Ron

Like a bludger to the chest.

He couldn't sleep.

Unusual.

His mind just kept whirring. Ticking over, curdling with…

He couldn't even say what exactly, just that it hurt.

"Ron?" She slipped into the kitchen, sleep mussed and warm, hair a familiar fuzzy mess. He hadn't meant to wake her. But she always knew. If he wasn't in bed beside her, she knew.

He tried to say he was ok, but nothing came out. He shrugged and waved the copy of Beedle the Bard he'd pinched from the bookshelf.

"Bedtime story?" She tipped her head to the side, amused and puzzled.

He nodded and blinked back unexpected tears.

She came over to where he sat and wrapped her arms around him, pressing the side of his face against her chest and stroking his hair.

He held her close and tight, and swallowed. The feeling of being so desperately grateful that she was there and they had this life together flooded over the muddled up amalgam of painful conflicted emotion.

"You don't have to tell me,"

She said this a lot now. What it really meant was, if you want to talk about it, you can tell me when you're ready. It was one of Ginny's tricks.

They'd both learnt a lot from her.

He wanted to find the words. Wanted to have the words, if not now, then at least before New Year's. Didn't want Draco Malfoy spoiling their annual week off.

"I hate this," he managed to say, throat scratchy.

"Getting teary? You're the youngest boy in a large family. Notions of masculinity-"

He chuckled.

"No, not that. I hate feeling everything at once."

He wiped his eyes and shifted, so that she could sit on his lap, head tucked into the curve of his jaw, so that he couldn't see her eyes.

It was easier to say complicated things when he couldn't see those sympathetic brown eyes. It was like they amplified everything. Magnified whatever he was feeling and made it real somehow, like it existed outside his chest.

"Harry read them Babbity Rabbity," He said, voice cracking.

"Ru and Scorpius?"

He nodded.

She waited.

"Do you remember what he said?"

"Harry?"

"No, Draco. About… about uh… power and… poverty and…" he shrugged, unsure that he could explain it.

"Oh, you mean with Proudfoot. Participating in society means participating in a hierarchy, and you might as well make sure you're at the top? Very Slytherin approach to life. I remember. Why?"

He shook his head again.

"I didn't… I wasn't thinking about that when I… I just saw some opportunities with Wheezies, you know, and it's… it's nice that dad could retire, and we can, you know, fund research and… I just, I was thinking about… I wasn't thinking about that."

She was very still. Digesting.

"Having money isn't inherently bad."

"I know." He swallowed. It was so hard to explain. "It's not… it's not that. It's more… Scorpius…" he let out a huff of breath. That name.

Was it an act of defiance? Naming his son after the imaginary friend his father had murdered? Could you murder an imaginary friend?

She was holding him tighter now. Rubbing a hand soothingly across his chest. He was probably fidgeting.

"Did you see his socks?"

"Scorpius?"

"Yes. And Draco."

"I was a bit preoccupied with how awkward the situation was to notice Malfoy's feet," she said lightly, "But I did think it was strange that such a neat child would wear such mismatched socks. Frankly, I'm surprised he was ever given such a lurid variety."

He ran a hand through his hair to cover the blast of painful confusion.

"I just… I saw that, and… I had this uneasy feeling… and once I thought that, it came crashing in on me, that I'd done kind of the same thing- well, not exactly the same, it's more like, seeing that it changed things, for… for him made me see that it… it changed things for me too."

She was very still for a moment, then lifted her head to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Are you trying to tell me that we have Malfoy's rotten childhood to thank for your genius approach to business?"

He chuckled.

"Embarrassingly, I think I'm trying to say Malfoy might be responsible for the altruism." He pulled a face, "As a kid, I just wanted to be successful. Pathetic, I know, but rich and famous. Not some anonymous freckled nobody. I didn't think about the implications… but now…"

"You're rich and famous, and feeling a moral obligation to be responsible about it?"

He let out a long breath.

"Yeah…"

It felt a bit better, having said it, having acknowledged that in some strange way, seeing into Draco Malfoy's mind was a pivot point in his life. They sat for a while, but the longer they sat the clearer it became.

He sniffed and blinked back tears again.

"Lots of feelings tonight?" Gentle, and a little teasing. Not a teaspoon any more, love.

He gave a small growl of annoyance at himself and pressed a kiss into her hair.

"Dunno why I'm finding it so fucking sad,"

"What?"

He shook his head.

"I bet you anything Draco took him to the quidditch when he was little and put him up on his shoulders."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Just… if everything he knows about being a parent he learnt from a random bunch of my memories… it's just tragic."

"I don't know that I agree with that," she said after a moment, "Scorpius seems… fine. And I doubt that it all comes from that one experience. Much in the same way that that experience isn't really the reason you have a social conscience. Not saying it didn't have an impact, but don't forget you quite literally rescued an abused child at the tender age of twelve."

"Believe it or not, I wasn't really thinking about activism at the time,"

"Of course not. The point is that the instinct is there. To care about people. Anyway, back to Malfoy… I still don't think it's a tragedy. If anything, it's a triumph. Somehow, he worked out how not to be his father. Still not my favourite person, but I think we can give him credit for that."

He nodded, still unable to let it go.

"What is it?"

"Uh… I dunno… what if… what if I'd shown him something else- or- or more? Or-"

"Well, look, if we're playing that game, the whole thing is my fault for forcing you to meet him in the teashop,"

"What? But that's-"

"Ridiculous, yes. You're not responsible for Draco Malfoy, any more than I am."

She was looking at him now. That gaze, boring into the side of his face. He rubbed his tired eyes.

"But it's not that, is it," she said suddenly, her voice a little sharp, like she'd seen something, like she had the answer.

"It's not what?"

"It's not really about Malfoy, or Scorpius. It's about me. Again." She sounded a little frustrated, a little amused.

"What?"

The minute he heard his own voice, higher than normal, with the wobble in the middle of the word, he knew she was right.

Seeing Astoria… seeing the way Draco looked at her… like his whole world would fall apart if she died… he hadn't realised, hadn't made the connection, between the wrenching ache in his chest and the utter horror of Hermione lying lifeless in his arms…

"I'm not planning on dying any time soon, you twit. And Astoria has Luna in her corner, so she stands a decent chance. Quit over-identifying with Draco Malfoy!"

He sniffed, and told himself she was absolutely right, and then to his astonishment he burst into tears.

She was holding him very tightly and stroking his hair, and now that he actually was crying, he couldn't stop. It was a horrible, wet, gulpy experience.

He was managing to sort of squash it a bit, reign it in, when she said the worst possible thing. Quietly.

"And now it's about Fred,"

It felt awful.

Like the tears had taken possession of him, like he was under some kind of powerful crying curse.

He ached all over.

His head hurt.

His eyeballs felt hot, and like they might explode.

It seemed to go on for ages. He was in the middle of trying to work out how to breath normally, when Hermione unwrapped one of her arms and gestured to something he couldn't see because of his stupid eyes.

There must be someone there.

He panicked and tried frantically to stop crying, wiping his face roughly and blinking.

All five of them.

Ah crap.

"Let them see you cry," she murmured in his ear as she stood up, "It's important,"

Bollocking bollocks.

Too late now anyway.

Can't stop…

"Dad? Are you ok?"

"What's wrong?"

They were inching towards him, eyes wide, worried and curious, every one of them with the most ludicrous bed hair.

"He's a bit sad tonight," said Hermione, "Could use some extra hugs."

There was a pause, and he tried again to shut off the tears, blinking and wiping his eyes and holding his breath- and then Fabian rushed forward and threw his arms around him, startling a chuckle out of him.

Such a serious kid.

The girls joined in, crowding round him and hugging whatever bit of him they could reach, so he was laced round with arms and swamped with masses of violently orange hair- Merlin, when had they all grown so big!

Gid just stood in the kitchen, looking lanky and awkward.

"Gid, could you pop upstairs and grab your dad's old photo album from our bedroom? I'll put the kettle on,"

Gid nodded, pale faced, and raced off, all knees and elbows.

Ron was forcibly reminded of himself at the same age.

Tears were so… upsetting.

"Come on, Dad, let's go sit on the sofa-"

"Yeah, Maj's hair is in my face-"

"Would you like a biscuit? Biscuits always make me feel better after a cry…" Fabian again, speaking earnestly, and a little like he considered himself the world leading expert on crying.

But actually, a biscuit would be nice.

He nodded and let himself be affectionately dragged over to the sofa by his outrageous offspring. They sort of petted and fussed over him, in a way that reminded him a little of Hermione, and a little of his mum, and a little bit of Ginny as well… he made a mental note to have a chat to Harry about the way they handled tears, because maybe…

But now Moll and Fabian were stroking his hair and telling him in a firm sort of way that it was perfectly ok to be sad, and that they would all have a cup of tea, and Maj had procured a blanket from somewhere and was tucking him in to the sofa, while Min had found The Tales of Beedle the Bard on the table and was now advancing towards him with a determined look that suggested he was going to have a bedtime story read to him whether he wanted one or not…

And he had to laugh, because he could see himself and Harry in this; the official party line it's ok to have feelings and the clear list of Comforting Things.

Utterly ridiculous.

Hermione floated a bunch of mugs and the enormous chocolatière over to the table by the sofa, and Gideon darted in with the old photo album, looking even more anxious than before.

"Is this the right one, Mum?"

"Thanks Gid-"

"Mum, it's nearly midnight! Are we all staying up?"

"I think Dad should have extra marshmallows, don't you?"

"Is that popcorn? Are we having a midnight snack?"

"I know, let's watch a movie, that always cheers me up-"

"No," She caught his eyes, asking a question he wasn't sure he understood, "Your Dad is going to tell us some stories,"

They all turned to look at him. Very intense eyes, the lot of them. Including Gid. He still looked troubled and awkward.

"What kind of stories?" Maj demanded.

"Stories about your Uncle Fred," Hermione said gently.

Ron blinked back the tears that started in his eyes again.

"My Uncle Fred?!" Blurted Gideon suddenly, "I mean.." he blushed and squirmed where he stood, "The one I'm named after…"

It hit him that this was important to Gideon somehow. And when he looked round at their hopeful faces, he realised it wasn't just Gideon who wanted to know.

It wasn't like they didn't know about Fred.

Of course they knew about Fred. Everyone had talked to them about Fred.

Except…

He hadn't.

Not ever.

Min passed him a box of tissues.

Fabian importantly poured everyone hot chocolate and stuffed the top of Ron's mug with marshmallows.

"I… don't know where to start…"

Hermione passed him the photo album and tossed some cushions on the floor. She made Gid sit down next to her and put a comforting arm around him.

"Start at the beginning," she prompted.

"Huh? Oh…"

He opened the photo album.

On the first page, a family photo. He was a baby in this one, all his older brothers crowded round… his dad must've taken it…

"Is that you, Dad?"

"Of course it's him, can't you count? Look, Uncle Bill, Uncle Charlie, Uncle Percy… wait… which one's which?"

The twins, pudgy three year olds, were sat on the ground at his mum's feet, happily unravelling her knitting into a squiggly pile of maroon wool.

"I'm not sure," said Ron, peering at them, "Even George can't tell which one was him in this photo. They really were identical,"

"Like Louis and Bert," suggested Moll.

"Yep. Like you three,"

The girls cast him unimpressed looks.

"We don't look the same," said Min.

"Totally different hair," added Maj.

"He means your faces," explained Fabian, rolling his eyes.

"That's why we have different hair," retorted Moll, as though explaining to a moron, "It's annoying when people get muddled up,"

"Fred and George liked getting muddled up,"

Maj yawned and leaned her head against his shoulder. Listening, but sleepy.

It wasn't right somehow.

He felt like… like pictures of the twins as toddlers didn't really convey what he wanted to get across to them.

Ron flicked through the album, looking for a picture of the twins at about the right age…

"Did I ever tell you about the time me, Fred and George drove all the way to Little Whinging in Grandad's flying car?"

Of course he hadn't.

But their eyes went round and they all leaned in, and Hermione was smiling at him over her mug of hot chocolate.

He sniffed and wiped the tears off his cheek.

"It was the summer after our first year at Hogwarts, and your Uncle Harry hadn't replied to any of our letters…"