A/N: Warning for mentions of depression and Anorexia.

"George," her voice meets his ears and suddenly he is wide awake. She never calls him this late and if she is, something is terribly, terribly wrong. He pushes himself out of bed and lands with the thud next to the fireplace where the Floo is a light sickly green with Angelina's head popping out of it.

"Angie?" he mumbles. "What is it?"

"George I. . ." she trails off and he can see her collecting her thoughts. "I need your help. I'm at this bar and the room is spinning. I can't get remember where I put my wand. And this guy in the corner is looking at me like I'm on tonight's menu."

She is close to tears, George can tell. If this guy made Angelina cry, then there was a problem.

"Hold on," he tells her. "I'm coming for you, no matter what it takes, ok?"

Angelina nods and gives him the address of the bar, absentmindedly. Hurriedly, George pulls on his trousers and a shirt. His wand is in his hand and he's Apparating before he realizes what he's doing. Suddenly, he finds himself in front of a bar that looks like it has seen better days. What in the name of Merlin is Angelina doing here? Pushing the door open, he finds that the dark skinned girl is nowhere in sight.

"Was there a black girl here?" George asks the bartender, who just raises his eyebrows as if saying 'mate, I've seen a million black girls; you're going to have to be more specific'. "She's tall, big brown eyes, and she's got braids. Box braids. Her hair is about shoulder blade length."

After a moment, the man nods. "Yes, I think I know the girl you're talking about. She went out back."

He nods to a back door and George's stomach is filled with knots. Why would she go out the back door? What if she's in trouble? Immediately, his brain starts to function again and he's striding toward the door, then pushing it open.

He finds Angelina huddled against the wall, her arms wrapped around herself like she can keep the world out if she stays like this. Swiftly, George bends down next to her, hesitates for a moment, then places a hand gently on her shoulder. She doesn't move; she doesn't even acknowledge him. He's not good with words and he doesn't know what to say, but he knows saying nothing will make things ten times worse.

"Angelina?" he says, softly. "What's wrong? Did someone hurt you? Did that guy hurt you?"

"I'm fine," she answers, but her voice is flat, almost monotone.

"No, you're not," he replies immediately, because she is far from fine. As much as Angelina pretends that she is ok, everyone knows she's not. She lost people in the war, too. George knows how she feels, but he never thought she would go to this extreme. He was the one who was always holed up in bars.

"Yes, I am," she argues and a little bit of relief floods him. At least, she can still argue with him.

"No, Ange," he repeats. "No one is. No one is ever going to fine after a war like we've had. That's just the way it is."

Finally, she looks at him and it nearly kills George. Her eyes are rimmed red and she looks so sad, like she'll never be happy again. Her lips are trembling because she's trying not to cry, which makes George want to hold her tightly, even though she will never allow him to do that.

"I'm tired," she mutters. "I'm so tired of being strong for everyone. Katie's mum died in the war and she can barely function so I'm the one who has to go over everyday and make sure that she gets out of bed. Then there's Alicia, who can't even look around her house without crying, because Lee is too screwed up to stay with her. She makes herself throw up, did you know that? After every meal, she sticks her finger down her throat until she pukes it all up, and that's if she even eats. I have to make sure that she doesn't starve herself to death. Then there's you. . .oh. . ."

She chokes on a sob then and George sees then just how rundown Angelina is. She works herself to the bone for everyone else, but when it comes to herself, well, she isn't even thinking about her health or well-being.

"Oh, Angie," George sighs, pulling her into his arms and rocking her gently. "You are so, so strong, Angie. If you weren't here to hold us all up, then we'd have drowned by now. And it's alright to care about yourself. It's alright to have time for yourself. We can survive one day, Angelina. You do not need to do everything or feel like you have to do everything. Do you understand me?"

Slowly, Angelina starts to nod. "I'm sorry. I'm sitting in this stupid alley, feeling sorry for myself-"

"No," George interrupts her. "You're allowed to mourn, too. You lost people, too, Ange."

She doesn't say anything for a minute, just watches him very closely. Then she drops her gaze and everything is quiet.

"I really wanna kiss you right now," she says softly after a few minutes have elapsed.

George's eyes widen and he knows he must have heard her wrong. Angelina would never kiss him, not even when he was normal and Fred was still alive, especially not now when he's all screwed up. But then she looks at him and yes, she does want to kiss him. He can see it her eyes.

Then her lips are pushing hard against his, like she thinks he will push her away. That is the farthest thing from his mind, though. His arms tighten around her, making sure that she won't go anywhere. She tastes like whiskey. A moan echos through the alley, but George isn't sure who it belongs to; her or him. His hands thread in her hair and tug lightly.

Finally, they come up for air.

"Please, don't ever stop doing that," Angelina begs him.

"I won't," he replies.