A/N:  Sorry it took so long folks, but it's done now.  Enjoy!  Also, I run an update list for this fic.  See my profile for details.

Disclaimer:  I don't own Harry Potter or his universe, I'm just playing with the toys.  Original characters, however, do belong to me, but I don't mind sharing if I'm asked.

History Moves in Circles

Chapter 5:  Weasley Holidays

Ron huffed quietly into his hands in the cool afternoon air as he retreated through the back door.  It had been raining all morning and the chill hadn't lifted from the air at all, despite it being the first of September.  He'd found a worn trench coat in one of the back closets to throw over his Muggle dress clothes and transfigured an old sweater into something more appropriate for the little boy at his heels, who happened to be none other than his nephew, ward, and godson.

James Matthew Potter, all of eight years old, happened to be the wizarding world's most favorite child, and Ron was inclined to agree with them.  Not that he was biased or anything.  If anyone had ever wondered what his father, the late great Harry Potter, had looked like all they had to do was look at Matt.  There were some differences of course; Matt had Bill's nose and his mother's toffee-colored eyes, but the rest of his face and the mop of untamable black hair were the legacy of his father.

It pained Ron to know that Matt barely remembered him.

He couldn't expect anything else, really; Matt had been barely three when his father died, and most of those three years had been spent in seclusion with his two older cousins in Egypt.  Ron had been the only father he'd ever really known, although he couldn't make himself allow his nephew to call him that.  By doing so he took the place of father in Matt's mind and he couldn't do that to Harry, not after everything his best friend had gone through to keep his son safe.

Ron would remain Uncle Ron until the end of his days, never Dad.  That was Harry's place, and after all these years he could never be The-Boy-Who-Lived.

One long hand reached over and ruffled the wild black hair.  "You ready?"

"Yes!" Matt practically bounced now that he was out of the stifling parlor.  Not that Ron could blame him.  He was sorely tempted to do some cavorting himself, despite the fact he knew he'd look a bit like a disenchanted rag doll.  Of course, his mother would never let him hear the end of it, let alone the reporters, so he settled for a broad grin.  Matt slid his hand into Ron's much larger one and they continued on their merry way, ignoring the faces plastered to the windows of the Ministry Manor.

Ron quelled his inner Weasley, which was demanding he do something that might be termed rather…rude.  "So," he proclaimed to his nephew, "now that we're away from those human vultures in there, what do you want to do?"

Matt twisted his face into pleading grimace, making his glasses slide down his nose.  "You promised!"

Ron raised a bright red eyebrow.  "I promised?"  Of course the broom in his other hand defeated the point of pulling his nephew's leg, but there were times when Matt was oblivious.

"Yes!  You promised!  'Cause there's a pitch here and everything, and we don't have to go walk through the charm-soup, which would make Grandma mad when we got it all over our clothes."

Grinning down at his nephew, Ron let him know that he didn't really have any intentions of backing down.  "So I did, and I always keep a promise."  He unerringly led the way to the Ministry Manor's Quidditch pitch.  There were some perks to being the son of the Minister of Magic, and although he missed the Burrow terribly he was always free to visit anytime he wanted.  Of course, the catch to this was that he had to put up with Fred's five kids, the youngest of whom were only now just learning to walk.  The Manor's private pitch was an unexpected boon, much better than the paddock at the burrow.

The stood next to it and peered and the slender goal hoops piercing the sky like golden knives, and Ron knew once they were airborne they'd be able to hear the wind thrumming through them.  It was the most pleasant sound he knew of, next to, of course, a crowd roaring his name.

Ron played for none other than the Chudley Canons, and was admittedly the best Keeper in the league (not that he was boasting or anything).  He'd been playing since the war was over because Quidditch was a lot less dangerous than continuing in his work for the Ministry and the Order, and with Matt to think about Ron had to make choices of that sort daily.  Up to and including his love life, or lack thereof, not that Ron minded; Matt was worth any number of the pains he went through for him.

"So," he murmured quietly, "are you ready to break out your broom?"

Matt hopped up and down on his toes in excitement.  It was a wonderful thing to be a child with that much energy.

Ron held out his bundle and was rewarded when his nephew's hazel eyes promptly rivaled saucers in size.  "You mean it," his tone was hushed and reverent.

"Sure thing kid," the gravel of emotions he really didn't want to think about settled around his throat and made the boy peer at him curiously.  "It is yours, after all."  He gestured at the broom.  "Go ahead."

Matt promptly began tugging at the fastenings of the long bundle like a kid unwrapping a Christmas present, which wasn't that far off.  The gleaming broom that was slowly appearing was an entire Christmas in itself and to ride it, well, that was the closest Ron Weasley was ever going to get to heaven.

The Firebolt was a magnificent model of broom; it had set the international standard for the years it had been in production.  They were very rare now because the model had been discontinued back when Ron had been a seventh year when the factory was destroyed.  Only a handful of them existed anymore, most were in the hands of private collectors and not nearly as in good a condition as this.  The broom Matt held in his hands was in almost mint condition, despite surviving a war and being used in ways a good broom was never intended.

Matt, however, didn't know that it had beat Death Eaters over the head on more than one occasion.  All he knew was that it was a spectacular broom, and that it had belonged to his father.  And that alone would have made it the best broom in the world, even if it had been an old twig-less Cleansweep 7, just as long as it had belonged to Harry Potter.

The little boy let it slide from his fingers and it hovered the way it was supposed to, just waiting for someone to get on it.  Ron grinned.  Might as well make it a useful bit of wood and spells.  He swung a long leg over it, and held out his hand.  "You coming up?"

Springing forward, Matt hefted his body up over the broom and Ron obligingly hauled him up the rest of the way.  After a few moments to settled, Ron planted the bottoms of his feet against the soggy ground and pushed off.  The wind whistled in their ears as the red-haired man guided it around the pitch without much thought whatsoever, pulling them into zig-zags, loops, and lazy spirals.

With his head brushed up against Ron's chin, he was able to hear Matt laugh in delight, and glanced down to see his nephew's face as they shot through the air, eyes closed in bliss as the wind pulled relentlessly at their clothes and hair.  If there was one thing that Harry's son loved to do, it was fly.  Ron couldn't wait to see what he could do on his own with a broom, but that would have to wait as his mother was one of the people watching from the windows of the Manor.  So he settled for flying himself, grateful to be out of the Manor, and away from all of the memories he was being forced to remember.

It was August 30, the day that was traditionally celebrated as Remembrance Day in honor of all of those who had been lost.  The date itself was a compromise, having wavered between the day Voldemort and Harry both disappeared for good in March five years ago and the day it had begun several years before that, but had eventually come to the thirtieth so that the Hogwarts students could continue to start the semester on September first.  Although the Weasleys didn't have any Hogwarts students at the moment, as the Minister's family they were expected to be the epitome of society.

They had come a long way from the family who had barely been able to afford school supplies every term.

Ron shook his head and steadied his nephew, keeping the boy's balance on the broom as he slid while they made a sharp turn.  Matt resettled himself and tightened his grip on Ron's arm.  "Faster!"

"What?"

The boy's head brushed against him as he craned his neck and shouted into the wind.  "Faster!"  His Uncle was only too happy to oblige.

They tore around the pitch at breakneck speeds, only too happy to ignore the somberness and affectations that practically dripped off the walls in the Manor.  Eventually the faces at the window disappeared, except one or two occasional looks from the die-hard Quidditch fans of the group, which Ron steadfastly ignored.  Eventually the damp air started to numb his fingers and toes, and it was time to go back in and face the crowd once more.

Applause splattered across their hearing as they dropped back to the earth, and Ron couldn't resist giving the two watchers standing down in the grass a neat little bow.  "And that, gentlemen, is how you train a future Quidditch player."

Neville Longbottom, who had grown from a rather short and rather chubby boy into an an average-sized man with a compact frame, was lounging against one of the trees by the pitch, next to one of Ron's twin brothers.  The distinct lack of a smiling wife on one arm and several small red-haired toddlers on the other immediately identified him as George, not Fred.  He grinned a greeting at them.  "'Ello Neville, George."

Whatever reply Neville had on his lips was drowned out by George's rather bouncy greeting.  "Ron, old chap," he exclaimed, extending a hand as if he hadn't just talked to him a few nights before.  "Bloody good to see you!  It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

Ron rolled his eyes.  Beside him, Matt giggled.

George redirected his efforts.  "And if it isn't my favorite oldest nephew, Matty-poo."

Matt made a face at his Uncle, still grinning comically.  "I'm your only oldest nephew."

"Right you are, lad," George patted his shoulders.  "It's a good thing you weren't a girl.  Or else you'd have to be my favorite fourth eldest niece, wouldn't you?"

Matt, being who he was, missed the implications of that comment.  "But isn't your favorite fourth eldest niece Tallis?"  Tallis Delacour-Weasley, a whole seven months younger than Matt, was one of Bill's brood, and already her father bemoaned the boys that clustered around her.

Stifling a smile, Ron watched at George changed abruptly changed tactics.  "Ah, you're onto me Matty."

"Matt."

"Matt then."  George cocked his head, eyeing the broom in the boy's hand.  "Ah, the Firebolt, broom of champions.  And one certain Harry Potter."  He shook his head for a moment, taking in the rather wet boy.  "C'mon.  We'd better get you inside and warmed up before Mum has a fit.  What do you say to a cup of hot cocoa in the kitchens while I see if I can't come up with a Quidditch story about your Dad."

"Really?"  Matt had been baited, hook, line, and sinker.  "I heard the one about when he swallowed the snitch last night from Uncle Ron."

"Hmmm," George pondered, relieving the boy of the broom to swing it over his shoulder and began to hustle him towards the house.  "What about the time when the rain was so bad nobody could see each other, let alone something as small as the snitch…"

"Uncle Percy told me that one last week."

"He did, did he…hmmm…" it could never be said that George wasn't good with children.  "What about the time he picked up a rogue bludger and Gilderoy Lockhart removed al the bones from his arm?"

"Gilderoy Lockhart?  The guy who teaches dance?"

"Oh yes," George's voice faded off.  "He was DADA professor once, and a marvelously bad one at that…it all started during a Gryffindor/Slytherin match…"

Ron and Neville watched as the two disappeared into the house before Ron turned to Neville questioningly.  His former classmate and fellow Gryffindor shrugged.  "I asked him to keep Matt busy."

"Matt's busy."  Ron dropped onto a bench.  "What do you want, Neville?"

The shorter man sighed and shook his head, days spent in the summer sun bleaching portions of it to dark blonde.  "I've been getting some…disturbing messages from the agents in the West."

The Quidditch player ignored the pit of something that started to roil in his stomach.  When Neville said West he meant the American continents, and Ron tended to ignore thinking about them.  Forcing memories aside, he raised his eyebrows in prompt.  "What sort of messages?"

Neville, who had been elected the hub of their wheel of agents, shrugged and glanced pointedly at the house.  "Nothing I can tell you here.  Even grass can be given ears."  He shoved his dirt-stained hands into his pockets.  "There's not much to them anyway.  Just…unease."  His face darkened.  "And I never send an agent into known danger alone.  Not at any cost."

Closing his eyes for a moment, Ron pushed the memories of what had happened the last times an agent had gone into a situation alone.  It had been his fault; he hadn't been watching properly.

If he had been, Matt might still have a father.

When Neville spoke again, it was quieter.  He knew what Ron was going through; he'd been there too.  "You have an exhibition match in the States next week, don't you?"  His tone was kept lightly conversational, but the message behind it was not.

Ron preferred not to play games that didn't involve flying balls and brooms.  "What do you want me to do?"

Neville smiled serenely.  "Just stay alive."

"Oh, thanks."

"You're welcome."  Neville started back off to the house, and Ron kept pace, which wasn't really that difficult considering he was still an entire head taller.  "So," the Herbology Professor began, "Minerva and I were having a discussion a few days ago—she thinks the Harpies have a fair chance at the Cup next year, and Angelina agrees with her, but Sirius seems to think Portree's the team to go with.  I thought I'd get a professional's opinion before galleons got involved."

Ron frowned, immediately displeased with the eccentricities of the teaching staff, and seized the change of topic as if it were important ministry news.  He'd never been too fond of the ministry anyway.  They discussed the merits of various teams all the way back to the house, although Ron made sure to point out lack of faith in the Canons.  Several times.

The manor's kitchen was a flurry of activity—the few house elves scurrying to keep up with the flow of dishes and food in and out of the kitchen.  The closest one, a short elf that was vaguely female, bounced over to them, a bright pink scarf visible beneath the ministry tea-towels they always donned on formal occasions.  Although Arthur Weasley paid his house-elves, they were still most content when the house was full like this.  "Youngest Mr. Weasley!"  She blinked her glowing yellow eyes.  "What is you and Professor Longbottom doing here?  You should be out in the main hall with the others!"

Ron opened his mouth to reply, but the house elf squeaked on.  "And on such an important day, too, Ronald Weasley."

All right.  This particular house elf had been under the influence of his mother for too long.  He snagged his dress robes from where he had left them hanging on a peg and tugged them over his head, noticing that someone had left a dripping raincoat on the peg next to them and made them damp.

"Mrs. Weasley will be mad, sirs," the house elf—Ron was fairly sure her name was Pinky—began to herd them towards the door, squeaking about the social implications of them being in the kitchen.

Neville looked amused as Pinky dried out Ron's robes with a snap and muttered about them being the wrong color for him.

"Pinky."

"Perhaps Ronald Weasley will let Pinky turn his robes maroon, sir?  And add some lace.  Lace is very stylish."

"Pinky!"

The house elf squeaked and ducked behind a chair.  "Pinky is displeasing Ronald Weasley sir?  Perhaps Ronald Weasley will be liking his robes blue again?"

Ron sighed and glanced at his robes to make sure that yes, they had fallen victim to the house elf with his mother's taste.  "Ronald Weasley would like that very much Pinky."  The little creature snapped her fingers, and the two wizards watched as Ron's robes returned to their original color.  "Thanks Pinky.  You haven't seen my nephew come through here, have you?"

Pinky's squeak was more like a shriek and she waggled her batty ears in excitement.  "You is meaning Harry Potter's son, sir?"

Across the room, another house elf dropped a giant crock filled with pudding, splashing it across its plaid plus fours and the surrounding house elves.  Pinky turned to it like a moth to a flame.  "NIPPY!  You is spilling the desserts!"

Ron and Neville watched, astounded, as the house elf turned a rather embarrassed shade of murky green.  "But Pinky is talking about Harry Potter!"

The female house elf put on a superior expression.  "What Pinky talks about is not Nippy's business."

"Did you know they could do that," Ron whispered out of the corner of his eye at Neville as the house elves cowered away from Pinky, who was now ranting about dessert being ruined and they had best get another pudding started.

Neville shrugged.

In what seemed like a Herculean effort, several of the house elves diverted themselves from serving pieces of cake onto plates to surface with another crock of pudding, which Pinky immediately took charge of, effectively forgetting about the two humans.

"Sirs," a voice popped up from beside them, and they turned to see another elf, this one with a garish tie around his neck, wiping his hands anxiously on a dish cloth.  "Twinky saw young Mr. Potter go into the dining room with Mister George Weasley a couple of minutes ago.  They took hot chocolate for the toast, but Twinky wouldn't let them turn the champagne blue."

Ron resisted the urge to grin down at the house elf and managed appropriate thanks before ducking out of the kitchen.  He didn't think the house elves would take very kindly to his laughter.  Neville shook his head, still keeping pace.  "George is still up to his tricks, eh?"

They'd reached the open doors to what Ron's mother liked to call the dance hall, although Ron had secretly dubbed it the chamber of doom.  It was used only for official Ministry business, although his brother Charlie's wedding reception had been held there a few years ago.  Now the walls had been draped with thin white tapestries and candelabras stood between them, throwing their light out upon the massive crowd gathered around the many round tables spread across the floor.  Everybody who was anybody in England's wizarding world was there, and the noise level could have raised the dead.  Straightening their shoulders against the speculating eyes, the two marched towards their table.

Nodding amiably at Taite Powers, who waved at him, Ron agreed.  "Fleur caught him giving Cleo and Raquel store products last week.  Bill said she had him at least four different colors before he escaped.  And that was before she molted."

Neville was saved from having to reply by the appearance of Matt, who was trotting around hand in hand with Sirius Black, wizarding convict turned hero and eventually teacher.  The years had been relatively kind to him; his lean face bore only a few lines while his thick black hair was just starting to gray.  He was grinning widely down at his honorary grandson, listening to him chatter with the reserve found only in individuals who had learned to enjoy life the hard way.

Matt stopped mid-sentence and pounced on Ron, who was promptly blinded by the flash of a camera and surrounded by exclamations of adoration.  Colin grinned at Ron from behind his camera, and went off to find more famous people to pester; that was, after all, what reporters did.

Prying his nephew off easily, Ron grinned at Sirius.  "Sorry."

The Transfiguration Professor shook his head.  "I don't mind at all."  He winked down at the boy.  "Besides, Matt needs some good times with his old godfather before he has to call me Professor."

"Can I call you Professor Padfoot?"  Matt piped up immediately, eyes sparkling with humor.

Sirius reached over and tousled his hair—it wasn't like he was ruining it, after all—and grinned.  "Only if you explain why to Professor McGonagall."

"She'll let me," Matt told him seriously, ignoring the simpering gazes of Eloise Thomas and Susan Bones-Fletchley, who were hovering a few feet away.  "She lets me play with her giant chess set."

Chuckling, Sirius snagged a glass of champagne from a tray that was floating lazily through the crowd.  "We'll see."

"Professor Black?"  A skinny boy a few years older than Matt with a thin face and enormous gray eyes pulled at Sirius' sleeve.  Ron recognized him, but he couldn't necessarily place a name with his face, or him to his parents.  "Professor Lupin wants to talk to you.  And so does my Mo--Mum."

Sirius nodded.  "Of course, Gavin."  He patted Matt's shoulder, and nodded to Ron and Neville.  "Gentlemen."  A smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth.  "Or should I say Gryffindors?  Because we aren't necessarily gentlemen."

"True enough," Ron admitted.  "But aren't you keeping a lady waiting?"

"Oh, of course," Sirius placed a hand over his heart.  "What sort of ladies man am I now?"  He shook his head.  "I'll talk to you after the ceremony.  Gavin; lead on."

As Sirius disappeared through the crowd, Neville led the way to another table, one filled, Ron noticed immediately, with his fellow Gryffindor year mates.  Dean Thomas grinned at him, the action twisting the thin scar on the side of his face, giving him a roguish appearance.  Beside him, Lavender Brown was snagging champagne from yet another floating tray.  She smiled at Matt and gestured to a champagne glass filled with hot cocoa beside.  "Your Uncle George left this for you."

Matt beamed at her, and crawled into the seat, chatting happily with her as the three men exchanged greetings.  Dean's opening comment, of course, was a rather teasing, "Maybe the Canons will make the cup next year."

Lavender paused in reading Matt's upcoming Quidditch career off his palm to swat at him.  "Be nice.  They would've made it if their Seeker hadn't broken her arm in three places during that last game."

"Well, the reserve could have done his job," Dean piped up.  "That's what they get paid for."

"Ooooh," Lavender fumed in good humor.  "Men."

Dean grinned and threw an arm around her shoulder.  "Of course.  What would you do without us?"

"I don't know…be happy?"

"You deserved that," Neville informed Dean.  "Where's your wife?"

Dean smiled broadly in return, flashing his very perfect teeth.  "Over with the other Hufflepuffs.  Somebody had the grand idea of sorting us by House this year.  And by year."

Ron sighed, and glanced at his tablemates, who had gone back to watching the crowd.  Something about this idea unsettled him, but he didn't want to think on it at the moment.  Today was a day to remember; not to be angry. 

Glancing around, he picked out various people in the crowd—Bill sat at a table by himself, surrounded in a sea of little girls with pale blonde hair while his wife held one of Angelina's squirming twins.  Ron grinned to himself at the look on Fleur's face, and mentally gave it six months before Bill had another daughter on the way.  A few tables away from Bill, his other brother Charlie was talking with George, a small red-haired boy clutching at the knees of his dress robes, while one of Percy's brood sat on George's hip, making faces at his cousin while his older sister darted towards Bill's girls.

Weasleys were nothing if not prolific.

Before his thoughts turned sour again, Ron's attention was caught by one of his teammates, the very talented and very beautiful Daphne Mulligan, who had her inky black hair pulled up so it just brushed the shoulders of her bottle-green robes.  "Ronnie!"  She exclaimed loudly, ignoring the men who were following her like vultures.  "I thought you said you weren't coming."

Somewhere in the background, Ron was aware of more cameras flashing.  He settled for smiling nicely and running a hand through his hair.  "You've never met my mother in a bad mood."

"Molly?"  Daphne's eyebrows crawled up nearly to her hairline.  "Of course I have.  She brought me a box of toffee when I broke my arm."

"Mulligan!"

Daphne's head whirled around and she sighed, punching Ron affectionately in the shoulder.  "Sorry mate, gotta go.  Came with coach, and he doesn't like it when I stray.  I think I ought to just put myself on a leash and be done with it."

She whirled away then in a rustle of cloth and black hair, taking her fan club with her.  Ron shook his head after her, trying to connect that particular mankiller with the way he usually saw his fellow Canon, clad in orange robes and mud.  Beside him, Dean's mouth was open.  Ron grinned.  "Don't let her get to you.  She only looks like that because Coach made her."

Dean made a noise that could have been an exclamation of disbelief.

They settled into a fairly comfortable routine of chatting about insignificant things over a dinner of roast chicken and more side dishes than Ron could keep track of, and he weathered Matt's protests stoically when limited to only one dessert although he turned a blind eye when Lavender snuck him half her pudding.  Surprisingly enough the evening passed faster than it usually did, and it was time for the speeches, which was what Ron dreaded most of all.

In years past this part of the dinner was usually punctuated by two or three speeches before the Minister, but Arthur Weasley stood first at the end of the long table the Department heads were seated at.  What little hair he had left had gone completely silver, contrasting the somber dark robes he wore, but a small smile graced his features at the applause that reverberated off the walls.  His years as Minister after Dumbledore's death had taken a toll on him—he looked a little more worn and his face had more wrinkles than most his age, but his eyes were still bright, and his voice was sure.

"Well," he began, "I suppose you all came prepared to hear several long speeches, but sometimes traditions are meant to be ignored or broken, so I thought it would be best to just subject you to one this time, and I promise I won't take too much of your time.  After all, it's all been said already in some form or another today.  So," he lifted his glass of champagne, "I'd like to propose a toast."

There was a mass of shuffling feet and squeakings of chairs being pushed back.  Ron sighed and held his glass, steadying Matt as he stood on his chair to see over the heads of all the others.

Arthur smiled again, scanning the crowd, and after the hubbub had settled down, he raised his glass higher in the air.  "A toast in remembrance for all of us who survived, but especially for those who were lost, both victims and soldiers, friends and family.  May they not be forgotten."

A quiet murmur of assent spread through the crowd, and over a hundred glasses were raised in toast.  On the other side of Matt, Ron could hear Lavender sniffling quietly.

Dean raised his glass to the center of the table.  "Might as well get it over then.  For Seamus."

With a watery smile, Lavender touched her glass to Dean's.  "And Parvati."

Matt stretched out his arm to put his glass of cocoa to the other two.  "My Mum and Dad."

Bringing his glass up to the others, Neville nodded in agreement, and it was Ron's turn.  He had to bite back a snort of disbelief as he realized who they were asking him to remember, and then a pit of anger welled in him.  They didn't know what he did.  Her face loomed in his mental eye, bruised and tearful as she tried to talk to him.  He hadn't seen her since.

After a moment or two to collect himself, he silently tapped his glass to the others before downing half its contents in a single swallow.

Now was not the time to remember Hermione.