This story is for Maggie. It's not a story I ever thought I'd write, and it's not like most of my stories. But Maggie wanted George and Angelina and their mutual brokenness, and when Maggie talks about a thing often enough around me, at some point, it's going to take hold and turn into a story. So this is for Maggie. Happy birthday.

DISCLAIMER: George and Angelina do not belong to me. They are JK Rowling's. I'm just playing on her playground.

A Hole in the World

Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world,

which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night.

I miss you like hell.

~Edna St. Vincent Millay

"Geo–orge!" the brown-skinned girl taunted with a laugh. "You're so slow! Come and get me!" She was a good fifty paces ahead of him, already out the doors and halfway across the grounds, which was hardly fair. George would never admit it, but she was usually faster than he was, both on the ground and on a broomstick. "Come on! Come catch me!"

"And what do I get if I catch you?" he yelled back.

"How about . . . a kiss!" And she took off running, and he took off after her, pumping his legs as fast as he could – he was determined to overtake her this time.

He was gaining on her, and she knew it, and she let out a shriek of laughter and tried to go faster, but it was no use. He lunged and caught her around the waist, and they both went crashing to the ground.

He pinned her underneath him and leaned down closer. "Now then," he said, breathing hard. His eyes locked with hers, and he drew out the anticipation of the moment as long as possible – so he could keep her distracted as he levitated a handful of leaves into the air and, with a swift movement, stuffed them down the front of her robes.

She let out another shriek as she squirmed violently, trying to dislodge the foliage as he said with a grin, "Why on earth would I want to kiss you, Johnson?"

"You beast!" she said, but she was laughing. And she grabbed her own handful of leaves and threw them in his face.

And the battle was on.

000

The first time she showed up at his flat after the battle was just before Christmas, and she looked like hell. He got out, "Angelina, what—" before she was across the threshold, kissing him furiously, desperately, and he knew it was wrong, that he shouldn't let it progress any further, certainly not to where it was ultimately heading, but the shock of it was more than he'd let himself feel in months. He was overwhelmed by it, consumed by it, and he needed it as much as she did.

It was rough and desperate and almost suffocating, and though he knew why she had come, he felt the hole in his heart widen a little more around the edges when she cried his brother's name with her release.

In the morning, she was gone.

He heard nothing from her after that – she disappeared as suddenly as she had arrived – and for a long time, he couldn't say whether or not it had happened at all. The encounter took on a very dreamlike quality in his memory, and it wouldn't have been the first time he'd imagined someone out of his loneliness and isolation. He had very nearly convinced himself that she had never come when she showed up again, a few days after his birthday.

A month later, on the anniversary of the battle, when his family was celebrating the birth of his first niece, she came once more. And again in August and again in October. It was always the same.

It was entirely about the sex. She did not come for friendship or shared grief. She came for physical release from an emotional turmoil she didn't know how to handle. She came because she was broken, and he let her come because he was, too. All they had in common anymore was the hole that had been left in both of them, and so they used each other whenever the holes threatened to consume them, to buy themselves a few more months before they had to find a healthy way to heal.

000

"So, are you really going to the Yule Ball with Fred?"

She looked up with just her eyes, and took a moment before she answered. "Yes," she finally said. "Not a problem, is it?"

"No, not at all," he said easily, sliding into an empty seat across from her. "It just surprised me, is all."

"Well, he's been asking me out for months," she said, returning to her essay.

"Exactly. I thought you found it a bit annoying, to be honest."

"I did. Which is part of the reason I said yes this time." He arched an eyebrow at that, and even without seeing, she seemed to know that was his reaction, for she glanced up. "I mean, it certainly wasn't the only reason," she said suggestively. "Let's face it, your brother is a—"

He held up a hand quickly. "Spare me," he said. "There are some things a body doesn't need to hear."

"Then there are some things a body shouldn't bring up." He smirked at that and commenced fiddling with a scrap of parchment, and after a moment, Angelina sighed and set her quill aside, a thoughtful frown on her face. "Truth is," she said slowly, "I haven't said yes before now because I was fairly certain he'd end up breaking my heart. He still probably will; I think it's just part of his nature. But I can't help myself around him. And I can't resist him anymore. There's a pull that must be answered." George frowned.

"He's not all heart-breaker, you know."

"Yeah, I do," she said heavily. "That's part of what does me in. But enough about me and Fred; who will you be spending your Yule Ball with? Alicia?"

"Naw," he said, leaning back in his seat and aiming the now-balled shred of parchment at the top of the nearest bookcase. "Ken Towler's asked her, the tosser."

"Ken's perfectly nice," Angelina said, but it was perfunctory at best.

"Yeah, that's one word for it," he muttered, but before she could react, said, "I was going to ask Katie, actually."

"Well, you'd better get a move on," she warned. "McLaggen was talking about asking her."

"Well, we can't have that!" he said immediately, and grinned, standing. He winked at her and headed out, but halfway there, he stopped and went back. "Ang," he said, and she looked up, expectant. "If Fred does break your heart, you let me know. He may be my twin brother, but I'll still lay him flat for you." She grinned, and shook her head.

"Go ask Katie to the Ball," she said with a laugh.

000

Her visits became routine, predictable. He couldn't time her to a day, precisely, but he could time her arrival to within a week - of her birthday, of his birthday, of his death day, of their first date, of their final break-up. Whenever the memories became too much, whenever his absence overwhelmed him, there she'd be. No words offered or exchanged, just kisses taken and release sought, and in this way, first months, then years passed.

She always came to him. He never went to her, and had a feeling she wouldn't have seen him if he had. She came to him, and there was a selfishness in her visits. It wasn't about him, and somehow, that fact cut through his grief and numbness that was a constant state of being. It was her relief she sought, her needs that she looked to satisfy. What he wanted, what he needed, never entered into it.

And it soon became clear that what they wanted was vastly different. When he tried to offer comfort, a hand on her shoulder, a reassuring caress, she shrank from him, and disappeared. She had no interest in companionship. Gone were the days of casual embraces and easy conversation. Now, they barely spoke ten words to each other, and it became increasingly clearer that George didn't know at all this woman who bore his former best friend's face.

He missed her, he realized one night after she had slipped away. He missed her almost as much as he missed him, but he missed her most when she was with him. And he cursed, once again, the war that had cost him so much and taken both his best friends away from him.

000

When she saw him coming down the path from the castle, alone, she scowled.

"Don't tell me," she called as he approached. "He got himself thrown in detention."

"Don't shoot the messenger," George said, holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence.

"And how did you escape, pray tell?"

"Believe it or not, the incident that landed Fred in an all-day Saturday engagement with Professor McGonagall was entirely his own doing. I was, surprisingly, not involved."

"I don't believe it," she said immediately. He shrugged.

"And yet, truth it remains."

She sighed and shook her head, but a smile was lurking at the corner of her mouth. "Well, come on, then," she said, linking her arm into his. "Since my boyfriend can't take me to Hogsmeade, why don't you buy me a drink, instead?"

"Why, Angelina," he said with faked emotion, "you, you've swept me off my feet."

She punched him. He grinned and tucked her hand into his elbow, and they set off.

000

The arrangement started to eat at him long before he said anything. But the longer it went on, the worse it got. For the first few months – the first few years, even – he'd been content with letting it be whatever it was. But as more and more time passed without a change, her visits left him more and more dissatisfied. Because, he slowly realized, he didn't want this, whatever it was. He wanted her. And more than that, he wanted her to want him. And she didn't. And he didn't know if she ever would.

And so one night, when a furious storm had unleashed itself halfway through her visit and she saw on the edge of his bed in the dark once they were done, pulling on her socks, he reached out.

"Ang, it's raining crups and kneazles out there. You should stay the night." He said this as casually as possible, with a gentle hand on her arm, but she shrugged away from it and continued.

"I'll be all right," she said, and he sighed.

"I'd like you to stay the night," he clarified, and she froze for a brief moment. But then she bent down to pick up her bag.

"I should be going," she said as she moved through the door.

"What is this to you?" he called after her, and her hand stilled on the door handle. She glanced back over her shoulder, but he couldn't see her face to read it.

"Nothing," she said softly.

"Nothing," he repeated. Then, "You know, if I'm going to be treated like a prostitute, I'd kind of like to get paid for it."

She whirled. "How dare you?" she said, her voice low.

"What else am I supposed to think?" he asked immediately, a hard edge in his voice. "You just said it means nothing. You show up for sex, and once you've been satisfied, you leave. This isn't friendship. It isn't a relationship. I'm just a warm body to you, a warm body with his face, so you have everything you could want, don't you?"

Her wand was out in a flash, and though he couldn't see her face in the darkness, he knew her eyes would be flashing. "How – dare you!" she growled, but he didn't let her carry out the threat. He was out of bed and right in front of her, a hand around her wrist, before she could think of a hex to cast.

"What have I said that isn't true?" he challenged, and she couldn't meet his eyes. "Have you ever once, in six years, come here because you wanted to see me?" he pushed. "Have you ever come because you wanted my company? Or have you always come because of him? Are you ever going to look me in the face and not see my brother?"

"Are you?" she shot back at him, wrenching her hand away. "Don't you dare lecture me about moving on, George Weasley, don't you dare. You, who shut yourself away from the world, in here or in your shop. You, who see no one, not even your family anymore! Lee gave up on you months ago, did you know that? Did you even notice? So don't lecture me about my behavior!" She turned to go, but he put up one hand and shut the door fast against her.

"When your behavior concerns me, I have every right," he growled. "I don't know you anymore. You're a stranger to me. Does it bother you, that you now exhibit every vice you used to rail against? Does it bother you that you've become the exact person you used to break up with him for being? Who's the selfish and self-centered one now, Angelina?"

She just stood there and didn't answer and wouldn't meet his eye, and finally he straightened, releasing the door and backing up. "Get out," he said, and the words startled her into meeting his eye. "I mean it," he said in a cold, hard voice. "Get out. If you're not here for me, then you're not here at all. I am not my brother, and I refuse to spend any longer being a stand-in for him, so the next time you show up at my door, it damn well better be because you want to see me. Not because you miss him."

If she was hurt, she didn't show it. She didn't show anything but cold fury as she said, "Fine. Have a nice life, Weasley," and turned on her heel and stalked out, leaving him alone.

He waited until he'd heard the crack of Disapparation, and then he punched the wall of his room as hard as he could, and within the pain of bone splintering and skin being scraped away, he found his own release.

000

"I don't know how you stand him, George, I really don't!" came an angry voice one afternoon. Slowly, he looked up from the most recent round of notes on the Patented Daydream Charm he was trying to get out of development.

"I assume you're referring to — "

"Fred!" she shouted. "Your twin! That pompous, self-absorbed, empty-headed — ape!"

"I take it you two have broken up, then?" he asks casually.

"For good this time!"

"Mm hmm," George said, turning back to his notes. He'd heard that before, and he knew as well as everyone else that Fred and Ang would be back together within two weeks.

"I mean it, George," she said, leaning across the table and invading his personal space. "How do you stand him? How do you live with him?"

"Well, I'm very much like him," George pointed out, and Angelina gave a short laugh and pushed away from the table.

"No, you're not," she said with conviction.

"Well–"

"No, you're not, and you want to know why? Because you, at least, consider other people every once in a while. You, at least, remember occasionally that there are about six billion other people on the planet, and that one or two of them might like to be consulted every once and a while before you rush off and make plans, especially if you happen to be dating one of them, and — are you even listening to me?" she demanded, because George had gone back to his notes in the middle of her tirade. He sighed.

"What do you want me to say, Ang?" he asked. "That Fred's a self-centered arse? Okay. Fred's a self-centered arse. But so am I. And so, in fact, are most people. Do I understand your frustration? Yes, I do. But you knew that about him when you started dating him. And you knew it when you broke up with him the first time. And when you went back to him the first time, you knew it hadn't changed. And all of this was true the second, third, fourth, and fifth times we repeated this little saga, so you'll excuse me, I hope, if I don't have a whole lot of sympathy for your situation."

She was silent for a moment, but then she threw herself angrily in an empty chair. "I'd just like him to talk to me every once in a while, you know?" she said plaintively. "Communicate. Ask me if I mind something before he makes plans instead of just assuming that I won't. Is that too much to ask?"

"It is not," George said. "But that's not how he thinks. It's not how either of us think, really. In case you haven't noticed in the six years you've known us, we tend to act first, and then think about what we did."

"You have to admit you are a little a more level-headed."

George shrugged and gave a small smile. "Only a little," he said. Angelina sighed then.

"Sometimes I think I fell for the wrong twin, you know?"

"I'm sure I don't," George said, picking up his quill again.

"Well, you don't make me furious," she said. "I can talk to you. You don't irritate the living hell out of me."

"We've never tried to date," George pointed out, and won a smile from her.

"True," she admitted. "Sex changes everything."

"Please, Ang," he said immediately, a pained look on his face and his hand held out to stop her. "Things a body doesn't need to know." She gave him a shove.

"I suppose I should go find Fred," she said with a sigh, and he raised an eyebrow.

"Seven minute breakup? I think that's a record for you two." She shoved him again.

"Shut up."

000

She did what he said. Her visits, which had been occurring more frequently, almost once a month, stopped entirely. He had no word from her, saw no sign of her, just as he had asked.

It was killing him. He missed her, and when he'd made his ultimatum, he'd been hoping that she'd realize she missed him, too. He'd wanted her to show up at his door just like clockwork, there for him this time, and not for sex, or at least, not just for sex.

But she hadn't. She'd disappeared, leaving behind a hole almost as gaping as the one his brother had left six years before.

And then came the morning when Ginny showed up. "Angelina's in St. Mungo's," she said as soon as he opened the door. "She collapsed at practice."

Panic immediately rose inside him, panic, worry, concern, and a thousand questions, but as soon as they did, he forced them down angrily. "Why are you here telling me?" he asked, and it came out harsher than he meant it to, and in the next moment, he was forcefully reminded why he'd always avoided making Ginny angry.

"Because, George," she said with steel in her voice and an angry flash in her eyes, "I don't care what the hell happened between the two of you, one of your best mates is in the hospital. She collapsed. At a professional Quidditch practice. For no reason. So act like a goddamn human, would you, and follow me."

He didn't argue.

But he did worry. He worried because Angelina had rarely been ill in all the time he'd known her. He worried because as a professional Quidditch player, she had regular physicals and was in very good health. He worried because he didn't know if she'd asked to see him, or if Ginny had taken matters into her own hands.

They got to Mungo's, and Ginny sent him down the hall to Angelina's room while she stayed back in the waiting area. As he approached, a Healer appeared from around the corner and said, "You must be the father," effectively chasing away all of the worries that had been plaguing him.

George froze. "What?" he demanded, and he turned to find Ginny, but the Healer was ushering him into the room before he could do more than catch a glimpse of his conniving younger sister.

Angelina was not in the bed, but rather, perched on top of the bed, still in her Quidditch gear, and looking as if nothing at all was wrong with her. She looked more irritated than ill, and when she caught sight of George, the look on her face made it perfectly clear that he was the last person she wanted to see.

"You're pregnant?" he demanded. She glowered and looked away.

"Yes," she said shortly. "I told Ginny not to bother you."

"Am I the father?" he asked angrily. She gave him a scathing look.

"Who else would the father be?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he shot back. "I didn't know that our string of one-night stands whenever you randomly showed up at my flat for sex was exclusive." She glared at him, color rising in her cheeks, but whether it was from anger or embarrassment, he didn't know.

"How far along?" he asked then, and it was the Healer who answer him.

"About five months."

"Five months," George repeated, and then he turned and asked, "Could you give us the room for a moment, please?"

"I hardly think that's necessary," Angelina said through gritted teeth.

"I disagree," George told her in a hard voice. The Healer wisely slipped out. They glared at each other in silence for a moment, then George asked, "So were you going to tell me about this?"

"I didn't tell anyone about it," she said angrily.

"How long exactly did you think you were going to keep it a secret?"

"We have one game left in our season!" Angelina hissed. "And I wanted to retire on my terms, thank you, not theirs. It's right there in my contract – if I get pregnant, I'm gone."

"So you just didn't say anything?" George asked in disbelief.

"I didn't know anything!" Angelina shot back. "Not for sure."

"But when you retired," he demanded, "and went off to have this baby, were you going to tell me about it?" She looked away.

"I hadn't decided yet," she said softly.

"Well, thank you," he said, and it wasn't what she was expecting.

"For what?" she asked cautiously.

"That's the most honest you've been with me in six years," he said, and she looked away again. The silence that descended was heavy and awkward. Finally, Angelina spoke.

"Look, I can't do it, okay?" she said, and she slid off the bed and braced herself against the windowsill, facing staunchly away from him.

"What?" he asked, mildly confused.

"I can't look at you and not see him," she said wearily, and a heaviness settled in his gut at those words. "I've tried. But I can't. I can't do it. And I didn't want to show up at your place to tell you that, and oh, by the way, I'm carrying your child. So, in answer to your question, never. I am never going to be able to look at you and not see him."

He had no response, no idea what to say to that. But he didn't need one, because after a moment, she continued. "But if it's any consolation, I could also never look at him and not see you."

It took a moment for the implications of that to sink in, and when they did, they floored him. "What?" he asked, and she gave a helpless little laugh that was half a sob.

"I always told you I fell for the wrong twin," she said in a voice that was scarcely louder than a whisper. "In my head, I knew you were the better match. We had more in common and we were more compatible. But he's the one I couldn't stay away from. I was pulled to him, like light into a black hole. I kept going back, but I spent half my time with him wishing he was you." She turned to face him then, looking old and tired and on the verge of tears. "I haven't been messed up about all this because he died, George," she said in a helpless whisper. "I've been messed up about all this from almost the very beginning. And then he died, and the thing with you started, and now there's a baby, and I –" She broke off looking pained. "I was barely treading water, and now I'm in so far over my head that I don't know if I'll ever break the surface. And I have no idea anymore what to do or who to turn to."

"You can turn to me," he said immediately, at her side, but not yet daring to touch her. "I've been there." She let out a laugh.

"Been there?" she asked gently. "George, you're still there. How are you supposed to help me out?"

"We can work our way out together," he insisted. "Help pull each other up."

"Or weigh each other down," she countered. "You have no way of knowing which it would be.

"Look," he said urgently, because this was his chance. "I understand your hesitation, but this isn't just about us anymore. We have a child on the way, a child who deserves to be taken into consideration, who deserves a home and a family and all the love that we can give."

"What are you asking?" she asked him, her eyes meeting his.

"I'm asking if you would consider marrying me," he said. It was a leap, and he knew it, but he was willing to take it, and part of him wanted to take it, wanted to act without thinking, jump without looking, take a huge monumental risk the way he hadn't done since before the end of the war. But Angelina, quietly and without hesitation, said, "No, George. I won't."

His heart sank, and he felt as if he'd lost her all over again. "Why not?"

When she glanced at him this time, the look on her face reminded him for the briefest moment of the Angelina he'd known so well at school. "How about because we can't hold a conversation for five minutes without shouting at each other?" she asked with a hint of sarcasm, and he knew she was right. But it didn't stop it from hurting.

"We aren't shouting at each other now," he pointed out, and she almost smiled.

"No," she agreed. "We aren't. But I still won't marry you." He nodded and turned away, a lump in his throat. "But," she said softly after a moment, "if you're willing to go the distance, I think . . . I think I can give us another try."

It wasn't much. But it was, for that moment, enough.

000

When she quietly and calmly stated, "I broke up with Fred," after sinking down next to him on a Common Room sofa, he knew something was different this time. Each "off again" time of her relationship with his brother had, up to that point, been communicated with a lot of yelling and screaming and cursing his name. But this time, something else had clearly happened.

"What did he do?" George asked, and Angelina just shook her head.

"Nothing," she said in that same quiet voice. "He didn't do anything."

"Then I'm sure you'll patch things up," George said, but she shook her head again, more emphatically this time.

"No," she said with calm certainty. "We won't."

He watched his best friend with some concern then. "Why'd you break up with him?" he finally asked. She fiddled with a ring on her hand for a long time before she answered.

"Because," she said finally. "I don't think our lives are going in the same direction." He was confused by her answer, and she probably realized it, because she immediately clarified. "We don't want the same things out of life, George. I have tried and I have tried, but when I imagine my future, the future I want, I can't see him in it. I can't see him as the dutiful husband, the loving father. In fact, hard as I try, I can't even imagine him past the age of twenty. He's like Peter Pan. He never wants to grow up. And I don't want to make him. I don't want to force him into a life he doesn't want. But I can't change wanting it myself. So I broke up with him."

He sat quietly with her for a long while, his mind going to a million different places. He wondered how she could be so calm about all of this. He wondered how Fred was going to take it and whether or not he'd hear anything about it (Fred was remarkably close-mouthed about his relationship with Angelina). He wondered what this would mean for the friendship after they left school.

Then he glanced over at her to see tears running silently down her face, and he realized she wasn't so calm about it after all. He put an arm around her and held her close, letting her rest her head on his shoulder and cry softly into his jumper. "You still love him," he said, and it was not quite a question. He felt her nod.

"And I don't think I'll ever stop," she whispered.

000

In the months before their baby was born, George asked Angelina to marry him no fewer than six times. She said no to every one. But they were together, and they'd made that official, and they'd told their families and then waited a few weeks to tell them about the baby. If either family suspected or disapproved, they kept it to themselves.

Their life together did not suddenly become perfect. They screamed at each other, and one or the other of them stormed out in anger at least once every two weeks, and every so often he'd wake up to her crying out for his brother. But they were trying, and they both knew it, and so they grit their teeth together and kept coming back and worked, slowly but surely, to a better future together.

And there were moments that were almost perfect, nights spent together in harmony and glowing happiness about their coming child. There were times when everything fell into place and felt very nearly right, when the close friendship they'd shared in school was almost there again. And when those moments inevitably came to an end, the memory of them kept the pair going.

When their son was born, George was right there beside her, and when the tiny boy with milky brown skin and bright blue eyes was laid into Angelina's arms, George felt his heart swell with a joy he'd long since believed he'd never feel again.

"He needs a name," he whispered to Angelina, his arms around her and his son. Angelina nodded, but didn't speak.

"Would you hate me," she finally said, "if I told you I wanted to name him— "

"Fred?" George finished for her, and her eyes met his. The name felt strange on his tongue and sounded strange to his ear, and he realized with a start that he pushed away that it was the first time he'd said it in six years. "No, I was thinking the same thing."

"I just thought," she said softly, almost apologetically, "that if we attach the name to him, we can channel—" She couldn't finish, but she didn't need to.

"I know," George said with a squeeze of her shoulder. "And I agree."

"Then Fred it is," she said with a genuine smile.

000

When Angelina showed up at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes for the first time, George knew something was going to go down. She had barely walked through the door before Fred had ushered her into the back room, leaving George on his own to man the bustling shop. He'd fielded questions and assisted customers, but his mind had been in the back room with his brother and best friend, who hadn't spoken that he knew of since their break-up months before. When Fred had stormed out moments later, a black look on his face, George's suspicions had been confirmed. Angelina had slipped out just after, looking sad but resigned.

"What was that about?" George asked when she headed in his direction. Angelina sighed.

"He wants to get back together," she said simply.

"And you said no?" George asked. Angelina didn't answer right away; she just looked around the shop.

"This place is great," she said then, sincerely. "I mean it. You two have done very well for yourselves." He waited and didn't answer. He knew she had more to say. When she didn't go on, he finally prompted, "But?"

"You two left a lot of people behind when you took off," she said simply. "And don't get me wrong, it was brilliant. And most people felt inspired by it, rather than abandoned. But me and Lee? We got shut out, George."

"We didn't exactly have it planned, Ang," he explained, uncomfortable. "It was kinda spontaneous."

"I know," she said quickly. "And I completely understand. I don't begrudge you, and I'm not angry, not at all. Nor am I hurt or disappointed or any of it. It was what you had to do, and clearly," she gestured around them, "it was what you were born to do. But I asked him if he'd even considered telling me, and he said no, like it had never even occurred to him, like he couldn't even understand why I would think he should have considered it, if we were going to get back together. And I just can't live my life that way, you know? I still love him, I do, but he hasn't changed, and you said it, didn't you? If I go back, I have no one to blame but myself. "

"Telling you didn't occur to me either, Ang," he admitted then, a bit guiltily. She gave him a small smile.

"You aren't trying to date me," she pointed out. "And you sent me a letter once you'd gotten here safely. I didn't hear from him at all."

"Well, you weren't dating then. That probably didn't occur to him, either." It was funny, he mused. He'd never had a problem making excuses for Fred if he was getting them out of trouble. But making excuses for Fred to Ang was a whole different kettle of fish, and George found he didn't like it.

"I know," Angelina said with a frown. "It occurs to me that at some point, Fred and I stopped being friends. I think it was around when we started dating. And I'm realizing that you can have friendship without romance, but you can't have romance without the friendship. And I think I regret losing that more than any of the rest of it." He put a hand on her arm and gave her a soft squeeze, which she turned into an embrace.

"I'll never stop being your friend, Ang," he said into her braids.

"Good," she said, her voice muffled by his shirt. "Because that would be a very sad day in my life."

000

She moved in with him, after Fred was born, and they lived together in the flat above the shop, a strange but functioning little family. Their life still wasn't perfect, but no one's was, and it occurred to George as Fred turned two that his life was closer to perfect than it had been since the war. The hole that his brother had left behind, the hole that had been his entire life for six years, was closing, slowly, growing smaller, as he took the love and need he'd had for his brother and, as Angelina had said, channeled it into his son.

In the wake of their son's birth, George and Angelina worked on rebuilding the first relationship they'd ever had – their friendship. An unspoken agreement existed between them – no sex, no kisses, no intimacy of any kind until they could well and truly call each other friends once more. George stopped asking her to marry him, and Angelina gradually stopped dreading the question.

It wasn't perfect, but they were trying. And even more importantly, they realized, they were succeeding.

000

The war was over and they had won and everyone around him was celebrating, but George was numb. Everyone else may have won, but there was no victory for him. He had never felt less like celebrating in his life. It didn't matter to him who had lived and who had died. The most important person in his life was gone; everyone else was secondary.

He couldn't feel anything, not the gashes on his body or the bench under his legs or the grief of his loss, and he was glad. It was better this way. Let other people mourn. Let other people grieve. He didn't need it, he didn't want it. There was a hole inside him now, to match the hole on the side of his face, and he was more than content to let it open up underneath him and swallow him whole.

"I'm holy, Fred," he found himself whispering, and in his head, there was a slightly hysterical snicker after that, but it didn't come out of his mouth because he'd forgotten how to laugh. "Now you're holy, Fred," he said, and he could feel the edges of the hole crumbling away, the hole growing larger and larger, and he welcomed its inky blackness.

"George!" A voice called out to him, full of emotions he labeled in his numbness as joy and ecstacy, though he couldn't remember what those felt like, and then a girl was in front of him, a smile lighting up her brown face, and he recognized her, and he knew he had at one time loved her in some way, but he'd forgotten what that felt like, too. But she didn't realize he'd forgotten those things, so she grabbed his hands tightly. "George, we did it! We won! And, George, I realized something today! Loving someone means you should always give them another chance, doesn't it? Maybe he hasn't changed, but that doesn't mean he can't, and maybe I can get him there, and we can get back to what we were, and I have to go for it. That's what I realized! So I have to tell him! Where is he? Where's Fred?"

He didn't hear most of what she said, but he heard the end of it, and he stared up at her, bewildered, because he doesn't understand. A hole opened up in her world; how did she not notice it?

As if his numbness transferred to her through their hands, the smile slid off her face and she shrunk back from him, reclaiming her hands. "No," she whispered as she began to understand his look and his response. "No, it's not possible. It isn't, it's — it's a mistake. A mistake. He isn't —"

Something snapped inside of him at her words, and in the days and weeks to come, he'd barely remember what happened next. "A mistake?" he repeated, and she could hear the madness in his voice. "You think I made a mistake?"

"No," she tried to say. "That isn't what I –"

"You think," he said, his voice growing louder and wilder, "that I'm not going to recognize my twin brother, my own face, when he's lying on the floor, dead, looking up at me?"

"No," she said, horrified by the change that had come over him.

"So you think I'm joking?" he asked then, his voice dangerous and his eyes wild, and she was genuinely afraid. "You think I'd joke about this? You think I'd make this up?" he roared, and he startled her into tears.

"No, George, of course not, I — I just couldn't believe — "

"Couldn't believe?" He grabbed her by the wrist then, and pulled her across the Great Hall to the place where the bodies lay. And without ceremony, he ripped the sheet off of Fred's body and forced her to look at it. "Do you believe me now? Look at him, Angelina, cold and dead! Would you like to admit your love to him now?" he shouted, and she stood for a moment, transfixed and horrified, but then she wrenched herself away, choked back a sob, and ran from the room.

The next time he saw her, she showed up without warning on the front step of his flat and kissed him like she had no other choice . . .

000

When little Fred was four years old, Angelina said one night, "You never ask me to marry you anymore."

Frowning a little, he looked up from his ledgers and said, "I didn't think you wanted me to."

"I didn't," she agreed. "I think I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for something to go wrong, for you to change to your mind, for me to change mine . . . and then, once I realized none of those things were going to happen, I think I just stopped thinking about it. I mean, we've gotten to the point where this works, what we are, what we've made. And I didn't even think about it."

"So what started the thinking about it tonight?" he asked, crossing the room to sit beside her. "Did my mother say something? Or Fleur? Because I've explained to them before, and I'll explain again–"

She smiled. "No, no. Nothing like that," she said. "Freddie asked me why I don't have a ring." She looked up and met his eyes. "He said that Aunt Hermione has one and Aunt Ginny has one and Granny has one, but that I don't have one. He wanted to know why."

"Perceptive boy," George said quietly, and Angelina nodded, looking away.

"Yes, he is. And . . . I didn't have an answer. I used to. I used to have so many, but I don't anymore. And I thought and I thought, and George . . . I can't think of one good reason why we aren't married. I really can't. And if you don't want to anymore, that's fine. We don't have to be. We can keep going as we have been, and we'll be okay. But if you did want to ask, and just haven't because you thought my answer would be no, well, you should know that I think it would be different now."

George couldn't hold back his smile at her words. Squeezing her hand, he said, "Wait here."

He came back moments later with a small black box, and he knelt before her and opened it. She gasped when she saw the ring. "How long have you had that?" she breathed in wonder.

"Since about a month after Freddie was born," he admitted. "I always hoped, one day, you might change your mind. Let's get married?" She nodded, a smile on her face, and George's heart swelled.

"'Bout time," came a voice from the mantle, and George turned and glared at his brother's portrait.

"First of all, I have asked you not to come up here from the shop," George said in a scolding tone. "Second of all, do you mind?"

"Well, certainly not if you're going to get all gross," Fred's portrait said. "There are some things a body doesn't need to see." And he disappeared from the frame, shaking his head and making a face.

"Sorry about him," George said. "He never did understand boundaries."

And Angelina just laughed softly and said, "I'm used to it." And she held out her hand so that George could slide the ring onto her finger.

000

When Fred and George had realized that their mother had missed one Dungbomb smuggled inside a bag of Bertie Botts' Every Flavor Beans, they knew exactly what to do with it. Quietly and carefully, they crept up the train to the Prefects' compartment where their oldest brother Bill was currently holding his first meeting as Head Boy, lit the 'bomb up, and threw it in. Though the horrific stink engulfed them, too, it was worth it for the squeals and coughs from the compartment, and as Bill shouted their names, identifying them as the guilty parties, Fred screamed, "Go, go, go!" and they both ran as if their lives depended on it.

Bill caught up with them just after George had jumped to the fifth car and just before Fred could. He caught Fred around the collar, but George managed to duck into the nearest compartment. He peeked and saw Bill scowl as he realized one brother had gotten away, but Fred gave him a wink and a thumbs up even as Bill dragged him away down the train.

Sorry that Fred had been caught, but recognizing this as one of those "If you can't keep up, it isn't the faster twin's fault" situations, he slumped against the velvet seat, his heart still pounding with excitement, and looked around the compartment for the first time.

The only other person there was a black girl about his age with her hair in long, thin braids. Her nose was wrinkled as she looked at him, and when she saw she had his attention, she said, "You smell like Dungbombs." He grinned.

"Yeah," he agreed proudly. "'Cause we just set one off in the Prefect compartment." He looked at her sidelong. She reminded him of the girls in the village that he and Fred played tricks on. There was nothing better in the world that hearing a girl's squeal after she found worms in her ponytail. "Bet you think that's pretty gross, huh? Being a girl."

Her eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms as she evidently measured him against some standard. Then she sucked in a huge breath and let out the loudest belch George had ever heard from anyone, let alone a girl. His eyes went wide. She gave a smug smile. "And I can spit twenty feet, and whistle through the gap in my teeth, and on our first free Saturday, I'll beat you in a race around the Quidditch pitch, running or flying."

He was suitably impressed, and not above admitting it. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Angelina Johnson."

"Well, Angelina Johnson," he said, sticking out a grimy hand. "I'm George Weasley. And I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

000

They were married with next to no ceremony at all. They made an appointment at the Ministry one day, brought Ginny and Ron along as their witnesses, recited their intentions, signed the marriage certificate, and that was that. But before they could leave the office, Angelina pulled him back.

"George?" she said. "They didn't ask us for vows, but I'd like to make one anyway." At his nod, she took a deep breath and said, "I will not promise that this will always be perfect. I will not promise that I will always keep my temper. I will not promise that there will not be both bad days and good. I may get angry. I may yell. I may slip backwards someday toward the hole that we both know is still there. But what I will promise you is that I will try. I will do my best to keep moving forward, and I will not give up. Not on you, not on me, and not on us. This is what I promise you."

And after everything they had been through, it was enough.

Please review.