Harry Potter 1. Day I, Ginny and Harry

**A/N: **I know, I already have Things and Moments to be focusing on. But this just has to be written. It'll go together with my other stories, including the new oneshot "Not Touching Anyone", but it can be read alone. (If you're waiting for a Things update, I promise you, it's coming – hopefully tonight!) Until then, I hope you'll enjoy this.

**Day I. Harry/Ginny.**

It is past midnight and Harry is unsurprised to find Ginny huddled in an armchair in the Gryffindor common room as he descends the dormitory staircase. What does startle him, however, is how young she looks, her knees drawn up to her chest, her red-rimmed eyes glittering up at him in the darkness.

He hesitates, not sure if she even wants him here. They haven't talked in almost a year. Perhaps she doesn't even like him anymore. But he sees her expression and realizes with a pang of relief that nothing has changed. Except that everything has.

Steeling himself, knowing that it's his turn to be strong for her, he settles himself in the space she has made him on her chair, putting his arms around her small body. She leans into him, gratefully burying her head in his chest. For a few moments, she just cries and he just holds her. He is painfully aware that it is the first time he has really seen her cry, like this, for real. He's thankful she can't see how fast he is blinking.

When she speaks, it's weak and barely a whisper and he only makes it out because her mouth is so closely situated to his ear. "I… I just can'twrap my m-mind around it… I… I've always had six brothers. I… I _can't_. We-we're supposed to be s-seven."

"Ginny…" He wants to say something more, something good, something that maybe helps. Maybe something like "You know you'll always have six brothers, no matter what". But the words are stuck in his tight throat and all he manages is her name. Because it's not fair. The Weasleys are supposed to be seven, always. And he is with a wince reminded that it is his fault that they aren't. He opens his mouth, prepared to apologize, but her look silences him and she speaks instead.

"Don't even think about it," she sniffles warningly.

"I…" he tries, but her glare makes him stop short.

"Harry, no. Just… don't," she sighs, exhaustion evident in her voice. "We both know that this is no one – no one's fault…"

Her voice cracks and she dissolves into tears again. He knows better than to protest, even if he's highly unconvinced. If only he'd gone into the Forest sooner, he could have prevented this, her hurting like this. But right now she doesn't need to hear that. He realizes that and wraps his arms even tighter around her, not bothering to wipe wetness from his own eyes as his whole body shakes with her sobs.

xxx

Maybe an hour passes. Maybe less. Ginny has no idea how long it takes her to stop gasping for breath, and even then she just stays close to Harry, relishing in the steady beating of his heart. A couple of hours ago (and the whole last year for that matter), she was so sure she was never going to be able to touch him like this again. But he's here now. Somehow.

"Harry," she whispers, and he almost jumps as she breaks the silence. "What happened tonight?"

Harry sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Is this really the time?" he asks lamely, gesturing to her still wet cheeks.

She nods fiercely. This is the time. She needs to know.

He clears his throat and starts to tell her about Dumbledore and memories and Tom Riddle and Horcruxes and scars. She can tell that he tones down some parts, that he makes it as brief as possible, but she can also tell by his anguished eyes that it is the truth. The full truth, finally. By the end, he's not looking at her anymore, and she's gaping at his bowed head.

"Hold on," she says dangerously slowly. "You went into the Forest tonight to _die_." She surprises even herself with how much strength her voice has regained.

Harry nods, regarding her hesitantly.

"You had no idea that it wouldn't last?" she can't help but ask, because she must be misunderstanding something, because it sounds like he was prepared to die, like he meant to die, and it just can't be.

But he shakes his head. "I couldn't have, or it wouldn't have worked," he explains, with logic that to her makes absolutely no sense at all.

"I see," Ginny says in a threateningly calm tone, feeling fury flaring up inside her. "And you didn't bother to _think_ about us? Ron? Hermione? Mum? About what it'd do to _me_? You didn't bother to _tell_ us, or to, I don't know, _say goodbye_!" Her voice breaks, but she doesn't care.

"Ginny…" Harry's eyes are pleading with her.

"No," she whispers, standing up, trembling, but clearing her throat determinately. "You – you could've said goodbye, and you didn't bother. F-Fred didn't get that chance, but he – he would have taken it!" she shrieks, her voice shriller than normal. She starts to walk away. She hates him. She really, really hates him.

"Ginny, _please_!" The tears in his voice make her freeze. She doesn't turn back, but she has stopped and he seizes his chance. "You have to understand," he begs, on the verge of desperation. "It was the only way. I had to stop it. It – it was the only way to stop him. Do you think I _wanted_ to leave you? But if – if I'd been with you – d'you really think I'd've been able to do it?"

"No. I wouldn't have let you," she admits quietly, the anger running out of her at the sincerity of his words.

"And I wouldn't have been strong enough to leave you," he continues. "Please, Ginny. It was the only way."

Silently, she faces him again and slowly creeps back up in the chair, placing herself half in his lap. (In her head, she's cursing herself for not having more of a backbone, but she's known a long time that with Harry Potter, she's a lost cause). Carefully, her finger wipes away the single tear that lingers on the tip of his nose. He chokes on a sob as she leans back into him. He opens his mouth to tell her how much it means to him that she is still here, but words just aren't enough. She knows, though. His eyes are sending the message clearly enough.

After a while, Ginny once again breaks the silence, mumbling against his neck, "I want to hate you, you know. I've tried, a lot, this year. I really needed to hate you."

"I hated me too, if it makes you feel any better." His tone isn't light, but she chuckles anyway.

"Actually, a little," she whispers, leaning up for a soft brush against his lips.

"I'm glad," he replies, grinning into her hair.

"So, you have any idea where Hermione might've disappeared to?" Ginny questions lightly after a moment, and he lets out a breath of relief. She's not only here, but she's speaking to him, normally.

"Not sure, but I'd bet my Firebolt it's the same place Ron's off to," Harry says with a smirk that makes her eyes widen.

"Really?" she asks disbelievingly. "Have they finally…?"

"Oh, yeah," he nods. "Right in the middle of the battle actually, they thought it was the appropriate time to start snogging."

"Good for them," she grins, laughing at his affronted expression. "Please tell me that you didn't interrupt them."

"Well, what else was I supposed to do?" he asks defensively. "We had – as you know – things to do."

She sobers at this reminder, her laughter gone in a second. "Yeah. I know," she says shortly, quietly. A beat passes, and she can't help herself. "Harry," she begins, seeing from his face that he is well aware the topic coming up is a lot more unnerving than her brother's snogging partners. "Why didn't you tell me? Before now, I mean? I could've helped, too. Or at least – you could've told me."

The disappointment in her voice hurts almost more than her anger, and he struggles to explain. "Ginny, you know why. You couldn't know, or they would've found out and they would've tortured you for the information. You _know_ that."

"You told Ron and Hermione." Ginny doesn't pretend to hide her bitterness.

"It was different," he tries feebly. "They were coming with me."

"I would've come with you!" she protests earnestly, leaning away from him with her arms crossed. He knows that she means it, and sighs.

"You couldn't have. You still had the Trace on you, and we couldn't…" Harry explains sensibly, but Ginny doesn't want to be sensible, so she interrupts him.

"You have no idea, okay? No _idea_ how it was to wait here, not having any idea if I'd ever see you again. Not having any idea if you were already dead, or dying at this very moment. _All the time_. It was…" she starts, but she can't even seem to find a strong enough word to describe it. It pains him physically that this time when she cries, she turns away from him.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to the back of her head, feeling helpless as he listens to her laboured breathing, wanting nothing more than to hold her close again. "Ginny, I'm _so_ sorry. But I couldn't have taken you with me. It was too dangerous…"

"What, you don't think I'm good enough?!" she bites back, hurt mixing with the anger. "You trust Ron and Hermione to take care of themselves, but not me?"

"No, no," he hurries to correct her. "It's not like that."

"Then how is it?" she demands with a sharp glare.

"I know perfectly well that you're more than capable to take care of yourself," he assures her quickly. "But _I_ couldn't have done it with you there, knowing that it'd be _my_ fault if something – if something happened…" he trails off, swallowing hard.

She wants to tell him that he's stupid, that his excuses aren't sufficient _at all_, but the earnestness in his voice is too much and she founds her gaze softening. His eyes are fixed in hers, filled with so much care and _love_ that she just can't help letting herself slowly falter back into his embrace. She can feel the warmth from his deep sigh of relief into her hair.

"I still want to hate you, you know," she mutters half-heartedly.

"I know," he breathes, but she squeezes his hand in hers to let him know that no matter how much she'd wish for it, not loving Harry Potter has always been something she has failed at achieving.

**A/N: **Please let me know what you think or if you have any requests for character combinations for me to do in the future.


	2. Day VII, Arthur and Molly

**A/N: **As I said before, this story is conversations between many different characters. In no particular timeline, or order, even if they will of course work together. Molly/Arthur was a request from Amaherst, so this is for her.

**Day VII. Arthur/Molly**_**.**_

She cries, and she can't stop. In front of the kids, she attempts to be discreet about it, making it a natural gesture to bring her fingertips to her tear channels every few seconds, not letting anything escape. Arthur knows that they're not stupid and that they can see what she's doing, or trying not to do. Molly knows it too, but she persists anyway. She cannot break down in front of her children.

As soon as they are alone however, she lets her guard down, sobbing unrestrainedly into his chest. Arthur attempts comfort the best he can, obviously, but more often than not, hot water finds it way down his nose too, onto her neck. (He doubts she even notices, though, as he barely does himself.)

At night, however, all traces of numbness and being strong for another are wiped away by the nightmares. They both sit up in their sleep, panicking, with wet cheeks. Sometimes, they're in sync, waking almost simultaneously. Otherwise, the one who is awoken by the other's nightmare attempts comfort, but the consoling usually turns into a shared crying session instead. Somehow, it's even worse at night, at least for him. Because when you sleep, you almost forget, almost, until the nightmare reminds you. And then it washes over you, all over again. It's worse at night.

Right now, it's late evening and that's the hardest time for his wife. Having used all of her strength (and a lot more) to keep herself going during the day, her ground falters. She falls, and he's there to catch her.

When her flow of tears eases (it never seems to end properly), she stays close to him, breathing shakily into his shirt. They should be sleeping by now, but he knows she's afraid to close her eyes. It's been that way for years now – _years_ – but he also knows that the already horrific nightmares have gotten worse since last week, even more vivid (even worse than they were a million years ago, when she had just lost her little brothers, and woke up screaming every other hour).

He wants to say something, but there is nothing to say anymore. He can't promise her that everything will be fine, like he always used to. Not now that it's not unlikely anymore - it's not even possible.

"Do you… do you think Charlie meant it?" Molly whispers, her voice barely audible against his neck.

"That he's staying here indefinitely?" Arthur replies, relieved at the slight change of topic (well, it's not, really, because Charlie would never consider staying here if it wasn't for the event that Arthur's trying not to think about, but he can pretend). "Yes, I believe so."

She's quiet for a while, and he wants to pretend he can't hear her swallowing before continuing. "I… I know I'd _love_ to have him here again, but I… do you really think it's the best thing for him? To put his life on hold like that? Just because…"

He knows better than to expect her to finish that sentence, so he nods, letting her know that there's no need, but taking a minute to ponder her words. "I do," he finally states with more conviction than he feels. "I think he needs to be here. For himself, and for the others. They all need each other – right now."

"Bill needs him," she agrees unevenly. "Oh, I'm so worried about him, Arthur. He… he's trying to be so responsible, taking care of everyone else. I want to let him know that there's no need for that, that he needs to give himself some – some time. But I… I don't even know how to get through to him anymore."

Arthur tightens his grip around her, blinking hard against the wave of guilt. Bill wouldn't have needed to pick up so much slack if _he'd_ have known how to take care of his children. But he doesn't. He tries, of course, but Molly is the only one he really knows how to deal with.

"I don't either," he admits, his voice shakier than he would have liked. "But Charlie might. And I am fairly confident that at least Fleur knows how to deal with him. We… we'll just have to trust her to… to take care of him."

She nods, wiping at her constantly leaking eyes. "I saw them at… at the funeral," she mumbles. "She really did seem to know how to… how to…"

She can't go on, and he shudders with her as her shoulders start trembling again. "She did," he affirms, sighing. "Molly, I know it's hard, but I think we'll just have to leave him to her, for now. If he needs us, he knows we're here." (But he wishes so much that Bill would instead come to _him_, letting him be useful.)

As if she's reading his mind, she exclaims with a sniffle, "But I hate it! I hate that he doesn't need me anymore."

"I know," he says quietly, taking one of her hands in his. "But we shouldn't think like that. We should be grateful that our children have others to care for them too. You know as well as I do that Ron never would've made it through these days without Hermione. Bill wouldn't have been able to take care of everyone else if he hadn't had Fleur to be there for him, and by now Ginny and Harry seem to be depending on each other almost as much."

Her agitated protest gets lost in his shirt, and he asks her to repeat it, even though he can guess the gist.

"Ginny's _not_ letting Harry in!" she repeats, looking up at him, eyes glimmering in the darkness. "Didn't you see her at… at the f-funeral? She… she looked so… so numb, so _lost_. She wasn't accepting anyone's comfort, she wasn't even touching anyone. Not even H-Harry."

Of course he remembers. A father will never forget the image of his daughter so lonely, so devastated. Never. But he has to be optimistic tonight. When one of them is too close to falling off the edge to hopelessness, the other one has to drag him or her back up.

"I know, and it concerned me too," he says as calmly as he can. "But haven't you seen them together since? Yesterday, in the living room, when she fell asleep against his shoulder? They're getting there."

She nods, and he lets out a breath of relief, taking the opportunity to move on to his right now most pressing concern. "They'll be okay," he assures her again, then continues. "In fact, I'm a lot more worried about Percy. He doesn't have anyone outside the family to turn to, and I don't think he trusts us to trust him enough to let anyone in quite yet."

"He… he's feeling so guilty," she whispers. "I… I wish we could just make him see that we don't blame him. That he's just as much a part of this family as anyone else. That… that we have forgiven him, and he should forgive himself."

"I'm afraid it's not that easy, Molly. Especially not after…" he stops himself, still unable to speak the name of the son he has lost (he wonders if he ever won't be). "After last week," he says instead. "And with Ginny barely speaking to him…"

"I know," she sighs with a grimace. "I've been meaning to talk to her about that."

"Actually, I was thinking I could do that tomorrow, if you don't mind." He feels that this is a conversation for him, not for Molly. He's not sure why, but it has something to do with the fact that Ginny will be a lot more likely to listen to someone composed and sensible – not emotional. And right now, he doesn't trust his wife to accomplish that.

"Okay. That sounds good." She seems mostly relieved, and he plunges on.

"I think the others might've gotten through to Percy a bit today, though."

"Really?" Her head snaps up and there's an almost-smile behind her red-rimmed eyes.

He nods. "I saw Bill, Charlie, George and Ron coming out of his room with him today. It was obvious that at least Percy and George had been crying, but they seemed… all right, I guess. Didn't you notice how Percy seemed a bit less – distant – at dinner?"

"I – yes. I did," she says thoughtfully, biting her lip as though trying to prevent the following words from escaping. "But… but George…"

It's enough. Just his name is enough to set her off these days. Him too, when they're alone. The mere thought of the indescribable pain their son is going through and will always have to live with, the hollowness in his eyes, his nightly cries after his twin, his violent shaking as they find him after a nightmare… It is unbearable for a parent to watch their child suffer like this, knowing there is nothing, _nothing_, they can do.

"He'll be all right," Arthur forces himself to assure her, smoothing her hair affectionately (after all, it's still his night of optimism). "He will. We'll all be there for him, every step of the way. We've already seen how they're all ready to step in when things get rough. Percy might've had some trouble with it, but he's trying, and I think he's getting there. Ron, Ginny and Bill have others to lean on that'll help them be strong enough to be there for him. Charlie has decided to stay, and I believe that was jus as much for George's sake as for Bill's and his own. And today, George even seemed to be able to help Percy. They… they'll get through this, together. We – we'll make sure of that."

He wants to believe his own words. He almost does.

"But… what if…?" Her doubtful, trembling voice is interrupted by his strong, determined one.

"Molly, don't, please. They'll get through this. We will get through this. I promise."

"You promise?" she asks breathlessly, her eyes begging him.

"I promise, Molly, I promise."

Somehow, he kind of believes it then, and not just because it is his night of optimism. But because it just might be possible after all. They _can_ do this. They have to, don't they?

**A/N: **Even if I said that these will come in no particular timeline, I do plan to do all the conversations I allude to. A Ron/Hermione one will come eventually, obviously. And a Bill/Charlie/Percy/George/Ron conversation too. Just be patient, okay? Anyway, if anyone's interested, the funeral itself won't be part of this story, but it can be read as my oneshot "Not Touching Anyone".

Oh, and please let me know what you thought of this. My first time writing the Weasley parents, and I'd love to know how I did!


	3. Day VII, The Weasley Brothers

**Day VII. Percy/Ron/Bill/Charlie/George. **

Tentatively, Percy approaches his little brother who is sitting by himself on the couch, looking up when Percy clears his throat nervously.

"Hey, Perce. What's up?" Ron asks, faking a carefree grin, but Percy knows his little brother well enough to see right through it. (He still knows them, so well. Yet, so much has changed, too. He hates himself for missing how they grew up.)

"Nothing, really," he chickens out, but then nods determinedly to himself. "Well, I need to ask… Do you – I mean, have you – do you still, you know, hate my guts?"

Ron's mouth falls open. Percy continues very fast, reddening. "I mean, I know you're speaking to me again and all, but I just… I need to know…" he trails off, staring at the floor.

"You're serious?" Ron asks disbelievingly after a beat.

Percy nods, still keeping his eyes averted. "I – I need to know. I can take it, but I just – I need to know," he repeats, wincing as he prepares himself in the silence that follows.

"I don't hate your guts," Ron replies slowly. "If I did, you'd know it. I'm not that great of an actor – you of all people should know that."

Percy almost dares to look up, but only almost.

"Listen, Perce," Ron sighs. "You came back. What happened before is… well, it's in the past now, isn't it?"

"I won't blame you if you can't, you know, forgive me," Percy mutters to the floor. "I'm not sure I would've."

"I –" Ron hesitates, then takes a deep breath. "I suppose I know a bit or two about – about what it can mean to be given a second chance," he mumbles, feeling his ears grow red. "I'm not going to explain," he hastily adds as his brother finally looks up, questioning. "Let's just say I'm, er, familiar with – with mistakes."

"Oh." Percy has no idea how to respond to that. Ron's ears haven't been glowing this badly since he was about nine and Fred and George took upon themselves to explain the concept of reproduction to him (or, at least that's the last time Percy knows of – he has to remind himself that he has no idea how badly embarrassed and bothered his brother may have been during the last three years…).

Silently, Percy sits down in the chair opposite the couch. Just when he's about to let his mouth form some kind of "thank you" that he knows will sound utterly lame, but is all he can think of, they are interrupted as Bill, Charlie and George enters the living room.

That dazed look in George's eyes – Percy's little brother, Percy's little brother who he was supposed to protect, one of the three, three little brothers who aren't three anymore, twins who aren't two anymore – seeing it, Percy hastily closes his mouth at the sensation of something large and miserable wanting to escape through the opening. Knowing that he can't be here, can't act normal without talking and can't talk without letting out something that can't be let out in front of them (he's supposed to be the strong one, dammit, he's supposed to be taking care of them, he owes them that – especially George!), he bolts for his room before anyone can protest.

"What's the matter with him?" Charlie questions, turning to Ron.

"Dunno," Ron shrugs, glancing at the spot where his older brother has vanished. "He – he wanted to know if I'd really forgiven him, though – for, you know, before."

"And what did you say?" Bill asks with a concerned frown.

Cursing them, Ron feels his ears reddening again. "That I have, of course. He was a bloody git, but he came back, didn't he? He's here now, and it's over with. That's what I told him," he tells them, but he feels Bill's eyes boring into him a little more knowingly than he'd like.

"Where's he off to now, then?" Charlie demands, still glaring slightly suspiciously at his youngest brother.

"Looked like he was heading for his room," Bill answers for Ron, who's looking increasingly uncomfortable. "I guess we should go see what's going on then."

He glances at George, who hasn't contributed to the conversation, and who has so dark shadows under his eyes that you'd think he hasn't slept in a week (which actually must be kind of true – between his infamous nightmares, he can't have managed much actual rest). He nods at his older brother's eye contact, though, and Bill lets out a breath of relief. George is still in there somewhere. Sometimes, he can't help but doubt that.

"Well, come on then," Charlie urges them impatiently, resting his eyes on Ron in particular, who shoots up directly at his brother's words.

Reaching Percy's shut door, Bill hesitates. He knows he's not supposed to, but just this once, he wishes he could get off his big brother duty. Maybe just _not_ put himself through another impossible conversation, and instead return home to Fleur, who will be waiting, ready to be there for _him_, to talk about something else if he needs to, to hug him for hours if he needs that.

The hesitation only lasts a moment, though. He can't ignore this. Sighing only inwardly, Bill raises his hand and knocks.

"Come in." Percy's voice is muffled, and Bill sees Charlie's hard expression waver into one of concern, before he has time to put it back into place, even stonier.

They find Percy on his bed, his knees drawn up to his chest, his eyes unfocused. Taking the initiative, Bill takes a seat on one side of his younger brother, while Charlie almost simultaneously slumps down on the other. George ends up in the desk chair, while Ron stays hovering by the door, fidgeting with his hands. Bill realizes that he has to be the one to start talking as well.

"You okay there, Perce?" he asks in a supposedly light tone.

"What?" Percy asks, turning to him, as if awoken from a trance. "Oh, yes. Yes. Of course I am. I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're not," Charlie protests, his voice rising before Bill can step in. "You're not fine, Percy. And you know very well why, as do the rest of us."

"We know you've been feeling – guilty – about before," Bill ventures tentatively.

"I – yes," Percy admits after a beat, turning sheepishly to the floor. "How could I not?" he continues, in a low, dark voice. "Frankly, I don't see how any of you could've forgiven me for what I did."

"I do," Bill states honestly. "You're sorry, and you're here now. That's what matters."

"Yeah," Charlie chips in. "You better not screw up this badly again, because then I'd track you down and hex your bloody nose off, but now… what's done is done and that's over with." Charlie's eyes darken at his last words. Bill knows that Charlie is talking about himself as much as Percy, wishing he could change the small amount time he has spent with all of them – with Fred – during the last years. He'd never say it out loud (except to Fleur, of course, who knows his most shameful secrets), but just this once, Bill is actually grateful for Charlie's guilt. Otherwise, he's sure they would've had a lot more trouble getting Charlie to accept Percy's return (usually, he's as stubborn and difficult as Ginny, and one of that is more than enough).

"Ginny doesn't," Percy protests with a wince. "She still hates me, like she did last Christmas. Like you did too," he adds, with a grimace over at George. "You and…"

"Fred," George hollowly fills in the gap that Percy has left hanging in the air, pausing at the collective intake of breath as all eyes turn to him. "We didn't. We were angry. We – he – never hated you. D'you think he would've forgiven you just like that if he had?" he asks incredulously, adding shakily. "He – he missed you."

"H-he said that?" Percy's voice rises with doubt and a tiny shred of hope.

"I knew," George waves him off, hesitating before continuing, almost inaudibly. "I – I did too."

Percy stares at his brother, mesmerized. He should be relishing in this – George admitting that he has _missed_ him. But he can't. Because George doesn't do that. Something has changed to make George say things like that, without even seeming to care that George _doesn't_ tell Percy that he has missed him. (And that's not even close to how wrong it is that _George_ has to tell Percy that Fred missed him.)

He asks because he has to know, even if his voice is clearly protesting against being used. "D-do you r-really think that he – that he meant it? That h-he f-f-forgave…?"

George nods, swallowing. Percy's eyes are shining and George is blinking and still unsuccessfully trying to swallow, and Bill, realizing that his little brothers aren't able to form words, steps in. "Fred wouldn't have said he did if he hadn't meant it, Perce, you know that."

"B-but…" Percy starts, but Charlie doesn't let him finish.

"Not even because of the battle," he states firmly. His face is turning slightly grey, but Bill thankfully also notes that at least Charlie's voice remains steady.

"He wouldn't," George manages to croak, but that's what does it for him. His battle with control is lost at last, as it seems to be so easily ever since the day of the funeral (before that, his eyes were dry, and that was almost scarier).

When Percy sees his little brother hiding his head in his hands, the lurking tears begin to overflow down his cheeks as well. He doesn't even bother to hide them, too busy fixing his pained eyes on George. (This is his fault, he shouldn't have asked, shouldn't have put George through this, it is his fault, it is _all_ his fault.)

This time, Charlie comes to his senses first. While Bill is still taking it all in, determinedly forcing a numbness into his chest, Charlie's hand reaches out for Percy's thigh, causing him to shudder and finally close his eyes. Bill follows closely, though, hurrying over to put a comforting arm around George's trembling shoulders.

Ron, who has turned very pale, regarding them from his corner, moves at Bill's glance, joining him and putting his hand awkwardly on George's other shoulder. Seeing how forcefully his youngest brother bites down on his lip, Bill tries to send him an encouraging smile, but fails as his lips refuse to turn upwards. It doesn't really matter, though, because Ron isn't looking at him. His gaze is focused on George, because at his little brother's nervous touch, George has exposed his red eyes and they are in Ron's and there is something there, some kind of communication, understanding maybe, and Bill isn't included.

Suddenly, George is gently shrugging Bill's arm away (Ron has already let go, knowingly). He's standing up, only wavering slightly, and he's standing in front of Percy. Again, wet eyes are in wet eyes and Percy doesn't even seem to notice how much his lower lip is trembling as George forces himself to speak, his voice weak and cracked, but there. "You-you came back, Perce. That's wh-what matters. We – we _all _forgive you."

Ron is behind him, nodding vigorously. Bill catches on and nods as well, and Charlie simply gives Percy's knee another squeeze.

A beat passes, and then Percy nods too. The closest shadow of a smile that has been seen in George's features in a week appears as he stretches out his hand, offering it to Percy, pulling him into a brief embrace.

"C'mon," he then says quietly. "It's starting to smell like dinner, and we don't want mum to find _us_ hugging or she'd _never_ stop weeping."

Even Percy manages a shaky laugh.

**A/N: **Be patient with me. Ron/Hermione will come, eventually. I know you're all waiting for it, but it'll have to take its time. I need to get them right.

A _**Things**_-update is on its way, and will probably be up tomorrow.

Today, I also posted a new story, for the Shuffle challenge at the HP Fanfiction Challenges forum. It's called _**Life Is A Soundtrack **_and it's basically drabbles written to whatever songs came when I put my I-pod on shuffle. It was lots of fun, and I'd love to hear your opinions on it. And this, of course!


	4. Day 0, Ron and Hermione

**A/N: **First of all, I want to apologize to everyone whose updates I've been neglecting this week. I've got an incredible amount of stuff going on. I promise I'll hurry, though, and you'll all get the reviews you deserve.

Second of all – here you are. Finally. This is for everyone who has been waiting for this chapter. Now you have it. I hope it at least sort of lives up to your expectations and hopes.

**Day 0. Ron/Hermione. **

It isn't midnight yet, and somehow they must have decided to meet here without words, because when he enters the common room, she's waiting for him by the fire.

"I couldn't sleep," he offers gruffly as an explanation as he slumps down in the chair next to hers. She just nods, solemnly, searching his face. (She's not sure how to act. This is Ron, for Merlin's sake. And she kissed him today. But that doesn't matter, does it – nothing like that matters in a world without Fred. And she doesn't have any idea how to help him through something like this. Even if it is _Ron_. Especially because it is him.)

"Is – is Harry up there?" she asks, because the air craves words and it's not letting her breathe properly.

"Yeah. Dunno if he's actually asleep, though."

"No." They have been up how many hours now? She has lost count. And yet, despite her whole body aching with exhaustion, she's not the least bit sleepy. She can't imagine Harry is either.

A frown appears between his eyebrows, and because it's him, somehow, she knows. (She recognizes the unthinkable in his eyes, from that moment, that moment when her mind went blank, grey, white, black, and she actually had to fight with all her not-remaining strength to keep her knees from buckling – because _that was Harry_.)

For some reason (maybe because it finally is over now, no matter how unbelievable it seems), she finds her mouth forming words she hadn't planned on ever speaking aloud. "I – honestly, I never could see the three of us making it through all this." Her voice doesn't tremble, but it's not hers. It's unsure and way too quiet. (He just wants her to sound sure and bossy and know-it-all-y again, because this isn't right and he needs her to be Hermione, needs something to rely on, needs her eyes not to be shining like that.)

"I did," he replies, and his voice isn't right either; hoarse and without that touch of a smirk or smile. "I had to. If I hadn't, if I'd let myself – I couldn't've…"

He breaks off, but doesn't look away. She swallows, and her hand flicks as if it wants to take his, but it stops itself midair, instead making an attempt to run its fingers through her hair. The attempt fails as she gets stuck in the tangles from the too many hours of sweat, wind and despair said hair has seen without a hairbrush.

His gaze follows her hand curiously. It is she who nervously averts her eyes.

"Before – you kissed me." His tone holds some sort of bemusement (lighter than he feels, because he needs to keep something about this night not unbearably heavy), and she can feel her cheeks reddening rapidly.

"Yes, yes, I did," she affirms to the floor. "Listen, Ron, I'm so sorry. I didn't plan it or anything, it just – sort of came over me," she blurts out, and would be unsurprised if smoke was by now puffing out of her ears. "It won't happen again, I – "

"Hermione," he interrupts her with a glint like amusement in his eyes. "I didn't say that I minded it. I mean – couldn't you tell?"

"Well…" (He did _seem_ to enjoy it, at the time – but it was just the moment, wasn't it, the battle, the rush. And well, what boy reclined a crazy girl attacking him with kisses when he was in all probability moments from death? It didn't have to mean anything, did it? Not to him. Sure, her imagination has been reading his signs all year, even before that. She has believed she has seen it in him, and she usually reads him so well… But, even if there _was_ something there earlier, who is to say that it hasn't changed now? Everything has, hasn't it?)

"I didn't, okay?" he continues, with a faint almost-grin. "Seriously, Hermione – you're supposed to be the good one at this stuff, aren't you?"

(Not when it comes to him. She has always lost her mind and all of her senses and every ounce of intelligent fibre in her being when he's involved.)

"I was just saying," he goes on, his ears giving him away when his voice and eyes don't (she takes comfort in the fact that he's not really as unbothered by this conversation as he pretends to be). "We… don't usually do that. Snog, I mean."

"Um, no," she whispers, slightly mortified by his bluntness. "But it was just a slip of – of the moment, and I won't…"

"Hermione," he interrupts her again. "I suppose I just kind of wanted to, you know, thank you. For snogging me when I was too thick to, well, come around to doing it myself."

"Wh-what?" (He grins at her surprise, and it's almost real, almost, at least if she doesn't look too closely in his eyes where the rest of the night is lurking. Right now, she'll keep him focused on this good part, because she's starting to realize that it _was_ a very good part, and her blush is fading.)

"It wasn't just the bloody moment. Come on, Hermione, you know it wasn't."

"I – yes," she admits. "It wasn't. But it doesn't have to mean, you know… I mean, if you don't…"

"Hermione. Shut up."

He kisses her this time, and it's lips fumbling with lips, it's a little wet and too short, but it's his lips against hers and his hand clumsily brushing away a large chunk of hair from her face. She curses it, silently, because it would have been _so_ much more romantic if he instead could've smoothly brushed away a silky bang. Then he intensifies the kiss and she forgets everything else.

"I want this," he continues, leaning back, his grin fading. "Hell, I think I might need this," he stops himself, shrugging away unbidden thoughts about why exactly he might need her to keep himself above the surface. "But if you don't – I mean, after last year, and this winter – I get it," he finishes, his voice low, his head bowed.

"Ron, don't be stupid," she whispers, still not having quite gathered herself from the actions of his tongue and touch.

"I'm serious," he urges, his eyes in hers for a second, pleading, then turning back to the floor. "I'd understand if you can't, you know, forgive me for – all that. I mean, I know you sort of did, before, but things were so – anyway, it's different now and well… I get it."

The sincerity in his voice makes her eyes water. Determinedly blinking it back, she replies softly. "It's okay."

He shakes his head. "It's not. It wasn't. But I – I won't let it happen again. I won't. I promise."

There's a fierceness in his vow that makes her just want to hug him and tell him it's okay over and over, a million times, and that it'll always be okay, even if it isn't.

"Okay." It's all she can manage, but this time, her hand doesn't stop itself before it takes his. She has to bite her lip, and she has to force herself to meet his gaze. She already knows what she'll find there, but it's worse than she imagined (as she knew it would be).

Her warm hand finding its way into his is what does it. That hand speaks more than touches and kisses, because now he has said everything he needs to (but hates that he needs to make sure of), and she's still here and she's holding his hand tightly and that's what does it. The distracting worry of her maybe-or-maybe-not forgiveness is erased and the silence that follows echoes between his ears and it's pictures, images and numbers (six siblings, five brothers – no, never again – he'll have to get used to only having four brothers, and he who used to wish they weren't so many, and now four seems like absolutely nothing).

She watches, her heart almost stopping, as his eyes cloud over, and she knows, knows all too well. She squeezes his hand, but it's not enough. Somehow – because of his assurance, his promise – she ignores her hesitation and inner protests that Ron won't want her to see him like this, won't accept her comfort, would want her to just leave him alone. And she finds her way over to his chair, sliding down next to him, half in his lap.

She's there, suddenly, not just her hand, but the whole her. Her arms creep around him, and it's her warmth and closeness and he can't do this anymore.

"I – I can't – I can't even p-picture it… being six…"

She hushes him, gently guiding his head towards her shoulder. He gratefully buries his face in her shirt, and at a loss for words, _any _words at all, she just tightens her hold of his shaking shoulders.

Somehow, it's lips again and the comfort turns into a passion that she of course knows is only a distraction, but it's not _just_ that and she is happy to provide him with anything that will take his mind off this kind of reality.

As their cheeks touch, the wetness falling down his that she isn't supposed to be noting mixes with the tears she stubbornly will not allow to fall in his presence (he, after all, is the one who has lost a brother).

Interruption comes with careful steps in the stairwell that carries too much loss and heartache, and Hermione gestures quietly out the portrait hole. No matter who the intruder is, they are in agreement – they don't want anyone to walk in on them like this.

Hand in hand, they silently walk out into the night, together.

**A/N: **So, how was it? As some of you know, I'm way too in love with this couple to write them, usually. But I had to try. It wasn't easy, but something I had to do. And now I need to know how I did. Please, be honest, brutally so. I'm a perfectionist with this pairing, but I really do want to learn to write them.


	5. Day IV, Dean and Seamus

**A/N: **It's been too long, I know. And I still haven't had time to start working on another _**Things**_-chapter. All I can say is – I'm _so _sorry. I hope this'll do for now.

**Day IV. Dean/Seamus.**

"So… did you two ever actually…?"

"Yeah, we did," Seamus nods with a grim smile that doesn't reach his heavily lidded eyes. (Dean doubts, again, whether he has even slept a minute during these last four days, despite continuously claiming that he is fine.) "In October, last year."

"Really?" This takes Dean a little by surprise. Seamus had spent so many years pining for Lavender from afar, and then – even as he did take the step to ask her to the Yule Ball, he chickened out of really doing anything about it and whatever they could've had just sort of faded out. And now, suddenly, it only took him a _month_! Dean's certainly missed a lot, that's for sure. (He tries to suppress a slight jab of bitterness. While he was off in some bloody forest, alone, freezing his ass off, scared shitless – Seamus was hooking up with his dream girl? But this is not the time. Lavender's barely _alive_ and Dean's best friend is a complete mess who hasn't slept in four days. Besides, it's not like he hasn't had any glimpses of romance himself this year, later. He knows what it's like to need some hope.)

"The twentieth, actually," Seamus nods. "She was so sure I'd forget about it, but I didn't. Surprised her on our six-month." A faint shadow of a grin, nothing more. It soon vanishes with the darkness in his eyes. Dean sighs to himself, and makes another attempt at keeping the conversation light.

"You finally got over yourself and did something about that then?"

"I guess," Seamus shrugs, and the ghost of a smile is back. (Dean only wishes it'd stay for a bit longer than a second.) "Yeah, sort of. Or, I dunno. This year – it wasn't really the same, y'know. It just sort of happened when we couldn't afford to be cowards anymore."

"So you do admit to being a thick coward last year?" Dean smirks, and it feels odd, but good in a way. He's allowed to do that now. After this year – these _years_ – of constant fear, and then these past few days of hardly daring to breathe. It's over now. The war is. And they have, yesterday, had it confirmed that Lavender will make it. She's not fine, far from, but she's _alive_. He's allowed to grin. It still feels wrong, forbidden, but he has to try to get used to it again. (But what about Ted and Dirk – they'll never get the chance to grin again, or joke, or laugh. What about Dobby, who saved them? What about Ernie? Fred Weasley? Professor Lupin? Mike? Dumbledore?)

"Guess I did." Seamus chuckles, and it's an unfamiliar sound; too much exhaustion behind it. "But now – mate, it wasn't the same. It wasn't even – well, it wasn't even a choice anymore. I – I needed her. I do, now, too." Dean looks at the floor, pretending he doesn't hear the way Seamus's voice cracks by the end.

"Yeah. I saw what you looked like when I got here. I mean, I can only imagine –" he trails off, shuddering as he remembers Seamus's almost unrecognizably crushed face that greeted him a couple of days ago. That sight has erased almost every ounce of self-pitying part of his being, that, in his darker moments, resented them all for being together, in warm beds, in safety (a safety that turns out wasn't very safe, after all).

"What?" Seamus looks honestly confused for a second. "No – it wasn't that. Well, that too, I s'ppose, but it wasn't _too_ bad. There were, well – other things, that were… worse."

He stares at the floor and Dean thinks he understands and suddenly it's difficult to swallow and he's blinking at the carpet and he _knows_. It was _wrong_, last year. The two of them being separated - it's just not the way it's supposed to be.

"Yeah." Dean's voice is almost inaudible, but Seamus looks up and it's understanding, but they both have to turn away quickly. Dean stands up and walks over to the waiting room window.

"You heard anything about the others today?" Seamus asks after a too heavy silence. "Mike?"

"Parvati says he's still unconscious, but the Healers reckon he'll wake up sooner or later," Dean says, relieved that Seamus has taken the lead of the conversation for a moment.

"So – how's _that_ going?" Seamus asks meaningfully, and the smirk in his tone is forced, but he's trying, and Dean'll go along. If Seamus needs a distraction, sure, he can provide it. Actually, this might be as good a time as any to tell his friend about his own romantic experiences this past year, he decides, taking a deep breath.

"Parvati and me? Now?" he questions, to win time. "Even Ginny was after that, mate, and _that_ feels like a million years ago."

"Tell me about it," Seamus mutters in reply. Back when they were sixth years and together and school was this safe haven from the world – yeah, a _million_ years ago.

"In fact – well, y'know when I was stuck at Bill Weasley's, with Luna. Well, me and Luna, we kind of…"

This should be simple, to tell his _best mate _about his newest crush, but it isn't. Dean can all too well recall the two of them rolling their eyes at that nutcase girl who somehow got into the DA… That nutcase girl who he has now come to love, unexpectedly, but truly.

"You and Luna? _Lovegood_? You're kidding."

"No, I'm not. Really," he assures him, feeling the knot in his stomach tightening. He knows he's being a hypocrite, but these days, he can't stand the way people don't get her.

"But – what about Ginny?"

"Didn't we just cover that? That was ages ago. Besides, haven't you seen her with Harry lately? They're all over each other, looking like they're bloody married or something."

"I guess," Seamus agrees, his eyebrows still raised. "But… _Loony _Lovegood?"

"Don't call her that." Seamus flinches at Dean's sudden harshness, and he continues with a sigh. "She's not…" he begins, but really, she _is_ as crazy as they all think, but it's in a good way, and he doesn't have the words to explain it. "She's my friend now, okay? And you – just don't call her that."

"All righ', I won't," Seamus shrugs, continuing wearily. "It's just, well – I thought she was with Neville?"

"Apparently, she was," Dean nods shortly. "She told me yesterday that she's not sure who to choose now. And – well, I'd assumed we'd still be, you know, once we got out of this bloody mess. Guess she didn't, though."

Seamus waits a moment, hesitating, hearing the earnest hurt in Dean's voice. "Luna Lovegood, the player, huh? Who'd've thought _that_?"

For a second, Dean considers calling Seamus an insensitive bastard. But he knows, really, that this is the way they can get through this; they can't dwell, they can't allow themselves to sink too deep right now. It's easier this way. Maybe it's the only way.

So he chuckles softly, replying, "Not me, that's for sure." There's an overpowering relief in Seamus's eyes and Dean knows it's his turn to keep them above the surface for a while. "Hey, what'd you mean by that before? 'Bout Parvati? Were you just messing around or what?" (He can at least pretend that he's not bursting with childish curiosity, and that this was simply the only light enough subject that came to mind.)

"Well, mate, I hate to tell you," Seamus begins, but his smug expression speaks that contrarily, he's thoroughly enjoying this. "But you've been pretty – well, I wouldn't've guessed you were still kind of still involved with someone else. I mean – just look at the two of you. Most of the time, you're like one step away from full on snogging!"

Affronted, Dean frowns. "No way. I'm just – I'm being her friend! You ever heard of that?"

"I'm just saying," Seamus says, raising his arms in defence, with something serious behind the glint in his eyes. "You might want to make sure she sees it like that too. _Or _you might want to take another round of thinking on if what you want really is to wait around to see if Loon-_Luna_ still wants you, or if you – well, you've been fancying Parvati forever! And, last year, I'm pretty sure she – well, this year, she missed you."

Dean could say something like "surely she missed everyone, with the whole risk of us dying and all", but something in the way Seamus states that Parvati missed him makes his stomach squirm.

"She did?"

"Yeah. It was pretty obvious. Lavender even kind of said it a couple of times. But that doesn't matter to you, does it, since you only care 'bout Lovegood these days, wasn't that it?" he finishes triumphantly, which makes Dean draw back.

"Did this actually happen or are you just screwing my ass, 'cause you're a damn wreck and you have some psychotic need to drag me down with you?"

For the first time in a year, Dean hears Seamus's laugh. "I can see why you'd think that, but surprisingly – no, I'm not," he says, still grinning. "I do kind of enjoy this, though," he adds, seeing Dean's scepticism.

"I can see that," he mutters with a glare that isn't really a glare, but is simply trying for normality. (Really, Dean's just thrilled that somehow, he got Seamus to laugh again.) As the actual message of their conversation sinks in, he continues. "Blimey, I guess I'd better talk to her then. Once I've – er, thought it through." He waits a beat, hesitating, before asking again. "You're sure?"

"I'd bet me Mum's knickers."

"Er – okay? Am I supposed to take that as a 'yes'?" he inquires.

"'Course you are. What else?" As Dean continues too look confused, Seamus laughs, assuming he's only playing stupid. "Come on, you're not that thick. Everyone's been saying that for like…" He stops himself, horror-struck.

"… A year?" Dean finishes hollowly, bowing his head to the floor at the reminder of how far apart they've grown. Of course, they'll find their way back, but it's _not_ the same, no matter how much they want to pretend it is.

Realizing his mistake, Seamus mutters an indistinguishable apology. Dean still doesn't look up, and he hears Seamus restlessly shuffling his feet as the silence stretches on longer and longer.

"How's Lavender today?" He doesn't mean to bring the pain back into Seamus's eyes. But he had to ask at some point, in case Seamus does need to talk about it, at least a little, and well, this seemed as good a time as any. Plus, the air is in desperate need of words, any words, and right now, his brain seems incapable to think of any others.

The sharp breath from Seamus makes him look up, and he catches his friend biting his lip, and waits, wishing he hadn't asked. After another pause, Seamus speaks, his voice slightly strangled. "She's… getting there, I s'ppose. She won't be out of here in a while, but she's – well, she's getting there."

Dean nods, restraining from asking about what he knows Seamus isn't mentioning. Everything Parvati sobbed into his shirt this morning about how Lavender has yet to stay awake for longer than an hour at the time, and how she hasn't yet been able to stop weeping endlessly during those periods, both from pain and shock. If Seamus won't – or can't – speak of that, Dean won't force him. He's here for whatever his friend needs, and if that's a distraction – "That's good, mate. She can't stay hooked to that bed forever if you're gonna be able to do all the nasty stuff to her I know you've been planning for years."

"Hey!" Seamus protests, but like Dean's earlier, his glare is somehow soft rather than sharp.

"What? It's true," Dean replies innocently.

"Well – yeah," Seamus admits, struggling to maintain his indignant glower. "But she's hospitalized and you're…"

"Your best mate, so I'm allowed to say that," he finishes, grinning broadly. "Besides, a few days ago, you were almost ecstatic just seeing me alive. What the hell happened to that?"

"Grew out of it," Seamus shrugs, having by now given up on fighting his escaped grin. "You get used to having you around pretty quickly."

**A/N: **Opinions, please. Is it interesting to explore on more of the minor characters, or should we get back to the Weasleys and "bigger" characters? A combination? Please let me know, okay?


	6. Day VIII, Arthur and Ginny

**A/N: **Hello everyone. I have some pretty bad news. My story _**Things**_ has been deleted by the FF administration, because of the rule that list stories aren't allowed. I am not yet sure what to do about this – if I should make the time to try and reverse it into a non-list story somehow (as it wasn't that list-like most of the time anyway), or if I should try posting it somewhere else or just give up on it… I'd hate to just let it go, because I have so many plans that I'd like to follow through with, but still... I definitely don't want to risk putting it up the same way again, risking having it removed again. Basically, I don't know what to do. I have kind of started re-writing the first chapter, hopefully making it less list-like and more drabble-like, removing the numbers and so on. But I just don't know… 47 chapters are a lot... By the time I reach the new ones I assume most will have lost interest. (Unless I change the order of course, and do the new ones in between the old ones.) Basically, I'm indecisive at the moment. If you have an opinion, let me know.

In the meantime, though, I'll update this non-list story. Enjoy!

**Day VIII. Arthur/Ginny. **

He finds her sprawled on the couch, her head in Harry's lap, her eyes almost fully closed. Ron and Hermione share the armchair opposite them, his fingers absentmindedly playing with her hair. The foursome seems to be experiencing quite a companionable silence. For a moment, Arthur stands frozen in the doorway, regarding the scene, not having the heart to interrupt it. Then, Harry's constantly alert senses notice him, turn to him, and the rest of them react instinctively with him. (It still tears him apart how they are all so prepared – constant vigilance tapped way too firmly into their brains.)

"What's up, dad?" Ron questions, his eyebrows raised.

"Nothing much," he hurries to assure their mildly concerned faces. "I was just wondering whether I could have a chat with you, Ginny. In the kitchen, perhaps?" he finishes, telling her that this is a conversation for the two of them alone.

She frowns, exchanges a look with Harry, who squeezes her hand. First after this does she nod at him, and rise to follow him.

The meaningful eye contact between Harry and Hermione doesn't escape his notice. Knowing Hermione, she has long since figured out what he would want to talk to his daughter about. Knowing Harry, he's been subtly trying to have this same conversation with her for days, but, considering the shape the both of them has been in, she has been unfit to listen and he to persist.

With a sigh, Arthur thinks that he doesn't blame him. If he himself had a choice about this – well, it's not exactly what he considers the most pleasant way to spend an afternoon. But he hasn't forgotten his promise to Molly. Or the look in Percy's eyes as Ginny stubbornly refused to ask him for the butter at breakfast, and just muttered something incomprehensible when he noticed her need anyway and passed it to her.

This has to be done. Just like burying a son wasn't a choice. Just like battling Death Eaters, his head all the while screaming with the paralyzing knowledge that all of his kids were in horrible danger and he wasn't there to protect them, wasn't a choice. Just like getting up every morning isn't a choice he would make if he had it. (Nowadays, there's nothing he doesn't have to force himself into, with a strength he doesn't possess.)

He doesn't have any excuse not to do it right now either. His daughter looks calm, remotely collected, as she gazes at him wonderingly from across the kitchen table. She's not in such a state that she won't be able to hear him. He has no excuses. (Except that he _hates_ the idea of doing anything to upset her when, for a moment, her eyes are dry.)

"How are you doing?" he begins lamely, because suddenly he realizes that he has not thought this through. How is one supposed to start up a conversation like this?

"Fine," she mumbles without any conviction. His questioning eyes make her stony façade crumble, if only slightly, and she admits with a grimace; "Okay. Not really. But I guess – right now, I'm – I'm okay."

"Good," he nods. "Er… you and Harry seem to be, um, pretty close – again?" (It is a sign of how much he wants to stall this conversation that he willingly brings up the subject of boys with her – that has always been Molly's area rather than his.)

An almost-grin slips onto her lips at the surprise. "I guess," she shrugs, but he can tell that she is more pleased by this than she can say. Relationships have never been his expertise, but no one could have failed to notice the misery in his daughter at the absence of that particular boy.

"Well, yes," he continues, clearing his throat, deciding that the stalling has to be over. "That's – nice. Very nice." She merely smiles a little, but her frown is back as she spots his fidgeting hands. Forcing them down under the table, he clears his throat a second time.

"I – I have noticed that you haven't been talking much with Percy," he plunges straight into the subject, flinching at her sharp intake of breath.

Then her face changes from shock to anger, and for a moment, he prepares himself for a famous Ginny Weasley explosion (he knew it could never be out of the question, entering such dangerous waters). But, miraculously, just as she opens her mouth, she seems to deflate and not a sound escapes her.

Patiently, he waits for her to close her mouth, take a deep breath and then, as he honestly hadn't expected her to without a lot more effort from his part, she speaks.

"I can't just forgive him," she whispers shakily. "I can't. After what he did…. He abandoned us, dad. And he – he did it _by choice_, unlike – unlike –" Her voice breaks and she can't finish the sentence. She doesn't need to. He knows all too well that her experience of abandonment was too expanded already before last week.

Swallowing, he waits for her to gather herself again. He knows better than to interrupt her now that she is finally talking about this, to anyone (to him).

For a moment, she directs a scowl at the table, but it fades as she continues. "I don't want to forgive him, just like that. I – I swore to myself I'd never – after that Christmas. And when you – when you were in St Mungo's and he didn't show, didn't even _care_. I _can't_."

It takes every ounce of his self control not to interrupt, to protest that of course Percy cared, to give her the explanations that are not what she needs right now.

"But now, I – I don't – I can't be angry anymore, either. He's so – and I just – I _try_ to hate him, but I – I don't have…"

She doesn't cry, but her eyes glitter suspiciously. Before he can stop himself, he has put his hand on her shoulder. He pretends he doesn't notice her shudder at his touch, and knows his daughter better than to pull her into a fatherly embrace. She's still fighting it. She's not there yet. But now, perhaps, the time has arrived for him to step in to push her a little in the right direction. (Perhaps. Perhaps not. He hates that, after last week, he's been feeling as indecisive as if he'd been a father for eight days, not nearly thirty years. But he has to do something, and he decides to trust his gut feeling, despite his head's loud protests.)

"Ginny," he speaks carefully. "I know it's not simple – none of this is, for any of us. But I think you should give your brother another chance."

There. He said it.

"But – he doesn't deserve it!" she exclaims, but it comes out with exhaustion and a high-pitched frustration, not fiery and confident, and he knows that his reference to "your brother" did the trick.

"Perhaps not," he decides to half-agree with her. "But he is still a part of this family. It has taken a lot for him to apologize, but he has done that, and now he needs our forgiveness. Your forgiveness."

She looks like she's about to protest again, but he plunges on. "And Ginny, I think you need that too."

"I…" she begins, frowning, but then she falters and falls silent. A moment passes, and then she puts her head in her hands. Arthur hesitates, unsure if the time has arrived when he is allowed to touch her now. He settles for a compromise, clapping her tentatively on the back. That's what makes her look up, her eyes surprisingly dry. Looking straight at him, she nods shakily.

She wishes she had more of a backbone. She wants to yell at him, and at Percy the abandoner too for that matter, that it's not okay. It's _not okay_. And he's not part of their family, because he_ left_ them at the worst time possible not to be there for your family. And he's _not_ her brother anymore, he stopped being her brother a long time ago, because it hurt too much and he wasn't there and it's unforgivable.

But she doesn't say that. Because she hasn't slept in so long and she just can't muster up the energy. And because she can't get that image out of her head, of Percy's haunted gaze as she ignored his fake smile and unsure greeting in the garden yesterday.

She can't. He's her brother, and she's tired and she hasn't got a backbone, because he _is_ her brother. And the others have somehow found a way to forgive him; even Charlie who is more stubborn than she is, even Bill who had a missing brother at his wedding, even Ron who has never gotten along with Percy, even George has been making sure Percy knows he's forgiven, even Fred…

"Okay," she mumbles, more to herself than to anyone else. "Okay."

He merely grasps her shoulder a little tighter, closing his eyes for a moment in relief. Maybe, just maybe...

**A/N: **The Ginny/Percy conversation should follow soon. Please let me know what you thought!


	7. Day VIII, Ginny and Percy

**Day VIII. Ginny/Percy. **

Ginny doesn't want to do this. She wants to turn back to the living room and Harry's warm hands and soft touches. But she knows better than to put this off now. Her dad knows it too, his eyes questioning as she hesitates at the kitchen door. If she doesn't do it now – well, waiting is not an option. She can't let herself talk herself out of this again.

(The risk is then that, eventually, he won't forgive her.)

So, her sleep-deprived head pounding with every step, she ascends the stairs, all the while feeling her father's encouraging eyes at the back of her head.

Deep breath. She knocks.

"Come in." She notes with relief that his voice is unusually steady. Not like his old self, of course, but not like it has been the last couple of days either (not that she has spoken to him herself, not even once, but she hasn't been able to turn off her ears to his misery no matter how much she's attempted to).

She stands in the doorway, not breathing. He looks up at her and his mouth falls open. Then, nothing happens. Percy just gapes wider, as if she's a dragon or something equally unexpected and potentially life-threatening that has turned up on his doorstep.

When she realizes that he's not about to come to his senses any time soon, she takes a tentative step into the room. "C-can I come in?" she asks, even if he did say she could before – but that was before he knew it was his horrible little dragon-sister who's been ignoring him for more than a week.

"S-sure. Of course." He still looks too shocked for her liking. What did he expect? That she'd _never_ come around? Surely he can't have thought that. Can he?

(Her heart twinges as she takes in the image of her big brother's state; his glasses are smudged, his hair unwashed, his face too childishly vulnerable – in a way she can't remember ever witnessing it, because then she was probably not even born. He's supposed to be always clean and neat, preaching to her that she ought to spend her time doing something less dirt-including than mudfights with Ron. He's supposed to be all superior and bossy, and she's supposed to pretend that she hates it, but really appreciate more than she can say that he at least _noticed_ that something was wrong and tried to help, even if just by forcing Pepperup Potion down her throat, while no one else bothered at all. He's not supposed to look like this.)

"Er… you want to sit down?" She hates how he can't even look at her. She hates that he's offering her to sit down, as if she's a guest he needs to be polite to. She's not a guest. She's his sister. (He's supposed to boss her around, not _ask_ her if she wants to sit down!)

She nods slowly, taking a seat in his desk chair.

"Wh-what's up?" he questions (an attempt at normalcy, perhaps?), and she closes her eyes briefly. _Rip off the band-aid! Quickly!_

Percy can't look at her. He shoots furtive glances at his sister, noting her unusually pale skin, dark eyes, and that she is biting her lip (just like she always does when she is uncomfortable and nervous). But he can't look at her, as if she's shining too brightly for his eyes to bear. But it's not his eyes that can't bear to look at her fully, and he knows that.

He's her big brother. He was supposed to protect her from the world. Always. But he failed. Already in her first year, he failed. He let her down. He didn't know when he should have known, and she didn't tell him. And, after that, she's been through a war. She's seen it all; death. Experienced more struggles for life than he can possibly imagine without retching.

She's not even seventeen. And he wasn't there, to protect her, to take care of her. In the unlikely event that she would have wanted his comfort, he wasn't there. None of them were there with he through the last year. Not even Ron. (Percy had always counted on Ron to be there for her, as, he is sure, had she.)

And he couldn't save their brother. He's failed her, and all of them. That's why she won't talk to him. He doesn't blame her the slightest.

"I – I'm sorry," she whispers unexpectedly, and he must have heard wrong, because her voice hasn't sounded like that since she was six and crying softly into his chest because he was leaving for Hogwarts. (She'd been sulking all day, but at 3 AM, she came jumping onto his bed, wrapping her arms around him, whispering that she was sorry and that he couldn't go and that she promised never to be mad at him again if he just stayed with her.)

"Gin-," he begins, shaking his head, but his voice breaks.

She closes her eyes again – to steel herself?

"Perce, listen. I – I know I've been – this week, to you… But I don't – you can't think that – that I don't…"

She's got his attention now, he's watching her, hardly daring to believe that she might be saying what he thinks she's saying. It's not easy for her to get any words out, her face is colouring by the effort and frustration, and that's what makes him think she might actually be – forgiving him? (Admitting she's been wrong has never been a strong suit of Ginny's. Or his, for that matter.)

"I want to apologize for ignoring you," she continues after a beat, rapidly, determinedly. "I – I don't hate you. You can't think that."

"O-okay," he replies, taken aback at her sudden forcefulness.

"You – you're my brother. I – I _hate_ what you did, and if you would've asked me a month ago, I would've said I hated you. But I didn't. I – I don't. You're my brother," she finishes quietly, eyes fixed on the carpet.

"I would've hated me too. I did. I – I do," he corrects himself, voice trembling.

She's quiet for a moment, gaze still down. He hears her take a breath before turning to look at him. The pain in her eyes makes his chest constrict, and he's the one who has to turn away.

Trying and failing to keep his gulping breaths under control, he curses himself for his unusual lack of composure. He's the big brother here, and this is obviously hard on her, but she's still here and giving him a lot more than he deserves – and he can't even give her the comfort of being the older brother who does _not_ break down in front of his younger siblings.

Then a small hand finds its way onto his, and he loses his battle with control. There's a voice close to his ear that doesn't sound like Ginny at all. It's whispering "don't" and then it can't form anymore words, but the small, warm hand is still wrapped in his. And suddenly, he doesn't have to be the older brother who comforts her, but she doesn't need to be the one who comforts him either, because the shaking is neither him nor her, they're one, a pair with four canals of tears. And, suddenly, they're the Weasleys again and she's his little sister and God, he's missed her.

**A/N: **Told you it would be up soon. Well, too me these two were very linked together, so I had to write this too, and I figured I might as well post it now. Let me know what you think, okay?


End file.

Harry Potter, Hurt-Comfort, Romance