DISCLAIMER: I am not JK Rowling. I do not own any Harry Potter characters I am merely taking them out to play.

Scene Eight: I Can Face the Dawn

It was late. Why George had decided to go back to his flat above the shop and not to the Burrow with the rest of his family, he wasn't sure. At first, being with them had felt good. They shared his grief, they had loved Fred too. But after a while it became – insufferable. He just couldn't stand all the tears. He couldn't bear to watch them suffer any longer. He knew they meant well when they told him they understood but none of them knew how he felt. As much as they'd loved Fred he felt alone in his grief. They'd lost their brother and son, but he'd been ripped in half. He'd lost more than his brother and his best friend, he lost half of himself. He was drained - physically and emotionally. So he went back to his flat, took a long, hot shower and collapsed in his bed. He'd slept for an hour or so, out of sheer exhaustion, he was sure. But now? Now he was wide awake staring across the room at the empty bed on the far wall. He couldn't take his eyes off it. In the moonlight it looked like a tomb. He tried to turn away but he couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Fred's dead body lying on the floor in the Great Hall. The disturbing image would not leave him alone.

Suddenly the door to his flat opened and he sat up straight as someone walked toward him in the dark. He could tell by the way she moved her hips that it was Angelina. Without a word she crawled into bed with him and pulled him into her arms, as she lay back on the bed. He buried his face in her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her middle. The tears he'd been resisting for hours now came out of nowhere and burst from him in great, ugly, unchecked sobs. He clung to her as though his life depended on it. She let him sob, his tears soaking her robes, as she rubbed his bare back with one hand and ran her fingers through his short red hair with the other. This was what he needed – someone to hold him while he cried; someone who knew him, who wouldn't judge him, who didn't need him to be strong.

It was a couple of moments before he realized she was crying too. He'd calmed down enough to hear what she was saying between sobs. He thought she was just murmuring nonsense but now that he could hear her he understood. She was repeating the same words over and over again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry George, I'm sorry."

He took a few steadying breaths and pulled his face out of her shoulder, supporting himself on his elbows, which were on either side of her. His chest hitched a few times but he felt spent. He knew he had no more tears in him.

He looked up at her; she'd stopped rubbing his back and was wiping tears from her eyes. She looked beautiful in the moonlight. Her other hand was resting on the back of his neck. She drew it around, along his jaw line, and then gently across his bare collarbone, which sent shivers down his spine.

"Thank you," he said, to fill the silent moment, "for coming," he added. "I guess I needed a good cry."

"I thought you might," she said in a choked voice. Her chest hitched – she was still trying to recover, to keep herself from crying. "Thank you too," she said after another quiet moment passed between them – during which nothing had been said but a million silent things had passed between them as they maintained eye contact.

"For what?" He asked quietly.

"For letting me in." She rested her hand on his chest, right above his heart. He could see more tears welling up in her beautiful brown eyes. It meant something to her that he had let her see this side of him – this weak side that he'd shown to no one else. He'd let her hold him while he'd cried – the only other person to have that privilege was his mother and she hadn't done it in years.

He rolled over, onto his back, pulling her with him as he did, so their positions were reversed. Now she was looking down at him.

"Stay with me tonight?" He wasn't really sure if it was a question or not. It'd sort of come out as a command. "I don't want to be alone tonight," he continued in a shaky voice, "I just can't."

She was silent for a moment and he was sure she'd say no when she surprised him by replying, "I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be."

He smiled weakly. He wanted to say thank you but words failed him, he was so overwhelmed with gratitude. He didn't have to be alone tonight.

"Do you have anything I can wear?" She asked, sitting up and pulling away from him. He'd forgotten she was still wearing her robes.

"Yeah," he sat up as well. "In the top drawer of the dresser," he gestured toward it, it was on the other side of the room. She got out of bed and went to it, pulling out a pair of his boxers and a t-shirt.

"Is this ok?"

It was dark and he couldn't see exactly what it was. "Sure."

"Ok, I'll change," she told him and disappeared into the bathroom.

He lay back down and stared up at the ceiling, determined not to look at the empty bed across from him. His heart was still heavy but it felt slightly less so now that she was here, now that he'd let some of his grief out. He closed his eyes for a moment and instead of the image of Fred's dead body he saw her face now.

A moment later she was back, lifting his covers and sliding into his bed. She immediately snuggled up to him, resting her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his strong arms around her, enjoying the warmth she brought with her. He knew his life had been changed forever. He knew he would never be the same again. He knew he would miss Fred for the rest of his life. But he thought - as he hugged Angelina close - with her in his arms he could get through this. With her, the pain felt less, somehow. In the morning he would have to get up and face a world without Fred. But tonight – he sighed – tonight he could fall asleep with a beautiful woman in his arms and know that he wouldn't have to face the dawn alone.

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