Disclaimer: "Harry Potter" is the property of J.K. Rowling. This was written for the Romancing the Wizard lj community's challenge #17 - Messages from the Heart. Prompt was "Didn't you get my letter?"
Didn't you get my letter?
That was how he wouldn't start when he saw her. Too abrupt, too blunt. Too...to the point, when...well, what was the point?
The point was George wasn't any good at writing letters. The point was no number of grammar and spell-checking quills would make him more articulate or verbose. The point was he didn't know what to write, or even why he was writing, or why he couldn't do what he knew he should do and just forget all about Angelina Johnson.
That was a good start, yeah? Or maybe he shouldn't write 'dear.' Maybe he shouldn't call her that. Maybe it would send the wrong message, give her the wrong idea. Well, it would be the right idea, really, but she wasn't supposed to realise that.
Dear Angelina, I know I'm not Fred
Stupid. Obviously he knew he wasn't Fred (even though sometimes he wondered if he really did). Obviously she knew he wasn't Fred (even though she'd told him, yes she had, that she wanted him to be Fred, just for one night, one night that he desperately wanted to forget, even while clinging to the memory as though to let go would be to lose himself all over again). Did he want to remind her of what she didn't want to remember? That wasn't why he was doing this. Was it?
Dear Angelina, I think about you a lot
Which just sounded childish. And vaguely creepy. Even if it was true.
Dear Angelina, I would never have told you this if Fred were still alive but
He wasn't going to tell her.
The paper now a mess of scribbles, he crumpled it into a ball and chucked it in the general direction of the rubbish bin. His owl hooted softly but George ignored her, staring determinedly at the blank, clean paper in front of him, wishing that he could really, literally pour his heart out through words, that he could put everything he felt in ink and on a page where it couldn't bother him anymore. Maybe he'd invent the quill that could manage that. Though somebody (Ron, Ginny, maybe even Bill) would probably chide him that that wasn't the right way to deal with anything, and then they'd probably sic Mum on him.
Dear Angelina, sometimes I wish you hadn't been Fred's girl
And then he was writing on in his head, and it's not just because we shagged, though believe me I've always felt guilty, it wasn't even a year after he'd died
But why go on, these were the things he couldn't ever say to her, even assuming he had the balls to approach her instead of ducking his head and hoping-but-not-really that she hadn't seen him at her Quidditch matches, or in Diagon Alley, or in the Leaky Cauldron, or in a hundred other places that they both frequented and she hoped and thought (at least he assumed she did) that she was safe from running into him. Safe from resurrecting a life that she'd been cut off from.
Dear Angelina, funny story, I used to fancy you when we were at school
Dear Angelina, the thing that's not as funny, not nearly, is that I didn't stop fancying you when we stopped being at school
Not that he'd been pining or anything. It was just...something he'd felt, something he'd assumed would always be there, just at the back of his mind, and it wasn't something that had bothered him when Fred was alive, because you didn't act on these feelings when your twin brother's talking about proposing to her, did you? You shrugged and moved on, but then suddenly your twin brother was dead, and somehow that was more of an obstacle than his being alive.
Dear Angelina, a bloke isn't supposed to feel this way about the girl his dead brother was going to marry
Dear Angelina, I don't really know what I'm trying to say
Because there was too much to say, and not enough words in the world to say it. Or maybe he just didn't have the right words.
Dear Angelina, I wanted to apologise
Dear Angelina, I know things are bad between us
Angelina, I wish I could see you and explain
I'm sorry but I think I might love you
Didn't you get my letter?
That was how he wouldn't start. George balled up a final piece of paper. There wouldn't be a letter.