A/N Thank you for your patience! It's been a tough few months, but I am glad to get back into writing!

~Dot


Chapter 8

A Whole Bloody Year

The one-year anniversary of the Battle was tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Angelina was shocked that so much time had passed. While the past year felt never-ending, it somehow also felt incredibly short. Not much had changed over 365 days; she still had the same muggle job, lived in the same flat, and ate the same takeaway every Tuesday. The only apparent difference was in the change in the demeanour of herself and her mates.

A year ago today still hadn't been great. But it had been before the Battle, the death, the blood, and the terror. There was still a war going on, new anti-muggle sanctions being put into place each day and the fear that anyone you loved could be killed at any moment. The primary difference between that day and the next was the feeling of hope. Hope is what kept Angelina going; why she turned into Potterwatch, why she had kept her muggle savings account–just in case there was a future to save for.

But after the first fight, after Fred, all hope had been lost. Harry had disappeared, so many had died, and there seemed to be no future to fight for.

Then suddenly there was hope again. Suddenly there was a future–a life to live. The problem was that she had not treated this extra time she had received with grace or motivation. If she was honest with herself, the past year had been wasted. There was so much to pick up and recover from, that just getting through each day was a victory.

That needed to change, she knew that. She needed to put her big-girl pants on and figure her damn life out.

She needed to get a job, a real job–a career. She needed to reenter the Wizarding World completely, instead of hiding away in her flat all of the time. She needed to do so much, but right now, she had other priorities.

George was here, next to her, laying in bed as he had done each night before. She had been positive that she wouldn't see him tonight, especially after his disappearing act on his birthday. She still didn't know what he had done for those 24 hours when no one could find him. However, she knew it couldn't have been anything good.

Now, she wasn't sure what to do or say. Typically the two of them would talk until their voices got heavy and their eyes started to close. But the only thing that Angelina could think of right now is the Battle, the fighting, and the death. She didn't want to bring that up to George; she didn't want to give him a reason to leave.

There was one thing she could ask him, that related to the anniversary, without actually talking about horrible details about the day.

"Are you going to the ball tomorrow?" she whispered.

She had gotten the invitation weeks ago. At first, she had been outraged by the idea–a ball, a fancy little dance, on that day that so many lost their lives. Slowly, however, she came around. It was going to be less of a dance and more of a memorial service. They would still dress up and have lush hors d'oeuvres, but the focus would be more on the brave who had fought and had lost their battle.

A year ago, she'd have thought that she would be able to attend such a thing without the fear of falling apart. She would have thought that a year was long enough, not to move on completely, but to move forward.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

True, Fred's death felt less raw. She could think of him without tears filling her eyes and emptiness filling her chest. But she still thought of him every day, still ached from missing him, still cried in the shower using the loud semi-broken shower head squeaks to cover her sobs.

"I…I'm not sure," George replied, breaking Angelina from her reverie. "They're going to honour Ron, give him the Order of Merlin."

"Oh wow," Angelina gasped. The Order of Merlin was a big deal, especially for someone under the age of 60 to receive. It tended to go to old war veterans and policymakers, not barely-out-of-Hogwarts students. But she supposed Ron was a war veteran, and he definitely deserved the honour.

"I probably should go," George sighed, "just for that. He'd be disappointed if I didn't. But…" his voice drifted.

"I know," Angelina agreed, she reached out and squeezed George's hand.

They laid there in silence for a bit, staring up at the ceiling. Angelina tried to calm herself, to push out all of the images of the Battle that kept popping up in her mind. Still, the blood and gore seeped through her thoughts until she couldn't think of anything else.

"What about you?" George said.

She almost jumped at his question, so immersed in her own terrifying thoughts that she forgot where she was.

"Probably," Angelina said. "I rsvp'd yes, at least," she added with a smile. "I know the gang's going, though you know they'd never deny a chance at free drinks." Her smile faded at her last statement. Neither of them had a great relationship with alcohol, and she doubted that bringing it up helped George's sobriety.

That is, assuming he was sober.


George was still over at the flat when it was time to get ready for the ball. Angelina had lengthened a simple black dress to wear under plain robes. Her outfit hanging on the back of her bathroom door certainly didn't shout "elegant" or "high-class", but it would have to do.

"What are you thinking about tonight?" Angelina asked.

"I'll go pop home and grab something suitable," George said with a reluctant shrug.

Even though he looked less than enthused, Angelina was happy. She was glad that he was going, not only to support Ron but also so she could have a sober buddy.

As soon as he disapparated, Angelina went into her bathroom to change.

George arrived back much quicker than Angelina expected. So fast that she had barely just zipped up her dress. The door between them was slightly ajar and she could make out George looking at her. More like staring, really.

"Sorry," Angelina said as she stepped out of the bathroom. "I should have closed the door all of the way."

George shook his head and traded places with Angelina so that he could change.


The ball…was actually a bit fun, if Angelina was honest. It had been nice to have a night out, even if half of that night was spent mourning. Ron had beamed receiving his award alongside Hermione, Harry, and Neville. The dinner before the "festivities" was actually decent, and so was the wine, according to her mates.

Angelina had decided not to drink at all, in solidarity with George. But since they were sitting at different tables, it hadn't really mattered.

Any moment she could inconspicuously steal a look at George, she did. He mostly was unreadable but had excused himself right before the In Memorium.

She was somewhat glad that George had missed the memorial section—she could barely handle it herself. Not only did it feel like someone was cutting her apart when she saw Fred's black-and-white image projected in the long hall, but it also reminded her of those she had shamefully forgotten about. There was little Colin Creevey, who had snuck in to fight a battle he was far too young to be in and Lavender Brown, who was in Harry's year and suffered tremendously under the terror of Greyback. Every year, fifth and up, lost at least one student. Angelina's year lost three, even though they all had graduated years before.

It took a while for the mood to shift, but it eventually did. Dessert was served and jovial music was played, signalling that it was now time for the 'dance' section of the night. Angelina had been corralled into dancing quite a few times, but it was hard for her to concentrate on her feet when her head was so busy looking around for George.

After an hour passed, she was sure that he had left and wasn't coming back. She hoped beyond hope that he had gone home and wasn't out doing who knows what. The irony that her thoughts began to sound a lot like what her mum would tell her when she was younger wasn't lost on her. But when she had gone out as a teen, there wasn't a real risk, not like the one George could be in.

To her surprise, George did eventually turn back up. He seemed a bit dishevelled, but otherwise not worse-for-wear. Lee almost scooped him to the dance floor and provoked him to dance. Not a slow dance, mind you. The upbeat tempo made it impossible to casually dance close enough so she could get a whiff of George or tell if his eyes were bloodshot. In the five minutes he stayed on the dance floor he hadn't smiled or really attempted to dance. But at least he had danced.

He had also come home with her.

He had floo'd directly into her flat, so everyone knew where he went. If their friends had eyed them or made any lewd comments, Angelina hadn't noticed. However, they were right smashed, and Angelina hoped they were completely unaware.

Not that it was a bad thing that George was staying over. They were friends. How many times had she slept over at Katie's or Alicia's before they shared a flat? It was just a normal friend thing. Even if he was spending just about every night with her.

She still hadn't gotten a read on him as they crashed on her bed, too exhausted to change into pyjamas. They were so knackered, in fact, that they barely made it out of their outerwear.

They both smelled of sweat and must, with a hint of the posh perfume that Angelina had sprayed on herself earlier. As she eyed him more closely, she didn't spell the familiar tang of alcohol or see any signs that he was hammered. Beyond that, it was hard to tell.

George fell asleep before Angelina could probe him about his feelings. Which would have normally annoyed Angelina, if it wasn't for the fact that she was bloody exhausted. And that George had fallen asleep with his arms around her.