Author's Note: I'm not really sure where this came from. Just a bit of inspiration...It's another sad little thing, showing my displeasure with Angelina jumping ship. I'm actually planning on a multi-chapter fic, Second Gen that will be dealing, in depth, with Angelina and George's relationship but that's for a different time...

Anyway, the freckles thing...I mention that alot. This takes place probably not soon after the Battle of Hogwarts. I'm assuming Molly would invite all of the family ( Harry, Hermione, Angelina, Fleur included) over for dinner to try to regain some sense of normalcy, but they just all end up sitting in the family room. The title is kind of random but...I like it.

Poor Angelina...review!

Shadows Burned into The Backs of My Eyelids

She sits in the family room of the Burrow, surrounded by everyone's self imposed silence, trying to make sure her breathing stays even so that George won't turn and look at her again. She isn't vain, flittering Fleur Delacour, whose only link to the Weasley's is her husband; nor is she Hermione Granger or Harry Potter, who have been ingrained since age eleven. She is somewhere in-between, not quite a member but not quite stranger to the mix up of one, two, three, four, five, six…

She has to stop herself from counting. Every time she came to the Burrow, she counted how many people there were, just for the sheer joy of knowing that there would be so many. She counted everything in the Weasley house, trying to apply order to their hodgepodge of belongings, or just marveling at the amount of stuff they had. She counted picture frames. She counted pairs of Quidditch socks. She counted Weasley sweaters. She counted freckles because they differed on each face.

52…53…54… Fred had 56, 56 freckles…

Her breathing becomes erratic again and George places his hand on hers, which has been resting across her thigh. Charlie's head turns a centimeter in their direction, his eyes flicking to them, then away just as fast. Angelina removes her hand out of shame, and George withdraws his out of regret.

Arthur clears his throat.

The tear is halfway down her cheek before Angelina realizes that she is crying. No one comforts her, but she catches Hermione's eye, and then suddenly she is crying, too. With one single, heart wrenching sob, Angelina realizes she has started a trend, and sits, blurry eyed, watching the outline of every Weasley woman slowly break down into tears. She sits and cries, her body crumpling in on itself like a reverse vacuum, and she wonders if she could ever just be left a belly button spinning in front of a black hole.

When she feels George's hand on her shoulder, she cringes unwittingly.

This is worse than death, she thinks. Staring into the emptiness where you used to be.