A/N: The credit of the Harry Potter plot and characters belongs solely to J.K. Rowling, with the only thing I own being my own characters and storyline.

I decided to try a one-shot and give myself a bit of a break before moving onto another series (yes, I still have more ideas in mind, and I'm even thinking of expanding past Harry Potter). Please, let me know what you think.

Trivia is available on my profile. I suggest, if you haven't read my other stories, to skip to the boldness text. I separate my stories/series by font.

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I remember my dad used to tuck me in at night, and he'd kiss my forehead and hold my hand and whisper quiet "I-love-you's" in my ear.

Even though it was just a kiss, I remember thinking I was the luckiest girl on earth. He and my mum were all I needed, the man I loved most in the world, and the woman I loved most in the world.

The war was over; I didn't even really remember it. Harry Potter has saved us all, everyone said. Life was good.

And then Mr. Whiskers died.

Death has never seemed very real to me. As a child, I was fortunate enough not to have experienced real tragedy (that I could remember), even though my family was not left untouched during the First Wizarding War.

Then I met Harry Potter. Blimey, that changes things, doesn't it? When the Boy Who Lived — the savior of the Wizarding World — starts attending your school, it changes things. Danger was somehow always present. Death became possible.

But let's go back.

I remember when I was real little, my mum sat me down and told me that Mr. Whiskers, the family cat, had died.

"What's 'died', Mummy?" I asked, not understanding.

"Dying is," she thought for a moment. "Dying is when someone leaves and they don't come back. Ever, Angie. Their heart stops beating, and they have to leave behind the people they love, even if they don't want to."

"Oh. Okay," I'd answered, shocked and saddened. I was never going to see Mr. Whiskers again?

And then when my daddy left us that very same year and started a family of his own with a woman he'd met at the Hog's Head some time before, I remember wondering if his heart had stopped beating, too. Because it sure seemed like he'd gone and didn't plan on coming back. Ever.

So I was never going to see my daddy again? That was a little harder.

I think the truth of what he'd done really hit me when I was about seven. My mum hadn't mentioned him since, which I have to give her credit for, because he wasn't some absentee father or anything. He was a good dad. He loved me, I'm sure. I guess he just loved that woman more.

But when I was seven, I remember my mum took me to buy a broom. I was practically bouncing off the walls, I was so excited. My very own broom. My mum had been a Quidditch player too, a Hufflepuff, and that was all I'd ever wanted to be. A Quidditch player. A Hufflepuff. I wanted to be just like her.

But when we were in Diagon Alley, I saw him. My dad. Holding hands with her, whispering little "I-love-you's" in her ear.

He used to do that to me. But it was just a kiss, right?

My mum tried to ignore him. She steered us out of their path. She tried.

"Oh, hi, Em —" my dad slurred. His girlfriend giggled.

My mom got mad.

Now, I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen my mum lose her temper. She's just about the sweetest woman you could ever meet. But she got mad.

"What are you doing, Daryl?" she demanded. "You asked for zero contact, you asked not to see her. Said you wanted to start over. I obliged. I stay away from where you and your new crowds are. I plan our trips away from yours. I plan our schedule away from yours. I even send you ours.

"But this is what you do? You're out gallivanting with your new family anyway, out drinking your life away with a toy on your arm, while my daughter wonders why her daddy hasn't been home for three years."

My dad was stunned. His girlfriend was smart enough not to say anything.

"Look at her! Look at her, Daryl! Look at the beautiful little girl you left, and apologize to her. Say that you're sorry you put your happiness above hers. Say you're sorry that the one time she went out to get something for herself was one of the many times you've thrown caution to the wind for yourself. Just say it."

He opened his mouth. My mom interrupted him.

"Better yet, just tell me her name. What's your little girl's name, Daryl?"

"A-Ang-Angela?" he stuttered nervously.

My mum looked at him in disgust. "It's Angelina, you bastard."

We didn't get a broom that day. My mum said it was because whatever memories I'd have of it would be marred by what'd happened, but I think it was because she was too upset to keep going.

I think we both cried that night. I cried because the man I loved most in the world was alive, and he didn't even know my name.

By the way, my mum was a damn hero. She had to deal with a lot. First, my dad. But also, we didn't ever have much money.

My mum didn't have a job before my father left. Her boss hadn't wanted to give her six-weeks' maternity leave, so she quit. And back then, my dad's job could support us all.

But once he was gone, my mum had to find a job fast. And it wasn't a very good one. She worked sales at Flourish and Blott's. It didn't pay too much. But she gave me whatever she could.

She'd saved up for years to buy that broom. Years. She knew just how much I wanted it.

And even though we didn't have money, and I didn't have my dad, she taught me that I didn't need some fancy item or some man to be happy. She could make me laugh like no one else could. She understood me.

And she taught me Quidditch. I like to think Quidditch was her escape from reality as much as it was mine. We'd play for hours. She always told me I'd be the star of Hufflepuff. I even beat her a few times.

And then we'd come home and set two places at the table. We'd eat, joke, tell stories. Life was good.

And then I went to Hogwarts. I actually got Sorted into Gryffindor, which was a bit of a sore subject with my mum and I, since my dad was in Gryffindor and my mum in Hufflepuff. I'd wanted to be in Hufflepuff, certainly. I guess the Sorting Hat didn't agree.

But I grew to love my new House. Made friends. Alicia. Oliver. Lee. George. Fred.

And when Katie came a year later, I became friends with her too. I guess I was popular. It didn't really matter.

I made the Quidditch team. That, my mum was proud of. Quidditch became my life more than it already was. My days were filled with Quidditch and friends.

I guess it was at some point during all that that my mum and I sort of drifted apart. I mean, we didn't have any problems with each other or anything, we just didn't talk as much. Daily letters became weekly letters. Weekly letters became monthly.

But still, life was good.

Harry Potter started coming to school, and it was like every year was a new adventure. Someone could write an entire book — no, an entire series — about his life. It was crazy. He was nice enough, though, for all the danger he put us in. And he was good at Quidditch.

Life was good.

And then Fred said, "Oi! Angelina!"

I was talking to Alicia at the time, working on new Quidditch strategies to try out the next year. Because of the Triwizard Tournament, Quidditch had been canceled for the year, which I thought was the stupidest thing ever. But maybe it was because I hadn't been chosen for the tournament.

Harry had. Of course Harry had. Honestly, it was stupid of me not to expect it, even if he was underage. I mean, it was Harry Potter.

But anyway.

I looked back at Fred. "What?" I asked warily. You never knew with Fred. He was just unpredictable like that.

"Want to come to the ball with me?"

I was shocked, really. But an invitation was an invitation, and going with Fred would certainly make for an interesting night.

"All right, then," I told him, before resuming my conversation with Alicia, though I couldn't help but smile at imagining what was to come.

That night at the Yule Ball, I had so much fun I didn't want the night to end. We were some of the last to leave, actually. But when my feet really started killing me, Fred and I went up to some long-empty corridor and talked. Just talked. We told stories and made jokes and laughed till it was three in the morning.

And then he swooped down and kissed me, and I was speechless. Up until then I hadn't really thought about him liking me. Sure, I'd had a bit of a thing for him, but who didn't? He was charming as a prince and funny as, well, Fred. But soon we were snogging as passionately as two teenagers in lust.

And the next morning, at breakfast, he grinned at me from his side of the table, and I grinned back, and it was an unspoken agreement that, as much fun as we'd had, that night was a one-time deal. And I didn't mind at all. It was, after all, just a kiss.

Life was good.

And then, my seventh year, my dad wrote. The bastard is gone for thirteen years of my life, and — out of the blue — he writes. He wants to see me, he says. He regrets how he left things with my mum and me, he says. He's sorry, he says.

What do you even say to that?

I said no.

I said that he was so good at forgetting me that he should do it forever. I said that he probably wasn't sincere. He probably just wanted to upheave my life again. He wanted the drama. And I meant it. I meant every word.

But what if I was wrong?

No. I couldn't think about that.

So I threw myself into whatever was going on at school. I was Captain of the Quidditch team that year, and I drove them hard. Harry said I was acting like Oliver used to. Good. Oliver helped us win.

And when that nasty Umbridge woman tried to ban Quidditch, I appealed to McGonagall. I pulled out all the stops. This is my life. Umbridge can't take this away from me. I'm going through a hard time right now. She bought it.

I'm pretty sure that, even if I hadn't said all that, McGonagall still would've gone to Dumbledore. McGonagall hated Umbridge as much as I did.

And then Umbridge banned Fred, George, and Harry from the team.

My best players.

And so I joined the D.A., and we defied her. I enjoyed rebelling in something she didn't even know about.

Life was good.

I graduated eventually, and the Second War started. It was hard to keep living amongst all the terror and death. But I really reconnected with my mum. We saw each other every week after that. I went on to play Quidditch professionally. It was my dream.

Life was good.

And then I got the message. There was going to be a battle at Hogwarts, and we were going to fight.

I was excited. This was my chance to finally help end this horrible war. So I came, and I fought.

And then Fred died. I think that's when death really hit me. When someone I truly loved died.

Blimey, it's hard to think about it. You don't realize how much you appreciated a person until they're gone.

But with Fred, it was like he was never really gone. For months after his death, I would dream about that night at the Yule Ball. Dancing with him, laughing with him, snogging him.

It was hard to believe I was once that happy. Maybe I didn't realize just how good life really was, back then.

It isn't now.

I can see him wherever I go. I can see his face in a stranger's, and it always takes me back to that night. I can feel his touch in a song, and it always takes me back to that night. I can hear his voice in my head, telling some stupid, corny joke, and it always takes me back to that night.

He haunts me.

I let him.

Maybe it's a testament to how much I miss him, that I don't ever try to stop the voices, don't ever turn off the music, don't ever look away, but I don't. I close my eyes, and I imagine that night once more.

And again. And again and again and again.

Maybe that's why I started hanging out with George more. To see his face, to hear his voice, even if it wasn't really the same. Maybe I figured George needed me as much as I needed him. I was a distraction, he was a reminder.

But when George — George, of all people — asked me out, I was dumbfounded. I was truly speechless.

And I thought back.

I thought back to the tears. We'd cried together in the Great Hall that morning, staring at his lifeless face. We'd cried together at the funeral, hearing some bloke who hadn't known Fred at all try to describe his life. We'd cried together on and off after, when stupid little things would remind us of him. We'd cried a lot.

I thought back to the jokes. We'd always been so good at understanding each other, George and I. He'd say something, and I'd make a sarcastic comment, and we'd laughed. We'd laughed in the Great Hall, trying to get the hollow sound to have some kind of truth in it. We'd laughed at the funeral, when Lee weakly tried to insert a joke, and we wanted to tell him it was okay to cry. We'd laughed on and off after, when some stupid little thing would remind us of some stupid little thing Fred had done or said, and we'd burst out laughing at the thought. We'd laughed a lot.

I thought back to the little things. The Pygmy Puffs we'd cuddled on one of the worse days. The flowers he'd give me on some of the better ones. The heads on the shoulders, the hand holding, the forehead kisses. We'd done a lot.

Was it enough?

Was it enough to offset the overwhelming emotion I got at the sight of his face, knowing that with another ear, he'd look just like Fred had? Was it enough to counter the tears I fought back whenever someone — sometimes me — would have a slip of the tongue and say Fred instead of George? Was it enough to move past the past and imagine what the future could be?

I didn't know.

There was one way to find out.

I said yes.

He'd smiled, a smile that hadn't been the same since he'd lost his other half, a smile that was missing its mirror, and he leaned forward. So did I.

After all, it was just a kiss.