Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, her publishers, Warner Bros., etc. I'm just playing with the characters.

BH

There are things Harry and Hermione don't understand. It's not their fault. They're both only children, and they've been a part of his life for all of his adulthood and a good chunk of his childhood along with that – been a part of his life for so long that sometimes it's hard to remember that there ever was a BH (before Harry, before Hermione, before Hogwarts, before horcruxes and hallows and heartbreak and happiness and hell and home).

Sometimes, though, it's hard to forget. Like when he's sitting in his mum's kitchen and that smell he can never quite name – but that reminds him simultaneously of warm summer nights when they'd eat cold meat pies out in the garden, and cold winter mornings spent huddled by the fire, sipping hot chocolate and playing Exploding Snap with Fred, George, and Ginny while Percy looked on in mild disapproval – wafts across him.

Or when the whole family is gathered at the Burrow, and the children are out playing in the garden, and Louis's voice floats in through a window, sounding so much like Bill's at that age it makes him ache a little inside.

Or – on occasions that are growing mercifully rarer – when George leaves a sentence only half-said, and everyone looks about, waiting for Fred to finish the thought, and only after the silence becomes a void does George remember that it's up to him now to complete his ideas, looking empty and broken even as he does so, and his heart breaks one more time.

Harry and Hermione have been part of his life for so long, but there was another time – not necessarily a better time, just a different time – when it was just the nine of them there at the Burrow. Well, all right, he admittedly doesn't remember much of that time. He was only two when Bill went off to Hogwarts, after all. He remembers the summers, though, before Bill went off to Egypt, and Charlie went to Romania, and Fred and George went to Hogwarts, and everything changed. He remembers the summers they'd spent playing Quidditch – even Percy participating after Bill and Charlie bullied him into it – remembers those two glorious years after Percy first went off to Hogwarts, when it was just the four of them, Fred and George torturing him and spoiling Ginny in equal measure.

He didn't spend a lot of Christmases at home – his most memorable Christmases, in fact, involve Harry and Hermione – but for some reason Christmas always reminds him of those eleven years BH. Ginny balancing precariously on Bill's shoulders to place the star on top of the tree; Fred and George conjuring up real fairy lights from somewhere; Charlie trying to convince their parents to let him keep salamanders in the fireplace; Percy lecturing everyone on the proper sturdiness of tree stands "as though we can't just use magic to hold it up, honestly, Percy, do shut up!"

Harry and Hermione can't understand that bit. They weren't there when Mum reamed Bill for dropping Ginny, weren't there when the "fairy lights" turned out to be pixies that destroyed half the parlor, weren't there when the salamander Charlie smuggled in got loose and set the kitchen table on fire, weren't there to see Percy's smug look when the tree fell over, weren't there when Fred and George's first letter came from Hogwarts and made him and Ginny writhe with jealousy, weren't there when the whole family visited Bill in Egypt.

They just weren't there.

They weren't there, Fleur, Audrey, and Angelina weren't there, the children certainly weren't there. They weren't part of that original nine. They weren't part of that original dynamic that hasn't existed in decades, and yet he thinks a part of him will always ache to recapture, even though he knows he can't, and not just because Fred is dead.

Sometimes when Molly and Lucy are being far too bossy and Percy-ish, or Fred and Roxanne play one too many pranks, or Al in a moment of temporary insanity decides James has the right idea in being a prat – sometimes when Rose and Hugo band together in their frustration with their cousins – sometimes he watches the two of them together and feels an irrational stab of jealousy.

He's never been great at identifying his feelings, though he's got better over the years – due, no doubt, to Hermione's influence. He's vaguely aware that his children have something he hasn't, not anymore, vaguely aware that his jealousy always seems to get worse at large family gatherings, and not quite as vaguely aware that neither Hermione nor Harry can understand.

It's a few days before Christmas, and most of the family has already assembled at the Burrow, only Bill's family and Charlie still absent. The children arrived from Hogwarts yesterday and have already taken over the house, running up and down the stairs and bickering good-naturedly in the kitchen while the adults sit around the sitting room "like bumps on a log," says George. "We've got really boring."

Ron is sitting apart from the others, not in the mood to chat about work or the kids or anything really, not when his mind is occupied with images of Rose helping Hugo off the train and immediately telling him off afterward for upsetting her owl. He's not even sure why he can't get it out of his head.

He's startled out of his reflections by Ginny pulling a chair over and sitting beside him.

"Something on your mind?" she asks, with all the sharpness and sweetness she's always had regarding her brothers, and that itself hurts in ways he can't explain.

"The kids," he mutters, like that will tell her everything he's feeling, though of course he knows it won't.

"What about them?" asks Ginny.

"They're … playing together," he says slowly and still like this should make all the sense in the world to her.

"Yes," Ginny agrees and prompts at the same time.

"Don't you ever…" He pauses, trying to grasp for something that will actually make sense to her. "I dunno… envy them?"

Comprehension slowly breaks across Ginny's face.

"Yeah, I suppose," she says. "They don't have the worries we had at that age."

Ron makes a frustrated noise.

"Yeah, but it's not just that, is it?" he says, a bit more impatiently than he means. "I mean, it's sort of that, but –" He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

"What?" Ginny asks, frowning slightly.

"That used to be us," says Ron, and thinks that sums it up, really.

"I know," says Ginny, looking blank.

"No, you don't know!" Ron snaps, and casts around for the words to explain something to Ginny that he can't even explain to himself. "It – it was always just us," he says finally. "Before … everything. It used to be us. We used to be us. And now we're out living our own lives, and they're…" He trails off and sighs. "It's just … hard," he mutters after a moment.

Ginny gives him an odd look, and her eyes flicker across Harry (warily examining something George is showing him) and Hermione (deep in conversation with Percy) before coming to rest again on Ron's face.

"You miss it?" she asks, and her tone holds the same odd, unidentifiable something he sees in her expression.

Ron shrugs.

"Don't you?" he answers simply, and Ginny laughs, a soft breath that conveys more sorrow than crying ever could.

"Yeah," she says.

In the ensuing silence, Rose's voice floats in from the kitchen, high and clear and very annoyed.

"What have you done to him now?"

"He'll be fine," comes Fred's airy reply, and a distant part of Ron's mind wonders if maybe he should go check on them.

"Lighten up, Rose, it's just a laugh," says Roxanne, sounding just as unconcerned as her brother.

"Honestly, Rosie, what's the point of running a famous joke shop if you can't test your products on unsuspecting children?" Fred adds, and Roxanne laughs – full and light-hearted and warm.

Ron feels like crying.

"I think," says Ginny slowly, and almost, it seems, to herself, "that maybe the hardest part of growing up is the way immediate family gradually becomes extended family. It's not so much that we're not an 'us' anymore, but more that we've morphed into a different 'us', and the old 'us' has somehow become 'them'." She sighs. "I wonder if things wouldn't have been harder if Fred hadn't died. It was so easy to say everything changed when he died, but it didn't, did it? Things had been changing long before that. We just never admitted it."

Ron thinks suddenly of those horrible weeks he spent at Bill's, unable to go be a part of Christmas with Fred, George, and Ginny, knowing all along he belonged with Harry and Hermione. It's been over twenty years, but it still hurts in places he tries to keep hidden.

"Of all the childish, irresponsible, foolish–" His mother's voice cuts across his thoughts.

"Uh-oh, I think Mum discovered Fred experimenting with the engorgement gloves," says George in a quiet voice that nonetheless carries around the room. As if to confirm this, Mum's impossibly louder shout of "GEORGE!" suddenly fills the room. George pales slightly, and it's so very reminiscent of before that Ron finds he can't laugh along with everyone else.

"Fresh air," he mutters to Ginny as he flees, blindly heading into the chill of the back garden to let the tears freeze on his cheeks without anyone seeing or asking or remembering with him.

"Hey." Hermione's come to find him. He's not sure how long he's been out here, though it must be several minutes. "You all right?" she asks, when he doesn't respond to her greeting.

He turns and kisses her desperately. She just lets him, responds and doesn't question, because he's been different since after the war (which really means "after Fred died" but "after the war" sounds so much better – happy and hopeful and optimistic, and not like his family can never be put together just right again) and she's always accepted that.

"I love you," he murmurs when they break apart, and then he pulls her against him, and "I love you," he repeats, "I love you, I love you," over and over into her hair, like that will somehow make it better, somehow make it okay.

They sleep on a cot magicked into a corner of the sitting room, Harry and Ginny, George and Angelina, and Percy and Audrey occupying the other corners, and it's just like when he, Ginny, Fred, and George used to sit up waiting for Santa Claus, only of course it's nothing like it at all, and maybe it's more accurate to say Hermione sleeps on the cot and Ron just lies there all night and tries not to think.

The children are up not long after first light, and Angelina wonders why they don't put the kids in the sitting room and let the adults have the bedrooms, just like she does every year, even though it was George's idea to do the sleeping arrangements this way, long before the kids were even born, and Ron knows perfectly well why (and if they're honest, so do Ginny and Percy, which is exactly why Percy's never made a single pompously disparaging comment about it, no matter how early the kids wake them up).

"Dad, Dad, let's do something!" says Hugo as soon as breakfast is finished, eyes bright and excited and alive.

"Don't you want to spend time with your cousins?" asks Ron, not harshly, just wearily, because … he doesn't really know why he's trying to brush Hugo off.

"Daaaaad!" Hugo elongates the word to several syllables, rolling his eyes. "I see them every day, and I haven't seen you for months. Go on, one round of chess. Please," he adds, eyes becoming pleading when Ron still hesitates.

"Go on then," Ron agrees, and Hugo scampers off for the chess set.

"Still playing at the old favourite," Harry observes from across the table.

"Yeah, well," Ron shrugs, "finally got an opponent who's actually a challenge."

Harry throws back his head and laughs. He's been different since after the war too – better – happier in a way that makes Ron ache inside, because it's not like Harry wasn't ever happy before, it's just that this is a different happy – carefree and weightless – because Harry's found what Ron lost – or rather, what Ron exchanged – or… he doesn't even know anymore.

He ends up playing three games of chess with Hugo, and only wins once, and he can't help a surge of pride in Hugo at that, because he's never been one to just let his children win.

"You've been odd," George tells him after lunch, when the children have gone out into the garden to build snow-forts (a construction project he expects will devolve into a snowball fight within five minutes).

"Have I?" Ron grunts.

"Yeah, where's your Christmas spirit?" George demands. "You'd think someone had –" he stops abruptly, mentally flails before – "someone had stolen it," he finishes lamely.

Ron looks at George and doesn't answer and doesn't say he knows how George was originally going to finish that sentence.

Immediate family gradually becomes extended family, Ginny had said. He wishes she hadn't articulated his feelings so perfectly. It doesn't get easier as he gets older, no matter what anyone says.

"Come for a walk with me," says Hermione a few minutes later, and it's not a demand but it's not a request either.

They bundle up and go outside. As expected, the children have abandoned their half-built snow-forts in favour of chucking the building material at one another.

"Look out!" James shouts, and next moment a chunk of snow hits Ron hard in the side.

"Oh no you don't!" he cries, laughing, and next moment all is snowy confusion. Rose and Hugo beckon him to the defensive wall they've managed to construct, and then Harry, Ginny, and George come out and join them. ("Mum, Mum, be on my team!" James calls, jumping up to get her attention and promptly being avalanched by Fred and Roxanne for his pains.) Hermione just stands on the doorstep, laughing at them all, until she gets hit by a stray snowball (though Ron is pretty sure George threw it at her on purpose), and then she joins in the fray.

"Feel better?" Hermione asks him several minutes later as they lie in the snow trying to catch their breath. He looks at her face, which is full of concern for him, and wonders how he ever got to be so lucky.

And then he wonders why he's been acting like a new immediate family is such a terrible thing.

"You've trained me to think too much," he says, and she frowns for a moment, but then he smiles and she starts to laugh.

"Sorry," she says with a mischievous smirk, and he laughs too.

"It's all right," he says, and then grows more serious. "Thank you."

Her smile softens, and she tips her head toward him and gives him a light kiss.

"I love you," she says, and then she stands up, dusts herself off, and heads over to Hugo to admonish him for not dressing warmly enough. He gets up a few moments later and starts to head back to the house, but Harry accosts him on the way.

"James and Fred want a Quidditch match, old folks against young," Harry tells him. "You in?"

Over Harry's shoulder, he can see Hermione, Rose, and Hugo in serious conference – it appears Rose has joined in to chide Hugo about dressing properly, and the latter looks thoroughly bored by the lecture.

"Yeah," he tells Harry, grinning. "Yeah, that sounds great."

"Great!" Harry claps him on the shoulder and heads off toward the practice paddock. Ron looks back at Hermione, Rose, and Hugo –– his family –– and Hermione catches his glance and waves, eyes dancing. He waves back before turning and following Harry.

It's not the same – it never can be – but – just for this moment – he feels that maybe it's enough.