Standard disclaimers apply!

I do not own Harry Potter. I have nothing to do with Scholastic, Warner Bros or Bloomsbury. I'm not JKR and I am certainly not making any profit out of this.

Dramatic

"What's up with him?" Angelina stared after Ron as he disappeared back up the stairs.

"Who knows," George laughed, "I gave up trying to understand Ronniekins a long time ago. It's best just to smile and nod, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I think I do." She was looking around at the boxes and crates, and the rickety old table with its wobbly legs. Anywhere but at him. "Nice set-up you've got down here, George."

This again? He nodded and focused carefully on the tart in his hands. "I think a slice is in order, don't you Ange?"

Her sigh of relieve was visible. "Isn't that supposed to be for after work?" Angelina demanded. "You know, as fortitude for tonight's inventory. Ron's not going to be happy if you eat it all before he can get at it."

"I wasn't suggesting we eat it ALL," George laughed. "Just a thin slice, you know, to make sure it's up to scratch."

"Well ... it wouldn't be fair of us to not make sure that it's good enough, would it?"

"That's the spirit, Ange. Pull up a crate," George said as he summoned a knife and a fragile looking paper plate. "Last one, I'm afraid;" he motioned to the plate, "we're going to have to share." There she goes again, looking all uncomfortable. What's going on with you, Ange?

"No forks? I take it this is going to be a fingers exercise?"

"Food always tastes better that way," George replied loftily, hitching his crate closer to hers and balancing the paper plate on his knee before breaking off a small piece of tart and popping it in his mouth. "Go on, it seems to be OK, but I need a second opinion." He broke off another piece and held it out, waiting patiently for her to take it and watching with interest when she finally did.

"Not bad," she agreed, very interested in a scuff mark on the floor.

"Have some more," he broke off another and proffered it. "You going to hang around for a bit?"

"Yeah, sure. Tea?" Angelina jumped up and started fiddling with the kettle.

"OK. I'll take a cup before I head back up there."

"Is it usually this busy?" She asked.

"Sometimes," he said. "Sometimes it's busier, but that's usually in the holidays and before things like Halloween, Easter and Christmas." He stared curiously at her back. They'd already talked about this. Twice. That idea of Luna's was buzzing around his head again, no matter how hard he dismissed it.

Time to take the bull by the horns.

He put the paper plate on the rickety old table and stood slowly, taking the time to brush any crumbs off his lap and collect his thoughts. She was still mucking around with the tea things, moving them around this way and that. Two mugs of tea really don't need that much work ... and still she had her back to him.

"Do you do inventory every night?"

"Pretty much," he went to stand next to her and took one of the mugs from her hand, placing it carefully back down. "The water isn't even boiled yet."

"I know," she poked her wand at it impatiently. "This isn't a trick kettle or something?"

"No," he laughed at that and made a mental note to explore the idea. "Let it go for a minute, a watched pot never boils."

"True, true," she laughed too, but then tensed noticeably when he took hold of one of her wrists gently and held it still.

"I'm not going to bite." Merlin, it was almost funny. "Why is it that every time I touch you, you jump about a mile?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, George," Angelina scoffed, glancing at him briefly out of the corner of her eye.

Relenting, he let go of her wrist, but didn't back away. "I wish you'd talk to me, Ange."

"I've been talking to you all afternoon," she said, far too quickly. He noticed, however, that she didn't move away – despite the fact that he was standing only inches from her.

"You know what I mean," he shook his head and laughed at the situation, then decided to approach it from another angle. "Did you know that I fancied the hell out of you during the war?"

She just shook her head.

"Yeah, I did. I was going to ask you out and everything, but it was never the right time, you know?"

"Too much going on," she agreed, resolutely staring at the kettle.

"So ... if I had asked, would you have?"

"I would," she was so quiet that had she not nodded, he wouldn't have been sure of what she'd said.

"So why are you so scared of me now?" George really wanted to know. This was confusing!

"I'm not scared of you," she denied, glancing up at him quickly and then away again. "Why would I be scared of you?"

"OK," he conceded, "maybe scared isn't the right word."

The kettle whistled then, perfect timing, and they busied themselves in the making of tea.

George glanced at his watch. He'd run over his lunch break by several minutes, and felt slightly guilty about leaving the shop in Ron and Lee's care. Then again, what was the point of being the boss if you couldn't take a few liberties?

"What if I asked now? Would you?" As soon as the words left his lips he knew the answer would be no, and so wasn't at all surprised when she shook her head in the negative. "Can I ask why?"

Frowning heavily, she set her mug down. "You deserve someone better."

Well, he hadn't been expecting that! He laughed at the absurdity of the idea.

"You find this funny?" Angelina demanded, her eyebrows raised.

There, that was much more the Ange that he knew and lo- liked a real lot. "Yeah, I do," he nodded, "for starters, isn't that for me to decide?" He never thought he'd be happy to see her scowl at him, but at least it was something he was familiar with and knew how to handle.

That didn't last long, and all relief was swept away when she shut her eyes tightly and bent her head. "I really have to go."

He took hold of her wrist again. "No, you really don't."

"George," her voice wobbled dangerously, "please?"

Wait? Was she actually crying? In all the years he'd known her, he'd never seen Angelina Johnson cry. He knew he should let her go, but now he also knew that Luna had been right all along ... and this was bloody stupid. "No, Ange. That's not good enough. Give me a reason."

"I hate crying," she mumbled, wiping her face with her free hand. "Fine. I'm a horrible person. Is that good enough for you?"

"Don't be thick," George said, put out, "I think I would have noticed that sometime in the last ... what? 10 years? You're going to have to do better than that."

"Can we at least sit down?" Angelina asked, putting up a front of irritability.

"No. I like it right here."

"You're bloody relentless," she muttered, and he realised that she was resolutely ignoring the way he was stroking the inside of her wrist.

"No," he disagreed, "I'm just sick of it all. I miss you, Ange, and I want you back ... and you're here giving me this bullshit that you're not good enough, and a horrible person, and merlin knows what other malarkey you're going to come up with. Just tell the truth. Surely it can't be that bad."

"No?" She rolled her eyes and seemed to accept defeat. "OK then." She took a deep breath. "I saw Percy and Bill taking Fred's body down to the Great Hall, but I thought it was you because I couldn't see," she waved her hand vaguely around her head, "you know, the lack of ear. Then you came running from the other direction. Do you know what I felt, George? When I realised that it wasn't you?"

When he didn't answer she looked up at him, found him staring down at her with an unreadable expression.

"I was relieved, George," she ploughed on, "I was relieved that Fred was dead, because it meant that it wasn't you!"

She tried to shake off the hand he placed on her shoulder, and he wondered absently if she noticed the tears flowing down her own face.

"And then I avoided you at the funeral, even though I knew you had to be feeling terrible, but I was so wrapped up in my own guilt that I just couldn't face you. What kind of a friend does that make me? What kind of a person?"

"That certainly explains a lot," he said quietly.

"God! Is that all you can say? How can you even look at me?"

"How do you know if I'm looking at you or not," he wondered aloud, "when you won't look at me? Honestly, Ange ..." he shook his head and suppressed a smile, "you're so dramatic sometimes."

"Dramatic? You think I'm being dramatic?"

"Just a bit. Come here and give me a hug," he pulled her to him without waiting for an answer; relieved with she didn't pull away, but seemed more inclined to lean against him. "Sorry, I don't mean to ... to ... what is it Hermione calls it? Dismiss? Invalidate? One of them. I don't mean to do that to your feelings."

"And yet you are," she pointed out, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

"Well, do you want me to yell at you and tell you to never darken my doorstep again or something?"

Her shoulders shook slightly. "No."

She was laughing now ... good news.

"I suppose I'd better get back to work."

"No rest for the wicked," she agreed, and then touched his shoulder lightly. "I made you all wet, sorry."

"You made you all wet too," he pointed out, fishing a hanky out of his pocket and waving her hand away when she made to take it from him. "Let me," he said, holding her by the chin and wiping her cheeks carefully. "So, Angelina, how about dinner at the Leaky tonight?" He shot her a lopsided grin. "Not as friends, but a proper date."

"Alright, yeah." She smiled up at him and they both laughed as he finally let her go.