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Chapter 11

At four in the morning, the rubbish bin was full of empty bottles and they were all finally ready for their beds. Hermione and Ron said good night first and stumbled upstairs. The remaining four had a great laugh at the sound of their footsteps—it wasn't easy for them trying to make it all the way up to Ron's room when they were drunk. There were several missteps heard and lots of swears from Ron followed quickly by Hermione's not-so-quiet admonishments.

Shortly after, Ginny and Harry bid goodnight and had a shorter, easier trip up the stairs to Ginny's room. It was understood that Molly would likely check in on them at some point, and in the morning Hermione and Harry would quickly switch places. Molly was glad for her children and their engagements, but she was somewhat old-fashioned about how things worked before marriage. Ginny had fought with her the first time Harry had spent the night in her room, but Molly refused to budge. The couples eventually rigged up a warning system that alerted them to when Molly was coming and gave Hermione and Harry enough time to Apparate to the other bedroom. They still laughed about the time it malfunctioned and they'd had barely a second before Molly opened Ron's door to find that Harry had Apparated into the same bed as Ron.

Angelina was struggling to keep her eyes open when George spoke up.

"How they don't manage to wake up Mum is amazing," he said as they listened to Harry and Ginny's thunderous footsteps fade up the stairs. He stood up and tossed the remaining empty bottles in the bin. "You want to crash here, Ange? Or Floo back to my flat?"

"Your flat I suppose. I don't want to give your mum any more wrong ideas if I show up in her kitchen in the same dress tomorrow morning," she said, laughing a little. George grinned and walked over to the fireplace.

"After you," he said, offering her the jar of Floo Powder.

Angelina was used to sleeping at George's flat by now. Since they spent so much of their time together, crashing at each other's flat was a regular occurrence. It had been for months now. She enjoyed it, because it saved her time in the morning if she didn't have to meet him for coffee. Her feet landed on George's floor and she barely caught her balance before George stumbled into her. She was caught off guard and would have fallen to the floor, but he grabbed her arms to keep her up.

Suddenly she found her face inches from his, her balance completely dependent on his hands, which gripped her arms. His grip was overwhelmingly strong but not forceful; she was keenly aware of the tension in his muscles. The remained suspended like this, his large hands encircling her arms as their faces hovered mere inches apart, for the better half of a minute. Suddenly, he blinked, and it broke Angelina's trance.

"Thanks," she eked out as she straightened herself. Hesitantly, George removed his hands, still in a mild state of bewilderment. Before he could respond, Angelina was already in his bedroom. When he followed, she was fishing through a drawer for a shirt. "Where's that comfy blue shirt I like?" she asked.

"It's..it's in the wash," he stuttered. George was in a fog. He wasn't sure what he had just seen when he landed in his flat. He knew they were both drunk enough to be startled by a sudden post-Floo collision, but was that what had happened? Suddenly he caught her reflection in his mirror. She stood by his dresser, pointedly searching through his drawer looking for the best shirt to sleep in. Her hair was falling from its ponytail now, and waves of soft black hair cluttered the nape of her neck. Angelina pulled a green button-down from the drawer and removing her own dress. He had no time to react before she was donning his shirt and climbing into his bed. As he stood there in a stupor, she curled into his comforter and let her eyelids weigh themselves down.

"Good night George," she murmured. Realizing that he was still standing in his doorway, he undressed, leaving himself decent enough to climb into bed next to her, and laid his head on his pillow. He was passed out before he could feel the warmth of her rolling into him.

George Weasley stood in his bedroom. The sun was shining through the window. It was a dawn sun, rosy and orange. He stood at the edge of his bed, and in front of him kneeled Angelina on his bed. She faced him wearing nothing but his green shirt. Her hair fell around her shoulders in voluminous waves. Without speaking, eyes fixated on his, she took his hand and placed it on her waist. She gave him a mischievous grin. He took this as a cue to pull her closer, and so he did.

Their bodies were close now, almost touching. George saw the unbuttoned shirt begin to fall open, slowly exposing her body underneath. Angelina lifted her left arm and draped it behind his neck. With one finger she stroked the nape of his neck where his hair ended. George shivered at the touch. She smiled at him and raised her right hand. With one finger, she began poking him in his forehead. Poke poke poke poke poke. Repeatedly she tapped on his forehead, but it did not sound like finger meeting forehead. Rather, it had a shrill tapping sound to it. George became more and more disoriented, his eyes fluttering as she repeatedly poked his head and produced this tapping sound on his skin. It grew louder.

His eyes flew open. Next to him on the bed was Angelina, sprawled out on her stomach, one leg clumsily draped over his. His clock read nine thirty. The tapping noise continued.

"Bloody owls," he growled as he lugged himself out of bed. Sure enough a tawny owl was pecking mercilessly at his window. He recognized the owl as his parents' new owl Franklin. He flung open the window and retrieved the post, offering Franklin a biscuit before closing the window to him. He stepped out of the bedroom and quietly shut his door to avoid waking Angelina. He put on a pot of coffee before sitting down to read his mother's post.

'George dear, I enjoyed your visit yesterday and was glad you were able to bring your friend. She's a lovely girl, that Angelina. I hope you will bring her around more often. I know you don't like me to bother you about this, but if you're going to be having her back to your flat at absurd hours of the night after littering my rubbish bin with Butterbeer bottles, I hope you are offering her your bed while you take the couch. Your brother and sister may think they can pull one over on me, but I am well aware of who ends up where at the end of the night. Your father was impressed with Angelina as well – he keeps bringing up how bright she seemed during their conversation about the new regulations regarding magical tampering with Muggle contraptions. Your brother Charlie will be home for a few days next week – we hope you'll come by to visit him and bring Angelina with you. Love, your mother.'

George sighed and set down the letter down on his table. He filled a mug with the fresh coffee and sat back down, staring at the parchment. His mother would have his hide if she knew that he regularly shared beds with Angelina—even if it was strictly a platonic arrangement. Even if he wasn't sure how strict or platonic it still was. Frustrated with himself, he groaned and held his head in his hands. He hadn't been too drunk to forget the way they had been so close last night, or the way he had noticed every curve of her body as she searched for a shirt. He wondered if she had been as keenly aware of the distance between them or the heat that his hands generated against her skin when he caught her. Had she been aware of his eyes, dumbly gawking as she let her dress fall and she pulled on his shirt?

"Butterbeer coming back to bite you in the arse?" she asked, materializing in his kitchen before he realized it. When he lifted his head and turned to respond, he paused. She was pouring herself a coffee and mixing sugar into it, still dressed in the green shirt. George was abruptly struck with the memory of his dream, the way the green shirt shone against her dark skin in the hazy light of daybreak as it broke through his window. "At least it wasn't whisky," she laughed as she sat with her coffee. He cracked a smile at this, but the contrast of his dream image against the woman in front of him kept his tongue twisted.

Angelina noticed that George was repeatedly glancing at her legs, bare and exposed. She had forced herself to ignore the self-conscious voice telling her to find pants only because she knew she had none, the fatal flaw in wearing a dress. She chose to ignore George's glances. It was best if she didn't call him out—it would only make them both more uncomfortable. She didn't know why. This was not a new scene for them, both hung over, her in one of his shirts.

They drank their coffee in silence, mostly because neither was functional in a hangover before at least two cups. She noticed the parchment on the table. She thought she caught her name in the script, but she didn't ask him about it. She changed back into her dress and gave George a hug goodbye before Apparating into her own flat. She had no plans that day, so she showered and crawled back into her bed. She had never felt this awkwardness, this uncertainty that she was feeling now. She knew what Katie would say to her if she told her about the way that George had looked at her. She had felt the lingering attention of his gaze last night, but she didn't want to think about it. She made herself brush it off, dismiss it as a drunken daze.