Angelina Weasley is dead.

It is May 2nd and Lee does not plan to leave his flat. He could, but he has nowhere to go. He does not want to talk to the WWN, whose employees have been on two more strikes since he left, as despite their strides he still feels like he'll just annoy everyone trying to show them how to do journalism. It's memory that's called for, and he can remember here as well as anywhere, if his eyes are closed.

But it is not the war he remembers.

Because memory is strange. The most important moments are best remembered before they happen. Like the end of the war...there were nights he sat around with Fred and George in flimsily-guarded houses whispering stories about what might happen.

"...aaand here we are, folks, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, probably for the best as I don't think the Ministry is going to have any resources to spend on Obliviating poor Muggles after this whole affair. You-Know-Who—pah, might as well call him his real name by now, it isn't like he's in much shape to care at this point, is busy flying around, now..."

"How does he even do that?" George wondered. "I thought people couldn't fly unaided."

"Maybe," Fred mused, "he just has a really, really, tiny stick. If you know what I mean."

As George cackled, Lee grinned. "Yeah, a really tiny stick. All right, then Potter, whizzing above him, just casts Expelliarmus, the Chief Death Eater loses his grip, and falls to the ground, dead."

"And then," said George, "we toss some itching powder on his ugly little tattoo, so all the Death Eaters get in a right state. They show up, too busy scratching their own to notice the gang of Aurors that've just stunned them."

"Brilliant," Fred smiled. "Absolutely foolproof."

They lived in hope, remembering the future before it happened. When the future becomes past, though, he remembers the moments of expectation he took for granted. He closes his eyes, and sees them again, on the cusp of glory but still on the rise.

Harry Potter, the boy who lived. Still a boy, still who had only lived once. Youngest Seeker in a century, not quite so young in Lee's mind but still young. No need to set records when all you want is victory.

Oliver Wood, not old really, but pushed up against an arbitrary boundary of an arbitrary game. As far as school goes, this is his last chance. But boundaries only go so far—the oval of the pitch is down on the ground, and the players are all up in the air.

An orange blur and the air split. The sound is all Lee's own, but that's the Weasley way, isn't it? Do something and then make the others make noise. Laughter or commentary, it's all the same. "Weasley," he feels himself mouth, and then again, because it doesn't take twice as much imagination when they're identical, "and Weasley."

Katie Bell smiles broadly. She is in her element, playing Quidditch, and has no looming priorities beyond this game, whether it takes seconds or most of the day. Or more. It doesn't matter.

Lee squeezes his eyes tighter because this is almost harder than Fred. Alicia, riding her broom, zipping past Angelina and flying without incident. There's a game to be played, of course, that's some sort of incident, but then again there are more Chasers than any other position. If anyone can blend in, it's them. She still stands out, of course, but at least that's standing.

"And Johnson."

He inhales, understanding, and says again, "Johnson!"

Angelina Weasley has been dead for three months, and she is mourned by the people who knew her and loved her. There is no grave to mourn at—she was cremated following George's example, and of course he was following Fred's decades on. She'd had a good life, but that was that.

But he's the one who remembers Angelina Johnson. She's been gone for decades, and yet somehow she's as close as ever. Maybe he cannot see her, but maybe she can hear his voice.