A/N: N'kay, I know I said that the next fic in the 'Dumbledore's Man' series was gonna be out soon, but this one was begging to be written. They all usually do, that's probably why I always flip between fics so often… anyway!

This one came when I was wondering what it might've been like for the older Weasley boys during the first war, and Harry seemed the natural person to talk about it with, partly because of his youth and partly because of his experience. I suppose it could've been Sirius, but there are quite enough Sirius-angst fics out there without me adding to them.

So anyway. Please review, even if it's to tell me something's wrong!

Harry awoke.

His heart was pounding painfully hard in his chest and his breath came fast. His skin was clammy with sweat and he shuddered at the clinginess of the sheets, struggling with them for a moment before managing to throw them off with jerky, half-panicked movements. Once they'd been shoved aside he lay back into his thin pillow and stared motionlessly up into the darkness that was the high ceiling, letting his anxiety ease. He took comfort in the noise of Ron's snores across the room, glad that at least his redheaded friend wasn't disturbed, but that didn't help chase away the last vestiges of a very familiar – and even more unwelcome – nightmare.

Sighing shakily, Harry rubbed his green eyes with the heels of his palms, his arms trembling slightly with fading adrenaline. For long moments he just lay there, wide awake and very aware of the silence of the room but very unwilling to stare into its gloomy depths. It wouldn't help banish the memories.

Deciding that a glass of water might stave off the dryness in his mouth, the black-haired wizard fumbled for his round, wire-rim glasses and crept stealthily for the door, the floorboards gritty beneath his bare feet.

The landing outside was chilly and dark, lit only by a pair of dim, serpent-shaped gas lamps at the height and the base of the stairs. The snout-nosed heads of the house elves, arranged in a line on the wall on age-darkened plaques, cast eerie shadows over the greyed and threadbare carpet as he passed, heading for the gaping doorway leading to the basement kitchen.

He was already halfway down the narrow steps, wishing he'd thought to put on slippers or even a dressing gown against the cold of the stone, when he realized something was wrong.

There was light coming from the kitchen.

Instantly his heart leapt to his throat and his shaking hand went instinctively for the wand that wasn't there, even as he tried to reassure himself that it was only a member of the Order, because there was no way that Voldemort could have found them and if he had he wouldn't just let them sleep.

But it was difficult, with visions of shadowed graves and flashes of green light dancing in his head. He could see one of the crumbled tombstones clearly, even though the name on it was completely and totally wrong, because he hadn't attended Cedric's funeral and he wouldn't have been buried in the same graveyard he was killed in any case.

So the Boy-Who-Lived took a few deep breaths to calm himself and continued on his way.

He reached the bottom of the steps to find himself looking into the spacious kitchen, its corners and cupboards shrouded in darkness, lit only by the smouldering flames of an unenthusiastic fire in the tarnished grate opposite the stairs.

And sitting at the long wooden table dividing the centre of the room, legs stretched out beneath it and fingering a half-full glass of shining gold liquid, was Bill.

Harry couldn't help but stare; every time he'd seen the eldest Weasley brother he always exuded an air of relaxed and patient control. Now, though, his long red hair was coming out of a scruffy braid in sheets to curtain his face, his plain grey nightshirt was rumpled, his dressing gown hung unevenly off his shoulders – but most of all he was hunched in his chair, seeming languid, almost… defeated.

As though sensing the young Gryffindor's eyes on him, Bill looked up and smiled tiredly, shaking back his thick hair. "C'mere, Harry," he said softly, beckoning with the hand that had previously been slung across his lap. Harry approached somewhat warily, feet slapping on the cold floor; of all the people he expected to find languishing down here, it wasn't Bill Weasley.

The curse breaker sat forward as his dark-haired companion sank into one of the patchy chairs opposite him, pouring a drink from the crystal decanter set on the marked and stained table. "Thanks," Harry muttered, accepted the glass, assuming it was butterbeer, and took a swig. A second later the glass thumped back onto the table as he choked, spilling half its contents. "What was that!" he gasped, coughing, and Bill grinned a little humourlessly. Now that the younger wizard took a closer look, he could see that the liquid was much clearer than butterbeer and had a red tinge to it.

"Firewhiskey," he answered, raising his glass to Harry before downing it without trouble.

"I'm not old enough," Harry objected automatically over the chink of glass as his best friend's brother leaned forward to pour himself another shot. "I'm only fifteen."

Bill just chuckled as he topped up Harry's goblet, much more, the dark-haired boy suspected, than would usually be served at any self-respecting pub. "You're old enough," the redhead said with matter-of-fact finality, sitting back again, but Harry just wrapped his arms around himself, almost getting caught in the dropping folds of Dudley's old shirt, and stared at the table. "Nightmare?" Bill asked, cocking his head and raising an eyebrow enquiringly, and Harry nodded silently.

"Tell me."

Harry didn't know exactly what it was in Bill voice that made him answer; it could've been the slight, brotherly command that he was too numb to resist, or the strains of compassion, or even the hint of bleak understanding that the Gryffindor fancied he could hear. Whatever it was, Harry suddenly found himself blurting the dream to the eldest Weasley brother; about Cedric, and Wormtail, and Voldemort…

Bill didn't say a word as he spoke and when he finished Harry felt emptier than he had been in a long while, since the end of the Triwizard Tournament, but it was the good kind, like he'd purged himself of something.

"Did you actually see him die?"

Bill's tone was flat, almost uncaring, and Harry felt a surge of anger as he looked up to glare at him, hardly believing that the calm Weasley would be so callous, his mouth opening to retort – but then Bill's expression made him stop. The curse breaker's intent blue eyes glittered with something, some knowledge, and reminded him of a shallow form of Sirius' haunted gaze. Finally he just nodded in answer and Bill gave him a mirthless smile. "I suppose you should expect a surprise when you go back to Hogwarts this year, then."

Harry blinked in confusion. "A surprise?" he echoed dumbly.

"Haven't you ever wondered what pulls the school carriages?"

Harry had no reply to that. He had, once or twice – who didn't? – but he couldn't see what that had to do with anything, so he remained silent as Bill finished off the drink and poured another.

"My first memory," Bill's soft voice suddenly cut through the air like a knife, making Harry jump. "Was of my dad telling me that if strange men in masks came through the door, I was to take Charlie and Percy and run." He paused to take a gulp of firewhiskey, ignoring Harry as the fifteen-year-old stared, unsure what the older wizard was getting at. "I was only about five at the time, I think."

Harry's stomach turned over; he couldn't imagine being that young and being responsible for two younger brothers against murdering Death Eaters. Despite that, he found himself fascinated – he never heard what it was like for kids during Voldemort's first reign of terror, never thought to ask.

"I got my first wand when I was seven," Bill continued, speaking to a captivated Harry but not looking at him, one arm once again folded across his lap. "Just in case I had to help defend the house." He smiled bitterly, and Harry was struck cold by the idea of an untrained, seven-year-old wizard forced to duel merciless Death Eaters. "It wouldn't have done much good, obviously, but I learned a few spells that might've helped if anything had happened."

He stopped, then, and for a moment Harry was afraid he wouldn't continue. "Charlie got his first wand when he was seven too, for the same reason," the redhead said distantly. "That's the one Ron got when he started Hogwarts; they took Charlie back to Ollivander's when he turned eleven."

The quiet he lapsed into next was interminable, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire, before Harry finally ventured, "Did you ever have to use it?"

"Charlie didn't," Bill said quietly, and those two simple words contained a welter of anger, of fear, of sorrow so deep that Harry could only liken it to the expression on Remus' or Sirius' face when they spoke of the bond they'd had and lost.

The black-haired boy swallowed, and quickly spoke his question before his nerve could fail him. "What happened?"

Bill turned his blue-eyed gaze on Harry, but it was distant, and something akin to pain flickered it its depths. "There's an alley," he said in a far-off voice that chilled Harry to the core. Bill always seemed so down-to-earth, even despite his interest in ancient and what some considered to be airy-fairy artefacts. "Just off Diagon. Mostly housing, quite a few flats. We hadn't been out very often, considering the times, and I got separated from Mum in Diagon somewhere nearby…"

Bill was lost. The alley he wandered down was narrower than the broad cobblestone path of Diagon, but not nearly as crowded and gloomy as Knockturn seemed from the entrance. The street was deserted but for a few kneazles scampering here and there, watching him with bright, indifferent eyes. He found himself wishing he were back with his mum and Charlie; he was supposed to be responsible for his brother, what if something happened while he was gone?

Deciding that perhaps someone could tell him the way, Bill began ducking under eaves and rapping at darkly curtained windows and locked doors. He was just beginning to despair of anyone answering when – quite unexpectedly – one door swung open with a creak beneath his sore knuckles. He hesitated on the peeling doorstep, fiddling with the shaggy hair touching his shoulders as his sense of integrity warred with his desire to return to Diagon Alley. The latter won out and he stepped cautiously into the narrow entry hall, keen eyes darting around apprehensively.

"Hullo?" he asked tentatively into the eerie stillness, and peered around the lintel into the next room.

What met his eyes was a scene of chaos; furniture was broken and strewn about the room, the blue carpet ripped up, the curtains torn down, eerily silent and still. For a moment he stood, shocked, and distantly thinking that not even his three year-old twin brothers could cause such a mess.

The room had a distinct chill in the air, not one made for the lack of warmth, but one that had seen something terrible. With a shiver Bill backed away and turned towards the stairs to his right, his heart jumping to his throat. Surely the owners of the house wouldn't stand for their room being in such a condition? Surely they weren't actually there, perhaps they were out and the house had been burgled…

That thought didn't wash; wizarding thieves were much more subtle than muggle ones – unless they were trying to make a point.

For long moments the boy lingered on the precipice of indecision. The air was still and ominous, but the stairs, plain wooden slats leading upwards, beckoned. His instincts shouted at him to run, but his curiosity demanded that he climb. He had always hated unsolved mysteries…

Finally he stirred and moved to ascend the stairway, his footsteps quiet on the blue-carpeted wood. His fingers brushed the creamy-coloured wall, blue eyes fixed upon the open door at the head. The silence was eerie, forcing him to take deep breaths against the fear that jellied his limbs.

It didn't last for long.

He had hardly reached two thirds of the way up when the sound of panicked, agonised screams burst his eardrums, making his skin prickle violently. With a choking gasp he flinched back, almost tumbling back down the stairs before catching himself on the wall. His heart pounded fiercely in his chest, seeming loud in the once-again quiet, the sound of the shrieks cut off as suddenly as they'd begun.

For a moment he stayed there and trembled, pressed against the wall, red hair matted against his forehead with sweat. When he finally got hold of his shaking legs, instead of racing downstairs and fleeing the house as a part of him begged him to, he took one tremulous step, and then another, and resumed climbing the stairs.

Something was going on, something was wrong, and Bill was nothing if not determined to solve a riddle.

This time as he passed the step he was braced for the assault on his ears, but it didn't come. Instead what he heard was muffled sobbing and low, malicious voices. Silencing Charm, he realized with mental calmness, remembering the spell his mother had showed him and Charlie, just in case he and his brothers needed to hide and one of the younger ones wouldn't be quiet.

He gained the steps and crept down the hallway, silent as he could be as he followed the sound of the voices. All the Weasley boys had learned how to be quiet, because Percy – and now Ron – had been a fussy baby, prone to awake at a noise just the slightest bit too loud.

Reaching the door from which the voices sounded, Bill peered around the frame, leaning on it to avoid standing in plain sight. He didn't want the owners of the house to see him and wonder how he got in…

What he saw made his heart stop in fear, his eyes widening in his pale face. The inside of the room was a forest of sweeping black cloaks, shrouding a company of men – or perhaps women, it was impossible to tell with all the folds – from head to toe, but what made Bill paralysed with dread was the fact that every single one of them had their faces covered by smooth, white masks. The fact that they were in a circle facing inward and didn't notice him did nothing to alleviate his fright; though his mind screamed at him to run he couldn't move even to sit down.

Between the figures he could barely see a trio of people on the floor in the centre. One was a woman with matted brown curls, sobbing into a similar head of hair, only blonde, belonging to a girl no older than Charlie who was sagging on her mother's lap, skin pale and glazed, blue eyes wide. Behind them was a trembling blonde man on his knees, looking up with terror at someone Bill couldn't see, hidden in the sea of masks.

And then there came the flashes of green light, the uttered words that sent chills down Bill's spine and across his arms. "Avada Kedavra."

Bill flinched from the glow, heard a thump and the sound of dragging fabric, saw distant, illuminated figures slumping, lifeless, to the floor.

They're dead. The realization flared through Bill's mind and he felt sick, his breath coming in choked gasps and hands shaking so much they slipped off the doorframe.

He must've made some loud noise, because one of the figures turn and saw him, and even though he knew there had to be eyes somewhere behind the mask the eyeholes seemed depthless and filled with cruelty.

And suddenly he could move again, so with a strangled sound he fled, his shoes beating hard on the carpet as he ran from the shout that came from behind him. He flung himself down the steps, almost tripping over his own feet, his chest already tight with exertion and his long-sleeved shirt clinging damply to his back as the clamour of pursuit cut off behind him. He hit the wall opposite in his haste, jarring his elbows, but then made for the open door, panic driving rational thought from his mind.

There was a shout and a whisper somewhere behind and the door abruptly slammed shut, cutting off the sight of wondrous freedom. Bill hardly even slowed down; his slim fingers were reaching for the knob, barely registering the hiss of another spell before something hit him in the back, something that made his nerves come alight with pain and his legs crumble out from underneath him, searing through his flesh and bone, sending his breath and his thoughts scattering to the ether until all he wanted was for it to stop.

And then it did; it did, but he could hardly catch his breath, limp on the floor, his cheek burning with the graze of the carpet. He was hardly aware of the tears tracking down his cheeks, the sobs that wracked his shoulders, but the pain had seemed to banish the mind-numbing panic that had gripped him previously, and though his limbs ached terribly he levered himself up. Thick red hair draping over his face in sweaty curtains, Bill twisted onto his elbows, looking up with fright at the faceless men looming over him.

"Well, well," someone spoke: the tone was lazy, the voice high, and Bill shuddered. The two men nearest split, looking back towards the stairs and backing away respectively as an unhooded, unmasked wizard approached. He was tall, taller even than Bill's dad, but he hardly looked human; his scarlet eyes were narrow, calculating, his nose flat and slitted, and his face, framed with damp locks of limp and thinning black hair, was bone-pale and skull-like.

Without meaning to, a yelp of fear escaped the boy, his heart beating a tattoo on his ribs as he scrambled backwards until his back met the door, and he knew that this man, so shrouded in shadow and darkness, who seemed to suck all the heat from the air and left his skin clammy, was the man of whom his parents were so afraid. You-Know-Who, they called him; saying his real name would bring him near, they'd said, and wildly Bill wondered if he'd accidentally said the name out loud at some point to warrant this encounter.

"A Weasley, if I'm not mistaken," the man said in his soft voice, sounding almost amused, and Bill flinched. Those red eyes bored into him and Bill tore his gaze away, letting it fall to the scuffed and carpeted floor before the dark wizard. "A family of blood traitors. How fortunate we are that you gifted us with your presence."

Bill said nothing; he didn't know what to say in any case, and he wasn't the kind of person to start flinging insults or shouting in false bravado, not like Charlie. Nothing was good; saying nothing gave the masked men no reason to hurt him.

Besides, he was concentrating on breathing; he was certain his heart would stop at any moment from the fear.

"Look at me, boy," The tone was hushed, almost gentle, wheedling, but Bill wasn't fooled and shook his head violently, his red hair flinging around his neck. "Look at me…" Unwillingly, Bill looked. You-Know-Who's eyes almost seemed to glow in their sockets, promises of pain and suffering evident in their depths. "I knew your uncles, you know," the wizard told him almost conversationally, his long fingers absently twirling a mottled brown-and-cream wand before him.

Bill shook his head almost automatically – no way had this man, this monster, known his uncles Gideon and Fabian, they wouldn't have had anything to do with him – but You-Know-Who saw his denial. "Oh, yes," he assured the boy quietly. "They were in the same position as you are now, you see."

They weren't, Bill found himself thinking, even though he didn't answer. He remembered reading about it in the paper, remembered seeing his mum sobbing into his father's chest. They hadn't been scared. They were heroes…

"They were far from heroes, little Bill…" You-Know-Who contradicted his thoughts aloud and a wave of dizziness made Bill's vision swirl white.

He wrenched his gaze from You-Know-Who's, gasping and shaken. He can read minds!

"They died begging me for death, little Bill," You-Know-Who's voice sounded with finality from somewhere high above, but Bill couldn't see. Yet even though his eyes were filled with tears, his hands roamed the carpet, searching for something, anything, that would help him, because he refused to believe that his uncles would've just given up like that, no matter who they faced, and if they didn't then neither was Bill… "They died pleading with me…"

Bill's probing fingers rested on the slim, polished wood of his wand, stuck haphazardly in the back pocket of his jeans where he'd completely forgotten about it. It was almost useless, as he didn't know many spells, but the pieces of a desperate plan began slotting themselves together in his mind. He tensed, keeping his pale face averted and praying that You-Know-Who couldn't read his thoughts unless he was looking into his eyes. He brought up his feet and lifted one hand in readiness, because he knew that sooner or later You-Know-Who would kill him just like he killed those people upstairs.

If Voldemort had said anything more, Bill hadn't heard it; the wizard was just raising his wand when Bill suddenly hurled his own towards him, flinging it wildly end over end. Startled, the Dark Lord instinctively uttered a curse that blew it apart, shards of wood and ash filling the corridor.

Bill wasn't watching; before the wand had left his hand he was moving, his other streaking up to the knob, his legs pumping and sending him hurtling out the narrow gap of the door almost before it was opened, his back smashing violently against the lintel as he passed.

And then he was out, down the steps, tearing over the cobblestones and back the way he'd come.

He didn't even register the flash of green light rising above the house, nor the popping sound of aurors apparating on the street behind him.

Harry stared at Bill, shocked and dismayed, as the curse breaker downed his latest glass of the amber-coloured firewhiskey. He'd never thought anyone except himself or Dumbledore had met Voldemort face-to-face – except Snape, but he didn't count – and though he'd heard many stories of people lost in the war he had never met anyone who had suffered so personally at his hands.

Mostly because he hadn't known there was anyone.

And somehow, he knew that no one else knew it either.

"Have you… told anyone this?" Harry asked hesitantly, following his thoughts through.

Bill gave him a wan smile. "Charlie."

Harry felt a pang. "Not even your parents!" he demanded, almost angry; if he had parents this would've been one of the things he'd've told them, no question…

But Bill just tilted his head. "Can you imagine telling something like that to my mum?" he suggested softly. Harry paused for a second, chewing his lip, but in the end had to shake his head.

"But, your dad…"

This time is was Bill's turn to shake his head, his hair coming loose even further. "How do you explain something like that, something so unexpected, that shocked you so much… how do you come away and realize the extent of what happened, and relive it again of your own free will?"

Harry suddenly remember the end of his fourth year, when Dumbledore had taken him up to his office and made him relieve every moment right then and there, while he was still too numb to properly comprehend and balk at the action. He felt a wave of gratitude towards the headmaster.

"The only reason Charlie knows," Bill continued, "Is because we shared a room and I woke him up with my nightmares." He grinned again, this time truly, although it was melancholy and a rather poor affair. "He used to put his stuffed dragons around my bed and told me they'd protect me. He said that when he grew up he'd train dragons to protect everyone so we wouldn't have to worry about You-Know-Who again…" He laughed, his eyes fond, and despite the grimness of the topic Harry found himself smiling at the image.

He felt comforted; here was someone who had lost their innocence at far too young an age just as he did, who was still plagued by it, who recognised that despite his age, Harry was no longer a child. Who could, perhaps, help him forget, just for a little while.

This time, when Bill pushed the glass across the grainy table towards him, Harry picked it up and cast a questioning glance towards the redhead. Bill lifted his own in a toast and Harry followed suit, examining the glow of the firelight through the golden liquid.

"To experience gained," Bill said solemnly.

"To experience gained," Harry echoed, and drank.

- finis