Disclaimer: Nothing in this chapter or any following chapter is my property.
Author's note: For those of you who read my other story "Sorry," I hope you will enjoy this new work. I like to think that it is just a little less depressing than much of "Sorry" and that it is certainly full of hope, because it's based on known statements from J.K. Rowling about the futures of characters, so you know it has a happy ending. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated.
Chapter 1
Angelina Johnson was standing in an unfamiliar kitchen. A microwave clock told her it was half past seven. She hadn't noticed much of what she was seeing the night before. She hadn't seen the photos of world famous sites scattered across the walls of the kitchen. She hadn't noticed the lovely teak finish of the simple but beautiful dining table in the middle of the room. She hadn't even realized the walls were a light sky blue, nor had she taken in the modern Muggle appliances with their stainless steel finishes.
It was a comfortable kitchen, one that showed its use but was kept up well. It was part of a small rowhouse that was clearly lived in. Dirty clothes overflowed from a hamper at the entrance of the small laundry room; books and magazines sat in messy but confined piles around the adjacent living room. She wondered that she never noticed these things until she was leaving.
It always hit her the morning after. When they were leading her up to their bedrooms or taking her right there on their simple teak dining tables, they were only a face, an escape. When she woke early enough to slip out unnoticed, she always saw that she'd been with a real person, someone who had a life, interests, and hobbies. She didn't know if they deserved to be used the way she used them. Nobody really deserved that, she supposed, but it was too late to turn back now. She'd done the damage, and she was going to walk away from it.
She quickly peeked to make sure that the handsome ginger bloke she'd gone home with hadn't stirred yet and then Disapparated with a soft pop. Back in her flat, she quickly stripped off last night's outfit and climbed into her shower. She leaned her head against the cool tile wall and let her tears mingle with the shower water falling over her face. Her return home always felt bittersweet—she'd gotten the escape she'd wanted for a brief while, but it was always followed by a mixture of regret and anger and shame.
It had been over a year since the Battle of Hogwarts had taken place. In a few days she would turn twenty-three. Her friends would take her out on the town for a birthday celebration. They would all laugh and joke and have a merry time, all pretending that they had recovered and were happy once again. Sometimes Angelina wasn't sure if they were even still pretending. Katie and Alicia seemed to be getting on just fine. Katie had even begun dating Oliver Wood after he'd admitted to a long-time crush on her. She knew Lee wasn't always fine, but he spent enough time with Alicia to keep his mind off things when he was down. Sometimes she felt that she was the only one who wasn't recovering. She knew better though. She didn't see much of George, but when he did join them, he wasn't really there.
She stepped out of the shower, dressed comfortably and climbed into her bed. She knew that she wasn't helping herself get better. Going home with the first handsome bloke that called you pretty and complimented your laugh wasn't going to take any pain away. But it took it away for a night. Her friends didn't know about it—she only did it every now and then, when she couldn't stand being alone anymore. Katie had once asked her if she needed to talk, but she had turned her down. Instead she found solace in sex, numbing her mind to reality for just a night.
She didn't want to talk to anyone; not Katie, not Alicia. She just wanted to forget. Try as she might, she found it impossible to do so. It felt like she would go on like this forever, not facing the facts and trying to erase the memory of Fred's death with other nameless men. She only wanted those few bittersweet moments when, in the throes of drunken pleasure, she could forget that he was gone and let the physical pleasure trick her into thinking she was having a good time.
It might hit her like a brick wall in the morning when she remembered so keenly that he was gone, but she wanted to find escape, even for those moments.