"I can't wait to fall in love," sighed a twelve-year-old girl, blonde plait twirling between her fingers as she lay on her four-poster bed staring up at the ceiling.

"Alicia, you're not being practical," said another small girl who was tacking up a poster of a famous quidditch star to the wall. She was dark-skinned and her long dark hair was tied into hundreds of tiny braids. "Love isn't real. The best you can do is to find someone who can provide a diversion from your regular, boring life for a few weeks. Then you move onto the next bloke. Isn't that right, Katie?"

"Yeah, Katie, tell Ange she's wrong," said Alicia, clutching her pillow.

The last girl of the three was flipping through the pages of kid's magazine that included pull-out pranks and simple recipes for potions that resembled vomit in both form and smell. She looked up with bright green eyes through messy, short dark hair that was tied haphazardly into a pony tail. "You really want to know?" she asked.

"Yes!" shouted the two other pre-teens simultaneously. "Tell her she's wrong!"

"No," said Katie simply. "You're both wrong."

"Huh?"

"Let me put it this way," she said, shoving the magazine aside. "Here's my plan for my life: My first love is going to be my strongest. We'll be young and head over heels, passionately, recklessly in love. But we won't be practical. We won't be able to see sense. And then some great tragedy is going to divide us; our recklessness is going to separate us somehow and I'm never going to get over him. But, because I'm still so young, I'm going to date again and eventually I'll meet someone who's the exact opposite of everything my first love was. He'll be practical and he'll be able to provide for me. He'll help me out through the rough patches of my life for a while, but eventually we're going to realize that we're not meant for each other. He'll probably end up falling in love with my sister or someone. And my third and final love is going to be the person I grow old with. And there's my life."

"That sounds depressing," Alicia said, turning up her nose.

"I'm just trying to be practical," returned Katie, shrugging.

"That's not practical," scoffed Angelina, rolling her eyes. "What on earth makes you think that's going to happen to you?"

Again, the small brunette shrugged. "I just know," she replied, turning back to the magazine and beginning to read about bogie hexes. "That's all. I just know."

Katie Bell woke up in a cold sweat, jerking upward and pushing away the stray clippings of her twice edited story that had clung to her face, stuck there with drool from her sleep. Oh, gross. Where the hell was she, anyway? Oh, that's right. Work.

"I am Katie Bell, emerging journalist for the rag of a newspaper called the Daily Prophet and I am not disoriented enough to forget that," she breathed to herself, trying to collect the clippings that had flown from her desk. Noticing the empty office and the small patch of moonlight that fell on the rough blue carpet, Katie quickly checked her wristwatch: 9:30 p.m.

"Oh damn," she muttered. "Late again. Aarons will kill me."

Seemingly right on cue, the large night watchman for the newspaper office walked in, shining the light from his wand into the corner where Katie's desk was located. Katie frowned slightly, shielding her eyes.

"Still here," she said grumpily.

"You again!" Aarons said, annoyed. "I thought they told you to stop working so late. You'd better get out of here."

"Yeah, yeah," Katie grumbled. "I'm going, just don't get your knickers into a twist over it." She shoved her few things into an old burlap messenger bag and threw it over her shoulder. She attempted to sidle past Aarons, but the overgrown man stopped her by putting a large paw on her shoulder. Katie looked up slowly, annoyed. Aarons's eyes grew large.

"Hey," he said stupidly. "Hey, I recognize you. You're Katie Bell. You were on the front page this morning."

"Congratulations on your visual recall capabilities," she spat, once more sidling around him.

"Say, is that why you're always working so late? So you won't have to spend time thinking about that red-headed bloke?"

"Goodnight!" she said with finality, not bothering to look back at just another of the concourses of people that had made her already wretched life hell that day—and indeed for the past week. She tossed that morning's issue of the daily prophet idly into the bin on her way out and locked the door behind her. Had anyone bothered to inspect the barely-read paper she had so carelessly tossed aside, they would have seen the large bold headline: "War Kills Even Those Who Survive". Underneath was a large glossy photo of a tall red-headed man who happened to be missing an ear, clutching the hand of a thin-set dark haired young woman. Both were staring solemnly at a casket on a hill, the rain falling softly and lightly on the heads of both young man and woman. It was complete with a caption.

"The startling green eyes of Kathryn Bell are full; the tears form and slide to the end of her extraordinarily long lashes where they finally fall silently. Her eyes speak of the measureless sorrow of her soul, but her jaw is set firm in the style of a wizarding Jacquelyn Kennedy (for a full explanation, see Page 3). The only sign of her inner turmoil manifests itself in her left hand—still adorned by the simple silver band--which is clenched tightly in that of stalwart, left-behind twin George Weasley. These two, closest to the deceased, listen silently to the eulogy of the brave Fred Weasley who was stolen from us just this past June in the spring of his life. Though both refused to comment--"

What the self-important publication did not reveal was the fact that reporter Rita Skeeter, along with a nameless photographer, had entered the private funeral--uninvited and most definitely unwelcome--attempting to obtain interviews with the "stalwart twin" and "silver band adorned" girl. After much hissed accusations of exploiting the deaths of innocent people for career success, George had punched the round and bumbling photographer in the jaw and Skeeter had run for the hills after colliding with Ginny Weasley's Bat Bogie Hex. Still, that had not prevented the publication of the article exonerating the forbearance of family members and fiancée of the late Fred Weasley.

To Katie Bell, this had been the equivalent of losing Fred all over again. To see his death splashed carelessly over the pages of the paper she worked for in the guise of honoring his "service to the cause" had been almost torture to the already wretched state of her mind. And where she was going now, she was sure that the article had caused equal—and probably even more—devastation.

Katie crossed the street to where one of the many buildings of the Ministry of Magic was located. She quickly crossed the nearly deserted floor to the Floo Station that would bring her to the Weasleys. She looked around, debating on checking whether or not Arthur or Percy was still present. Then realizing that no one but herself ever worked this late, she proceeded to enter an open grate.

This was how she had spent almost every day of her life since Fred had been killed a month ago: Wake up at six, get to work at the earliest possible hour, throw herself into a flurry of activity writing op-ed pieces ravaging the Ministry for its slow clean-up of affairs, get kicked out at the latest possible hour by Aarons, try to avoid noisy and unfeeling reporters who wanted details of her personal life, floo over to Burrow for a dessert buffet while doing her best to comfort the almost broken family, and finally apparate back to her own small flat in the outskirts of London, go to sleep only to wake up and repeat it all over again. She found that the more she worked, the less she had to feel. And it was having to feel that was exactly what she was hoping desperately to avoid. Even spending time with the Weasleys had evolved into a mindset of work for her; helping Molly with the dishes, whispering encouraging words to Percy, bringing over a new muggle trinket she thought might interest Arthur, simply sitting next to George. It was a routine, and a fulfilling one. Though they never said much, she knew the family needed and appreciated her presence there. They always saved the dessert until she arrived, no matter how late she was.

As Katie stumbled through the small fireplace at the Burrow, she was greeted by the familiar sight of those who surrounded the Weasleys these days: Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, baby Teddy Tonks with his grandmother, and her own mother and Aunt Elizabeth.

Andromeda Bell quickly hurried over to her daughter, taking her bag and hanging it on a nearby peg, slightly scolding her for working so late again though there was not heart in the reprove. Katie kissed her quickly on the cheek and tried to avoid the look of pain that was in her mother's eye; the reason she sought refuge within the walls of a home full of those who understood the devastations of war.

Katie's own family was broken. Her father, Nicolas, had been thrown into Azkaban early during the war and had yet to be released. The Ministry was making a giant ruddy mess of the release process, requiring papers and documentation, and Nicolas Bell yet lived within the walls of his unjust prison. It was her father that inspired most of Katie's unforgiving editorials in the paper.

Her older brother, Michael Bell, was also missing. He had disappeared almost two months earlier, having been sent out on some sort of mission for the Order. Though many still held out hope for his return, Katie foresaw nothing other than the worst. The events of the war, culminating in the death of the only person she had ever passionately loved, had hardened her outlook on almost everything.

As for her aunt, her husband had been killed a little over three months ago in a raid of his place of employment. A young couple, they as of yet had no children and now the painful reality that this would never come to fruition had settled in on Elizabeth Garibaldi. She had moved in with her sister shortly after the death of her husband which was when Katie herself had moved out.

Katie felt that it was best that she kept most intimate personal connections at bay. In her heart, she knew that this was probably the worst thing she could do for herself, but she told herself that as long as the others were comforted she had done her duty. She had not shed above two tears together since that awful night and she intended to keep it that way. The only times she was disturbed were at night when she was alone, and when she dreamed; her dreams had lately been odd collections of memories both directly and indirectly related to Fred and she always awoke from them in a cold sweat, reminding herself that that part of her life was now over and that she needed to move forward, always constantly forward.

"And how was work today, dear?" asked a bustling Molly Weasley as she arranged several dishes on the dining room table. Her eyes were bright, full of concern and a wish to talk of only the mundane, so as to prevent the thoughts that silence would bring.

"Horrific," Katie replied, passing out the mismatched placemats to each spot. "As is every day that I find evidence that I'm employed by the same management as that awful cow, Rita Skeeter."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Weasley exchange a glance with her mother.

"Yes, we did see the papers this morning…" her mum said softly.

"They're vultures," Katie said disgustedly. "They'll do anything for a headline."

"George was quite upset as well," said Mrs. Weasley. "As far as we could tell, anyway. His moods don't seem to fluctuate much, lately." Her tired eyes turned worriedly up the staircase.

"Where is George?" Katie asked kindly, placing a hand on the woman's back. She tried not to think how ridiculous this question would have sounded a month earlier when the location of a Weasley twin was never a mystery

"Still up in his room, I suppose," she answered quietly. "He spends most of his time up there any more. Why don't you be a love and go fetch him for us so we can get started here?"

Katie nodded her acquiescence and turned to go up the stairs. George Weasley had been absent from most social gatherings, however small, since the death of his twin brother. This hardly need imagining why and Katie had been doing her best to give whatever small comfort she could to her grief stricken friend. Of all the images of utter horror that had taken occurred that night, the look on George's face had been by far the most painful. Since then, he rarely talked to anyone about his feelings and spent most of his time holed up inside his and Fred's old room, though Katie often noted that George would avoid looking in the mirror almost as though it was an evil thing. She considered this sadly and lightly tapped on the door of the room she knew so well.

"It's Katie," she said softly, knowing that George would only answer to her and Ginny these days.

"Come in," came the hollow return. Katie pushed the door open gently and found George lying on the bottom bunk of the stacked twin beds. The room was filled with boxes of Fred and George's old things, mostly inventions now, but the beds were still more or less in tact with quilts in place and a picture of Fred and herself taped up where he used to sleep. Katie avoided looking at this photograph and tried to collect herself.

"Would you like to come down for dessert?" she asked gently. "I brought my famous boysenberry pie which only you and I know comes from the market shop around the corner." She smiled wanly, a gesture that George attempted valiantly to repeat.

"I dunno, Kates…" he said slowly, running his fingers through the shaggy red hair.

"Come on," Katie said firmly, sticking out her hand for him. "If you don't come and sit with me I'm going to be subjected to enduring the unworthy praise of my pie with no one to share the joke with."

George considered her for a moment and then stood up, taking her hand. Katie managed a small smile and squeezed her palm into his, leading him down the stairs.

The rest of the small party smiled at George's appearance, though she could tell that some—Percy, in particular—avoided his direct gaze. Knowing that the reason for this was his almost carbon copy appearance of Fred, Katie squeezed his hand tighter, feeling a pang for something that George could not help in the slightest. She herself had been subject to this prejudice for the first week or so after Fred's death but had snapped herself out of it, convinced of the ridiculousness of her actions. And though it still struck a chord of grief when she would meet his brown eyes directly, she steeled herself against flinching for George's sake as much as her own.

The dessert passed by pleasantly enough, with appropriate amounts of idle conversation and comments on Molly's excellent cooking as well as Katie's budding skills in the kitchen. Her mouth twitched at this and she caught her mother's eye who regarded her shrewdly. Katie looked away quickly, figuring that her mother had guessed who the praise actually belonged to by now. By the time all was said and done, it was after midnight and most of the guests had departed. Only Katie, her mother, and Aunt Elizabeth remained.

"Katie, dear, why don't you stay with us tonight?" Mrs. Weasley suddenly proposed. "It's getting late and I don't like to think of you apparating back to London by yourself."

Katie looked up in surprise at this suggestion, looking over to her mother for support. But her mother agreed. "If Molly can spare the room, I think it's best," Andromeda said. "You don't get out much; it might be good for you."

"She can stay in Charlie's old room," Mrs. Weasley said, as though that finished matters.

"I really don't know," Katie said quickly. "I have work, and—" The thought of staying the night in a place she hadn't since Fred was alive scared her. She knew she would half expect the tall, lanky red-head to sneak into her room and crawl into bed next to her like he had done on so many occasions before, and she didn't really think she could bear that degree of poignancy. At least, not yet.

"Rubbish," Ginny interjected. "You can floo over same time as Dad and Percy. They leave early enough and your building's only across the street."

"It would be nice to have you here," Mr. Weasley put in.

"I suppose I could…" Katie said, relenting a little.

"Please," George said suddenly, almost pleading with her through his gaze. The rest of the table perked up at this rare occurrence of George speaking. Katie nodded slowly.

"Alright then," she said.

"All settled," said Mrs. Weasley with finality. "I'll just run up and fetch a quilt for you."

"Good night, love," Mrs. Bell whispered, hugging her daughter tightly. Katie exchanged kisses with her mother and her aunt and they flooed off into the darkness.

"Why did you want me to stay?" Katie asked George once they were left alone. George shrugged.

"I don't know," he said quietly. "Just to have you here."

Katie nodded, understanding. He wants things to feel like they used to. Well enough.

Xxx

Katie padded down the hall late that night, unable to sleep. She heard the gentle breathing of Ginny, the more labored of Percy, and silence from Ron's room. She avoided Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's room, knowing if she walked past it she would be able to hear Molly crying softly as she did on most nights. Carefully, she crept down the hall to George's room to check on him.

Peering through the crack in the door, she saw him tossing and turning on his bed, muttering to himself.

"Please stay," he pleaded, almost sounding as though he were trying to joke the whole thing off. "It would be utterly fantastic if you could…I'm no use without you. And I know you love to hear that because you're an egotistical git, but…I just—you're part of me, bro. Please stick with me. Come back. Please, I—"

Katie turned away, a single tear finding its way out of the corner of her eye as she felt her soul being wrenched in two. She was about to close the door, but hurried away and back again, a small flask of her own potion she had been brewing for herself for the past couple of weeks in her hand. She crept up to George's side and whispered into his ear. He turned over, heavy with sleep, but complied as she gave him the small amount of liquid that banished all dreams. He swallowed and was still.

Not bothering to wipe the small tear that still clung to her cheek, she turned out of the room and left the house, apparating to the only place she could think of that would rain in July. It was where she always went when she couldn't sleep.

In Seattle, Washington, Katie stopped in at a coffee house where the woman by the counter now knew her on a first name basis. Katie invented a story about visiting a sister in the city when questioned about her English accent, but most of the time found that people did not ask questions. Muggles deserved more credit than they got, she thought to herself. After this, Katie would retire quietly to the beach that bordered the city, sit on the rocks and watch the waves crash onto the shore, ever coming and going. The coastline here was almost wild, with grey sand and rocky terrain. Light rain fell, almost comforting her with its repetition and consistency. Though the locals here did not seem to notice the rain, they stayed off the beach on days like this giving Katie the solitude that she almost craved. And there, in an almost hypnotic state, she would observe the tide; how it came and then left, leaving the shore barren and changed. But, always, within a few hours it would come back, returning the shore to its original state exactly. Almost like it had never left. Katie stared and pondered this in a land so far away from her own, unknowingly fingering the silver ring that still resided on her left hand. The name of the beach was Alki, a Native American word which she was told by the locals meant "eventually" or, "someday".

Okay, I had to throw in my hometown—but really, where else would have fit for poor Katie? And as a note of interest, the beach here really is called Alki & that's exactly what that word means. Cool, huh?