Author's Note: To those of you reading Fatherhood, I must apologize. This week's chapter is going to be delayed, maybe by as much as a week. Apparently deciding to post a new story while finishing house renovations was more than I could handle. By way of apology, here are some unbeta-ed vignettes of the Weasleys in the wake of Fred's death. We're going to call this one Not Safe for Work, not due to sex, but because you may need a hanky.

Disclaimer: The world and characters of Harry Potter belong to JK Rowling.


First Days

Fleur set the kettle on the stovetop. How many pots of tea had she made in the last few days, she wondered. Too many. When she was not making tea, she was picking up mugs of cold half-drank tea to be cleaned so the process could begin again. The English thought tea fixed everything, but it could not touch heartache. The French knew this. This was why wine was invented.

Stepping into the cool, dark pantry, Fleur leaned against the shelves of canned apples and jams. She closed her eyes, a weary sigh passing from her body. The collective pain of the family's grief was a lodestone in her heart. It was so very dense, almost solid, and mottled—shades of brown and gray with streaks of black and red. There were moments, like this one, when Fleur needed to escape the weight of it for a few precious moments of peace or the weight of the sorrow would press her flat into the ground.

She wished she could give Bill and his family a few moments of peace, but her Veela magic was paltry. Even if she could produce enough energy to affect the moods of ten people, it would leave Fleur herself weak and bedridden. Bill did not need to worry about her, too.

The kettle whistled. Fleur took in one last, deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of flour and vanilla and cinnamon. She must return now to her many worries. Feeling slightly stronger, she returned to the kitchen to find her Bill pouring the steaming water from the kettle into the waiting pot. He looked up, the shadow of a smile tugging at his mouth when he saw Fleur.

"Hiding?"

Fleur leaned her body along his back, tucking her hand around his ribs. "Oui. Only for a moment. I zought you were sitting with your mother."

"Charlie's turn. Thought maybe I'd get Dad to walk through the orchard with me, but I can't find him. Do you know where he is?"

Fleur shook her head. The last she had seen of him, Arthur had been in the sitting room staring out of the window. It was Molly who was causing her children so much worry. Upon returning to the Burrow, she had walked past the debris left by Death Eaters and taken to her bed. In the days since, she'd hardly left her room, much less eaten. But Arthur was hurting, too.

"Leave him," Fleur said. "Your papa needs a moment to himself, and so do you. Come. We can walk together."

Bill shook his head. "I need to send another owl to the Ministry. Surely, someone has been put in charge of releasing the bodies to the families by now."

"Why not have Percy do it? He knows the Ministry."

Bill shook his head. Turning, he placed a kiss on Fleur's forehead. "Do me a favor—try to get Ginny to let you cook tonight."

"Of course," Fleur said. "And zen I will create a Philosopher's Stone so we may live forever and be rich."

Bill's lips twitched. "That's my girl."

It was with a heavy heart that Fleur watched Bill carry a mug out of the room in search of parchment. This would be his third owl to the Ministry in as many days. The bodies of the fallen had been transported there after the Battle, but bureaucracy was a slow moving creature. With the previous administration incarcerated and the new one fresh from the war's end, even processing the deaths of heroes would require time and patience. Fleur poured three mugs of tea. She supposed writing the Ministry gave her husband something to do.

She carried the mugs upstairs, knocking on a door two down from the landing before letting herself in. The curtains were drawn, casting the room in gloom, the air thick with grief and pain. Fleur expected to find Ginny keeping vigil beside the bed—it was with grudging acceptance that she agreed to take turns with Fleur—but it was Arthur who blinked in the stripe of light shining in from the hallway.

Fleur closed the door quietly and trudged through the current of despair to stand over Arthur, offering him one mug. "I brought tea."

"Cheers." He took two mugs, setting one on the bedside table with a collection of its brethren.

Fleur summoned the chair against the wall. "Where is Ginny?"

"I sent her out for some fresh air." Arthur smiled briefly before taking a sip. "It's your shift then?"

Fleur looked at the man asleep on the bed. Neither Ginny nor Fleur herself had been able to convince George to change out of his battle-encrusted clothes much less shower. More than three days growth shadowed his jaw, his eyes shadowed with worse. He also smelled, which did not help with the close atmosphere of the room. Mostly he slept, but even when he was awake, he was unnaturally quiet and still in his narrow bed.

"I can come back if you wish to be alone," Fleur offered.

Arthur shook his head. "I'm not sure I can do any good here. Probably should make myself useful…"

"I am sure he feels your presence."

"Are you?" Arthur gazed at his son a moment. "I'm not sure he can feel anything more than loss. I never imagined…."

A world with only one twin? Bill had confessed the same thing in the hours after the Battle of Hogwarts ended. The emotions were even fresher and rawer then, forcing hard truths into the open unbidden. But Fleur could sense the same sentiment in each shell-shocked member to the family. They were all immensely grateful George was alive, and simultaneously baffled that he existed without Fred.

"Oui," Fleur admitted. "You are probably correct."

She looked at her father-in-law. Besides Charlie, he was the only member of the family who had made her feel welcome and for that she was immensely grateful to him. She was also very fond of him. He was kind, and in Fleur's experience, that was a rare trait. Reaching over, she squeezed his hand.

"And you? How are you?"

Arthur's breath hitched. He looked at his son, blinking. "I'm not sure, to be perfectly honest." He wiped his nose with his free hand. "This was Molly's worst fear, you know? Losing one of the children. It kept her awake at nights…"

Drawing in one deep breath, Arthur pushed his glasses atop his forehead then settled them back onto the bridge of his nose. Fleur could feel the emotion spinning slowly inside of him, contained. She wiped away a tear.

"What do I do for her now?" he asked. "And George…I'm at a loss."

Fleur leaned her head against Arthur's shoulder. It was not hard for Fleur to imagine the pain Arthur, and Molly, must feel at losing a child. Fleur hoped to be a mother one day, and there were times when she could almost feel the love she would have for the babes she imagined. More importantly, her own mother's love marked her as special in a world that only saw her beauty. She understood, if only distantly, that severing that bond would be a hurt so deep it left the ugliest of scars. But in that moment, she felt she understood Arthur better—for she, too, wished she knew what best to do, but she did not.

"And Bill?" Arthur asked quietly. "I know he's taken on more responsibility than the ought."

"You do not need to worry for Bill," Fleur assured him. "I will take care of him."

"I know you will, but it's a father's prerogative."

Fleur smiled a tiny bit. "He will worry about everyone else, just like you, and zen I will be zere when zere is no one left to worry about. Charlie and Percy probably need your attention."

"Charlie will keep it all inside, I'm afraid. And Percy…" Arthur sighed. "He's always a complicated one, isn't he."

"He…was very busy…during the war…I know he would be glad for a word from you."

There had been no time to tell the family about the Order of Mercy, or Percy's role in it. The risks he took, many of them with garnering Arthur's approval in mind, were so great. Percy deserved his family's pride and acceptance, but Fleur sensed in him a reluctance to speak of his deeds. He was more self-sabotaging than Fleur had first realized.

"Yes, well," Arthur said.

Fleur peered up at the older man's face. His brows were drawn, hesitancy stuttering out of him. Before the Battle, Percy had stumbled into the Room of Requirement and made his apologies to the family. Fleur had seen the embrace he had shared with his parents, but maybe it was not all in the past yet? Or maybe the hesitation stemmed from something different?

Sitting up, Fleur narrowed her eyes on Arthur. "You do not blame him?"

Arthur blinked behind his glasses. "What?"

"Percy. You do not blame him for…" She motioned to George on the bed.

"No. No, of course not. What happened to—what happened was no one's fault. V-voldemort's perhaps. It's just…Percy's been gone so long…it feels like starting over, but I'm…"

"Exhausted?" Fleur suggested.

"Yes," Arthur agreed. "But it is my duty to make the effort, and so I shall."

"Maybe later," Fleur said. "Now, you should lie down. Go to Molly and rest, I will stay with George."

After another long look at George, Arthur nodded. He stood, then leaned over his son and kissed the top of his head. Fleur looked away, pretending she had not noticed the moment of affection. Picking up her chair, she returned it to its spot against the wall while Arthur exited. She pushed open the curtains of the one small window and opened it. The room was in dire need of fresh air.

"Shut the bloody window." George's voice was hard and rough, he held one hand before his face to block the stream of sunlight.

"No." Fleur place her hands on her hips. "How long have you been awake?"

"Shut. The. Window."

"Shower and we will discuss terms."

George propped himself up on his elbows enough to glare at Fleur. "Fuck you."

"Very original." Fleur sat in the chair beside the bed again, watching as George collapsed once more onto the mattress.

"I don't need a baby minder."

Fleur remained silent at his terse words. George Weasley had every right to be mad at the world, and she would not begrudge him his rage. Besides, she would rather he expel his vitriol on her than Ginny or one of his brothers.

"I already told you I wouldn't kill myself." The anger seeped out of his voice, and it was left hollow and frail. In the first minutes after Fred was killed, Fleur had extracted a promise from George: Fight to stay alive.

"There is more to being alive than simply breathing." Her words were meant to be powerful, a reminder that after he was done stewing in pain and anger and grief he must get on with the act of living, but they came out as a whisper. Now that he was no more feigning sleep, George's agony cut through Fleur. It left her lungs airless.

"I know," he said finally.

There was no promise in George's voice, just the affirmation of knowledge, and yet it was more than Fleur could hope for. His hand lay fisted at his side on the bed and Fleur covered it with her own. He did not pull away, and again Fleur counted it as a small victory. If only she could convince him to shower.