It wasn't until Oliver Wood found her that she thought she might not die.

She'd been an excellent dueller during her school days; she'd bested almost all of her schoolmates with only a handful of losses under her belt, even from her first year on. But this had been different. This had not been supervised. This had been a vicious, no-holds-barred, furious barrage of attack and defense and sly spells that she'd never before faced. At one point, in the corner of her vision had been Pius Thicknesse and she was only able to notice even that with the most passing of attention as the Death Eater in front of her, some unrecognizable man, flung offensive spells at her with a rapidity that made her stomach clench with fear; it was all she could do to block, hardly able to stand her own ground and being forced to retreat, reevaluate, wrack her brain for different solutions on how to stop it. Her mind was already not working fully, a panic she'd never before felt in her life settling over her, making her numb. Making her sloppy.

He loomed over her, and she blocked, flinging a spell his way, blocking again, pretending he was a particularly vicious curse that needed breaking. "Confring-"

Before she could finish the spell that might've saved her, it had hit her with all of its lethal, mind-massacring, body-battering fury, sending her into unstoppable throes that felt like eternity. She had never been in so much pain before, and simultaneously she could not remember a time she had not been in such frenzied agony. The acid in her veins ate through her muscles, disintegrating her skin, permeating every joyful memory she'd ever had. Tainting her. The Cruciatus Curse. She understood, now, just why it was so unforgivable. Without a mark to be seen, she'd just been tortured.

It had lasted perhaps ten seconds, absconding quickly with the final remnants of her strength. There was no way she'd have managed to continue to fight. She should have died, then and there, hit with another Unforgivable and forgotten, left lifeless in the hall of the school she'd loved so much.

That did not happen.

Her pathetic life was saved, because the very moment she was flung back from the force of the spell, there was an explosion. The very walls around her caved, hitting her and covering her with dust, choking her as she twitched and writhed, the abuse of the slap of cement and stone against her as she convulsed against the prison of the wall atop her second only to the pain of the memory of the Cruciatus. Even recalling that it had happened seemed to send new throbs of fresh hurt through her, like knives being forced through each individual pore of her skin.

It was difficult to breathe. Harder to cough. Her body could not even summon the strength to do that. She didn't know how long she'd been there. Her only clock was the screaming that echoed in the distance. There was an immense weight on her side, and it felt heavy and warm. Either blood, or she'd pissed herself in terror and agony, wetting her robes. Then there was only silence, with only the faintest noises registering over the roar of blood in her ears. Sweat dripped down her neck, the hot air from her labored breathing having little escape.

Perhaps seconds passed, or hours. She wasn't sure. Silence waved in and out, crashing and retreating. She hadn't been hit with a killing curse, but perhaps she would die anyway. This would simply be more slowly. She wasn't sure which was preferable.

Then he lifted her, Wood did, and she only vaguely recognized him. It had been nearly a decade since she'd seen him last. He'd been… he had been on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. With Charlie. Had he been a Chaser? She couldn't recall. Mad about the sport, he was, notorious for his obsession. With that association, recognition flashed into place. Oliver Wood, three years younger than her. Scottish? He did not speak.

She could hardly keep her eyes open, she was so exhausted from the adrenaline rush and subsequent agony. The wreckage around her… it didn't look like Hogwarts. Walls were missing. Paintings were gone, blown to bits. It was easier to just keep her eyes closed, rather than fight the exhaustion just to be exposed to more trauma.

She summoned all of her energy, trying to catch his attention. His face, so serious, so dirty, made her feel guilty. He was younger than she was, she should be helping him, not vice-versa. But she'd never suffered an unforgivable curse before, despite her work with the Order of the Phoenix. The sectumsempra that had hit her earlier had been bloody painful, yes, but she'd managed to dodge the brunt of it, leaving only her legs bleeding. She'd been able to keep fighting, even if only in retreat.

Until it happened. She shivered at the recent memory of it, an unstoppable trembling that captured Wood's attention. It was as though even the memory of it could trigger the spell over again. She wondered if it was a temporary side effect or if that was part of what made the curse so insidiously clever. She could feel her skin peeling off her body as her muscles imploded. And she'd lost her wand. That hurt almost as much as the curse. She couldn't ask him to go back either. Her throat felt dry. She was dehydrated, and possibly bleeding out, fading in and out of consciousness. She wouldn't so much mind dying, especially now that Wood had found her. There were no Death Eaters in sight, and the woozier she felt, the farther away the pain was. It wasn't so bad. The lightheadedness. She almost felt normal, if her vision didn't keep fading.

Wood glanced down at her, his face solemn and hard, covered with dust, lining the furrows of his frown. "You're alive." His tone was rather surprised, in an odd contrast the harsh expression he wore. His brogue was thick, near incomprehensible. "Are you well enough to stand? I've got you if not."

"Yeah," she croaked, sliding down his side, her knees not even locking and letting her pool on the floor like a boneless mass.

She was alive.

He hoisted her back up, easily supporting her. Standing next to him, she recalled just how bloody large he was. He loosened his grip and she staggered a little, but thick arms kept her in place while she gathered her balance and strength, giving her enough room to right herself but still grasping her protectively.

She wanted to apologize for the blood she'd spread on his robes, but it wasn't the time. It didn't matter anymore. There was dried blood on his shirt. He bore the scent of death, and he bore it with a stoic strength that belied his usual manic demeanor.

Pulling her up against his burly frame, letting her put most of her weight on him, he did not comment on her injuries as they walked. Or rather, as he walked and she tried to not be a dead weight. Their progress was slow. It would've been faster for him to carry her, but he looked exhausted. She couldn't ask that of him.

There were bodies everywhere. Dead bodies. Children's bodies. Some he knew, likely. Some she even knew, had known in another life. Dead now.

She gaped at the state of it all.

"You can't stand," he said to her quietly, letting her lean against the wall of the Great Hall.

Scanning the room for someone she'd recognize, she found no one, hardly able to see farther than Oliver's face.

"How can I help?" she asked him, before he turned to find new bodies, like the others who were slowly filing in, carrying an endless number of the dead.

His expression was wan, but kind. "You can't."

With that, he turned and left, and she was alone.

Where was Tonks? She'd come here after Tonks' Patronus had come to get her. She had no idea if anyone else were here, though she had seen a few familiar faces filing through the Hog's Head. None close enough to ask. And this was hardly the time to catch up.

Head aching, she slid down the wall, wishing for her wand, to be able to assist in some meaningful way. But despite her determination, she was only mortal, and slipped into unnoticed unconsciousness, still dripping blood through the lacerations in her legs while the battle waned and midnight passed.

When she woke up again, her head foggy and her neck aching, she thought perhaps Oliver Wood had returned. There was a set of thick legs in front of her, large feet. But Oliver had been wearing robes, she was certain.

No, it was Charlie Weasley in front of her.

She blinked hazily; she hadn't seen him in years. It was enough to make her wonder if she really had died. Yet there was no mistaking the myriad of freckles spread across his face as he leaned into her, dropping to his knees, his mouth and eyes moving and flashing with the same intensity he'd always had. Vital, he was. She'd never met anyone else with so many of the tiny constellations that spread across his face, not even his siblings. She'd never met someone so riveted by the outdoors, either, and his time away had only spread them until there was hardly any white-pink skin left in between the ever-changing, unique marks.

He was saying something, and she tried to focus on it, but it was… so difficult… exhausting. There were suddenly so many noises, so much talking… had they won? She saw no sign of Death Eaters still. There was only Charlie, good ol' Charlie, smiling hugely at her, even as she knew he'd been crying, his face shining and streaked and puffy. Charlie Weasley… crying? Perhaps of joy? Even a Polyjuice potion couldn't imitate the sheer Charlieness of his expression; a grin teamed with the most watchful, gentle eyes she'd ever seen, both uplifting and thoughtful. What had happened? It had to be a victory. Loss would have looked different on him.

Then Madam Pomfrey appeared next to Charlie, and the witch tapped her wand against her bloody legs, instantly healing them. Gasping, in sudden, painful, itchy relief, she sighed, nearly surging up to stand, the relief was so shocking and euphoric. Charlie gently pushed a goblet at her. Pumpkin juice. Draining the cup, sudden everything came into better focus. Her throat felt better. Her mind felt sharper. Her ears worked again. Madam Pomfrey smiled at her, bringing to mind the moment they shared her second year, when she'd mastered Episkey in an effort to help the overwhelmed witch. If only she could repeat that moment, assist again.

"Are you alright?" Charlie asked, running a hand through his hair as Madam Pomfrey touched her hand and moved on to others, briskly waving her wand about. She'd always been so efficient, not an ounce of energy wasted. An invaluable skill, learned from years of Hogwarts disasters, to be sure.

Taking the embrace he offered her, she remained silent, unwilling to think about the Death Eater who'd cursed her, unwilling to tell him, wondering what she could say to ease his mind but not lie. Great. No, not sarcasm. Better now? Or maybe the truth; I'm in mounds of pain, aren't you?

"I can always see you roll through your options in your head, Henrietta," his voice in her ear was low and serious, a warning. "Just tell me how you feel right now. I can get Madam Pomfrey back if you have any other injuries."

"I'm fine," she denied, looking at him fondly, glad for her suddenly clarity of vision. He was right. "How are you?"

"Didn't even get injured," he shook his head, and she saw a flash of something, something she wanted to push. His eyes averted, his expression changed, his brows furrowed. His tanned face contorted - his was a face used to smiling and laughter. It created new lines around his mouth, and he tilted his head away, angling his face away. His profile was different; he'd always been thick, a round, chubby boy with broad shoulders and snub nose. This was a man's face, the skin worn and leathered and lean, his nose more prominent and strong, his jaw sharp.

"I didn't ask if you were injured," she pointed out, her own eyebrows furrowing a little. That expression made her ache to see it.

"We won," he said shortly, his face suddenly stony in a manner she'd never seen. "Can you stand? Bill's here too, and Fleur, and of course my parents. They'd love to see you. Alive and safe." He placed a hand against her forehead and temple absentmindedly, in a gesture his mother might've. His skin was rough against hers.

She nodded absently, her mind preoccupied. "Where's Tonks?"

That flash again, of him trying to turn his face away so she couldn't see the grimace that twisted his mouth or the hurt in his eyes. She knew. She did not want to hear the answer.

"Who else?" she asked quietly. Death was inevitable during wars. Just… she'd never imagined Tonks dying. Fearless, impish Tonks? Dora? The troublesome, mischievous girl who was constantly sent to detention for impersonating teachers? The Auror who relied just as much on skill and talent as she did sheer ballsiness?

She'd just had a baby. Oh, and Remus. Remus Lupin. He'd loved her, Tonks. Clever and kind and self-sacrificing until the end. It hurt to think of the baby. Teddy. Little Teddy. She hadn't even met him yet. War was not kind to children.

"Remus," he said quietly, shocking her. "... and… Fred."

Grasping him even more tightly, she looked at him. "Merlin's teeth, Charlie," she choked, shocked. Tonks and Fred. The two liveliest people who'd ever lived.

"Yeah," he answered, lifting her a little. Her legs, healed from the sectumsempra, still felt itchy and out of place, as if they weren't really hers. "Seeing you get torn up is a nice change," he commented, teasing a little, trying to lighten the mood, even as his heart wasn't in it, his voice detached. "You were always so untouchable in school. While everyone else ended up in the hospital wing, you were always getting out of scuffles scot-bloody-free."

"Sheer luck and cautiousness, neither of which I had tonight. Felt like more of a hindrance than a help," she admitted, legs wobbling, not as strong as she felt they should be.

Just as Wood had, Charlie pulled her against his enormous frame, letting her wonder for the millionth time how someone so huge had played as Seeker, despite his skill on a broom. He took most of her weight upon himself, and for that she was grateful. She'd felt guilty for asking Wood to assist her. Charlie was different.

Slowly, they made their way through the excitedly chattering crowds, to a group of redheads, undeniably recognizable.

"Oh goodness, Henrietta, dear, is that you?" Molly Weasley peered up at her with tired, teary eyes, maternal even in grief and exhaustion and adrenaline, unhinging herself from her husband's grip. "How good to see you're well, dear, it's been far too long since I've seen you. You must come to dinner, soon, you haven't sat with us since our trip to Egypt."

"Hello, Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Weasley," Henrietta did not smile. She could not. But she allowed the woman to take her hand and pat it gently, if distractedly, feeling the absent-minded warmth in the gesture.

Bill looked up at her from his grip on Fleur, a genuine, if small smile playing at his lips. He joined her and Charlie, ruffling her hair affectionately. "How did you get here? I couldn't get a hold of you. I was worried something had happened."

"Tonks sent me a Patronus," she answered soberly. Next to him, Fleur dabbed at her eyes, hardly able to summon a greeting and Bill rejoined her, his stance protective and loving. They all seemed torn between celebration and sorrow. How had it happened? Had she slept through it all? She felt sick with unknowing, with exhaustion. She could not summon the joy she felt she should have, only grief. It was not a climax. It was the beginning of another battle, a legal, financial, social battle in which the repercussions of the past few years would have lasting effects on the economy, Britain's magical standing in the international community, and the interactions Muggle-borns would have in the world from this point forward. She was too young to remember the war before, but this would have to be handled better. Prejudices would have to be dealt with. Culture would have to shift.

It seemed impossible.

She and Charlie remained standing, and she was grateful for the weight on her legs. The dried blood made her calves feel tight. Her thighs trembled with her weight. She swept her gaze along the criss-crossing line of redheads curiously. Percy was there, wild-eyed, looking absolutely shell-shocked by the evening, untouched by the joy surrounding them, the aura of victory. She'd hardly spent time with him, three years younger than them and quiet. Next to him was one of the twins.

Or rather, there was George, chattering with a group around his age, as lively as ever despite the stiffness of his posture and the steely, determined look in his eye. The sight of him, valiantly appearing joyful, as was his wont, was enough to send her into throes of hysterics. Seeing him seemed to sum up all the pain of what was happening. Celebrate now. Grieving would come later, and it would come hard and fast and all-consuming. Keep the pain at bay. For now.

Henrietta tightened her grip on Charlie's bicep as the lump in her throat grew, and he tightened back, watching his brother just as intently. George Weasley, the short little kid she'd known, a tiny little prankster constantly in trouble. So like Tonks. And now he was left without his partner in crime. The thought made her ache a little.

"Kingsley and McGonagall are going to arrange a large memorial service," Charlie whispered to her, his voice even. She looked up at him, sidelong. He was watching his dad comfort his mum, their joy and relief at an obvious contrast to their pain and grief.

"How many of the deaths are students or just out?" she asked flatly, her voice hoarse and brittle. Seventeen year olds who had little practical skill in the real world. It hurt. She imagined herself at seventeen, fighting a battle she knew she'd fail. At seventeen, she probably would have died here. At twenty she might've. Here and now, at twenty-four, she'd only survived from sheer luck.

Victory had come at a cost, as it always did. At least it was over now.

"You need medical attention," Charlie noted, hoisting her up from where she'd begun to sag against him, refusing to answer her question. "Madam Pomfrey didn't give you a full checkup, there could be something wrong. It's absolute madness in here, she's hardly able to do anything besides shove potions and minor spells at people, and she has little enough help."

"She's busy," she denied, pushing away from him. Her wobbly legs hardly allowed it, and she probably would've fallen if he hadn't stepped closer, ignoring her light shove. Her entire body felt like pressure was building up inside, sapping her strength, drawing the breath from her lungs and swelling her up. At first she'd thought it was just the rise of her emotions. Now, she realized belatedly that the pain was not ebbing, that something was wrong.

"Can you conjure a bowl?" she asked him, and he quickly complied, a large purple ceramic piece, shifting so that he held it before her with his free arm, supporting her with his other. He held her with practised ease, strong from wrestling dragons and manual labor, but inherently gentle. He could ease fear from anyone or anything with a stroke of wide fingers.

She vomited blood, hard enough to cramp her stomach, and everything went dark.

x

She woke up at the Burrow. She hadn't been here in years. Last summer, Bill had gotten married, but for the past few years there'd been an exponentially increasing influx of cursed Muggleborns and Muggles, which required particular care and time at work. She'd missed the entire ceremony, and her only opportunity to see him in months.

They'd been close in school, and remained thus after he graduated and moved to Egypt. She'd followed him there, delighted by their adventures together. It had been inspired, after all, by the Cursed Vaults from their Hogwarts days.

However, after Bill had left Egypt, she'd found herself increasingly unhappy. Her partners had all been either too serious, to the point of a strained working relationship, or too carefree, which never ended well. Her last partner had her left arm cursed clean off, effectively ending her career. That had left a rather bad taste in Henrietta's mouth. With few friends and nothing to tie her down anywhere, she'd left, returning to England just a few months after Bill, procuring a cursebreaker assignation at St. Mungo's, much to the annoyance of the goblins. A job that had only become increasingly hectic as the political climate became more and more strained, leaving her hardly any spare hours to sleep at her own flat, let alone visit friends or relax. She often worked fourteen hour days, extra shifts, and skipping meals and breaks, finding little time even for light correspondence that didn't specifically pertain to work. She'd learned not to buy more than the basic necessities for her flat, and found herself charming her clothing clean and showering in the hospital more and more often. Her hair had grown longer than she usually preferred, and she'd grown wider from the cheap, premade food she'd often eaten, as well as a lack of physical activity, though she'd become adept at dealing with all sorts of tricky spells and stubborn curses that manifested in odd - and lethal - manners.

She was surprised Charlie had even recognized her, as filthy and changed as she was from the last time he'd seen her.

They'd graduated the same year, but had almost immediately lost contact once summer had ended in '91. He'd moved to Romania, and was notoriously dreadful at sending owls, to his mother's despair. Those he did manage send were short, distracted notes to both she and Bill simultaneously, since he couldn't be bothered to write a real letter, let alone two. Of course, she was pleased he was happy, but it put her out a bit that he was suddenly so distant. After Bill had left school, he'd been her confidante, rapidly becoming an integral part of their circle of friends. She'd spent half her summer here after graduation, Floo-calling Bill every other moment for suggestions on what to pack for Egypt, prancing around outside with little Ginny, and desperately trying to avoid the twin's unending pranks on Percy and Ron; somehow, she'd become the unwitting trio of their victims, and only a degree from Hogwarts and several Outstanding NEWTs were able to keep her from avoiding the same traps Ron and Percy were constantly blundering into, to Ginny and the twin's gleeful amusement.

And she'd been with Charlie - who'd insisted on impressing upon her his prowess on a broom, though she'd never missed a Gryffindor Quidditch match, on showing her all of Ottery St. Catchpole, of introducing her to their odd neighbors, Ginny's little playmate, a young witch called Luna, making her help with his chores. They'd been inseparable.

Blinking at her surroundings, she sat up in the bed. She'd never spent the night, never had cause to, especially once she'd been able to Apparate. But there was no mistaking it; the sun was setting over Mrs. Weasley's garden, and there was the comforting wornness to the bed sheets. The smell of home cooking and sweat and wool permeated the air, and the slight instability of the floor only cemented her instinct, and when she tried to rip the quilt from over her, she only groaned as a deep, dull pain coursed through her. Looking down, she tried to move, to unbutton the clothes that most certainly didn't belong to her, to see what was causing the pain. This wasn't the same agony as Skele-Gro, but a heaviness that spread across her torso, like being stuck in a bath filled with mud.

Thirsty, hot, and sore, she attempted to sit slowly up, before spotting a glass of water at the table beside the bed. Reaching for it eagerly, Henrietta drank deeply, before realizing she could hardly swallow, the front of her body felt so sore. She spat the water back into the cup, discreetly.

Just when she was beginning to despair that she'd die or boredom or dehydration, Charlie walked in the room, freshly showered.

"You're awake," he said, surprised, beginning to rummage through his clothing. "Thought you'd be out for another day at least."

"I feel awful," she admitted easily. "What happened?"

"Internal bleeding. Easily fixed with another charm from Madam Pomfrey, but the recovery is a day or two. It wasn't safe to leave you at the hospital wing with that damage to the school, and," he looked sheepish. "Neither Bill or I knew where your flat was, and we didn't want to bother Andromeda."

"This is fine, as long as your mum's okay with it," she assured him. "I don't mean to be a bother, I know it's busy here."

He shrugged at that, his eyes losing their usual intensity and fading to sadness. "Bill and Fleur have their own place, and I'm going to bunk with George. Percy has his own flat as well, though they'll probably be around a fair bit, and Hermione and Ginny'll share a room, same as Ron and Harry. This is all…" he frowned, searching for the right word. "Temporary," he settled feebly. "Nobody knows what their next move is, but it's better to do it as a family, right?"

"C'mere," she said, and would've motioned if she didn't feel so heavy.

He obeyed, sitting at the edge of the bed - his childhood bed - and looked at her expectantly.

"I haven't seen you in years," she chided. "Can't I just look at you for a moment?"

"You didn't come to Bill's wedding," he reminded her. "I looked right dashing, then. Though Mum really went at me with the scissors - you would've had a lark. My hair was shorter than yours ever was."

Touching her own stringy locks, she tried to summon the image of Charlie without hair. "You weren't at Tonks'," she countered, before remembering.

It felt like a physical blow.

She'd been planning to quip that her hair was longer than his now, something that had never happened, and how excellent she'd looked at the wedding - hair and all. The words died in her throat. It didn't matter. She didn't want to talk about how difficult it had been to get any traditional supplies, how little Tonks cared, the wooden flowers Rowan had crafted, and how utterly radiant she'd looked, happier than Henrietta had ever seen her, how Remus had seemed to transcend his clothes and his scars and his thoughtfulness, becoming just as giddy as Tonks.

His hand found hers. It was a comforting grip, large and dry and calloused. They'd never held hands like this before, but it was pleasant. She noticed his arm was covered in scars. Magical burns mostly, from the looks of it, with a few other marks and scabs thrown in. Pensively, his thumb stroked her hand, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of his rough, warm skin against hers. He felt like sunlight. She'd had precious little exposure to that in the past two years. Or perhaps he felt like dragonfire, and she - thankfully - had no exposure to that.

"Don't go yet," she said, a question and a command and a plea, all in one.

"Are you in any pain?" he asked, concerned.

"Feels like I got hit by a wall," she joked, enjoying the sensation of Charlie's weight pulling on the blanket down tightly around her and his hand on hers. It had been too long since she'd seen him. "How's everyone holding up here?"

"As well as can be expected," he said morosely, a non-answer in the form of a cliche.

"Charlie."

He blew out a sigh, and his grip tightened a little. "Mum's a mess… bloody furious at Ginny for leaving the Room of Requirement and endangering herself before her seventeenth birthday - she was nearly killed by Bellatrix Lestrange, and of course she's utterly broken up about Fred, and Percy's whole situation is up in the air. Though thankfully she and Fleur are finally on the same team, and that took long enough."

Henrietta felt dazed by the influx of information. "Wait, what's wrong with Percy?" Hadn't he been the most eager to please his parents, the obedient, scholarly one? She remembered the drama with Fleur - Bill had mentioned it in several owls he'd sent her - and it was easy enough to guess at even without that information. If there was one thing about Mrs. Weasley that was predictable, it was her protective streak.

"Blimey," he said, and she opened her eyes a little, peering up at his worried expression. "What isn't? A whole family quarrel. Percy disowned the family for a while. He didn't come back until last night. Rather shocking turn of events."

"Did he reconcile…" she trailed off, thinking again of two bright-eyed Gryffindor troublemakers flinging boiled carrots at Percy during dinner, while he tried to remain dignified, as if he didn't feel the little savages gleefully pelting their dinner at him with the aim of practiced duellists despite McGonagall's icy glare levelled their way.

"Yeah," his whisper was deep and low. "He and Fred were okay, as far as I can tell. It's hard to get anything out of anyone. Dad's a bit nutty too - the whole Ministry is a mess. He and Perce've been popping in and out of the Floo like mad."

"Don't I know it," she whispered, closing her eyes wholly, thinking of her job. She was probably fired for missing shifts at St. Mungo's, and be sent to some other place Gringotts had in mind. They'd been displeased she'd even wanted to return home to begin with. St. Mungo's, while a worthy endeavor, did not bring home treasure. Surprisingly, the thought of being fired did not bother her. The thought of leaving again did, and she puzzled over that.

"I just… I feel guilty. For not being here. These past months especially."

Sitting up and nearly flopping down from the pain and her muscles' inability to hold her up for longer than three seconds, she looked at him seriously. "Charlie, don't feel that way. You were there when it counted most. And we all had parts to play. Just because you weren't an active Order member doesn't mean you didn't play an important role. Besides, what's the point of quitting your life's work and moving home just to stay in hiding? Didn't you do recruiting in Romania? That had to have been immensely helpful."

"Yeah. Were you in the Order?" he asked her curiously.

This time, it was her whose voice was low. "Sort of. Technically, yes, but with work… it was hard. I didn't attend many meetings or go on missions. I didn't have time, and suddenly taking off would've been suspicious, particularly with a good number of Ministry officials wandering in and out of the hospital at all hours. Anyway, it was good for me to be there so much. Gave me an excuse to do my work. Mostly, I spent a lot of time smuggling Muggle-borns to safety."

"Did you?" he seemed surprised. "What is it you do now? I know you left Egypt right after Bill."

"I'm a curse-breaker. At St. Mungo's," she explained. "After Bill left, it wasn't the same. I took the position there to be closer to... home, I s'pose. There's a lot of high-level, classified information passing in and out of there anyway, and after '95 there was suddenly a huge influx of cursed Muggle-borns," she shivered a little, remembering some of the nastier cases. "Even Muggles were victims of… I s'pose they're hate crimes. Dealing with Muggles, though, is supremely delicate, because they have to be selectively Obliviated too."

She had no idea what her future held at this point. She'd wanted adventure in Egypt with her best friend; then, she'd wanted to help people the way Madam Pomfrey had always told her she was good at. She'd been lucky enough to be able to play to her precise skill set for so long. But it was exhausting work, physically and emotionally taxing in a way she wasn't able to continue. Especially now that the war was over. If she wasn't fired, half the cursebreaker positions at the hospital would be obsolete in a few months anyway.

His next question was more hesitant. "What about Ben Copper?"

She was silent so long that Charlie began to wonder if she'd fallen asleep. But she continued, eyes still shut, but tighter now. "He worked at St. Mungo's too, actually - research for magical maladies. He was always incredible at Charms. Potions too, when Snape wasn't terrorizing him. He…" she closed her eyes. "He was one of the first to... go missing when You-Know - when he came to power. We were just talking, one minute, after I'd had to deal with a particularly nasty Muggle case, and the next, loads of Ministry officials came in… they were so awful, Charlie, they just started flinging spells and curses, not even asking questions, saying he was dangerous and a traitor and he'd stolen his wand from a pureblood."

She went cold remembering. The look of shock and confusion on his face. They'd both been paralyzed by fear. "He was half-dead before they pulled him out of the room. He didn't even have time to put up a Shield Charm. They just attacked him like an animal, as soon as they verified his identity. I don't know what happened to him. Everything was just as it always was. Then it... just wasn't. I haven't seen him since. I haven't been able to find a trace of him. Rowan's been trying to find him. He's probably..." she broke off, the pain in her chest compounded by the emotions that choked her.

"Blimey," Charlie breathed, his expression slack and haunted. "I'd heard Snatchers and officials alike were bringing Muggle-borns to court to be tried, but I'd heard it was all a farce. I didn't know they were so… brutal. Not even a pretense for him, eh?"

"It was messy," she admitted, feeling tears sting her eyes. She blinked them back. "It was... the day of Bill's wedding, actually. Everything was normal, if a bit tense, and then everything just erupted into chaos. He wasn't the only one they took that day."

"And Rowan? And Penny Haywood?"

"Rowan is fine," she assured him confidently. "She's a pureblood, and her family's name is good and the tree business is lucrative. She kept her head down. I didn't want her involved in anything too dangerous, but of course, she had all sorts of ways of figuring stuff out; you remember how much she enjoyed studying and researching. Especially after Ben went missing. She was an informant for the Order, though she wasn't a member." Rowan had always been delicate, less talented with a wand than a quill. "Penny's okay. She went into hiding after the Ministry fell - she's a half-blood, her father's a Muggle-born and she wanted to keep him safe. Tulip is okay as well - her parents work in the Ministry, though Tulip was nearly arrested for rebel activities once, I don't know how she managed to get out of it without being tortured or detained."

"Andre?" he prompted.

"Andre's been in the Americas for the past three years. He's doing research on Magical Creatures indigenous to the Americas. I think he's in Canada right now. It's difficult to get into contact with him and I've sort of fallen off owling this past year with how busy everything has been, but he wanted to come home. It took Rowan convincing him to stay, that it was too dangerous here. He was useful as well; they correspond quite often and he had contacts in MACUSA. He gets to fly everywhere; I'm not sure if he ever got properly licensed to Apparate."

Charlie nodded, looking around his and Bill's childhood room. He hadn't spoken to most of these people in ages, though he'd once been quite close with several of them.

"Don't feel guilty, Charlie," Henrietta soothed him. "We've all been busy. This is all information I've gotten from Rowan, and I haven't spoken to her in nearly two months. Work has been nonstop, and they'd stopped cursing Muggle-borns and just began murdering them. These past few weeks have been all about keeping ourselves alive."

"What about Lee?"

"Barnaby… I think you can guess that he was surrounded Death Eaters," she whispered, hating the shuttered look on Charlie's face. "I don't think he was willing. You know him. He wasn't the most pleasant person, but he was no killer. I don't know if he joined. He wasn't at the Battle." He could be dead.

"Pressure isn't an excuse," Charlie said harshly, a sharp and painful change from the young boy who'd insisted cheerfully that Merula Snyde couldn't possibly be all bad.

Henrietta's eyes opened and she fixed him with a severe frown. "We all had our parts to play, Charlie," she answered stubbornly. "Our families and even our houses define for us our futures, same as our choices do. We don't always get to exercise free will, because our circumstances dictate the choices we're allowed to make, the options we get. He was a Slytherin; even if he wasn't really a Death Eater, he's going to be dismissed as one by those who were brave enough to fight against them. And if he was, even if he didn't carry out a single action against the Order or Muggleborns, he's still going to live with that guilt for the rest of his life. He's going to be painted as a monster no matter what, simply for the house he was in during his school years. He could have been in France this entire time and he'd still be tainted, so don't you dare pass judgment on him yet." Then she quieted from her righteous anger. "People do terrible things out of fear."

"It's not about houses, it's about-" Charlie began, withdrawing his hand.

"Charlie, I'm not going to make this a more complex issue for you," she said wearily. "And you can't simplify it for me. We're going to have to agree to disagree. I don't make allowances for the Death Eaters, but I do think that this is a complex psychological issue and the Ministry conveniently ignored that during the last war. A hate crime is a hate crime, but many of these people - our enemies - were children when You-Know- He first came to power, and they were expected to follow their parents' footsteps. There was no alternative once he was back. It's just as much the Ministry's fault for making these monsters as it is the fault of You-Know… As it is his fault."

Standing up, Charlie said shortly: "I'll bring in a tray for you. Mum's made dinner, spelled it to keep warm for you."

With that, he exited, standing outside the room for a moment, listening to the odd quiet in the house. As long as he could remember, the Burrow had always been noisy: cleaning spells; Fred and George's various explosions and laughter; Ron and Ginny arguing; the inevitable bragging Percy always did; Dad's monologues about his newfound Muggle inventions; Mum, railing at Ron's attitude or Fred and George's pranks, or Bill's clothing choices.

Now there was noise, but it was different. Ron and Harry and Ginny and Hermione had went off on their own, to play Quidditch or walk or snog, whatever it was they were doing, just as long as it got them out of the house, to breathe the air of safety and victory and finality. Mum, in a furious haze, scrubbing every surface in between bouts of tears. George had locked himself in his room, and it was oddly silent in a way it had never been before. Only Bill had dared enter. Fleur was helping Mum cook, and Percy and Dad had popped off to the Ministry together.

It was tense, and it was difficult, but it was almost the same. They could almost pretend. Soon, though, would be the ceremony at Hogwarts. Then there'd be a funeral for Fred. They'd have to go back to normal life. As normal as they could be, he amended to himself. It would never be quite normal again. Not for George. Not for Ginny and Harry. Not for Ron. Not for Percy.

Charlie, despite himself, couldn't wait to return to Romania. Family life was always difficult at best - more complicated than the mating habits of an Opaleye, more fraught than healing a Short-snout's ingrown claws. As much as he loved his dragons, the danger, the excitement, the beauty and the sheer magical presence that vibrated through the very air of the sanctuary… his career sometimes really just felt like an escape from what was here. A much-needed one.

When he got to the kitchen, Fleur was setting up a tray, radiant even in exhaustion, glowing vitality and life, skin glowing and hair flowing as she pittered about the room.

"Ah, Charlie, this eez for 'enrietta," she patted the tray as she finished placing various dishes on top of the huge tray full of Mum's cooking. "You weel 'ave to carry eet for me, Charlie, eet is very 'eavy and I do not want a drop speeled. Your friend needs much food, she looks as zough she 'as not 'ad a proper meal in weeks."

That was true enough. Even as she rapidly healed, her skin remained sallow in a way it hadn't been in school. Though he remained solidly against Lee, he felt guilty for trying to argue with her. She was one of the least confrontational people he'd ever met, always preferring to soothe rather than quarrel, quietly subvert rather than outwardly disobey.

Besides that, he hadn't spoken to her in years, had relied on updates from Bill, which had become less and less frequent as the months wore on... until they stopped completely. He hadn't forgotten about her, but he hadn't thought of her in weeks. Other matters had simply been more pressing. Distraction could mean death in his line of work. He supposed she could understand that.

Obediently the tray, which was actually was surprisingly weighty, he clambered back up the stairs. He thought that perhaps his heavy tread up the stairs would be warning enough, but when he entered his old bedroom, he saw her weeping, her eyes squeezed shut and still leaking tears, her breathing labored and uneven. He observed her for a moment, taking in the length of her and her face and the sheer vulnerability she was exuding. She wasn't any larger than she'd been their first year, he realized with a start. He'd noticed she'd been rather tall for her age, a passing observation. He noticed things like that, the people around him, their looks and habits and personalities. Even before she'd befriended Bill, he'd noticed her.

She'd been the best of mates with Rowan Khanna, one of the most bookish, inelegant, untalented witches he'd ever met. Brilliant, of course, and actually quite courageous as they'd gotten older, but she'd remained awkward, eager, and socially inept.

Henrietta, less studious but just as gifted, was constantly bugging professors and staff alike for extra tutoring, help with spells, opportunities to learn more to further her own devices. While she didn't always receive the best marks, she had a natural, inborn talent with a wand that few could rival. He'd heard whispers about her in the corridors; first, about her brother. He hadn't given much thought to that. He himself had been prepared to live in the shadow of a glamorous older sibling. Then it had been 'she's cursed, did you hear?', and then it had been her duelling prowess and then her penchant for trouble. She'd been hard not to notice, what with her constant troublemaking. Combined with a pretty face and a penchant for befriending the oddest set of people Charlie could've imagined, it was no wonder she'd been notorious halfway through first year. Even Bill had heard of the Hufflepuff first year girl who had gone from losing them almost all their House Points to winning them the Cup, even as she'd managed to scarcely avoid constant detentions.

Charlie himself was no slouch academically, and had always been willing to do his part for his house, but he'd always preferred exploring or Quidditch practice to being trapped in a classroom for hours. He'd loved Flying and Astronomy, had taken Care of Magical Creatures, anything that had the chance of getting him outside. He'd spent a lot of time with Hagrid, exploring the grounds, or even just playing Gobstones. While he'd been relaxed in everything he did, she'd quickly garnered a reputation for magical aptitude in a way few other students had. Even Snape, his irritation aside, hadn't been able to deny her natural skill in his class, docking her house points less often than he had from anyone else, non-Slytherins notwithstanding..

He'd had a lot of friends (or at least many acquaintances) and that was in part due to Bill's reputation, but he'd mostly kept to himself. He had a few close friends, sure, teammates and classmates, but he'd always been so single-minded, ready to explore and adventure, certain nobody else could keep up with him or his wants.

Socializing came easily to him, but he'd preferred nature. She was the opposite, finding few birds of a feather and preferring to befriend specific people. It was almost a little manipulative, though it amused him to think that, since she was such a genuine person. Perhaps her flaw was merely introversion; it took dire circumstances to break her out of her shell. It was a contrast to Penny Haywood, who'd immediately established herself as the most sought-after, friendly, easy-to-talk-to students in school, pretty and witty and with a good ear.

Entering the room loudly, to let her know he was there, he sat down the tray. She immediately stopped, wiping her face and looking up at him. "Sorry," she croaked. "I'm definitely being a bother. I can probably Apparate out of here-"

"Stuck without your wand, while the dust of a war is still settling. Besides that, you'll have wards up, so you'll have to walk to your flat, and then somehow manage to take care of yourself until the magic fully works to heal you. It could take days, depending on the damage," he finished flatly, but his eyes twinkled. "Stay here until tomorrow, I'll take you home. Fleur and mum'll have a conniption if you don't eat something before you leave, and anyway I did always say Mum would love you as an honorary Weasley, even without the hair."

"Thanks," she said dejectedly. Looking up at him, brown eyes beseeching, she said: "I'm sorry I argued, Charlie, I wasn't thinking - I was being selfish -"

"It's fine," he interrupted, then shook his head. "I keep interrupting. I'm sorry. I'm being a git."

"We've had a... long year," she sighed, and everything Charlie was thinking and feeling seemed to be summed up in one sentence. This year. Last year. The year before, even. They'd all been building up to last night.

"I've missed you," he admitted, helping her sit up, being careful of her obvious pain, and handing her bits of chopped up ham his mother and Fleur had prepared for dinner earlier, when she'd been asleep. "I can't believe it's been so long. It feels like just a few weeks ago you and I were sixth years wandering around Hogsmeade, drinking butterbeers without a care. Or seventh years, panicking over NEWTs."

"Yeah, you've been a real arse," she answered, peevishly. "But since this is the only time I've ever seen you with a bad attitude, I suppose I'll have to forgive you. Also, I highly doubt you've panicked over any test in your life. Except maybe your Apparation test."

He laughed out loud at that, his cheeks flooding with color as he avoided the quip. "You've seen me argue with Bill plenty of times, I'm sure. The pair of us used to go at it in school."

"That's bickering, and it's different from a row or a genuine quarrel. I seem to recall the boy who managed to soothe Merula Snyde like an offended Hippogriff, and ease Ben's many terrors. It was easy to forget you slept in the same room as him for seven years."

A memory flashing through his brain, Charlie inquired, carefully, not wanting to offend or hurt: "Were you and Ben... together?"

Pain and nostalgia and wistfulness and humor all seemed to flash through her at once. Odd, how such a strange facial expression could convey so much. "No. We were friends. I always wondered if he was interested in me like that, though of course he never said a word. He did always say I was his favorite classmate."

"I thought you might've been," he said slowly, then added quickly, teasing her but with a sharp edge to his words. "After all, Bill's been taken for a while now, and even you, and all your trouble seeking ways, don't want to mess with an angry Veela."

She scowled with real indignance at that. "Have we ever met, Charlie, because it sure seems as though you haven't the faintest clue as to who I am or what I'm about. I'm no trouble seeker and I'm no homewrecker. Also, Bill? Gross. Rowan was the one who fancied him."

She was picking at the food with real interest but little action, so he handed her a bit of mash instead, hoping to pique her appetite more. Despite her obvious hunger, she only held the plate, continuing with a little bit of self-recriminating laughter in her eyes. It made him wonder.

"For someone so good with animals, you think you'd be able to read people better."

"Oh, Merlin," Charlie blinked, suddenly feeling quite put out and unsure why. "Not… Barnaby Lee?"

She nearly choked on the small bit of mash she'd finally put in her mouth, spewing it out in her astonishment. "Charlie, you great prat! No! If you really must know, I had quite the interest in you for our last few years of school, though I don't know why you're so bothered about it now. 'Sall ancient history now, after all."

At that, he felt himself - oddly - relax a little at the new information. "Me? Why me? 'Sides the fact that you're the one fascinated by ancient history."

Wryly, Henrietta put the hardly-touched bowl aside, picking with a napkin at the mess she'd made. "Charlie Weasley, you must know you were the absolute dreamiest boy in our year! I always thought so, even before we ever spoke. Seeker? Prefect? Quidditch Captain? Yet still sneaking around and never being caught? Quite the devil-may-care sort of attitude. And that ponytail? Utterly irresistible. Short, redheaded, and handsome, precisely my type."

A little outraged at being called short, despite his perfectly respectable height that was far more impressive than her own stature, Charlie wagged a finger at her. "You knew? I figured you were too busy getting into your own trouble with your little ragtag team of followers."

"First of all, they were not followers. I think Bill would object to that. Also, as you know Penny was by far the most popular girl in our year and beyond, and very few people knew or cared about her talent and passion for Potions," Henrietta defended, as if she'd been fed a similar line before. "Honestly, it must be such a burden being so popular. And sometimes I wonder if Barnaby and Andre even liked me at all, or if it was just force of habit of being around. As for Tulip and Rowan, they are actually quite independent, unique people, as is…"

She trailed off, likely thinking of Tonks. Or Ben. However, before the mood became melancholy or even testy, she finished.

"As for your sneaking about... you told me! I wonder how many times you snuck off to the Forbidden Forest, even after being made a bloody prefect. Everyone had you pegged to go pro Quidditch, y'know, but I knew about your obsession. Made me feel special."

Enjoying himself immensely, Charlie handed her water, which she immediately refused. "I rather like this flattery, mate. Do continue."

Fluttering her short, thick eyelashes, which Charlie had never noticed before this very moment, Henrietta winked. "Well, those freckles helped. And your absurd number of siblings. Two strapping redheads? Then Percy and the twins came along, and any girl worth her salt was salivating at the very idea of so many of you." Whispering conspiratorially, she winked. "Not every girl was lucky enough to know how adorable Ginny and Ron were as well."

"Trying to invent up future children from our fertile stock, eh?" Charlie grinned, and wondered how he'd never truly seen Henrietta before. Of course, he noticed her - hadn't they been the best of mates? Hadn't she been close with Bill before he'd ever even spoken a word to her? Hadn't she been one of the few brave enough to go off adventuring with him, Hufflepuff or not?

She was one of the most inquisitive people he'd ever met, resourceful as a Gryffindor, as discerning as a Ravenclaw. She'd even have done well as a Slytherin, as cunning as she could be. Tonks had always spoken highly of her, and Bill had raved about her from the first moment Charlie had visited him in the hospital wing his second year. Tough, level-headed, compassionate to a fault. Pretty too, but Bill had always thought of her as another little sister, while Charlie had been far too preoccupied for girls.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" Charlie asked softly, looking at her lips, as chapped and dry as they were. Why hadn't she been honest with him? Had he really been such a fool as to not notice, or had she hid it well? Would he have reciprocated? Internally, he berated himself for being so blind.

"Don't try to soothe me, Weasley," she warned him, but her rebuke lacked venom. "I suppose neither of us was ready, really. We were both rather determined to reach our goals. Besides, if I had tried, there were at least seven Gryffindor girls ready to duel me for your honor."

He laughed outright at that mental image, unable to believe it. "What seemed so important, so time-consuming?" Charlie wondered aloud.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I was trying to find my brother, clear his name, avoid Merula, manage passing marks in all my classes, land a spot with Bill in Egypt, avoid my prefects, who always remained under the impression I was a Slytherin spy dedicated to getting us as many docked house points as possible, and keep Rowan from setting up her bed in the library."

"You were rather bookish yourself," Charlie mused, and she grinned.

"Intellectual, not bookish. Not like Rowan, who was probably half the reason I managed to pass History of Magic. Not even an OWL."

"More like entirely. Hadn't she read all of Hogwarts, A History before first year had even begun?"

"Don't make me laugh, my entire body is aching," Henrietta ordered cheerfully. "Cursed ice or no, I don't think I've ever quite been in this much pain."

"Take a few drops of this," he offered, handing her a bit of Dreamless Sleep from the side table. "All of us took a drop or two last night."

"It hurts to swallow," she admitted, her voice small, as if it were the final straw about to break her back. "And to move my arms. And to sit up."

"Open your mouth," he told her, pulling the stopper out. "I'll do it."

She obeyed, and Charlie, somehow feeling like a voyeur, carefully dripped a small portion into her mouth. She was already asleep by the time he stood up, her hand tightly curled around her napkin.

Looking down upon the tray at the few bites she'd taken, he groaned. Mum would be ready to force-feed Henrietta by morning.