Dear Daddy,

They found your body today. Pieces of your body, at least. I didn't see it, but I think that's a good thing. I don't want to remember you dead and broken. I want to always see you full of life, brave enough to fight a hippogriff and strong enough to win. Ezekiel Johnson, the most amazing man on Earth. I always believed that, you know.

We're going to have the funeral sometime this week. We've had funerals nonstop since the war ended and I just feel like screaming. Screaming myself hoarse.

Everyone is dead, Daddy. You and Fred and Katie and Alicia and you.

I haven't cried yet. I feel so muddled. Or muddy. Or both.

Love, Angelina.

Dear Daddy,

When I was a little girl, you used to sit me on your lap and weave stories about black power and pride, about warm Barbados sand and nappy-headed princesses who could fly higher than the moon.

You always used to tell those stories during the winter, wearing that bright blue sweater you loved so much.

I found that today. It was smaller and more worn than I remembered. All over, there were little holes I could stick my fingers through. That's when I cried.

I cried a lot, not just for you, but for everyone. I feel clean now. Like the tears absolved me of sin and sorrow. Like if I wake up tomorrow, everything will be back to normal. I know it won't, but that's just how I feel- empty and clear.

Love, Angelina.

Dear Daddy,

Lee begged me to leave the house. He said that I'm wallowing, residing in limbo. He said that I'm ignoring life and wallowing in nothingness.

I made him leave.

The thing is, he's right. I haven't left the house in ages (we're not out of canned food yet). I think I ignored him because I knew he was right and I wanted to keep being wrong. There's just something about bad habits that's so romantic. There's something about being broken that makes you believe that someone's going to come save you.

But no one's coming to save me. Lee's pretty much the closest thing to a savior I'm going to get.

I haven't told him about my shoulder yet. I haven't told anyone. I went to St. Mungo's a couple weeks ago and they said I won't get my range of mobility back. Ever. I mean, I knew it was coming, I knew it wasn't healing right, but hearing it out loud was like taking a brick to the chest.

It's over, Daddy. Quidditch is over. The only thing I ever wanted to do with my life is now out of my grasp. That's why I'm stuck here. It's not grief over you and Fred and Katie and Alicia- it's grief over me. I'm so selfish. I'm too selfish to go out and face the world (but I'll have to, eventually).

Love, Angelina.

Dear Daddy,

I went out today. I've been out a couple times since my last letter, but they were just out to the grocery store and stuff like that. But Oliver got engaged and invited everyone and I just couldn't say no, you know? He's Oliver. When half of your friends are dead, the other half are worth so much more.

I only stayed for an hour, leaning against a wall and nursing a bottle of butterbeer. I don't trust myself with the stronger stuff. Not after Mum (I hope you're proud).

Oliver and his fiancée looked really happy. Lee's got a gig in broadcasting (and I'm still jealous of everyone who can as much as laugh easily).

I'm going to a get a job. I have to. I have to get out of this rut.

Love, Angelina.

Dear Daddy,

I'm sorry I haven't written in a while. George has been keeping me busy in the shop. He's holding up pretty well, all things considered. Sometimes he takes long breaks and comes back with red-rimmed eyes, but he's lost more than most people. I guess I'm decent at Charms and I'm glad to help him out. It's nice but I don't want to do it for the rest of my life, you know? My life seems like it's up in the air right now. I'm just holding onto a raft; I haven't found land yet.

But it's nice to be out of the house. I'm wearing fresh shirts every day and not crying over coffee that's not quite right. It's empowering, in a pathetic kind of way.

Almost-normalcy's a sad thing to be celebrating, but it's all I've got.

Love, Angelina.

Dear Daddy,

My first love was Barbados and my second love was Quidditch. Now, I'm sitting in a damp apartment in London and don't even own a broom. Isn't that sad?

I don't know what I'm doing with my life. I don't know what's keeping me here.

The shop in the morning and my apartment and night. That's my entire life here. I don't even have a cat anymore. What's tying me down?

You know, the last time I remember seeing Mum, it was in Barbados. She was beautiful, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I remember the sunshine on her skin and how much brighter her laugh was there. Everything about her was brighter in Barbados. I think I knew she was going to leave us. I think you knew too. Mum was a hurricane, a woman with too much energy and emotion and carelessness to be held down, trapped in rainy England. And we held her down, even if she loved us in her not-enough kind of way.

But she was just so free in Barbados (and maybe if I go there, I'll be free too).

Love, Angelina.

Dear Daddy,

George Weasley kissed me today. I told him I was going to leave and he kissed me.

It's pitiful, but, for the first time since you died, I feel like I have something holding me in place. Like I'm really living life, not just running through the motions. I think I'm going to be happy again.

I think I'm stuck here, Daddy. Stuck in rainy London, far away from my sunny homeland. All because he asked me to stay.

And the first person I wanted to tell was you. A redheaded prankster who's only a fraction of a person on his bad days kissed me and you aren't even here to jinx him half to death.

It's been two years, Daddy, and it still hurts. Not as bad as before, but like a scar that doesn't fade.

I don't think it'll ever not hurt, you know? But I guess happiness and missing you aren't mutually exclusive (even though it feels like it sometimes).

And I think I'm going to be okay.

I miss you, Daddy, but I'll be okay.

Love, Angelina.