We live in a beautiful world--
Oh, all that I know,
There's nothing here to run from,
And there, everybody here's got somebody to lean on.

-Coldplay, We live in a beautiful world.

iv.

To say that Fred Weasely had never looked so anguished was an understatement. His eyes were rimmed red and glassy, although she had not seen him crying. His twin looked very much the same-- both of them had their heads buried in their hands, sitting side-by-side, photographic reflections of one-another.

The window behind them was thrown open, the steamy June night sauntering through the window bringing it's starlight and moisture to settle in the middle of the room. There was no midnight breeze.

George stood. His face was as pale as death, his freckles suddenly dark and pronounced. His bright hair was flat on his head. It seemed like every party of his body was deflated, filled with sorrow and anger.

"I'm going to get some fresh air--" he paused, swallowing hard. "Let me know if--"

"We will," Angelina murmured on behalf of Fred, who looked like raising his head would have caused his entire body to shake apart. George bravely attempted a smile but it looked like the facial expression someone would make seconds before bursting into tears. He ducked out of the room.

She slowly got up from her chair and moved to sit on the couch beside Fred. He took his head out of his hands and regarded her wearily. The beautiful blue eyes were muted, their brightness gone, dull and shadowed over and so pained.

"It's my fault," he whispered, voice cracking.

"Don't say rubbish," she hissed, glaring at him.

It had been discovered a little more than two hours ago that the Weasely's youngest and only girl had been taken into the Chamber of Secrets; it seemed impossible that the young redhead would still be alive-- the chances were so slim. Fred agreed with that view because it appeared he was torn between crying and frowning, mourning the loss of his sister or fighting for hope.

"It is," he pressed, straightening up and running his long fingers through his hair. "She tried to tell me something, but I wouldn't listen--" his voice broke. "If only I had been a better brother."

She reached out and placed her hand over his. It was cold and she could feel it tremble, little tremors running through it like the flutter of a butterfly's wing. She imagined his heart was following the same pattern.

"You are a brilliant brother," she whispered. "Ginny told me so."

He looked away, biting his thumb nail awkwardly. She reached over and pulled it away gently. "You're just saying that--"

"No," Angelina interrupted gently. "She told me when she watched you practise two weeks ago-- she adored you," Angelina caught herself and bit her tongue, cursing. "She adores you still."

Angelina remembered the tiny thing that had come up to her during practise to ask if she could watch her brothers. Small and pale but as pretty as Fred was handsome. Right brilliant beater your brothers are, Angelina had said. And Ginny had replied timidly, no one in the world like them. Her big brown eyes shone in adoration as she watched her older brothers laugh and whoop in the air, cursing and making vulgar gestures at Wood-- but Ginny seemed used to it.

Fred looked at her. His eyes were clouded with tears; it couldn't be helped that a lonely droplet cascaded down his pale face, past the splash of brown freckles on his cheeks to rest on his crimson lips. It left a trail of shimmer.

"Oh Merlin, Angelina--"

He dropped his head onto her neck and she felt tears explode, hot and wet and painful, and they were probably soaking her blouse but how could she possibly be thinking about that when she was cradling his head the way she might a child; sobs wracked his body and he made no noise, only big whooshing gasps of air.

"Shh," she whispered, looking over his head at the empty common room and gazing at the cold fireplace. "There was nothing you could do, Fred, but you can hope--"

He tilted his head to speak, and his moist lips brushed her neck with every movement; were the situation not so dire she would have had a chance to register it.

"Do you think she's alive, Angelina?" He gazed up at her with ink-blue eyes, glassy and wretched. "Be honest, I want to know."

She paused, running her long fingers through the strands of his hair, and looked away. "Fred..."

"Angelina, look at me, please," and there was so much desperation in his voice she felt a stab of pain go through her heart.

"I am, Fred,"

He swallowed and licked his drying lips. "Do you?"

She sighed. "I think that anything is possible-- there's still hope, there will always be...we don't even know what's happening to her, we've automatically assumed the worst, perhaps--" she broke off. He was looking at her with a passionate hunger, hungry for the words that would take his hurt away. But false hope was no hope at all.

"I think she is strong," Angelina finished. "And that is all I can say for sure."

He nodded slowly; she knew that he hated being patronized. She took her hands away from his hair and wiped his tears away with her thumb, dabbing at the corners of his eyes with her knuckles. He blinked and his blue eyes appeared again, tired and weary.

"Hold on to hope, Fred," she whispered. Her palm brushed his mouth as she dried his cheeks and he kissed it, a brief flutter of a kiss. She looked down at him sadly, tears gleaming off of his pale eyelashes, painting them the darkest gold.

"I will," he murmured.

Hours later, when George burst through the door of the tower, whooping and shouting for all of the sleeping Gryffindors to hear that Ginny was not only alive but well, he had rushed over to Fred's sleeping form and dragged him off the couch. Fred, taking no time to look irritated at having been woken up in such a manner, said what, what? and George had said, she's alive! She's not hurt, she's--

But whatever else she was, Angelina had not heard it because Fred was up and running out the portrait hole with George, not casting a glance back.

Angelina had grinned to herself in her curled position on the over-stuffed chair and closed her eyes; she dreamed of little girls with red-hair and a familiar sleeping silhouette on the couch.