Every Day Since

It was a quarter to midnight when George and Angelina Apparated into the middle of Diagon Alley with a pop, holding hands. "Where are you taking me?" asked Angelina, as George led her on the winding cobblestone street.

"To my shop," he said. "You said you wanted to see Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes."

"Ooh, yes please," said Angelina eagerly, walking faster to keep up with him. George had often told her about his shop in Diagon Alley in his letters, talking about how well business was going or whenever he had succeeded in developing a new line of products for sale. She was fascinated by all the things he described of selling in the shop, and couldn't wait for the moment when she would be able to see it for real.

"Wow," she exclaimed as the door opened and George turned on the lights. The bell at the door signaling their entrance tinkled, but she too busy looking at all the shelves stocked with colourful products of all shapes and sizes. "Wow," she said again, walking forward, not knowing where to look, wishing she had more than two eyes so she could look at everything in the shop.

"It's great, isn't it?" said George quietly behind her. "I'm glad I didn't close it."

"But why would you?" said Angelina, turning in surprise.

George was quiet for a moment. "I…" he swallowed, looked away with difficulty, but decided to continue. "After Fred d- left, I contemplated closing the shop. Life didn't seem so funny without him by my side. But Harry told me not to."

"Harry?" said Angelina, smiling.

"Yeah. He said that the world needed a laugh after You-Know-Who, and I guess I saw his point. It was difficult at first, managing it all on my own, but well… here I am." He shuffled his feet and looked down. "What do you think?" he said shyly.

"I think you've done a bloody good job," said Angelina honestly, with feeling. She had known about the twins' plans to open a shop like this ever since the Yule Ball when Fred first voiced his passion to become what he called a 'professional prankster'. "I'm glad you continued the business."

"Me too," said George, smiling. "So... you're not sorry you came?"

"Not sorry, no," said Angelina, knowing that George was referring to her visit, and not just the fact that she was standing in his shop. "But I'm… not going to stay." He glanced at her, cocking his head, and Angelina could almost see the question mark forming above his head. She explained, "Well, for one thing, your mother doesn't want me to, and pretty much implied that I should go. I think she suspects us… and well, then you… you've been kind of…"


"Well… embarrassed is the word I'm looking for, but you've kind of been avoiding me since I got here."

George gave a nervous laugh. "The trouble is I planned on kind of sneaking up on you over a period of a week or so. I guess you know this is why I asked you to come." For a moment they looked at each other, not sure of what to say. George's heart was beating faster and faster as he knew what was coming. Say it now, his mind urged it. Say it.

"I love you, Angelina," he blurted out. "I love you a great deal. I've loved you since I met you on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and I haven't stopped loving you since."

Angelina just stood there, waiting. Her expression was unreadable.

"I don't know how else to tell you," continued George, starting to fumble with his words. "I didn't know how to say it in my letters, so I thought I would ask you to come here so I could say it to your face… it's stupid, isn't it, falling in love with your dead brother's girlfriend? I'm embarrassing you, aren't I? I'm being stupid, aren't I – "

"Oh, George," said Angelina suddenly, taking a step towards him, "I've been ready a long, long time!" Her eyes were shining with joy as she took his hand and held it in hers; the warmth shared between them was electrifying, exhilarating, and George felt his heart skip a beat.

"You've moved on," he said stupidly. "You're sure."

"I almost got married two years ago, you know," said Angelina, staring into his eyes. "But then I got your letter, and I didn't know how to feel…"

"You felt something that far away?" said George, hope blossoming in his heart. "You've loved me since that first letter?"

"Every day since," said Angelina, squeezing his hand.

"Ange, why didn't you let me know?"

"Because you were so bloody ambiguous when you were writing me, that's why," said Angelina. "I was waiting and waiting for you, but you never gave any indication that you fancied me back. So what could I do? All I've done is sit and wonder if I was crazy for thinking of you…"

George was trembling. "Give me a kiss, Ange. Give me a – " He was stopped short by Angelina, who had closed the space between them and kissed him full on the mouth. He had a momentary brain-freeze: where should he put his hands? Where did people normally put their hands when they kissed? He resolved to let them hang by his sides. He was kissing Angelina, he was kissing Angelina, Fred's girlfriend – but surely this was a betrayal! He couldn't touch her, not like this, not when the memory of his brother was still fresh in their minds –

When they broke apart, cheeks flushed, Angelina exclaimed, "I'll never forgive you, George. I waited ever so long for you!"

"I'm going to make you so happy, Angelina," said George, kissing her again, carefully and gently on the side of her mouth.

"Not like that you're not," she said, sounding almost embarrassed. She placed her hands on his shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. "Don't kiss me like Fred's brother. He's gone forever, he won't come back." She squeezed his shoulders and smiled. "Live for me. Do it like you."

A church bell clanged in the distance, signaling that Christmas Day had begun. Angelina pulled him closer. "Give it your all. Now kiss me like the George Weasley I know."

So he did.

Author's Note:

Thanks for reading my story, hope you enjoyed it ~ now leave me a review before I come chasing after you!

Want more stories set during Christmastime? Read my other story Accidentally on Purpose. If you're looking for some Wicked fun, try Twelve Days of Lurlinemas.