Thank you, reviewers. You made my day!

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I would be blonde, British, and a genius. But, alas, I am a brunette, American, and a college sophomore with no direction in life. So yeah, it's safe to say I don't own.

If it wasn't clear before, this entire story is from Angelina Johnson's point of view and takes place two years post Voldemort's fall.

And I totally changed my penname from The Unconventional Lady to spicycheese, so this isn't some creepy poser story stealing person. Why? Dunno, felt like it. I like to think I'm an impulsive person.

And I'm explaining the George-Angelina falling out in this chapter…hopefully it's not sickeningly clichéd or, worse, overly angsty.

Please review, kthnks.

Chapter One: The Botched Reunion

The next morning I awoke to the sound of someone-probably Lee, if I had to guess-pounding rather rudely on the front door of my flat. Scowling and cursing the man's existence, I rolled out of my bed and plucked a random, long t shirt from the large, accumulating pile lying in the small space between my bed and the closet. It was one of the downsides to working at a Quidditch shop and living in London: you got landed with a small apartment and, as it was, still had difficulties making the rent on time. I yanked the shirt-red and bearing the crest of the Holy Head Harpies-over my head to cover my rather revealing camisole and stalked out into my sitting room and to the still knocking person on the other side of the door.

"Shove off, Lee, I'm coming!" I shouted, taking a quick glance in the mirror beside the door to make sure my hair wasn't doing anything too funny before tearing it open to find said man grinning sheepishly and holding a croissant. I snatched it from him, "This had better be for me."

He shrugged as I bit into it without waiting for an answer, "Of course, Angie, why not?"

I turned and started towards the kitchen. Lee took it as a sign that he was allowed entrance to my domain and shut the door quietly behind him, "So, Katie says you'll be maid of honor," he said and I glanced over my shoulder in the kitchen doorway in time to see him vault over the back of my run down, powder blue couch and land with a soft 'flump' on the cushions. Ever the overgrown child, it was only fitting that Lee, or as he had been called during the war, 'River' would continue his radio show, which had retained its famous name of 'Potterwatch', on the mainstream, continuously, as he put it, 'informing the public of truth with good humor and decidedly anti-Dark sentiments'. He plucked a second croissant from the folds of the jean jacket he was wearing and began nibbling on the corner.

"Watch for crumbs," I grumbled irritably in response, "Coffee?"

"You know how I like it," I entered the kitchen, grimacing when I heard him begin to curse croissants and their inability to stay in one piece until they entered the mouth.

"You know," I said when I reentered the room, bearing two strong black cups of coffee-that's how we had bonded back in third year, over our mutual love for coffee the way nature intended-and sat across from him on the scarlet arm chair I had inherited from my grandmother which was, incidentally, the nicest piece of furniture I owned, "you could have just told me yourself instead of sending your poor fiancé to do your dirty work."

Lee grinned sheepishly and waved his wand, ridding my sagging couch cushions of the crumbs that had escaped his hands, "Yeah, but you would have murdered me on the spot," he argued reasonably, taking the proffered cup of coffee and taking a sip, "That's my girl," he sighed blissfully, "Perfect."

"Too right," I mumbled in response to both of his sentiments, resting my heels on the oak table between the sofa and the chair and staring at him moodily, "So tell me, what'd he say when you told him I was Katie's maid of honor?" Lee looked at me once, quickly, before becoming very interested in a loose piece of thread that was hanging from his blue pull over's sleeve. I frowned, "You did tell him, didn't you? I told Katie that I'd only do it if he was okay with it."

"And he will be," Lee said guiltily, "I just…need to figure out the right way to do it."

"Oh," I snorted nastily, "Is that all, Lee? Really? There's no right way to tell George Weasley that he's going to have to see me more and more often in the next six months."

"Katie said you were going to apologize."

"Only if he gives me the opportunity. I'm not about to force myself on him."

There was an awkward pause as we stared at each other, Lee frowning slightly and me trying not to look as completely and utterly miserable as I felt. Although, if the look on his face was any indication, I was not only failing miserably, but I was also walking myself into a conversation I did not want to have.

"Angelina," he sighed finally, "I've never asked, so hear me out," I flinched, but he plowed on, "Why'd you do it? Say that to him, I mean?"

"I—," What was I supposed to say to that, when I didn't even know myself? I had honestly been way out of my own control when I'd literally run into George just outside of the Leaky Cauldron, drunk, crying, and whining about how life wasn't fair. It hadn't occurred to me that there was no one who understood my feelings quite as well as he did, he'd been just as close, if not closer to Fred and gods, I had been so stupid when I'd shouted at him that "you have no idea." But, of course, that wasn't the worst of it.

"Stop," I'd spat, right in his face, "trying to be Fred."

He'd reared back, as though slapped, staring at me through hurt brown eyes, "I'm not," the whisper had been so absolutely pathetic it'd driven me right over the edge.

"Good. You'll never replace him."

He hadn't spoken to me since, though I do vaguely remember him dragging me up the fire escape to my floor in the rundown apartment building I lived in and seeing me all the way to my flat's front door before abandoning me. What a lovely, charming way to repay someone who was just trying to be a good, supportive friend, especially someone who'd lost just as much as I had when Fred had died. The worst part? I hadn't loved Fred, I'd liked him a lot, to be sure, but we had been young and I hadn't been stupid enough to think that we were soul mates or anything like that. But still, I'd been broken up over losing him, so much so I'd destroyed one of my most valued friendships over it—

"I don't know," I confessed softly and Lee nodded in a slow, sad understanding, "I was drunk, Lee, drunk, emotional, and stupid and—"

"Stop, Angie, you're making yourself feel worse," Lee stretched a hand across the table to grip my shoulder, "Listen, George…he was just as messed up as you were that night, it was their birthday after all, and he's never been what I'd call emotionally mature," he paused, looking slightly uncomfortable, "I know he'll be willing to talk to you, you've just got to get up the guts to do it."

He was right. I scowled at him.

"That shouldn't be a problem."

Lee lifted his eyebrow, his lips twitching up at the corners, "Whatever you say, Miss Johnson," he lifted his coffee mug and grinned, "Cheers."

Two days later I arrived home from work to find Katie's head sitting in my fireplace.

"There you are," she snapped, "I've been waiting ages; I thought you got off at five?"

I frowned and glanced at the clock. Six thirty. "You haven't been waiting an hour and a half, have you?"

"No," she wrinkled her nose, "Just an hour, where have you been?"

"The Leaky Cauldron," Katie rolled her eyes, scrunching her face oddly again, "Need a nose scratch?"

"Please."

I leaned down and dragged a nail over the bridge of her nose, chuckling when she went cross eyed to follow its progress, "To the left," she instructed, before sighing, "Yeah, that's good. So, you should come to our place tonight for dinner."

I stopped scratching to glare at her suspiciously, "Why?"

"Because Lee's mum and my parents are coming to start with the wedding planning and as maid of honor, you sort of need to be there. Keep scratching," she added, sounding rather put out. I did so, staring distractedly out the window at the London skyline, bathed in red in the sunset.

"Fine," I said after a moment, "When?"

Katie grinned sheepishly, "Er. Now would be best. You haven't been drinking, have you?" I shot her a nasty look and she blushed, "Sorry, just wondering. So…I'll see you here in a few?"

"Yeah."

The second she pulled her head out of the fire, however, I decided that it most certainly would not be a few. She wasn't going to pull a fast one on me, I wasn't stupid and she wasn't a good liar, and, though his name hadn't come up, her expression had been screaming, "Guess what? George's going be there, Angie, so it's time to FREAK OUT."

I wasn't prone to panic attacks, but I was fairly sure I was on the verge of one as I scrambled across my tiny flat and into my bedroom, tearing into my closet so fiercely that, within minutes, more of my clothes were on the floor around my bed rather than on the hangers on the rack. Still, I hadn't found anything suitable for facing an old and decidedly pissed off friend after a year and a half of stony silence and I continued tearing through the jackets and the dress pants and gods, I wished I could go back to the days that I could lounge around in George Weasley's dormitory-sometimes even on his bed, for Merlin's sake-in my pajamas and just plain not care what he thought about my appearance.

I blinked, half way through ripping a jean jacket off its hanger, as the reality of my train of thought hit me like a sledge hammer.

Why did I care what I looked like tonight? It wasn't like wearing a nice outfit would affect the meaning behind my apology. George knew me; he knew when I was sincere.

I frowned, stepped away from my closet, and turned to face the full mirror that leaned against the wall beside the door.

And besides, what was really so bad about an Irish Team t shirt and a pair of jeans? It was what I wore to work every day, what I dealt with customers varying from respectful to downright rude in everyday. And my hair, pulled back into a simple ponytail? It was a hairstyle one could not go wrong with. I didn't look bad, I looked like me, and that was what George would need to see. The me he'd known at Hogwarts, his classmate, Quidditch teammate, and close friend.

I turned resolutely away from the mess I had created, stalked out of my bedroom and across the sitting room to my tiny fireplace-I had lucked out with the placement of my flat, it was on the corner with the chimney-and reached into the round ceramic bowl I kept my Floo Powder in. I waved my wand, reigniting the flames that Katie had used, and tossed my handful in. Then, into the green fire I stepped, taking deep, calming breaths to fend off the remains of my small meltdown.

"Jordan Cottage!" I shouted.

Mr. and Mrs. Bell were fond of me, I knew that, but it was still sort of awkward when I barged out of the fireplace, completely overlooked their presence in the two armchairs Katie and Lee's small sitting room held, and did a quick three sixty, just to make sure George was not within a ten foot radius of me yet. It took Mr. Bell coughing softly to remind me that there were to be other guests that night and I spun away from the kitchen door, where I heard the unmistakable rumbling of male voices, to find my best friend's parents staring up at me, looking more than a little bemused.

"Angelina," Mrs. Bell said warmly, "wonderful to see you."

Mrs. Bell was a very petite woman with brown hair she had cropped to her shoulders and big, comforting brown eyes. She worked as a healer at St. Mungo's and had played a large part in the massive recovery effort that had taken place after the war. She smiled warmly at me and I returned the gesture, though I didn't sit, choosing instead to hover by the fireplace, just to be prepared.

"So, maid of honor," said Mr. Bell, a tall, burly and balding man, grinning, "How bad did my little girl do in her choice of husband?" Despite the seriousness in his expression, I didn't buy the over protective father act for a second. The man loved Lee, so much so that he had done a piece a month for his Daily Prophet column, 'The Sights and Sounds of the Wizarding World', on 'Potterwatch' since the end of the war. But still, that didn't mean I wouldn't play along.

I smirked, "Well, Lee is hardly what I would call mature—"

"Hey!" the man in question had just entered the room holding two mugs of coffee and scowling, "Angelina, you wanna talk about maturity? Weren't you the girl who charmed my microphone to say 'fart' every time I tried to say 'brilliant'?" Mrs. Bell giggled and we exchanged a grin.

"Yeah, but that was to break you of a nasty habit," I said reasonably, "You said that word way too much before I so generously intervened." Mr. Bell chuckled at the look of outrage on Lee's face.

"Not to worry son, I whole heartedly approve of your relationship with my daughter," he assured Lee, who turned on me, scowling.

"Ha! Despite your attempts at sabotage, the wedding goes on!" he intoned, pointing a dramatic finger at me. I rolled my eyes.

"Coffee?"

"Kitchen," the look on his face changed, became almost warning, and I nodded slightly. This was it. I turned and started for the kitchen door, bracing myself.

There was no handle on the door; it swung freely on its hinges, something that had proved useful on evenings past when Lee, Katie and I had transferred our dinners from the kitchen table to the sitting room in full hands. I reached out for it, pushing it open slightly and hesitating for a fraction of a second, trying to steady my breathing.

Here I come, George Weasley, I started forward, we're going to talk so you'd better be—

The door struck something hard and solid as I pushed—I heard the unmistakable sound of George cursing, the crack of shattering glass, and a squeal that could only belong to Katie. Behind me, Lee and Mr. Bell, who had been chatting amiably, stopped talking. My heart was suddenly in my throat.

Silence fell seconds later on both sides of the door and, after the longest second of my life, I couldn't take it anymore. I pushed slightly on the door again to test it, then opened it fully, trying to ignore the way my hands were shaking as I did.

And there he was, George, standing there, staring at me, and drenched in hot coffee.