Considering a full year has passed, I wasn't sure I really wanted to make this chapter a sad one, but it was a special date. Happy just felt wrong.

Chapter 46
Tears from the Sky

2nd May, 1998

The water fell from the sky, thick and steady as ropes, mercilessly plummeting down on the amassed wizards. It streamed on the ground in deep, freezing puddles and weaved its way down to the lake. May and torrential rain. The sky itself was crying for the lives that had been lost.

Beneath the rain, over six hundred wizards stood, shoulders bowed. Some of them could have conjured up a shield to keep the rain off the entire group if they had chosen to, but no one had done it. The rain felt right, somehow. Fitting. Many of them had spent the last year just getting on with their lives, but no one had completely forgotten the Final Battle and the memory now hit them with full force, bowing heads and stooping shoulders. The three hundred odd students of Hogwarts, including the repeat seventh years, stood at the front of the crowd, their hair plastered to their head by the rain, looking up at the memorial. Some were as young as eleven, others were past their nineteenth birthday, and heights varied so much it was almost comical. But most of them were holding hands with their friends, some even hugging and crying, and their expressions were too dark to be laughed at. Behind them, parents, families, friends, previous students, as well as some people who had no one left seemed to form a separate crowd. That was where she was, with George, his hand in hers. George's other hand was balled into a fist, and his lips were moving rapidly, but nothing audible was coming out; it occurred to her that he might be praying.

Her other hand was held tightly by Katie, who had taken a long time to be convinced to come. The uncharacteristic paleness of her face was accentuated by the dripping black hair that clung to it. Her hand shook and her teeth were chattering. A step beside her was Lee, then Oliver, whose face looked drawn and whom they had hardly seen since he had been bitten. Then Alicia, who had left her baby daughter Merry at home "with someone." Alicia was crying silently; it would have been easy to mistake the tears running down her face for raindrops, but the way her face was screwed up and her chest sometimes heaved as she held back a sob told the real story.

It had already been a year. In a year, a quick, hard, fast year, so many things had happened. Katie had woken up, Oliver's life had been ruined, Alicia had had a daughter, Lee had thrown his life away for revenge. What had that got him? she wondered. Rookwood was behind bars now, locked up in Azkaban forever and ever, and for that she was grateful; but by all rights Lee should be in there with him, in the next cell. Just looking at him, you knew he had done the wrong thing and would carry it around for the rest of his life. The first time she had seen him after he caught Rookwood, she had been almost afraid of him. That was when she had decided it was better to finally let the past go. Anything was better than what Lee had done: let the past follow him around, haunt him, and destroy him bit by bit.

She felt oddly detached as she watched everyone, even when George's hand squeezed hers so tightly it hurt, even when a small murmur escaped his lips: "Fred...," she heart him say, and tried very hard not to think of Fred. One year had passed, and she couldn't imagine herself spending another year just mourning. She had mourned for a couple of months before it had nearly done her head in, and since then she had just been trying to forget, and trying to pull George out of his grief. Trying and failing on both counts.

"Ange," George said, suddenly interrupting his litany, "Ange, it's so cold here. Can we go inside?"

Angelina nodded wearily. If it had been left up to her, she would have stayed outside forever. The rain beating down on her shoulders felt like punishment, atonement, and forgiveness; it brought her closer to Fred even when she tried not to think about him. But George was right, it was cold outside, and in moments the crowd would scatter anyway to find loved ones' graves and stand there instead of here, or maybe to gather in the Great Hall with their Hogwarts-aged children. She followed George inside and froze as the memories hit her full force.

George stopped, too. "Ange?"

She didn't reply, but squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the memories. She had been here exactly one year ago. Inside the castle, she had entered the Great Hall, seen a red-headed man folded up on the floor, crying all the tears of his body. At first, she hadn't known which one it was, but she had still felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. Both of them had been her friends, her team-mates on the Quidditch pitch; both of them had been brave and likeable. When she had looked down at Fred's corpse she had felt numb inside, as though it weren't possible. She hadn't believed it, at the time. The first time she really felt his loss was when, later, she saw the plaque on the wall with his name engraved on it, one among many: 1st April 1978 – 2nd May 1998. Then she realised... really realised... that Fred was gone.

Fred was gone.

He would never hold her in his arms again, never look at her in the way that made her feel special, never make a joke and give that self-satisfied grin when she laughed, never fake being sorry when she was angry at him. She would never even be angry at him again.

"Go to hell," she had told him once during an argument. "Go to hell and don't come back!"

They had made up afterwards. They had talked about it and hugged and kissed and made love. And it had happened weeks and weeks and weeks before the battle. But she couldn't shake the memory from her head.

"I hate you," she had said the last time they'd had a fight. "I really do."

It had been over something stupid. She wasn't even sure what anymore. But the conversation was clear enough – Fred had been grinning that mocking grin, and she had been furious at him, because he never took anything seriously, and she had told him she hated him.

The memories were coming back, not slowly, but as fast-paced and hard as the rain outside. Not the good memories, the smiles, the laughs, the kisses and the good times, but everything cruel, everything angry she had ever said to Fred.

You're such an idiot. Why am I even going out with you? I can't believe you said that. How stupid can you be? No, you're not funny. Go to hell. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

She wondered whether he had believed her. Whether he had died thinking she hated him.

On-and-off-and-on-and-off, that was what they had had. And the Battle had occurred during one of their off periods, both of them having too much on their minds... too much on their hearts to deal with each other. Why? Why hadn't she spent more time with him – cuddled and kissed him, and told him she loved him and always would? Why had she been so blind? Why hadn't she taken advantage of every second with him – every second he was alive? Why hadn't she always been there for him?

"Ange?" George said again.

She opened her eyes. George was watching her worriedly, his expression lost, his hands clenched into fists by his side.

Why was she so useless that she couldn't help the people she loved?

"Sorry," Angelina said. "It's just..."

She looked very pale, if it was possible for her to be pale. She reached a hand out to steady herself against the wall and took a deep breath.

"I just..." she began again, then stopped. She offered him a weak smile. "I think I just realised how much I miss him."

He paused. "We should go to the Great Hall," he said, but she shook her head.

"Too many people," she explained when he looked at her quizzically. "Too many kids. I need to breathe..."

She slowly slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor hugging her knees. She looked like a child herself like this, her braided hair falling into her face, her chin resting on her knees.

He sat down beside her and crossed his legs.

"You know..." he said, "I don't really think my grief is more important than yours."

She looked up at him, her expression stricken. "I never said –"

"I know sometimes it seems like that," he cut in, "but really, I don't. It's not that it's more important. It's just that I've been kind of blind these past few months... this past year, really... to what everyone else has been feeling. But I do know you miss him, Ange. Of course you do."

The doors to the castle opened, and a family with very blond hair passed in front of them without giving them so much as a glance. Angelina watched them go by.

"I don't miss him as much as you do," she said. "And that's a fact. There's a part of me that will always miss him, but we were never best friends. We were just... I mean, I had a crush on him since Hogwarts and we were dating, but... I didn't know him like you did. I won't miss him like you will."

"But you do miss him," he pressed. "Ange, sometimes I wonder..." he began, then stopped. "I just can't stop thinking," he tried again. "Sometimes... If it had been me..."

"Don't," Angelina said, choking up.

"It would have been easier," he said anyway. "For everyone. You wouldn't have hurt as much –"

"Are you mad, George?" she cried.

He looked up; she seemed genuinely angry.

"How can you believe that? How can you even think it?"

"You can't deny," he said, "that when you saw – us – in the Great Hall, you hoped... You wished..." He met her gaze and held it, and somewhere, somehow found the courage to continue. "You hoped it was me."

She looked away then. "I didn't," she lied feebly, then swore under her breath. "I didn't, George! I didn't mean it – it crossed my mind! I loved him. You know I did. It was stupid, selfish, horrible..."

"It was normal." He shrugged, then asked what was really preying on his mind. "How do you think he would have survived – dealt with it? If it had been me."

Angelina's hand snaked out to cover his, warmth radiating from her with surprising sincerity. "If I ever wished," she said quietly, "for you and Fred to exchange places, it would only be to spare you this pain. I could have helped Fred better than... better than..." Her voice caught.

"You are helping me," he said. "I swear."

He didn't cry, but Angelina did. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks and off the bridge of her nose before dripping down to the floor. She made no move to brush them away or hide them in any way. She continued to look at George, drinking in his features, and her lips curved into the saddest of smiles.

Outside, the sky cried with her.