She shook her head, her long braid sagging behind her. "I can't."
"Sure you can!" Lee said eagerly. Everything about him seemed eager; his voice, his eyes, even his fingertips looked desperate for activity. That's what he'd become—furtive, cooped up though moving around, craving something he couldn't settle down and find. "You can talk about...Quidditch, I don't know, something."
"Quidditch?" she repeated in disdain. "That's all I'm good for, isn't it?"
"No, I didn't mean..." he trailed off.
They'd never been close, but she knew him—knew the sound of his voice well enough that she couldn't stand seeing him like that, not knowing the words. "It's okay," she said. The few months between them felt like years, sometimes. "I'm really...really glad you're doing what you're doing. I just can't be like that."
"But you are!" he repeated. "You were in the D.A., you learned how to fight back."
"I was sick of Umbridge," she sighed. "I wanted to learn, I wanted to have a decent education. I'm not a hero."
"Maybe," he said gently, one hand reaching towards her, "you're not supposed to be a hero yet."
Angelina rolled her eyes, standing up. "No. I know who I am."
"And they don't! We use fake names, we take some precautions, we're not stupid."
"I don't think that's what she means, Lee."
George Weasley had approached, and Angelina recognized him by the sober tone of his voice rather than the hole on his face. She smiled weakly, in gratitude for getting out of the situation.
George reached for something in his pocket, then froze. "Er—Angelina, d'you..." Lee's head had tilted in curiosity, just a fraction, but it was enough to rattle George. "No, here," he finally decided, pulling it free. "I saw McGonagall the other night."
"Oh blimey," Lee interrupted, "I didn't hide mine, better make sure Fred hasn't found it." His fear seeming real, he dashed off as Angelina turned, curious.
Increasingly confused, she turned back to George. "What did McGonagall want?" For some reason, it didn't seem to be about rebellion.
"She wanted to give us those letters we wrote first year."
"What letters?"
"That's what I told her!" They shared a smile. "Apparently, she'd had the first-years write letters to themselves that they'd get when they graduated. Their first impressions of Hogwarts, what they were hoping for."
"You didn't exactly graduate," said Angelina with a smirk.
"You didn't exactly graduate at a time when people had things like old letters to focus on," George rebutted.
Angelina conceded the point.
"Anyway, she wanted me to have yours—if I ever ran into you—and...here," he said, handing her the letter. "You say you know who you are. Maybe this will help remind you."
And he, too, walked off, enough to give the appearance of privacy.
She glanced down. Angelina Johnson, it read—her handwriting had barely changed. Legible enough, written quickly, the hint of exuberance mixed with the itch to move forward.
Fumbling, she opened the letter and began to read.
Dear Angelina,
Hi! Congratulations on graduating! This is me, your first-year self. I am eleven but I am almost twelve.
I am in Gryffindor House like Ben. It's pretty but I got lost a couple times. Claudia is our perfect though and she finds us.
Angelina laughed at the spelling mistake; it had taken her a while to learn what a "prefect" was. Squinting, she read the sentence again. Claudia had been a successful witch, racking up eight O.W.L.s while preceding the Weasleys as Gryffindor Beater. It was a good thing, Angelina thought, that Claudia had graduated well before the Muggle-Born Registration Commission was created.
It's not fair that first-years can't play Quidditch, I want to play for Gryffindor. Our Seeker is very good but they don't score a lot of goals. Did you ever get on the team? Did they win?
I don't miss my family very much yet. Mum and Dad said they would send me lots of owls and one came with my gloves that I forgot. But they said there would be lots of work even when we're not in class so I don't want to do that.
On Friday we have flying lessons. I can't wait! But some of my other classes are fun too, I like Charms and learning new spells. I don't like Potions, our professor is named Snape and he is mean.
Some things really never changed.
When I am in third year I get to pick new classes. I hope you got to take good ones and you did well on your tests.
I don't have a lot of friends here yet. Ben mostly hangs out with his friends. On the train I rode with a bunch of boys who were really annoying, they were trying to do magic but it didn't really work. Then the first-years went across the lake in boats.
Would she have been sitting with other first-years on the train? Overexcited attempts at doing magic sounded like the Weasleys and Lee. Perhaps she'd misjudged them. Who else was in her year...Roger Davies?
Cedric Diggory?
Well, I think this is our first homework, and it's not too bad. Congratulations! I hope now you get to go play for Pride of Portree. Or some other team would be okay.
Love,
Angelina
She smiled wistfully as she refolded the letter. Yes, she knew who she was; still a Pride fan, old for her class, ready to get ahead and take on the next challenge.
A Gryffindor. Distrustful of Snape. Supposed to be brave.
The younger Angelina wanted to know if the Lions won. She had an advantage that the older Angelina didn't—time. Time to look forward, room for improvement, hope that the next year would be more successful than the one past. It was the young Angelina who had been indignant when Gryffindor lost, when Diggory beat out Harry in the rain with those Dementors. The Dementors the Ministry put there. It was the young Angelina who had fumed when Diggory became Hogwarts champion.
It was the older Angelina who would gladly lose match after match if it could bring Diggory, bring anybody, back.
"George?" she called.
"Uh-huh?"
"I don't...I don't really want to...join you. Or be on Lee's show."
"That's fine."
"But," she said, slowly, "I would like to...help out, if I can."
"Can you cast protective spells over Muggle houses?"
"Already do that."
"Do you?" George seemed genuinely impressed. "That's brilliant. Keep doing that sort of thing."
Angelina blushed. "Lee keeps going on about passwords and codes, that's just not me."
"It shouldn't have to be. I'm sorry about him."
"Oh, don't be—I'm used to dealing with him."
"No," said George, a little embarrassed, "I mean, I'm sorry about...him. And the Bertie Bott's incident. On the train."
At her confused look, he added, "You weren't the only one that got a letter from first year."