind, why you can't sleep, what's bothering you, and you just tell me to trust you. How the hell am I supposed to trust you when you…" he cut himself off before he got even more upset. Slowly, he took one, two deep breaths to steady himself, and the voice that came out next was much quieter but not at all calmer. "If you needed to tell me that badly, you should have just told me. I understand that you keep your secrets. You should have just kept it to yourself if you didn't want me to know. It's the lies that piss me off."

"George, I'm…"

He held a hand up to silence me. "No, Mel. It's all…no, you know what? It's not all right," he shook his head, changing his mind about forgiving me. "It's not. I'm, I'm really upset. I know you don't tell me the things you Know, and I've learned to deal with that. But deciding to tell me as long as I've drunk some potion so I won't remember? That's a whole…how could you do that?"

Words had never failed me before, but as I looked at the hurt in George's eyes, the hurt he would not let show on his face, they finally did. I had no answer for him. How could I do that? How could I be so horrible to the man I loved?

"Yeah, I didn't think you'd have an answer." George shook his head and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "If Freddy asks, tell him I went for a walk."

He brushed by me on his way downstairs, not apparating out of the room probably for the dramatic effect watching him leave had on my heart. It was clear I was not to follow him, but he did not need to make that so obvious; I did not want to follow. I wanted to find a dark corner, curl up, and die.

How could I have been so stupid?

It vaguely occurred to me several times in the next few hours that I should get up, but it never quite seemed worth it. What would I do? Where would I go? George was gone, probably for good, and I could not see the point of moving anymore. I would stand up so I could…what? Pack my things? Wash the dried tears off of my cheeks? Get some food to silence my rumbling stomach? What good would any of that do when George was gone? So, I sat on the bed and stared at the doorway he had vanished through. I watched the shadows grow longer and longer, the natural light pouring through the windows get dimmer and dimmer.

At some point when the room was the translucent grey of dusk, my stomach twisted into an unbearable knot, and I felt so very, very cold, as if the very marrow of my bones had turned to ice. A symptom of a broken heart, I decided. I Knew that was wrong, of course, but I was just so numb and so broken and so exhausted that I could not think about what it really meant. What else could the world pile on that point?

Fred and Angie came back shortly after I realized just how dark the bedroom had gotten. Something about their laughter echoing through the open door snapped me out of my frozen state, and I looked up from my hands in time to see Angie poke her head in our room. His room. It probably wasn't mine anymore.

"Godric, Mel, would it kill you to turn on a…" she flicked the light on and instantly forgot her complaint. "Mel?"

Bless her. For all the ways she could irritate me and put me at my wits end, there was a reason Angelina Johnson was like a sister to me. She could take just one look at me and tell something was horribly wrong. That night, she was at my side in an instant, wrapping me in her arms so I could cry on the shoulder of her ivory dress. I would ruin it, so I tried to push her away, but Angie had the grip of a bear trap and refused to let me budge. So, since she seemed set on it, I let out a pathetic wail that brought Fred running in from the other room and started sobbing. All the tears that I held in since George left, too numb to let them out, came tumbling down to ruin Angie's beautiful dress and thoroughly dampen their lovely evening.

Fred sat on the other side of me on the bed and rubbed my back as I bawled, probably looking to Angie for an explanation that she could not give. This was my family, though, letting me cry without asking questions, murmuring soothing words and stroking my hair and rocking me gently.

I did not have to say what happened, which I could not have done fully anyway. They just knew. As my tears devolved into pathetic hiccups, they shared a look and together said, "George," in a way that told me they were not asking; they were just letting me knew they understood. So, I merely nodded.

"S…'s m-m-my…my f-fault," I stammered. Fred shushed me and offered a tissue, which I snatched greedily to blow my nose with.

"He shouldn't make you cry," he grumbled. "It can't have been so bad that you deserve to cry like this."

Except that it was.

"We'll talk to him, Mel," Angie assured me. I shook my head, but she only chuckled at me. "It's not your call, dearie. I have to hurt him for making you cry. That's the way this works, and he knows that…really? Are you so popular you need mail at midnight?"

Angie snapped her fingers and pointed at the window, so Fred let out a groan and opened it up so Wooster could flap inside. My owl very rarely stopped by the house at night; we had a very happy relationship as long as we saw very little of each other. Tender twelve year old Melbecka managed to fall in love with the most ornery, persnickety, and narcissistic owl around, but ours was a love made fonder by distance. Anyone hurt my pet, I would kill them, but I cursed his name about as often as he sent me death glares. Oh, yes, owls can send death glares. Trust me.

I took the letter from Wooster and, when he did not immediately fly away, stroked his head. This was too much love between us, so he nipped the air near my wrist in warning. I got the hint and pulled my hand away; I needed it to open the letter anyway.

"Well, I know it's hardly important, but we had an awfully good time at the show tonight," Angie offered.

I didn't care.

Words like attack and condolences and funeral buzzed through my brain, transporting me to a world far removed from my friends. They had no idea how things had changed in this simple moment. If only I had listened to that Feeling I had earlier, the one I wrote off as my personal grief. Not that I could stop anything. It was too late. But at least I would have Known. That was my thing, wasn't it? She will know death. It always Felt different when someone was about to die, colder and heavier and more intense. And, like a shallow fool, I chose to ignore it.

"Yeah!" Fred piped up. He rubbed the back of his head, a habit he and his brother were forming when thrust into awkward situations with girls. "It was…it was lovely!"

Normally, I would have wanted every detail. Hell, even considering what happened with George, I would have loved the diversion. But not now. Not with the letter I held in my hand. I stood up suddenly and made for my closet, grabbing my suitcase and throwing it on the bed where I had been moments ago. Angie jumped away in one direction, Fred in the other, and both gawked at me as I enchanted my things into the bag.

"Mel, it's not that bad!" Fred insisted. "He'll come 'round!"

"This isn't about George," I told them. "It's my mum."

"Oh, Mel," Angie rolled her eyes and laughed a little, "I promise you, there are no termites in Diagon Alley to eat through the foundation of the building and send it crashing down around us."

Count on Angie to give me something else to keep me up at night. "It's not about termites." Though, I would never get that thought to quite leave me head. I grabbed one of George's sweaters and threw it in my bag; it may not be mine, and I may not be in the position to just take his things willy-nilly, but I would need the comfort of his scent in the days to come.

"What does she want, then?" Angie asked. "Stop, would you just stop?" She grabbed my wrists so I stopped frantically checking the contents of my bag. "What does she want?"

I yanked my wrists free and shoved my hair out of my face. For the second time in as many days, I called upon Cedric's method of taking a very deep breath, hold it while counting to ten, then let it out slowly. I tried that, but it seemed to do very little to stop the shaking taking over my body.

"She doesn't want anything, Angie. She's been killed."

Next Chapter: The Scents of Knowle St. Giles