2 May 2009

A loud, disgruntled wail floated down the only corridor of the small, cozy flat above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

Angelina sighed, dragging herself out of her quilts and slipping out of hers and George's bedroom—where George was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling—and began pacing down the hallway. Just two hours earlier, she, George, and their children had returned to their flat after a scrumptious birthday dinner at the Burrow. Their eldest niece, Victoire, had turned nine years old that day.

In the years since she and George had begun dating, the second of May had become a numbingly familiar routine to Angelina. In the wee hours of the morning, before the crowds started arriving, she and George would leave their children with her father and stepmother, and spend an hour at the Hogsmeade Memorial Cemetery. Then, they would return home, and Angelina would tactfully pretend to busy herself in the kitchen, while George stalked downstairs to the joke shop to lock himself in the basement.

Finally, at around four o'clock in the afternoon, George would emerge from the basement, eyes rimmed with red and face pale. And after retrieving their children from Angelina's father's house, she and George would arrive at the Burrow, where George would lift a huge grin to his face, never one to put a damper on the spirit of Victoire's birthday celebration.

But the moment they returned home, he would clamp up again and lay awake in bed for hours, barely uttering a syllable. And Angelina would let him.

Rubbing her eyes tiredly, Angelina ambled down the hall, past the flat's snug sitting room, until she was standing outside her daughter's nursery. Quietly, she pushed open the door, and walked inside.

One-year-old Roxanne gave another discontented whimper as Angelina's face loomed suddenly over her crib. She raised her arms towards her mother, chin trembling, and Angelina half-smiled as she scooped the little girl out of the cot. Almost immediately, Roxanne relaxed, curling her arms around her mother's neck and snuggling against her shoulder.

"Who's my sweet girl?" Angelina whispered, gently rubbing the baby's back. "That's you, Roxy…that's you, my sweet one—" she broke off suddenly, as a flurry of movement to her right caught her attention. Very slowly and very quietly, Angelina turned around, frowning. "Freddie?" she called out.

There were several, long beats of silence.

Then, with a small sniffle, her five-year-old son stepped out from the shadows of the nursery, arms crossed over his little chest.

Angelina narrowed her eyes. "Why aren't you in bed, young man?" she asked sternly, shifting Roxanne into a more comfortable position in her arms. "It's nearly eleven-thirty."

Freddie shrugged noncommittally, avoiding her gaze. He turned instead towards the nursery door, staring down the corridor, in the direction of his parents' bedroom. He was quiet for a moment.

Then— "Mummy…is Daddy okay?" he asked softly, still looking down the hallway.

Angelina's mind stuttered to a stop, and her throat seemed to swell shut. It was with immense effort that she managed to unstick her voice. "Of—of course he is, Freddie," she said hoarsely. "Why would you ask that?"

Freddie shrugged again, looking down at his feet. "I heard crying noises," he said quietly.

Angelina stared at her son. Her heart gave a painful little twinge, and a rush of inexplicable emotion welled up in her.

Gingerly, she lowered a now-sleeping Roxanne back into her cot. Then, slowly, she knelt down on the floor in front of her son. For the first time, Freddie met her gaze, and Angelina was startled to see that his eyes were filled with tears.

"Oh, sweetheart," Angelina sighed, holding out her arms, and immediately, Freddie flung himself into them, squeezing his own arms around her waist. Angelina kissed the top of his dark hair. "Freddie, it's not your job to worry about Dad," she said—gently, but firmly. "Do you understand me?"

Hiccuping slightly, Freddie nodded against her chest, and Angelina tightened her grip on his shoulders. "He's doing just fine, sweet boy," Angelina continued softly. "He's just had a very hard day."

It was nearly a full three minutes before Freddie drew back, wiping his eyes and nose on his sleeve. Then, much to Angelina's tender bewilderment, he reached into the pocket of his pajama bottoms and extracted a tiny scrap of rolled parchment, holding it out to her.

"Will you please Owl this for me, Mummy?" Freddie asked seriously.

Angelina took the scroll carefully, puzzled. "Who's it for?"

"It's for—" Freddie hesitated for a moment, biting his lip. Then, he shook his head. "Tilly will know where to go," he said confidently. "Dad told me she can find anyone." He straightened his shoulders and smiled—looking distinctly more like his usual, cheerful self. "Goodnight, Mummy."

And with that, he turned around and padded out of the nursery, towards his bedroom on the other side of the hall. Angelina watched him go, slightly agape. Then, she looked down at the little scroll in her hands. And before she could stop herself, her fingers had unfurled the parchment and she was smoothing out the creases, squinting down at her son's messy handwriting through the scarce light from the window:

Dear Uncle Fred,

Please teach me how you made Daddy laugh. He needs my help.

Love,
Freddie

Angelina stared down at the letter, heart constricting. Rather unsteadily, she sagged backwards against the nursery wall, blinking rapidly as her vision blurred. And then, quite suddenly, she buried her face in her arms and began to cry—for Fred, for George, for herself…but most of all, for the letter in her hand…proof that Fate was nothing but a spiteful monster and that Life was nothing but an inconsiderate witch.

Author's Note:

I've always thought the second of May must be super hard on Angelina, having to watch her husband suffer like that. This idea had been dancing around in my head...I hope you all enjoyed it.

Ari