For my darling Elizabeth

Warnings: grief, depression, self harm

Word Count: 3846

i.

It's a week after the battle, and Molly isn't sure what to do with herself. She wants to grumble because it's just too much, but she has to be strong. One child is lost, but she still has six above ground, and she has to find a way to be brave for them.

So she does what she does best. When the world feels dark and cruel, when she loses the will to keep going, she throws herself into the chores around the house. The children offer to help, but she waves them away.

She doesn't bother with magic. It would be so much quicker, but there is something strangely rewarding about doing things the Muggle way. Maybe it's the way scrubbing every surface causes her the faintest sense of pain as she puts all her strength into it. Maybe it's just knowing that it will take so long, that she can find a way to distract herself for hours on end.

It isn't enough. It's never enough.

She's beaded with sweat and streaked with dirt and smells of lemons and ammonia, but the kitchen is spotless. It should make her happy. Her heart should swell with pride.

Instead, she thinks of Fred. Molly can see him so clearly in her mind. He would come in, hair windswept from flying, tracking mud over her freshly cleaned floor. His grin would melt her heart and somehow keep him out of trouble; well, at the very least, he would have to go back over it and mop the kitchen again.

Molly falls to the floor, her red curls hanging in her face as tears begin to fall. She doesn't know how long she stays like that, but she doesn't move until Arthur finds her. He is strong for her, and loves him for it. For one moment, she can break and grieve, and the world won't fall apart.

"Come, dear," he tells her, helping her to her feet and kissing her forehead. "Have a seat. I'll put the kettle on."

She sits there, staring at the wall with a blank expression. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore," she admits in a whisper, her voice hoarse and scratchy from sobbing.

Arthur hums as he prepares the tea. Molly has always enjoyed the sound. It's always some unfamiliar melody, but it's always calming. Maybe it doesn't make everything better, but it's enough to make her lips twitch. It has been so long since she smiled that the movement causes her jaw to ache.

"Milk," he says. "No sugar." He sits across from her, setting the teacup down. "We're going to figure it out, Mollywobbles."

It seems impossible, but she somehow still has more tears to cry. It stings and burns, but fresh tears spill like a dam has burst. "How?"

No mother should have to bury her child. When Fred's casket was placed in the ground, Molly wanted to throw herself into the hole and let them bury her too. The world has no business to still turn. It should have collapsed the moment her son did.

Arthur takes her hand, squeezing gently. "I don't have the answers," he tells her. "But I know we can."

She doesn't quite believe, but she can pretend.

ii.

It's two weeks after the battle, and Arthur finally goes back to work. There are still so many people absent as he walks through the Ministry. Some are dead or in jail. Others are mourning.

Arthur is still mourning, but he has to move forward. If he doesn't, he might lose his mind.

"Arthur." Kingsley breaks into a jog, catching up to him just outside the lifts. He offers Arthur a small smile. "I wasn't expecting to see you back so soon."

Soon. It feels like an eternity. Before the battle, they went into hiding. How long has it been since he stepped foot in the Ministry? Far too long.

"You can take more time if you need it," Kingsley offers. "I'm the Minister now. I'll make sure you're taken care of."

"I appreciate it, Kingsley, but I'm fine."

Kingsley doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't press the matter any further. Instead, he gives Arthur's shoulder a reassuring squeeze before nodding. "If you need anything, let me know," he says. "Also, tell Molly I need that lemon pie recipe. Rosmerta hasn't stopped raving about it."

Arthur smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes because it isn't a real smile; it's just a mask he wears. After the war, he noticed more and more masks. If they smile enough and pretend they aren't breaking down, maybe the world will begin to believe them. Maybe the world will even play along.

And so Arthur goes, wearing a mask, smiling as he walks into his office.

No one is convinced, he realizes. They stare at him with pity. Sometimes, he can even hear snippets of their whispered conversations.

Poor bloke.

...hear his wife's gone mad with grief.

...shouldn't be back yet.

He plays his part well enough. They offer their sympathy, but they don't pressure him into speaking. He's glad. By now, he has mastered the art of being strong, but that won't stop him from breaking down.

When the day ends, he returns home, heading straight for the shed. Does Molly notice when does this? He doesn't think she watches the clock anymore, not since the hand with Fred's name on it ceased to move again.

He loves his wife and family, and he has acted as a pillar of strength for them, but sometimes home feels suffocating. The shed is comfortable and quiet. No one ever comes out here.

With a sad smile, he opens a drawer, pulling out the Muggle magic kit. Fred wanted him to see it.

"See, Dad. Muggles know all about magic."

"Do they? I always knew Muggles were clever."

There's nothing for him to tinker with. The little objects inside are just everyday things, nothing fancy or special. It isn't his usual escape, but it's enough to take him away and help him forget for just a little while.

iii.

It's one day after the battle. George stands in the joke shop and screams.

He doesn't open the shop. Fred isn't here. The shop would not exist without Fred, and it will not open without him either.

For one brief moment, he vividly imagines himself toppling all the shelves and destroying all the products. What's the point anymore? Their goal was to make the world brighter, but there's no joy, no laughter left.

Drained, he makes his way to the back of the shop, ascending the stairs to the flat above.

…

It's four days after the battle, and George finally convinces himself to get out of bed again. Merlin, it's been hard. Just going to the bathroom had been hell at first because he would catch sight of his reflection and think it was Fred.

The bathroom mirror only survived a day. George had slammed his fists into the glass again and again until his knuckles were bloody and bruised, and shards of glass were embedded in the split skin.

He makes his way to the joke shop, and it feels like his heart has been ripped from his chest. This is his. This is theirs. How could he have ever thought of destroying it?

Maybe he isn't ready to open it yet, but he will be. One day. Not now. Maybe no time soon. But it's what Fred would have wanted.

George looks down at his knuckles. Healing them would have been easy, but he didn't bother. The pain was strangely comforting. He still leaves them unhealed, relishing the way the cuts sting and burn as he moves his hand.

…

It's one week after the battle. Verity finds him in the back room. Shattered glass litters the floor. Reflective metal has been beaten until it's dented. Traces of his blood can be found all over the room.

"George," Verity whispers, kneeling beside him on the floor. "Hey…"

He wants to scream at her for coming in. It doesn't matter that she's just trying to check on him, that this shop means so much to her too. She has no business to be here.

But when he opens his mouth, the flood of angry words refuse to fall. Instead, he gives a choked sob as fresh tears fall, leaving salty tracks on his freckled cheeks. "I miss him so fucking much."

Verity pulls him into a hug, making soothing shushing sounds. "I know. I know."

"I see him everywhere," he says, his voice strained and broken. "I should have died with him."

They aren't supposed to be apart. They've always been together, always side by side and waiting for the next big adventure. Fred wasn't supposed to leave him; they were supposed to grow old together and just… stay.

"Come on." Verity pulls him to his feet. "Let's get you cleaned up. When's the last time you've eaten?"

He shrugs because he can't remember. He thinks he might have eaten a bag of crisps earlier in the week, but everything is blurred.

"I'll bring you some lunch. Get cleaned up."

He doesn't want it. It is far more tempting to keep spiraling, to let the pain overtake him. But he keeps moving, forcing himself to pretend.

He has to keep living for Fred.

iv.

It's a month after the battle, and Charlie is in Romania. He left the second Fred's funeral was over. His mother has sent him letter after letter, begging him to come home.

Charlie can't bring himself to do it. The guilt is so heavy in his heart.

There was nothing he could do. The grief counselor who came to the reserve after the war told him so and explained it to him in excruciating detail. Charlie is blameless.

But he doesn't feel that way. He had been on the other side of the castle when it had happened. He couldn't have prevented, but he should have found a way.

Survivor's guilt. That's what the counselor called it. Maybe it fits. Maybe not. Charlie doesn't care if there's a word for it.

His head is messed up. The nightmares haven't gone away, and he is slowly but surely starting to break.

"Charlie! Look out!"

He registers, much too late, that Foster, the newest Ironbelly, has sent a stream of fire his way. His body refuses to act. He knows he needs to move out of the way, but he can't bring himself to do it. As heat licks his forearm, adding more to the array of scars and burns on his skin, delicate fingers curl around his shoulders, and he is pulled backwards.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Zoelie Beauchenne demands before switching to French. Charlie doesn't recognize the words that follow, but he guesses they're laced with profanity.

"Oops?"

She rolls her eyes, prodding a finger against his chest. "I'm glad you're able to work," she says, "but you're no good to me dead. So, stop being an idiot." There's a smile on her lips as she says it, but he can see past it. Like everyone else, she is worried about him. He hates it when anyone worries.

"It was an accident."

She doesn't look convinced. Charlie sighs heavily. He can lie to everyone else, but not her. Zoelie is his closest friend. She knows him better than anyone else, and it feels like some sort of betrayal to lie to her now.

"I froze because I feel like there's no point in living," he admits, his voice soft, little more than a whisper. "If I can't protect my family, then what's the point of me?"

He's never voiced these thoughts aloud. Though he knows there's no shame in feeling things, he doesn't know how to not be okay. Bill is the oldest, but Charlie has always been the protector. Now he's failed in that role. He couldn't keep his family safe, and they're all falling apart.

Zoelie hugs him. The contact cause Charlie to tense for several seconds before he finally manages to relax. He hasn't really let anyone close since that horrible May night, and it feels so strange to do it now. And yet it still feels right because it's Zoelie.

"Can you handle feeding the other Ironbellies?" he asks, pulling away, a hint of a grin on his lips.

"And where do you think you're going?" Zoelie asks, pursing her lips.

"I think it's time that I go home," he says. "I'll be back by dinner."

No more running. Maybe it's too late to protect Fred, but he can still help his family now. All he has to do is be there.

v.

It's a week after the final battle when the new Department of Magical Law Enforcement approaches them. Ron has considered being an Auror, but it was always sort of a joke. What use would he be?

But when the offer is made, he doesn't even hesitate. "Let's do it," he says with a nod to emphasize his excitement at the possibility of joining.

It won't bring Fred back. Ron isn't stupid enough to think his actions now can change the past, but maybe it can bring him some peace. Maybe he can finally find some closure.

…

It's three weeks after the final battle, and Hermione meets him for lunch in London. "You look miserable," she notes as they collect their sandwiches and drink and find a spot in the shade.

"Thanks. It's my new beauty routine," he says dryly. "The key to achieving this look is not sleeping."

"Oh, Ronald." She leans in, kissing his cheek. "I'm sorry. Of course you're miserable. I…"

Silence hangs between them. Ron sighs heavily, pinching off the crust of the bread. It isn't just that. During a training exercise at the Ministry today, he froze. They're willing to excuse him, of course. Because of who he is. Because of who he lost.

But it doesn't change a damn thing. He still froze at a moment where he shouldn't have. This whole Auror thing isn't what he thought it would be. Ron is stuck training while the Aurors are out there actually catching dark witches and wizards and bringing them to justice.

He's never felt more useless. Now that the war is over, he doesn't seem to matter anymore. They stop him on the streets, of course. He is still Ron Weasley, the bloke who stood by Harry Potter, the man who fought the darkness, a true hero. But they only want to hear his tales. They don't actually care how he's doing or what he's feeling.

"You didn't have to jump right into it," Hermione tells him.

Ron doesn't answer straight away. He contemplates as he bites into his sandwich.

It's an argument they've had plenty of times already. Hermione thinks he should have spent more time processing his emotions. Maybe she's right, but Ron still doesn't know how to express his feelings. He's tried, but it just isn't him.

Throwing himself into Auror training had been easier. He can feel like maybe he's going to great things one thing, and it gives him a way to distract himself, to pretend his world isn't still crashing.

"Fred wouldn't want this for you," she adds.

"I know. But I don't know how to stop." He breathes in before exhaling, his breath quivering. "I don't know what to do."

"I don't think any of us do," she assures him, reaching out and taking his hand gently in hers. "But we can figure it out."

"I hope so."

"We will. You don't have to do this alone."

He smiles at that. At least he has Hermione. She has been the one sure and steady thing in life since the war, and he doesn't know where he would be without her.

vi.

It's four months after the battle, and Ginny paces the length of her room. "I don't know if I can do this."

Harry sits on her bed, watching. He doesn't make a move to stop her pacing or offer her flimsy words of cliches disguised as comfort. It's one reason why she loves him. Harry doesn't pretend to be someone he isn't just to make her feel better. He gives her a place to vent and to think aloud.

"I don't want to go back there."

She's thought about it all summer. Hogwarts isn't home anymore. There are too many painful memories in those stone corridors.

There had been a volunteer effort to repair the castle. Luna had invited her, but Ginny couldn't bring herself to go. She knows she would have returned to that spot, dropped to her knees, and cried until someone dragged her away, kicking and screaming.

"Did you know they almost lost me too?" Ginny asks.

The battle is a blur in her mind, but can still remember standing beside Luna and fighting Bellatrix Lestrange. That green streak of light had come so dangerously close. She can still hear her mum so clearly in her head. "Not my daughter, you bitch."

Ginny shouldn't have even been there. The thought weighs on her mind more and more as time goes on. Guilt sours her stomach. Her family could have so easily lost two kids that night.

"What do I do?"

"You know what I think?" Harry asks. "I think Fred would remind you that he didn't finish Hogwarts, and he and George became successful businessmen. That's got to count for something."

She smiles at that, her eyes flickering to the poster of Gwenog Jones on her wall. "I hear Holyhead is looking for a new reserve Chaser," she says.

Harry nods. "I think I read that article too."

She sits beside him on the bed, resting her hand on his thigh. "Will you still love me, even if I quit school?"

He pretends to consider, grinning as he kisses her lips gently. "I suppose you'll do," he chuckles.

It feels like some great weight has been lifted from her shoulders. For the first time in a long time, she finally feels some semblance of hope.

vii.

It's five months after the battle, and Bill comes home to find Fleur waiting for him. She never waits up. Normally, he'll find her outside in the garden or in the living room, working on some new beautiful art piece crafted from seashells.

Today, she sits at the table. Her eyes widen when she sees him, and there's something in her expression that borders on panic. "Bill," she says softly.

"I brought Chinese," he says, holding up the takeaway boxes as he approaches. "Should I have picked up ice cream as well? You look like you're about to cry."

At first, his wife doesn't speak. Her mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. She takes a deep breath, her slender body trembling with the intake. "I'm pregnant."

Pregnant. It feels like the air is forced from the room, and his lungs forget how to work.

They talked about trying to start a family, but they agreed to wait until things calmed down, until they were ready. Maybe Bill has always known they would never truly be ready. He can still see it in his family's faces that they're all still hurting, that their hearts all carry the same Fred-shaped hole, and that moving on is so much easier said than done.

He should feel panic now. They aren't ready. His family is still grieving. Bringing a new life into the world so soon after such a tragedy is selfish.

Instead, he feels butterflies in his stomach, and his lips tug into a smile. With a laugh, he springs forward, pulling her out of her chair and holding her close with one arm. He drops a hand to her stomach. The baby won't be developed enough for him to feel yet, but he doesn't care. His child is growing in there. Maybe this dark chapter is finally closing, and something new is about to begin.

"I was worried you might be upset," Fleur tells him.

Bill shakes his head. "I'm shocked," he says, "but in the best possible way."

He doesn't think he'll ever be able to shake the feeling that it's too soon, that he's done something wrong. But he will not dwell on it. Fred would have wanted him to be happy. What better way to honor his fallen brother's memory than bringing a new life in this world and bring smiles to others' faces?

Something beautiful is right around the corner.

viii.

It's a year after the final battle, and Percy finds himself in Diagon Alley. That, in and of itself, is not strange, but he never comes to this part of it. It's too close to the joke shop, too close to his family.

But that's exactly where his feet guide him now.

The joke shop is open. Percy remembers reading about George having some grand re-opening before school started back. There had been a quote about how Fred would have wanted it to stay open, and how the world needed something to laugh about.

He's never been in the joke shop until now. It's everything Fred would have wanted. It's loud and crowded and so very alive, and it hurts Percy's heart. Fred should be here. Of course he saw the shop's success when it first opened, but this is different. This is a world that will always be stained by the horrors of war, but now people are laughing and smiling.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Percy turns, nearly jumping out of skin. "Fred," he whispers.

But no. It isn't Fred. Fred is gone, and this twin is missing an ear.

"George," he says, cheeks burning. Of course it isn't Fred, and he's an idiot for hoping. "Sorry. I…"

George offers him a smile."Not the first time anyone failed to tell us apart." His smile fades. "Not sure it will be the last time either."

"I should go," Percy mutters.

Before Percy can even turn to leave, George rests a hand on his shoulder. He doesn't grip, doesn't try to force to stay, but the touch is so strangely heavy, and Percy suddenly finds himself unable to move.

"You should come home," he says. "It's Friday. Even Charlie has been coming round on Fridays."

Home. Merlin, it's been a year since he's spoken to his family, and even longer since he's been to his childhood home. He misses them, but he can't bring himself to act on his emotions. After all the mistakes he's made, he doesn't deserve them. They're so much better off without him.

"Please, Perce," George says. "Come home."

Deep down, he's tired of running, of being haunted. He wants to let go. He wants to learn to forgive himself.

"Okay," Percy decides. "I will."

He isn't sure if he's ready for this. Percy is taking a leap, but maybe there's no other choice. No more waiting. No more blaming himself.

It's time to move forward.

It's time to go home.