A/N: This is the end! Many thanks to all of my reviewers, to my friend who encouraged me to get a story out here, to my mom who helped to edit some of the chapters, and to my other friend who unknowingly encouraged me to be daring enough to write this.

Chapter Sixteen

May 27, 1998

The Weasleys, Harry and Hermione went home to the Burrow. None of them had slept in far too long, so they went to bed.

Percy couldn't sleep. He had been right there. Right there. He had been standing next to him, and it hadn't made any difference. Fred was still gone, the Weasleys were still broken, and nothing could change it.

After thirty minutes of tossing and turning and blaming himself, Percy gave up on trying to sleep at all. He quietly snuck downstairs, not wanting to wake those who had the pleasure of sleep. He was going to go walk around the garden, hoping it would clear his mind and let him become tired.

"Running away again?" a voice said as soon as Percy reached the door.

Percy turned to find George sitting on the couch. Those were the first three words that Percy had heard George say since before the fighting began. Never before had Percy noticed a difference between the twins, but their ways of dealing with grief distinguished them. George had not gone into hysterics like Fred had. Instead he had shut down, gotten quiet.

"No, I'm not leaving, just going for a walk."

"You couldn't sleep either?"

Percy could have kicked himself. Of course he wouldn't be the only one unable to sleep. In fact, it was very unlikely that anyone in the house was actually sleeping.

"Look, Perce, it wasn't your fault."

It was by far the worst thing that George could have said. Percy would have preferred a blatant accusation followed by a long list of reasons why it was his fault.

"How can you say that?" Percy sat down on the couch, "He was standing next to me! He was talking to me! If I had been paying better attention, I could've . . . could've . . ."

"Could've what, Perce? Judging by what Ron said, there wasn't any warning. No one saw it coming."

"I know," Percy put his head in his hands. The worst part was that he had known the explosion was coming. He hadn't known precisely when or exactly where, but he should never have let his guard down. "I still feel so awful. I mean, I ran off for years. And now that I'm back, Fred's gone . . . forever."

George looked uncomfortable. "Perce," he began, "Have you, by any chance, looked at the clock recently?"

"No," Percy responded immediately. The clock. The horrible, bloody clock! He did not want to see the fact that one of the hands was missing. The constant reminder that Fred was no longer with them.

"You should," George pressed on, "You see, last summer, Ginny had this idea to modify it a bit. The clock wasn't being very useful anyway, what with all the hands stuck on 'Mortal Peril.' And, well, I think my far-too-close encounter with Snape scared her a lot. So, she asked Mum to recharm the clock." He let out a yawn. "I'm going to bed, Perce. Though I may not fall asleep so much as pass out. Good night." He headed up the stairs.

Percy watched him go. He wasn't sure if he wanted to take his walk outside, or go back to bed, or perhaps just sit on the couch for the rest of his life. Eventually, however, curiosity got the best of him, and he trudged into the kitchen.

The clock hung on the wall just like always. All but one of the hands were pointing to "Home." The last hand was pointing straight up. When Percy looked closer, he saw that the indication was no longer "Mortal Peril." Instead it read, "Gone, But Not Forgotten."

And Percy did not have to read the name inscribed on the hand pointing up, nor did he have to count to know that there were still nine hands on the Weasleys' clock.

And there always would be.