Chapter 1
It had been nearly three years since Angelina had been in Diagon Alley. Yet there she stood, transfixed, a still and lone figure standing on the cobbled street just beyond the entranceway behind the Leaky Cauldron. A hurried, indistinct crowd jostled around, oblivious to the still and silent girl in the alleyway.
Finally willing herself to look around she drank in the scene around her. It looked almost as it had when she was a young girl, growing up in her parents small but colourful flat above their tea shop. The air was cool and comfortable, sun warmed her back and the endless array of magical people and creatures moved around her, fast with excitement and anticipation, instead of fear. But something about the place was different; something was odd about the scenery. Upon a closer look, almost everything showed signs, scars really, of the bad times. Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor was still dark, its lifeless windows were still covered by hundreds of fading, feebly flickering "Undesirable Number One" leaflets. Gringotts, once a magnificent marble structure she so admired was still pathetically crumbling, it's very standing looked severely and sickly comically compromised. And every once and awhile a child could be seen holding the hands of his grandparents, instead of his mum and dad, or a single person walking alone, still looking like their other half was missing. Their solemn faces among the many so determinately happy ones told the story of the war that had been fought and lived here.
Yes, things were different.
Finally she turned to the left and walked slowly and silently down the cobbled road, eyes fixed upon the ground, concentrating on stepping perfectly within the lines of the larger rocks, careful not to touch the cracks. She had been avoiding this place, frankly anywhere familiar to her since the months full of funerals and memorial services following the Battle of Hogwarts. Each pang of familiarity she felt when she recognized a shop or a bump in the road brought her back to the Great Hall.
Running, shivering but drenched in sweat among the upturned tables and benches, taking in the death around her with a cold, informational calculation. The harsh, immensely powerful voice of instruction that seemed to come from within her whole being. Fred, calling across the common room to her, asking her to the Yule Ball, and the warmth she felt in her cheeks when she said yes. The feeling of thanks that he couldn't see her blush because of her dark complexion. Collin Creevy flashed into the front of her mind next. His joyful, innocent eagerness as he asked for her autograph after she had made Quidditch Captain. Then, his frozen blank state as he lay over Neville's shoulders, dead. She shuddered. She did the best to force the faces of his terrified and broken muggle parents, weeping, clutching on to the- for the first time since she had met him- silent Dennis. They didn't understand why their child had died. The cruel war that had taken their son was a concept they could scarcely understand. At least the other mothers, like Mrs. Tonks and Mrs. Weasley could have some reasoning, some temporary comfort that their children had died for a great cause. But after the adrenaline of the victory subsided, they were left with the same gaping hole in their lives that Mr. and Mrs. Creevy were faced with.
Oh Mrs. Weasley. Never before had she seen a person suffering more. Angelina tried her best to understand, to sympathize and feel with her, but she could not. No mother should need to bury their child. She suffered greatly in her grief; condemned to a feeling of utter failure at the one job she had dedicated her life to, being a mother. Angelina nearly had to leave the funeral, looking into the gray, hallow suffering face was a punishment she could scarcely bear.
Angelina remembered the funeral, against her own will, she saw again Mr. Weasley. He was expressionless other than the silent tears threatening to leave his eyes, and the faintest hint of a smile; perhaps he was remembering one of his son's infamous pranks. He was clutching his inconsolable wife by her shoulders.
Fred would've hated it, she couldn't help but think. All the sadness when they should be out celebrating their victory. He would've especially hated that his final act on this earth was to cause so many people so much hurt and grief, when he had dedicated his life to making others laugh when no one else could. She tried to think of what he would've said, if he were there, but it had been so long that she couldn't. It would've been something inappropriately hilarious, she was sure. In her mind she went back to that day, as though searching a memory for some long lost clue.
Then there was George. His eyes were dry, though they had aged fifteen years in a month. He had lost himself. He looked like a man who had been split in half, as though his very soul had been ripped in two with no hope of reconciliation. He was a man beyond grief.
That was the funny thing about war. After the euphoria of the win was over, after the visions of a happier future left everyone's minds, they were left picking up the pieces. Then instead they were forced to imagine a future without those who had fallen, which normally wasn't happier at all.
There was something about great loss that changed how Angelina saw people. Both the dead and those left behind to mourn for them. The dead suddenly didn't seem like people anymore, but imprints left on the earth and on the people around them. Their bodies and minds were left to be interpreted by the memories and change they left behind in those who once loved them. Their piece of the story was over. That thought disturbed her a lot at night.
She watched the desperately grieving break from the façade of their personalities they normally showed. They gave everything to their emotions in a way that wasn't possible when a person was whole. She remembered her mother.
Screaming. Sobbing. Punching a pillow, forgetting magic, giving into raw emotion that plagued her. But magic did not forget her, as angry yellow sparks erupted from the impact of each blow. The ministry worker looked on, uncomfortable, wincing at each small fiery eruption. She remembered the look on his face when he saw her standing in the kitchen doorway, and they looked into each other's eyes. She could tell a lot from a person's eyes. Although dark, Fred's eyes were always light with mischievous joy. This man, however, had eyes that told the story of defeat and shame. He had been broken by witnessing the grief he was forced to deliver each day, telling the families of muggle-borns sentenced to life in Azkaban their loved ones' fate. His eyes were truly sorry. But he must have known that didn't make a difference, because he simply turned around and walked out of the flat without another word.
She stopped. She had counted the paces while staring at the ground. She was here. And there is was. Definitely larger, perhaps more violently purple than she had ever seen it. She didn't know what she had expected. Perhaps a boarded up shop like the ice cream parlor, or just a blank hole in a row of buildings. But there it stood, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. There was one large difference, however; in the space below the floating sign, where there had once been a giant rabbit disappearing and reappearing under a top hat, there was now an enormous oval-framed photograph of two young teenagers, arms around each other's shoulders, laughing uproariously at some long forgotten joke.
She couldn't do this. She couldn't look into the living face of Fred. As much as she owed George a big hug and a rambling apology for losing touch of nearly three years, she couldn't do it. Frozen in her spot, she contemplated just visiting Quality Quidditch Supplies, seeing Madame Quiggly about her damaged firebolt, and taking the next portkey back to the Isle of Skye. She could leave here without any of her old friends, or her parents knowing she was ever here.
That would surely be the easiest way out. She could return to her life outside the war. The war, which at least, here at home, was still happening for her. Everything here held memories, both good and bad, but all were memories that belonged in the past, buried with those who did not get to leave that time, like she had.
She would have been perfectly happy never returning. But after a recent victory in Northern Ireland fans set off a series of dragon fireworks and fizzbangs (which Angelina recognized with a pang as Weasley products) one of which went rouge and badly singed the tail of her firebolt. Her coach spent two weeks berating her and banning her from practice, but until he finally showed up at her door, shaking a manky old flip-flop in one hand and her damaged broom in the other demanding she go see "the best repairwitch in Europe" or be banned from the team that she finally resigned to going home.
A clang interrupted her thought process and made her start. A chubby ginger boy of no more than 8 years old had just burst through the door of the joke shop, shrieking with glee. He was chased by a small girl, who was cackling evilly and shooting him with what she could only describe as miniature flobberworms out of a small metal tube. A harassed looking young witch followed soon after. She procured her wand and summoned a lasso around her children, whose faces fell as their heads banged together and the metal object fell to the ground with a deafening bang belonging to a much larger object. She watched as the trio trudged back inside.
Was she really this afraid of her old friends? If she could see herself now, four or so years ago, terrified to see George Weasley, of all people, what would she have thought of herself? The old Angelina, the Angelina unafraid to fight death eaters and risk her life for a radio show, she wouldn't believe what she was seeing now. A Gryffindor would not stand out here, not even to avoid looking into the face that brought her so much guilt that she could only rid her mind of it while whizzing around 50 feet in the air.
She followed the family nervously inside, picking up the silver tube on the way. Immediately an overwhelming crowd greeted her. The hum of excited voices, small explosions and shrieks of surprise filled her ears.
"Hello Mademoiselle is there anything I can help you find today?" asked a sultry woman's voice in a thick French accent. Fleur's younger sister, dressed in a tight skirted pink and white pinstriped uniform, had since grown into a stunningly beautiful young woman and she was looking up at her. Gabrielle didn't seem to recognize her; she only seemed to have noticed her look of bewilderment at the scene.
"No, no thank you," she replied, turning away and instead making her way down a small flight of stairs to slightly less crowded section of the store.
Another beautiful young girl in a pink pinstripe uniform with a sickly sweet voice greeted her at the entrance of this section as well. Again Angelina refused her help. He had to be here somewhere. But what if he weren't? What if he happened to be out, researching some new item, or at home with his family? Finally realizing she might now even see George today, she was suddenly disappointed, instead of relieved. Confused at this feeling, she now continued her search of the store, with a new sense to longing to see her old friend.
She ascended a big flight of stairs to a loft like area full of colorful miniature puffskiens, tricoloured lovebirds, and tiny rainbow hooting owls bouncing around in dozens of stacked and hanging cages. Temporarily distracted by the pure wonder of it all, she watched the strange creatures flutter in their cages and nearly walked into the back of another pink-pinstripe clad shop girl. She thought she recognized her from a year below her in Slytherin, but she couldn't get a good look at her face, as the girl was shouting up at the ceiling.
Angelina followed the yelling girl's gaze up to a mass hanging above her. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw a long, thin leg hanging from the side of a midnight blue hammock suspended magically above the shop.
"Fourteen barrels of 'Esscence of Ashwinder Eggs' were just delivered out back Mr. Weasley. Delivery boy says you owe him 20 galleons. Where should I tell him to leave them, sir?"
A heavy bored sigh came from within the deep hammock. The hanging leg kicked the air lazily as an exasperated voice rose from within.
"I told you about the love potion ingredients being sent by loading broom this morning, Beatrice. Here, give him 21 galleons and tell him to levitate them through the second window to the left on the fourth floor. And I better get the sack I gave you last week for the deliveries back. The powdered moonstone should be here soon too, so wait outside for it. Thank you Beatrice." A thin green-robed arm emerged from the depths of the hammock, holding a money pouch by the drawstring, which he dropped carelessly into the girl's hands. She only just caught it, said thank you nervously, and headed down the stairs with a suspicious glance at Angelina.
Angelina watched the hand retreat back into the hammock, only to emerge a moment later, wand in hand, to silently zap a drifting purple feather above him. Trying to think of what to say, she only managed a stammered, "Hi Georgie."
The hanging leg did not move, and for a moment she thought he must not have heard her, and she opened her mouth to speak again, just as a flamingly red head poked up from the side of the hammock. He arose so quickly that she jumped, and the silver tube she was still twirling nervously in her hands suddenly shot a shiny, mucus-ey mass straight into his face, hitting him squarely in the eye.
"Umph! Merlin's beard Ang!" righting himself to a sitting position, wiping the ball of slime from him face and flicking it to the ground, "I don't see you for years and you come back just to shoot me in the face with a Flobigater?!"
"Well I wasn't expecting you to look like Merlin himself!" she watched him clumsily jump from the hammock with a grunt, wiping at the sticky slime with his robe sleeve.
Finally getting his bearings George looked at her through shaggy hair covering his good eye. She was looking back at him, hands covering her mouth as she suppressed a grin, the Flobigater pointed up at the ceiling. A small giggle escaped her covered mouth, and George's face split into a grin. Suddenly they were laughing. Neither could remember the last time they really laughed. They just looked at each other, George, covered in purple and gray slime, and Angelina, as though no time had passed, laughing. The silver tube shot off again sending a tiny flobberworms shooting off into the air. Angelina gave a small shriek of surprise and dropped the Flobigater with a deafening clang, and they both doubled over in laughter.
His eyes finally threatening to tear, he choked out, "Come here you," and folded his long arms around her in shaking shoulders in a tight embrace. After wiping her wet eyes she managed to get her arms around his thin middle. They embraced for a moment, and Angelina couldn't help but notice that he still smelled of gunpowder and owl feathers. She finally felt his arms loosen, and she let go of him, stepping back to get a good look at her old friend.
They took in each other's changes. Angelina was thinner, but her arms were still muscular. Her once straightened and professional hair was now held together in thousands of long twisted braids, like it was when they were much younger. She smiled up at him, wiping her tearing eyes.
"Honestly George, what does your mother say about this beard?" she asked, reaching up to brush the hair out of his face.
"Aw it was a battle, but she's gotten used to it," he stroked his chin self-consciously. He had grown his shaggy orange hair to just above his shoulders. It was parted crookedly down the middle and the wavy locks fell to the side of his face. His face. He now sported an equally flaming orange beard that covered most of it. It was trimmed short, hugging his thin cheekbones, but it covered the young man's face almost entirely. He was so different looking. She had only ever seen the boys short haired and clean shaven, as Mrs. Weasley undoubtedly commanded.
"Why've you done this to yourself? You look like a young Dumbledore!"
"Well the hair was first, to cover this up," he pushed back his hair to reveal the black gaping hole in the side of his head, "You know, I thought it was brilliant, but the muggle children in London kept shrieking and running away from me."
"And the beard?"
"Well the beard… just… just to look a little different in the mirror," he finished awkwardly.
"Well you look a bit like a…" she said, searching for something to change the subject from the one she didn't ever think she'd be able to discuss.
"A sexy Santa Claus?"
"Yes George, a sexy Santa Claus," she replied, sarcasm heavy in her voice.
"Ah well, I take my compliments as they come. And Angelina Johnson deems me sexy."
"Yeah well, don't let it go to your hairy head."
"What, me? Let it go to my head that ANGELINA JOHNSON OF THE PRIDE OF PORTREE THINGS I'M A SEXY FATHER CHRISTMAS!" he shouted over the railing of the loft. Angelina pulled him back from the bemused crowd, punching him in the chest.
"Umph Ang, some might think you only came back to hurt me."
"Been keeping up with me, eh?"
"Oh well, you know me, a big fan of professional Quidditch," he replied nonchalantly, though she could swear she saw the slightest touch of pink rising to his face behind his beard.
"Though I say, those Portree chasers are really lackluster this year, poor player recruitment if you ask me."
"Oh shut up," she replied, turning away so he couldn't see her reluctant grin. She was immensely relieved by how easy it was to talk to him. He wasn't angry with her for losing touch. He wasn't angry with her at all. Though how could he be? He had no way of knowing. But still, she thought maybe he pieced it together by now, but he hadn't. He'd actually been following her career.
Oh what had she been so nervous about? This was George Weasley. And he was making her feel 16 again.
She knew she shouldn't ask. She didn't deserve to. But she turned around and said, "Do you want to get a cup of tea and catch up?" Where was this courage that had eluded her for 36 months suddenly coming from?
He looked a little surprised, but perhaps excited, and he immediately replied, "Sure."
"We could go to The Little Tea Room around the corner. I practically live on their rock cakes."
"George, you know that's my mum and dad's place."
"Oh right, I forgot. I should probably stop flirting with the shopkeeper's wife then."
"Oh hush," she dismissed him, but wondered all the same if he had actually seen her mother there. When she left Diagon Alley it had been months since any member of the Johnson family had worked there. But Angelina didn't ask, that was a reunion for another day. One she knew wouldn't go as well as the one with George.
"Well I could show you the break room. I have an excellent collection of boring teas Mum keeps sending me in care packages." Without waiting for an answer, as though afraid the offer might be revoked at any moment, he drew his wand and pointed it wordlessly at the ceiling. A violently green crooked ladder emerged from a freshly opening hole above them. He signaled for her to go first. She followed his instruction and climbed into the employee break room. Soon she stood in a surprisingly sterile white ramshackle little room lined with broken boxes, cow skin couches, wooden chairs, and what looked like Hogwarts potion tables. Another pink-pinstriped beauty, this one dark skinned with short metallic hair was whispering excitedly to the shop girl Beatrice in a corner. Angelina looked around uncomfortably when they abruptly stopped their conversation to look intimidatingly at her. She was relieved when George finally clambered up the ladder behind her.
Following her eyes, he noticed the two girls. "Oi! Didn't I tell you to wait for the moonstone delivery? And I believe you're supposed to be running a register right now Kelly. No wonder there's a line to the loo down there!"
"Yessir, sorry Mr. Weasley," they answered simultaneously, shooting Angelina nastily quizzical looks before retreating down the ladder back to their posts.
Angelina wrung her hands uncomfortably and asked the question she'd been wondering since she walked in.
"Do you hire your shop girls from the covers of Witch Weekley?" She looked up, surprised to see George looking a bit guilty.
"Well you know, pretty faces sell merchandise," he added quickly, "though those girls are about as daft as doorknobs and as difficult to get to work as one of my trick wands. The whole idea was Fred's in the first place. Uggos must just be born with a work ethic to compensate. I would've hired you, but you're off chasing quaffles in some far away land." He shifted chairs around so they could sit around one table, not looking at her while he talked.
Angelina winced at the name and decided to ask no more of it. But had George Weasley just complimented her? Since when had she known him to be indirect? That was one of the things she always liked about the twins. She admired a mouth that never held its tongue, just like she never did in her younger years.
"Sit," he gestured to the chair nearest her while he shuffled over to the kitchenette to prepare the tea.
"Oh wait, they're may be an invisible whoopee cushion on that one so che…"
But she had already plopped down, and a windy wailing fart noise exhaled from the invisible cushion. Once again thankful her skin hid her reddening face; she just smiled and rolled her eyes before groping under her for the deflated cushion.
"Sorry," he said meekly.
"Hey, anything's better than the puking pastilles you 'accidently' left with my lemon drops."
"Oh yeah, I'd forgotten about that one," he replied with a small snicker.
"I haven't."
"Ah well, at least you weren't Justin Finch-Fletchley. We 'accidentally' spilled a cauldron of swelling solution on his feet in the corridor his second year for blaming Harry for opening the chamber. He was in the hospital wing with clown feet for a week."
"And what had I done to you two?" she asked, the 'you two' came so naturally.
"I don't remember, probably woken us up at 5 am for practice."
"Well early risers get to play professional Quidditch."
He smiled at her, "Fair enough, 110 points in her first game too."
"Well I see I'm in front of my number one fan here." She also couldn't help but to grin at his recognition. He seemed proud of her.
"Well you may be an international Quidditch star, but I just had a rich and famous player come to my shop to buy my personally designed Flobigater, so I think my success is much more noteworthy."
"Well I just shot a rich and famous inventor in the eye with his own creation."
"That you did," he replied, twitching his bruised eye in remembrance.
They sat in silence for a bit, sipping at their bitter tea, looking into their cups.
"How've you been, Ang?" George asked boldly.
She smiled sadly into her cup, "You know… I've been… I've been." Unsure of what to say, she struggled to find words to describe her past three years. How had all those months been? She had her dream job, but she wasn't enjoying it as she expected. She felt off balance, desperately alone, different.
He interrupted her before she could finish her thought.
"Yeah, me too," he said, with a solemn sip from his teacup.
She clicked her nails against her cup, her tea too hot to sip again.
"How's Lee?" she asked, eager for a change in subject.
George chuckled. "Lees alright, he's up in Hogsmeade right now with, guess who, Cho Chang!" he exclaimed, unable to hold back.
"No he isn't!" she gasped like a gossiping school girl.
"Oh yeah, got together a few months ago. Head over heels for that basket case, he is. She's got him wrapped around her little finger. He actually came down last weekend talking nonsense about proposing."
"No! Our Lee?! Our wonderful sleezy Lee wants to get married? To her of all people? George you need to talk some sense into that boy!"
"Oh believe me, I've tried. He won't have a word of it. Hopefully she stops nagging him long enough that he has time to think about his poor life decisions before tying the knot."
She shook her head in disbelief at the impossible news. What else had she missed? It made her feel even older and more distant from her old self.
"Blimey, how long have I been gone?" she wondered aloud.
"A long time," he replied shortly, looking into his cup, the excited gossipy voice gone.
"You missed my 23rd birthday party two months ago," he said, his voice even.
"Yeah I know. I'm sorry George, there was practice and..."
"Don't worry about it. I'd give anything to be 1000 miles away on a broomstick that day. Viktor Krum decided to declare his undying love for Hermione, in front of Ron, so you know, that was fun. Aunt Muriel made mum cry about half a dozen times and four of the shop girls decided to crash the party to giggle. I'm glad you weren't there for that disaster."
Things had changed so much. She felt panicky. The both of them… everyone had changed so much.
"George, I owe you so many apologies. For not being here, I'm sorry, I've just, I've been…"
"Running?"
She was taken aback by the start but accurate description of what she'd been doing. She hadn't wanted to admit it to herself, but she knew it was true.
"Yeah," she replied sadly, looking into her cup for another bout of courage. She expected him to accuse her next. She was a terrible friend. She had left him, and her mother, she'd left everyone she'd ever cared about when they needed her most. She was a coward. A selfish coward. She didn't deserve to go on, to have a career and relationships and kids when so many wouldn't get to. She couldn't understand why he was just sitting calmly across from her, not yelling at her, accusing her, guilting her like she deserved.
"We all did what we needed to do," he said softly.
"You didn't run."
"Yes I did. For months. I told myself I needed to learn to be alone for the first time in my life, and everyone thought just the opposite, and everyone felt the need to stick to me like glue. I thought getting away might help."
"Did it work?"
"Maybe a little. It gave me time to get used to it."
"Are you used to it?" She asked before she thought, and immediately regretted probing. Occasionally she forgot herself, and just said what popped into her mind the moment it did like she did when she was young.
"No. I don't think I'll ever be," He sighed and looked up at the ceiling before continuing, "Let's talk about something happier." His words were forced, "How goes it up North? Is there a team full of hopeful Mr. Johnsons?"
Ignoring the uncomfortableness, happy to have changed the subject, she replied, "Goodness, no. I live in a flat on the isle with the seeker, Dougal McBride, and his wife. I pretty much practise… sleep practise. Actually there's not usually much sleeping going on."
"Oh? Up late into the night partying with the fan club?" he raised his eyebrows in amusement.
She snorted into her cup at the absurdity of the suggestion, "No, I prefer to be alone these days." What did she do when she wasn't practising? She decided to shamelessly change the subject again.
"Are you still living in the flat above here?"
"Only when it's cold."
"…when it's cold?"
He smiled slightly and met her eyes, "You would like it. It's probably not as pretty as Scotland but your newly hermit self would like it."
"Like what?" she asked cautiously.
"My place where I like to go to be alone. On purpose. Do you want to go there?"
She perked up. The idea of being alone with him was suddenly enticing.
"But if you come with me, you have to go my way."
Frankly, she was up for something new. She had a new sense of adventure at his proposal; she hadn't felt excited about anything in years. She agreed, and followed him up a bright red ladder he conjured through a newly emerged hole in the ceiling.
She was in his flat. Or at least what used to be his flat. Two unmade twin beds with lime green fuzzy blankets were pushed up against opposite walls. Dirty clothes and garbage littered the floor on both sides of the room, and around the beds there were endless boxes and barrels and stacked floor to ceiling so there was barely room for both of them to stand on bare ground. She held a precariously teetering stack of black boxes upright while George climbed over the mess towards one of the unkempt beds.
"This is your special place?" she asked, disappointed.
"Oh no, this is the old flat we used to live in. I told you, you've got to get there my way."
She watched nervously as he clambered onto one of the green beds, kneeling on the pile of dirty robes thrown onto it.
"Well come on then!" he beckoned for her to follow.
"If this is one of your tricks George…" She nervously started towards him. What were they doing in here? What did he mean by 'his way', where was he taking her? She stopped in front of the bed, standing awkwardly on a pile of dirty pajamas.
He seemed amused by her confusion and hesitation; he was enjoying keeping her in suspense.
"Up you hop Angie," he reached for her, offering his assistance to help her clamber over the last pile of junk on to the bed. Reluctantly she took his arm and awkwardly goose stepped over the pile of broken boxes and joined him kneeling on the small bed.
"Relashio!" He pointed his wand at the ceiling again, and an enormous rusty metal ladder burst from a hole in the roof and dropped down heavily and loudly where she had been standing only moments before. Warm sunlight bathed the room through the new hole to the outside.
They both squinted in the sudden light. She looked up the towering ladder, the end seemed at least 50 feet up. It was a good thing she wasn't afraid of heights.
"These old buildings have lots of secrets. The first time we discovered this ladder, it damn near killed me. I was lying on my bed when Fred said the incantation, he was trying to untie his knotted shoe laces, and the thing came right down and nearly impaled me." He pulled aside the green blanket to reveal a bare mattress with an inkbottle sized hole pierced clean through it, just by the pillow. "I thought it was best then to move the cot over a bit. You know safety first."
This time, she did not wince at the name. She decided that she like the way he spoke about him. He did not try to pretend he never existed, because that was impossible, he simply spoke of him because he was there, and at the time, he mattered. He was just telling his brother's part of the story.
He followed her gaze up the long passageway, "Shall we then?"
The ladder was more than wide enough for the both of them to climb side by side, so they set off together. On the way up they passed three floors of dark, unfinished attic spaces, also crammed full of materials and Weasley products. One room looked like a messy potions lab.
"All this extra space has been dead useful. I don't think the owner even knew how to get up here, or she wouldn't have given us such a great price. All that was up here before was rats and owl droppings," he explained as they passed the storage areas, panting with the effort of climbing.
As they approached the end of the vertical tunnel George moved ahead of her to roll out onto the rooftop, so he could reach a helping hand to her. She didn't take it, but rolled her eyes at him and gracefully lifted herself out of the hole.
"I have never known a Weasley boy to be chivalrous, and I'm not about to start now."
He just grinned sheepishly and righted himself beside her., waiting for her to drink in the view. They had an excellent view of all of Diagon Alley from up there. Knockturn Alley's dark street could be seen in the distance, and the level of damage to Gringotts visible from above was shocking. She walked around the flat rooftop, leaning on the stone barrier surrounding it to get a better look at the familiar sights.
"So this is the place? It is beautiful," she asked, gazing down at the closed doors of her parents' tea shop.
"No, no, we still aren't there. This is just a stop in the journey," he said ominously, before suddenly breaking into a jog, running straight for the edge of the rooftop. He jumped onto the short stone wall that lined the perimeter of the rectangular rooftop. He stopped and stood there, teetering precariously in the breeze on the precipice. He turned back and grinned at her.
"What the hell George?! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" she shouted, alarmed at his sudden behavior.
He had that mischievous look back in his dark eyes as he held out a hand behind him, and signaled for her to join him.
"If you're having a laugh this isn't funny."
"Oh when I have a laugh, it's always funny. Come. I told you, we have to go there my way. The journey is just as important as the destination."
She hesitated, but eventually gave into his mock pleading face and took his arm as she steadily climbed onto the ledge. Her heart pounded against her chest as she looked down at her toes, which were spilling out over the edge, joining the landscape that was so far below. She felt naked at this height without a broomstick, and she clutched George's forearm like the neck of her firebolt.
"What are we doing up here?" she asked, her voice wavering.
"Okay, so you don't need to do anything, just hold onto me and jump when I say 3."
"Wait, what?!"
"I said, my way. Trust me. ONE TWO.."
"HOLD ON I…!"
"Three!" he spoke the last number eerily quietly, grabbed the arm that was clutching his other arm for dear life, grinned, and launched himself from the rooftop. He felt her leave the ledge with him, her hand forming a tight vice around his wrist.
The stone street was approaching fast. In an instant she could make out the individual cobblestones rushing towards her. She was surely about to smack into the hard ground. Adrenaline like she'd never felt before was pulsing through her body.
CRAACKK
The familiar compression of apparition suddenly squeezed her entire body, and her hand felt fused to George's arm. But a strange, comforting feeling of weightlessness accompanied the feeling. They seemed to twist together through space; she had never felt anything like it.
CRAACKK
She landed with a thud on a soft surface. Sand filled her open mouth and she struggled into a sitting position, sputtering in surprise. Spitting out sand and trying to slow her racing heart, she looked up at George, who looked to have landed much more gracefully. He was shaking sand from the folds of his robes, panting, and looking at her with apprehension, awaiting her reaction.
Still too shocked and disoriented to speak she looked around at her surroundings. They were on a beach somewhere. A cool mist came off the waves crashing into the white sand. Behind her, orange and sweet green cliffs rose from the sand and rocks. The plant life rustled gently in the breeze and small stone pebbles rolled and retreated with the white waves. There was no one around; there were no buildings, only a flurry of small white gulls that picked at the retreating water.
"Where are we?" she croaked.
"West coast of Wales somewhere, I'm not really sure. Bill and Fleur's place is about two miles from here. It's uh, well let me show you.
"No more surprises," she demanded as she clambered to her feet, brushing the dry sand off her robes.
"Only good surprises?" he asked tentatively, like he was expecting one of her outbursts from her captaining days at any moment.
She didn't reply; she just followed him, struggling to keep up with his long legs in the high dry sand. He was walking fast towards the flat cliffs that jutted straight towards the sky from the beach. Great, she thought, now we'll be walking through stone for our next act.
But he stopped just short of the cliff and pulled away some of the dry green vegetation at the base of the cliff. He looked back at her and smiled. Behind the plants was a hidden, rickety wooden staircase that weaved its way up a widening crack in the cliff up to a small shed on stilts.
They ascended the uneven stairs together. The little wooden shed was whitewashed from the beaming sun and salty winds, and beaten from decades of storms. It was scarcely larger than a broom shed, and it didn't have a door, just an opening taking up almost the entire front facing the ocean covered by a heavy midnight blue curtain. There was another deep hammock, suspended on one side by the corner of the shed, and held up by thin air on the other. Dark green moss and short grass spotted the A-line rooftop, and a single cracked white clamshell was fastened under its peak, facing the sea it had come from.
George pulled back the curtains to either side of the doorway and tied them off with dark tassels. The inside of the shed was revealed, and Angelina gasped at the sight. There was nothing but a deep blue feather down mat, lifted off the ground by wooden packing crates, lined with squishy dark cushions along the shed walls.
She stepped inside, ducking under the low overpass, and George followed suit. There was barely room for the two of them to stand, and George had to duck in the low structure. Light sprinkled in through the knots and gaps between the wooden slats. A single pair of old Wellington boots rested just inside the entranceway. She turned towards the sea, it was a breathtaking view. Perched above the beach like a child's tree house, the cabin had a sweeping view of the pebbled shoreline, jagged cliffs, and the endless ocean.
George shuffled past her and collapsed onto the feather mattress behind her.
"Oh George," she gasped, turning around to look at him.
"Do you like it?"
"I think I love it here," her face grew warm at her honestly. Turning again towards the view, she fumbled blindly to sit down next to George. Finally ripping her eyes away from the landscape, she had time to consider where they were. Suddenly she was uncomfortable.
"This isn't where you bring all those pinstriped girls from your shop, is it?" She expected him to retort with a clever comment, but he just simply replied,
"No. No one knows about this place."
Guilt overcame her at this confession. He was giving her so much, so much more than she deserved. He deserved to know the truth so that he could properly hate her, like he should. Hands trembling, she reached into her tiny rucksack and retrieved a small black flask. She tossed it to George, offering him the first go. He grinned, probably remembering the stolen spirits they all used to escape to the top of the astronomy tower with. He threw back his head and took a deep swig. He shuddered and handed the container back to her. She did the same with the ease of a seasoned drinker.
The harsh liquid burned her tongue, but only for a moment. A warm tingling sensation followed the drink down, and then spread throughout her body, warming her chilled fingers and toes from within. As the fire whiskey reached her brain the homely smell of cinnamon filled her nostrils, and a comforting hand felt like it was placed on her shoulders. She grinned dumbly to herself and tossed the flask back to George, allowing him to finish off the treat. With a new sense of ease she allowed herself to fall back onto the cushions beside him. She listened to him finish the flask, and then they sat in silence, listening to the distant waves crashing against the shore. After a long while, Angelina spoke up.
"George?"
"Mhm?"
"How did you discover you could apparate like that?"
A long silence followed. They both stared out to sea.
"One day, I just felt like flying again."
She didn't respond. She allowed for a long silence again.
"What is this place?" She heard him smirk from behind her.
"A boat shed, belonging to the old muggle that lives over the cliff. I reckoned he hadn't been down here in years by the state of it so I just kind of… made it my own."
"Well I love it."
"Thanks."
Another long pause followed. The roaring waves and rustling bushes filled the silence, before George's deep voice filled the cabin again.
"Ang?"
"Yeah?"
"Remember in our first year, in charms class, when you were paired up with Alicia and you accidentally levitated your desk instead of the feather, and it smacked Flitwick in the nose?"
That was a memory she had completely forgotten about. Now she could see it like it was yesterday. Her and Alicia, hands clapped over their mouths, Professor Flitwick's long nose spurting blood as he ushered nasally reassurances to the girls through choked speech as he struggled to hold his flooding nose; Fred and George and half the class snickering in the background. How terrified they both were! It was only the first week, and they'd already injured a teacher! Alicia was nearly in tears. How comically trivial it seemed now. Angelina couldn't help but to snicker at her own childish worry. It was hard to believe that she once lay up at night worrying about a teacher not liking her, and what her father would say if she got an owl home about her behavior. It was nothing like what kept her awake at night now.
"That was us," he said with a small laugh.
"What?"
"Fred and I. We tried to make the desk jump to scare you two, and well Flitwick walked by…"
"HA!" Oh how she would've clobbered him only a few short years ago over this revelation. Goodness, her first year felt like a million years ago, she thought, while laughing madly at Alicia's face. How red it got. How terrified they were to go to class the next week. They were so naive, so young and so innocent. Angelina cackled like a mad person at the ridiculousness and pointlessness of it all. And the sadness of it all. Dry sobs began to escape between the insane, manic laughter, and soon they overtook it. She didn't care that she must have looked like a crazy person. Thoughts and memories raced through her brain like she had not allowed to happen since she left. Soon all she did was cry. She cried like she never had before. She cried for friends. She cried for their mothers, she cried for her father, she cried for George, and she cried for herself. She thought she felt hands grip her shoulders, but she hardly noticed over her own racing mind and wails of grief. Everyone was so foolish, and so innocent. It had been so long since that day, nearly twelve years. Older than they were at the time.
Suddenly she felt like an old woman. She had certainly felt enough sorrow and had seen as much pain as one. She felt tired and weary, tired of life and the pain and cruelty it brought. Her youth and her innocence were long gone, blasted away in the castle she once called home.
She felt the hands tighten and pull her sideways. A long warm arm stretched across her desperately heaving chest, and another folded her into a tight embrace against a welcoming body. She sobbed uncontrollably into his robes.
"I miss her so much," she choked out, her voice muffled by his chest.
"I know," replied a soft voice. She gulped and looked up to see two closed eyes, silent tears leaking from the corners and trickling down into the rough beard. He looked so old. He was an old man too. He had loved and lost like one, but he was left with a cruelly long life left to face alone. There were flecks of gray sprinkling his long dirty hair. How had she not noticed that before? His youth had been taken from him too. Why had she spent so much time running from the one man who was as lonely as she was? She looked at him a moment longer, before feeling that she was invading something private, and she looked back out again. She swallowed her tears and reached a long comforting arm across his middle, because he needed one too. They sat there for a long time, together, looking out over the endless ocean that lay before them.
