AN: Here is chapter 4, hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think in a review!
Rather than drunkenly splinch themselves, they had used the Floo at the back of the pub after saying quick goodbyes and thanks to the dancing couples and party planners. Angelina had been surprised to hear George shouting her address behind her, but she didn't linger on it. She was too focused on not losing her dinner and cake in transit.
She had just steadied herself when the fire spit George out at her and sent her stumbling into her couch. She landed with a flop at the end of her sofa. She sat there, drunk and slightly rigid in her coat, staring at her shoes with a look that said they ought to remove themselves. George stood by the fireplace for a moment, awkward and unsure of what he was doing there. Finally he settled himself on the other end of the couch and looked over at Angelina. She had begun kicking her shoes off and sliding out of her coat, so he followed suit. Angelina slouched into the sofa and sighed. She was exhausted; she was far too tired to try to pretend to be okay.
"Sometimes I hate your brother," she said quietly as she folded her feet beneath her and nestled into her couch. "I absolutely hate him. He was so damn arrogant, so certain that I'd be there when he was done chasing Death Eaters and fighting for the bloody cause. That I'd wait for him to finally man up and settle down with me. He was so fucking sure that he had all the time in the world to be with me."
George stared at her intently, not quite sure how to respond to this. He'd always known that Angelina and Fred had cared about each other. He thought back to the fateful day in May when he lost his brother. As they'd been walking through the tunnel to sneak into Hogwarts, he'd seen Fred pull a photo from his cloak. He had given Angelina's smiling face one last look before charging through to fight the final fight.
"I don't think he knew how much he loved you until it was too late."
Angelina laughed a throaty, caustic laugh.
"Of course not. That's how it goes, doesn't it? The tragic romance. We wait around forever for our men to grow some stones and admit that they love us, and then it's all cut short. Your brother was a bloody fool. Did you know that before the battle, he asked me on a date? He told me that when it was all over, he was taking me out for dinner. Such a bloody arrogant arse. We were in the fight of our lives and he had the gall to ask me on a date. A bloody date! He said, 'Angelina, love of my life, I'm taking you out on the town when we get done here.' The nerve of him, the cheeky bastard!"
Angelina knew that she had started crying, but she didn't stop.
"I absolutely hate him for it, and all the same I love him for it. That was what I loved about him. He was such a bloody prick, so cocky and presumptuous. He knew that I was mad for him, and he just kept me waiting, certain I wouldn't go anywhere. And now I'm always going to be waiting." She sobbed as she spoke the last sentence, knowing all too well that she would always be waiting for the day when she would see Fred again and have that date at last.
George reached over and pulled her closer to him. He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her on the side of her head. He turned his body so that his back molded into the corner of the couch and she was able to lean comfortably on his chest. Her tears began to darken his shirt. With his free hand he reached up and wiped his own eyes. He was in a painful situation—unable to console her, but grotesquely comforted that he had finally found commiseration in his grief. He had begun to feel angry towards his family. They were all moving on. It seemed so easy for them to talk about Fred like he was just another memory. How much Fred would enjoy this, or how wonderful that time with Fred was, the sort of joke that Fred might have made at this time or that. George felt like he was the only person left in his family still walking around with a gaping hole in their heart. It was rotten of him, but he took comfort in having another person that felt as miserable as he did.
Angelina opened her eyes to the sun and jumped. Beneath her another body stirred. She was looking at her own fireplace. Had she gone mad and actually brought some bloke back to her flat? Mortified, she sneaked a peek at whoever she'd just been snuggled up against.
George Weasley. Of course! She remembered that her birthday party, really just an excuse for Katie and Alicia to pretend like life was okay again, had ended with George following her back here. Had she really broken down on him? She chastised herself for letting him see her so profoundly vulnerable. She'd been careful not to let anyone in on the fact that she was deeply brokenhearted. He stirred again and she straightened her body to distance herself from him.
"What time izzit?" he mumbled.
"Half eight," she quickly replied after a glance at her clock. She practically jumped off the couch when he began to sit up. She began to straighten the couch cushions. His hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her back to the couch to sit. He was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the other hand.
"Listen," he said groggily. "I know what you're doing. It's the same thing my mum does when she doesn't want to talk about something. So stop it."
"What are you talking about?" she asked, trying to play it off like she hadn't been avoiding something.
"Don't be coy, Angelina. You're probably feeling about how I felt after I left your flat the other night. Embarrassed that I'd let you see through my rather carefully constructed wall."
Angelina sat down as far from him on the couch as she possibly could, her arms folded in front of her. He was right, though she hated to admit it.
"I know it might sound horrible," George continued, "but it's kind of nice to know someone knows how I feel. I've been a zombie for the past year and a half with nobody to talk to. My family is all moving on. My friends are all moving on. But you aren't. And it's kind of nice, in a sick, sad way, to be able to be around someone who knows how I feel."
Angelina relaxed her arms. She was so embarrassed about her wretched crying last night, but he was actually glad about it. She couldn't hate him for it—she had been glad when he'd spoken up at the pub the night before.
"Well I suppose I'm glad you can be glad about my misery, if I can be glad about your misery," she said, laughing pitifully.
George pulled her across the couch and wrapped his arms around her. He hugged her so tightly that she felt she could let all her walls down if she could feel this secure forever.
He released her, and with a peck on the cheek, he said goodbye before Disapparating. She headed into her bedroom with her mind in a fog, not really sure what to make of what her life was turning into. She reached into the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out an old photo. She looked down at the smiling faces as they waved back her: herself in a deep purple gown, Fred in his dress robes. The Yule Ball had been the start of their constant wavering on the line of friends and lovers. It hadn't been a model relationship, but whatever the hell it had been, it was still the only love she'd known. She set the picture down on the nightstand. Maybe she wouldn't hide how much that hurt her anymore.