A/N: Yes, I finally updated. So this fic is not forgotten. I will try to update soon (although I do say that an awful lot). Now, I promise, this story has a plot, and this was essential, not just some random romance scene. R&R!

It was a whole month later when George next saw Angelina, and his world was blurring at the edges.

He heard the tinkling of the bell in the shop below as a distant echo, and didn't even have the strength to get up and tell whoever it was that it was after hours. Maybe it's the last Death Eater, he thought apathetically, come to finish me off. He wasn't particularly terrified of the prospect, even when he didn't take into account how unlikely it was.

He found out soon, however, that it definitely wasn't a Death Eater. It was a tall female figure that stood in the doorway, dressed in what had to be Muggle clothing. She definitely had dark hair, but George was having a hard time focusing on her face. He was just about to ask her what she was doing in his apartment when-

"George!"

"Angelina? What are you doin' here?" he asked thickly, raising the bottle of firewhisky to his lips. Angelina's eyebrows- he could see them clearly now- pinched together into an expression of unpleasant surprise.

"Oh George, God, Lee told me you'd been doing all right, but I had to come and check. Give me that!" She whipped out her wand, gave it a flick, and George felt the bottle yank itself out of his hand. Angelina caught it with the skill of the Chaser she was.

"Lee hasn't been 'round for a few days now..." George muttered to himself, his words slurring slightly. The room tilted a few degrees and the sort twilight streaming in through his window seen to grow suddenly darker. "God, George-look at me," Angelina whispered. George started. Somehow she had managed to kneel down right next to him without him noticing.

"Ange, you shouldn't be here. I don' want-"

"You can't do this to yourself, okay? It's not healthy! There are other ways-other ways of dealing with... things," she finished lamely. "He wouldn't have wanted you to anyways..."

"How do you know?" George reckoned he was too drunk to be properly angry, but it wasn't for lack of trying. "How d' you know what he wants- wanted. How do any of you know! None of you..."

"Please George. I wake up wondering if you're okay. Just be okay." Her voice hitched a bit, and George wasn't sure, but he thought he could see a tear in her eye.

"'M not worth wondering about."

"Of course you are, George! Don't- really, don't-be like this."

"Fine. I won't."

This time, it was he who initiated the kiss, not thinking about it, only wanting them both to be quiet. He dived forward unsteadily, clumsily fumbling for her lips. She seemed shocked when he finally pushed his mouth against hers, yet she still responded. He expected her to be repulsed by the alcohol on his breath, but she didn't pull away. Perhaps it was the hunger and the sudden neediness of the kiss which drew her to him.

His hands traveled slowly behind her neck and tangled in her thick black hair. He felt her hands do the same. It was wonderful, and this time she tasted like moonlight and the sweetness of butterbeer and he couldn't help himself.

He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, so close. They would break apart to breathe and then suddenly need each other desperately again. The twilight deepened further, and still neither one of them could bear to break away.

And then Angelina murmured a word. Just one. And it changed everything.

"Fred." It was barely even a whisper.

It took a moment for both of them to register what she'd said. Then their lips froze in unison.

George was hardly aware of what he was doing. He ripped away from Angelina, but it was difficult, as if she was somehow suctioned to him. He heard her gasp, but he barely cared. He yanked his wand out of his pocket and blindly thrust it towards her.

"Get away from me, goddamnit." His voice was low and rough. Fred. The way she'd said his name echoed like a drumbeat in his mind. Fred. Her and him, dancing together at the Yule Ball. Kissing in the corridor when they thought he'd gone on to his next class. She had been there, at the funeral too, hadn't she…God, no. This wasn't happening.

"George, I have to go." She was a hunted rabbit, poised for flight. The fact that she seemed so ready to get away from him only made him angrier. A paradox though it was, he wanted her out of his sight more than ever.

"Yes, you do. Now."

Angelina looked at him, frightened. "I know it doesn't help to say I'm sorry. But I am." She turned and fled through the half open door. Her footsteps were impossibly light on the stairwell.

George picked up another bottle and willed it all to just go away.