I.
The "Scar" Kiss
31 December 1998
George felt the corners of his lips twitch as Bill twirled Fleur around the Burrow's crowded sitting room. Then, his own parents took the floor, swaying serenely to the music crackling from the wireless. They were followed by Harry and Ginny, both of whom were pink-faced and laughing so hard that they kept stumbling over each other's feet. George snorted softly at the sight.
"Here you go."
George blinked. A beer bottle was dangling in front of his face.
"Thanks," he grinned, accepting the bottle, and Angelina Johnson sank down beside him on the old sofa.
"So. How many times d'you reckon Harry can step on Ginny's feet before she chucks him?" she whispered in his ear.
George choked on his beer, letting out a strangled laugh.
"The Prophet calls him the 'Chosen One,'" he told her under his breath, "but he'll always be the Boy Who Shagged My Sister to me."
Angelina smirked. "At least they aren't shagging right now," she said in a low voice. "I haven't seen Percy or Audrey since dinner."
"Fucking hell, Johnson," George groaned. Angelina snickered.
For several moments, they sat in comfortable silence. George watched Charlie, Ron, and Hermione play peek-a-boo with little Teddy on the hearthrug; the chubby eight-month-old was sitting in his grandmother's lap, shrieking with laughter.
"Still up for drinks at Oliver and Katie's later?" Angelina asked quietly. "It's okay if you'd rather stay here with your family."
George glanced at her. Her tone was nonchalant, but her dark eyes flickered up to meet his.
Every December since Fred and George had left Hogwarts, they had thrown a New Year's Eve party at their place in Diagon Alley. It had been Fred's favorite party of the year—just fifteen people crammed into a messy, two-bedroom flat above a joke shop, but Fred had entertained his guests like he would the Minister for Magic.
This year, Oliver and Katie had graciously offered to host.
George swallowed, but he tried for a smile. "Thought you could get out of an evening with me that easily, did you?" he asked her, tone carefully light. "Nah, mate, you're stuck with me. Besides, it'll be nice to see everyone."
Angelina's eyes twinkled. "Reckon everyone will be glad to see you, too—even though you're an arse."
Reaching up, she gently touched the side of his head where his left ear had once been. At once, George flinched, and they both froze, staring at each other. Looking stricken, Angelina made to remove her hand, but George reached up and placed his hand over hers, flattening it against his head.
He gazed at her, unsmiling, his head cocked to the side—and Angelina held his gaze with just as much intensity.
Then, very slowly, she leaned up and brushed her lips to the thin scars that outlined the small, dark hole his lost ear had left behind.
"Happy New Year, George," she whispered.
II.
The First Kiss
1 April 1999
The knock on his bedroom door sent a fresh wave of frustration spiraling through George.
"Fuck's sake," he growled. "Ron, I swear to God—"
"It's not Ron."
George was so surprised at the unexpected voice that he forgot to be furious when the door to his room clicked open, a bright streak of harsh light permeating the still darkness. Angelina's tall, lean figure was silhouetted against the amber glow of the hallway lamps.
"What are you doing 'ere?" he asked, lifting his head from his pillow to peer blearily at her.
"Ran into Ron and Harry at Quality Quidditch," she said coolly. "They invited me for drinks."
George glowered at her. "Those two," he spat. "First they call Bill and Percy, now you—I swear, if Ginny wasn't at school, she probably would have pitched a tent outside my bedroom by now—"
"It's your birthday," Angelina said quietly.
"I know that," George bit out. He pressed his face back into his pillow, tightening his fingers around the bottle of firewhisky that lay on his chest. "I'm fine."
Angelina snorted. "Yeah, you look like the picture of health. Tell me, George, what is the secret to your pasty, sickly skin?"
George stared at the bedroom wall. Then, in spite of himself, he let out a bark of laughter. The sensation felt odd and wrong; he stopped at once.
Several moments passed in silence, and George, with his face still half-hidden under his duvet, wondered if Angelina would leave now. If she would turn around and return to the sitting room where his brothers and Harry were. Picking through the stale haze of whisky that enveloped his brain, George was vaguely surprised to find that he didn't want her to.
He felt like a horrible brother whenever he thought it, but so much of grief was bloody dull. Long, endless days of keeping himself busy in the shop, dealing with customers and brainstorming new products, the pain of Fred dimming to a muted, lingering ache in his chest. The only respites from the monotony were the sharp stings of guilt he felt at enjoying himself, moving forward—making it to another fucking birthday when his brother had not.
"Budge up."
George blinked, looking around. There was a creak of bedsprings; then, George got a faint whiff of a familiar green apple scent as Angelina joined him on the bed and elbowed him quite unkindly in the ribs. More out of surprise than anything else, he shifted a few inches to his right.
"Just here for this," she quipped, snatching the firewhisky bottle out of George's hands. "Ron and Harry only bought the cheap shit."
"On my birthday? Wankers," George said loftily. "You think Auror trainees would earn more, with those crap hours."
"Eh," Angelina swallowed a mouthful of drink and waved a dismissive hand. "Even Wizarding saviors deserve a year or two of proper, low-wage groveling."
"Ah," George smirked knowingly at her, reaching for the bottle. "Ballycastle reserve team's still treating you well, then?"
"Let's just say an evening of moping in bed isn't the worst idea you've come up with," Angelina said lightly, and George grinned.
Twenty minutes later, George was pleasantly, stupidly buzzed. Everything was hilarious, especially the way his bed creaked whenever Angelina leaned over to him for the bottle.
For the fifth time, he let out a loud, suggestive groan, and Angelina smacked his shoulder. Her eyes, however, sparkled with amusement.
"You can keep hitting me, Johnson," George cackled. "I'll happily let my brothers and Harry make of it what they will."
"Don't pretend this isn't the most action you've gotten in months," Angelina sniffed, and George guffawed heartily. Her lips twitched.
A few beats of silence.
"Truth or dare," George ventured.
"Dare," Angelina said easily.
"Such a Gryffindor," he said fondly. "I dare you to go outside and kiss the Chosen One."
"Ha," Angelina snorted. "Never."
"Too scared of our Wizarding hero?"
"No. Too scared of your sister."
George burst out laughing, and Angelina winked at him. As their laughter faded, George found himself staring at her face, all high, sharp cheekbones and dark, intense eyes, just inches away from his own. Blood and alcohol thudded in his chest—and the stupid, reckless words were out of his mouth before he could begin to convince himself not to say them.
"I dare you to kiss me, then."
Time seemed to still. Angelina's eyes widened, but she didn't look surprised; no, it was the same expression she'd always had whenever she'd found Fred and him doing something particularly brash or wild. Wary. Curious. Assessing. George didn't dare breathe or blink, frozen in the moment of simultaneous newness and familiarity.
He wasn't sure who leaned forward first. But the next thing George knew, her lips were on his, hot and fierce.
He gripped the back of her head, lips slanting against hers. She moaned as her fingers seized fistfuls of his shirt, and he grasped her hips to pull her above him so she was straddling him. Her denim shorts slipped up her long legs, and George stroked his hands down her hips to her thighs, marveling at the touch of her warm flesh beneath his fingertips.
"This is crazy," she muttered against his lips. Words she had said a million times at school. When he and Fred had purposely slept through their entire History of Magic O.W.L. When they'd nicked a six-bottle case of firewhisky from the Three Broomsticks' storeroom. When they'd set off fireworks in the castle.
His lips found her pulse, thrumming with excitement. He nipped at it, and her head fell back on a gasp. He grinned.
"Who cares?" he said in response, as he always did.
III.
The "Freddie" Kiss
10 February 2003
"You're joking," George said hollowly, sinking down onto the edge of his bed and staring up at Angelina. She was sagged against George's bedroom doorframe, a dazed expression on her face. Her right hand rested on her stomach.
"Was just at St. Mungo's—they ran the tests three times to be sure," she said faintly. She closed her eyes. "Quigley says I'll have to take leave from the team. Liability reasons."
George buried his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. Fuck. Fuck. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening. God, it was something out of a fucking soap opera—worse, even, than the ones his mum listened to on the wireless. At least those fuckers were in love, even if they hadn't admitted it yet. An insistent, gnawing, significant feeling prickled his neck. He firmly ignored it.
He could feel Angelina moving down the bedroom toward him. This was the first time they had spoken to each other in nearly a week, thanks to another one of their infamous, days-long arguments. George didn't even remember what it was about. He'd just been too stubborn to apologize first. So had she.
A warm hand on his shoulder, a rustle of bedcovers. George prized his eyes open, looking sideways at her for a moment. Then, he turned and stared down at his feet.
Silence.
"Fuck," George said quietly.
Angelina snorted. "Yeah, pretty much sums it up, I reckon." Her voice sounded small and flat, nothing like normal.
He glanced at her and saw that she was staring down at her midriff. Her jaw was clenched, eyes bright with tears. The sight went through George like physical pain.
Throat tight, he reached out and wrapped his arms around her, kissed the top of her head, and pulled her into a tight embrace from which he did not release her for a very long while.
IV.
The Proposal Kiss
26 October 2005
"George, I swear, if you don't have a good reason for dragging me up this bloody hill, I will curse you to the moon," Angelina grumbled, rubbing her eyes as she followed George's footsteps up the sloping dirt path of Stoatshead Hill. "You know how I feel about dropping Freddie on your parents unannounced—"
"There's a good reason, Ange—and my parents don't mind, I've told you a thousand times," George insisted.
A minute passed in silence. Then—
"Are we there yet?" Angelina's impatient voice floated up from several paces behind him. George bit his lip. Fuck. She was in a very foul mood tonight.
"Nearly," he said brightly. And at last, several excruciatingly long minutes later, they reached the top. George turned around and faced Angelina, a smile on his face. "All right. We're here."
"Brilliant," Angelina snapped. She turned around slowly. "Where's my bloody birthday surprise?"
"Close your eyes."
"Fuck—George—"
"Please?" George interrupted desperately. "Just close them—it'll make the surprise better, I swear."
Angelina heaved an irritated sigh. "Fine. They're closed. Not planning on murdering me out here, are you? Because if you are, let me know and I'll take my shoes off first. They're new."
"Bloody hell," George muttered, stepping closer to her. He reached out and gently grasped Angelina's shoulders, then, slowly and carefully, he began to lead her toward a nearby cluster of sycamore trees. When they were a few feet away, he drew his wand from the pocket of his jeans. "Lumos."
Angelina's eyes opened. George watched her wince a little at the sudden light, then blink a few times. Her gaze fell upon the tree they stood in front of, where the letters 'G — A' were carved into the middle of the trunk. Slightly faded and weathered, but unmistakable.
"When did you do this?" she asked in amusement, eyebrows raised.
"Summer before sixth year," George said quietly. The humor faded from Angelina's face; she turned to meet his gaze, her face still. "Fred dared me," he told her with a rueful, painful grin, and a corner of her lips trembled for a second.
He looked at her for a long moment, taking her in, every familiar detail of her face, those dark eyes boring into him. Then, swallowing, he nodded at the tree.
"Always you," he said gruffly. "Before that stupid ball, before the war—before Freddie."
"George," Angelina whispered.
"He knew," George tried to smile, though it was more of a grimace. "It's why he asked you—so no one else would. God, we were such fucking pricks."
Angelina let out a strangled laugh. "Arseholes."
A few beats of silence.
"I know I've done everything wrong," he told her, carding a tremulous hand through his hair. "And I can't promise you easy. But I love you. Have for years."
A tear slipped down Angelina's face. "You wanker. Of course I love you, too."
George reached out and took her face in his hands. She blinked, a few more tears slipping down her cheeks.
"Marry me," he said quietly.
She stared at him for a long moment, surveying him as only she could. Then, she nodded, a bit of a grin leaking into her face. "Yeah, all right, then."
George felt his face melt into a stupid smile, the sort of smile he would have taken the piss out of Harry and Ron for. He leaned down and kissed her deeply. He felt her smiling against his lips and felt a familiar jolt of delight, the same jolt of delight he had felt since fourth year, at having been the one to cause it.
"Fred owes me thirty galleons," he murmured after a few minutes. "The bastard kicked it before he could cough up."
Angelina laughed, burying her face in his chest. "Typical," she said hoarsely, and George smiled.
V.
The Wedding Kiss
21 August 2006
"Didn't know if I'd make it," Angelina muttered as she squeezed herself into the small, out-of-the-way alcove of Ottery St. Catchpole's parish church. George passed her his flask of firewhisky, and she reached for it with a grateful smile. "Alicia's driving me mad. She must've asked me where I was going a thousand times."
"She can't be worse than Ron, " George said darkly; he took the flask back from her and raised it to his lips for a long draw. "My little brother seems to consider it a personal insult if you aren't as sickly-looking as he was the morning of his wedding."
Angelina snorted with laugher, snagging the flask again. George grinned, then took a step closer to her, so they were pressed together in the small alcove.
For a moment, they were both silent, smiling at one another. George's eyes roved over her, admiring the way the silky white dress hugged her lean legs and the curves and angles of her waist. His fingers danced up her hips.
"So," Angelina said quietly. "This is it."
"Marriage." George swallowed. "Ready for eternity together?"
"We have a son, George."
He rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."
A pause. Then—
"Yeah. I do," Angelina whispered. "I'm ready. You?"
"Ready," he murmured back, bending down so that his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "You know, they say it's bad luck for us to see each other before the ceremony."
"Oh, dear," Angelina snorted. "And what do they say about having children out of wedlock?"
George grinned. "Nothing good, I imagine."
Angelina turned her head so their lips met suddenly. "We're the poster children for prim and proper, aren't we?"
"Mmm," George smirked against her lips. "That reminds me, I'm putting a full Body-Bind Curse on my mum after the ceremony. Promised him I'd make my reception the party of the century, for both of us."
"Sounds good. Make sure you put one on Alicia, too."
VI.
The "Roxanne" Kiss
1 December 2007
"George?"
George blinked blearily, starting out of his half-doze. Giving his head a sharp shake, he jumped out of the armchair he was wedged into and hurried to his wife's bedside. It had been nearly half a day, now, since Angelina had given birth to their second child, a daughter.
"You're awake," George whispered, beaming. "Are you all right? D'you need more potions—?"
"I'm fine, George," Angelina interrupted in a soft, hoarse voice. "I just wanted to…can I see her?"
George nodded, swiftly making his way toward the bassinet in the corner of their bedroom. Slowly, he leaned down and scooped up his daughter, cupping a hand around her dark, fuzzy head.
"There she is," Angelina whispered, and tears filled her eyes. She reached her arms out; George carefully nestled the small tangle of blankets into them. "There's my girl."
George grinned. "Cute, isn't she? Just a few years, and she'll be using that adorable face to get out of detentions."
"Oh, no, she won't," Angelina cooed at the baby. "You're Mummy's good girl, aren't you? You'll keep Freddie in line…yes, you will…"
George snorted and shook his head. Then, closing his eyes, he released a deep breath and slowly sat down next to Angelina on the bed.
"Ange…" he trailed off. Reaching out, he smoothed back a few flyaway strands of Angelina's hair. "I…I was thinking, and…I reckon we should name her Roxanne."
Angelina looked up, startled. "What?"
"Roxanne," George nodded. "For your mum."
Angelina stared at him. "What made you change your mind?"
George was quiet for a long while. "You were right," he said finally. "It was brave of her to apologize and become a part of your life, even if it was fifteen years late, and…" he paused, trying to phrase his thought in a way that wouldn't upset her. "And I remember how devastated you were when she was killed, and I realized that…I would want my daughter to be named after someone who was able to make such a big impact in such a short time."
Angelina closed her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered.
"I'm sorry we fought," George cupped Angelina's jaw gently. "I'm sorry we brought her into a world where we were angry at each other."
"It's all right," Angelina said quietly, gazing down at Roxanne's little face, which twitched as she snuffled in her sleep. She looked up and met George's eyes. "We're better at apologizing than we used to be, aren't we?"
"Reckon so," George agreed. He nodded at Roxanne. "The Nifflers have helped."
Angelina smiled at him, and George smiled back at her, before leaning down and kissing her.
When he pulled back, he was smirking.
"You know, I only met your mum once, but if the amount of trouble she caused as an adult is any indication, she must've been a right terror at Hogwarts."
"Fuck off, George."
VII.
The Last Kiss
30 December 2097
George swallowed heavily, willing a smile onto his pale, tired face. With a deep breath, he pushed open the door to the bedroom he shared with Angelina in their cozy, little flat above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes—where they still lived, all these years later.
Angelina lay in the center of their bed, tucked under a heaping pile of quilts, staring up at the ceiling. Her face was thin and worn, her eyes heavy, her breaths frail and slightly rattling. She didn't notice him coming.
"Budge up, woman," he murmured, and she looked around at his voice. Her face broke into her warm, twinkling smile.
"Arsehole," she whispered hoarsely. She had permanently lost her voice, two years earlier, when she had come down with an untimely bout of Dragon Pox. Although she had ultimately received a clean bill of health, the long, painful illness had taken a great deal out of her.
Very carefully, George sat down beside her on the bed, taking her hand and rubbing it with his thumb. "You're looking gorgeous this evening."
Angelina managed a wry laugh. "Flatterer. One hundred and twenty years haven't changed you, have they?"
"'Course they haven't," George murmured, ignoring the hollow ache in his chest as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
Angelina smiled fondly at him. Then, with extraordinary effort, she pushed herself upright and leaned back against the headboard. For a long moment, her dark eyes swept over her face, in the way that only hers could, as though she was seeing into his soul.
"George," she began, and her voice broke. "I'm very, very tired today."
George closed his eyes. "Roxy and Henry just left," he informed his wife, his tone carefully light. "And Freddie, Nayla, and the kids cooked us dinner. It's in the kitchen."
Angelina beamed, though her face remained exhausted. "Lovely," she said scratchily. George stared at her, his jaw clenched so tightly that it hurt. The corners of Angelina's lips trembled. "Kiss me," she told him, and George smiled despite himself, as very gently, he bent down and pressed his lips to hers, that familiar green apple scent enveloping him.
"I love you, George Weasley," Angelina said softly. "How lucky I am to have known you. If I hadn't, I certainly don't think I'd still be snogging at my age."
A laugh burst out of him, despite the fact that his throat had swelled shut. He shook his head, then leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. Angelina grinned, her dark eyes shining with tears.
"You're stuck with me," George whispered. "Happy New Year, Ange."
Author's Note:
Hello! I feel like it's been ages since I last posted a one-shot. This one's for SonyaWho's "Seven Kisses" Challenge.
Ari