December 28, 1998

Romanian International Dragon Reserve

Charlie stared at the thin albumin of dragon egg that stuck between his fingers. It had been a shit day, right from the very beginning. First he forgot to change his alarm clock from Greenwich Mean Time and overslept, grabbing a couple of slices of stale bread on his way out the door. Then he had stepped into ankle-deep snow only to be yelled at by Natalis in front of everyone, including some very creative threats in Romanian. On top of that, Ivan caught dragonpox, Norberta had scale rot, the Hungarian Horntail was missing, and he'd just broken a dragon egg.

He was supposed to be weighing it, evaluating the growth of the embryo, but he had dropped it, right on the wood floor. He could see the hatchling's tail, and its stubs of forelegs, and the tiniest gossamer wing….

Charlie got a rag from the shelf and wiped his hands, then opened a drawer and took out the camera. He photographed the egg where it lay, smashed and scattered, then took down a box, labeled it with the mother's name and breed, today's date, and his name, and scooped the contents inside using the fragments of shell. He wiped his hands again, wrote "terminated" in today's entry in the logbook, and carried the box with the baby dragon—because that's how Charlie thought of the eggs, not as embryos or hatchlings, but as baby dragons—to the edge of the garden. He set it down in the snow, dug a hole with his wand, and set the box in the hole. Protocol was to inform the Head Keeper of every death, regardless of the stage of life, but Natalis would be eating dinner in the mess hall with the rest of the staff, and Charlie felt bad enough without being yelled at in front of everyone. Again.

He knew the death was his fault.

It really had been a shit day. Days, if he was honest. Before this year, before the war, Charlie would have said it was impossible for Christmas at the Burrow to be anything less than magical. But Fred was dead, and George had walked out, and while Charlie couldn't do anything about the former, he blamed himself for the latter. He had known George was struggling, known he didn't want to be sitting at the scrubbed kitchen table pretending everything was fine, and still Charlie hadn't noticed. No one noticed when George left; Mum was serving dessert, and suddenly there was an extra plate. And they had all stared at it, thinking about Fred, assuming it was his, until Ginny said, "Mum, where's George?"

That question had been haunting Charlie for four days.

He was going to his cabin, he was taking a shower, and he was going to bed. He didn't even have the energy to get drunk. Thirty minutes ago, he'd been starving; now he didn't deserve to eat. Then he opened his front door, a delicious aroma wafted out, and his stomach rumbled.

There was a woman in his kitchen, a pretty brunette in an old Weasley jumper and a wool hat. She was bent over a pot of—he inhaled—vegetable beef soup, but she looked up at the sound of the door.

"For gods' sake, don't just stand there! It's freezing up here!" She turned back to the tiny two burner stove. "Wash up, supper's ready."

Despite everything, despite the egg and the snow and the illnesses and his brothers and just everything, Charlie smiled. Amy's Americanisms were a long-standing joke. He crossed the room and hugged her from behind.

"Charlie?"

He had buried his face in her hair (she was nearly as tall as he was) and stubbornly ignored the lump in his throat.

"Charlie, what's going on?"

"How did you get in here?" He dropped his arms and crossed to the sink, washing his hands as she had requested.

Godric knew they needed it.

Amy gave him an exasperated look. "Please. Any pipsqueak with a wand could get in your house. For that matter, a Muggle pipsqueak could get in your house."

Amy Green was a curse breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Charlie had first met her several years ago when his entire family visited Bill in Cairo. Amy was still there, and, judging by the layers she was wearing (including a pair of fuzzy pink socks), still enjoying Cairo's warm climate.

"Charlie?" Amy laid a hand on his arm and he jumped. "What's wrong?"

He had been lost in thought, remembering the first time he met Amy (she had brought food then too), and his wet hands were dripping onto the floor. He reached for the towel tucked in her waistband and didn't answer. She pursed her lips but began opening cupboard doors, looking for bowls. Charlie tossed the damp towel on the worktop and sliced the loaf of bread she had brought, which thankfully was much fresher than the leftovers he'd had for breakfast. Amy dished up two bowls, and they were halfway empty before he spoke.

"I broke a dragon egg." Because it was easier than telling her what was really wrong. What would always be wrong with every Christmas, every visit home.

Amy's spoon, which was halfway to her mouth, returned to her bowl with a clatter. "Oh, Charlie…."

"A Hebridean Black. He had a tail, and his wings were just starting to form…."

Amy reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Oh, Charlie. I'm so sorry."

He pulled his hand away and tipped his chair back on two legs, not meeting her eyes. "It's been a shit day. Can we—can we just talk about something else? How was your Christmas?"

"It was great!"

Charlie knew she had planned to spend Christmas stateside with her best friend's family. Amy's face lit up as she talked about Kathy's children, whom Amy referred to as her nieces and nephew. Charlie still remembered the shock he'd felt when she had explained that as an only child, she would never have any nieces or nephews unless her husband had siblings and his siblings had kids. Weird.

Charlie slurped his soup and listened to Amy's description of the children's school Christmas play ("I'll have to show you my pictures of the girls as elves. They were adorable"), the six inches of snow that fell the day she arrived ("we decorated the snowman with costume jewelry and a color-change hat. The girls loved it"), and her baby nephew's new mastery of the fork ("he's much better at shoveling food in the floor than his mouth, though"). With a couple of prompts and a minimum of effort, he managed to keep her talking long enough to decimate half the loaf of bread, inhale three bowls of soup, and actually enjoy the fourth. Breakfast, such as it was, had been a very long time ago.

"Leave it," he said when Amy reached for his empty bowl. "I'll wash up later. Come sit in front of the fireplace."

She had been sitting with her arms and legs crossed, her hands tucked in her armpits, and now she curled up on one end of the couch, shivering slightly. Charlie used his wand to make the flames burn higher and pulled her feet into his lap.

"Don't tickle," she warned, drawing her legs away.

He pulled them back and widened his eyes in his best innocent expression. "Would I do that?"

"Yes, you would, and you'd regret it."

Charlie grinned. "Do you promise?"

Amy kicked his thigh. He rubbed her feet briskly, still encased in the fuzzy socks.

"When are you going to move back home?"

"What?"

"You miss home, Amy. You always have. Not all that excitement—" He waved his hand at the table— "was due to seeing Kathy and the kids. And you'd be closer to David." He was surprised she hadn't mentioned her boyfriend already; she had hardly shut up about the bloke in the year they had been dating.

She leaned back against the arm of the sofa, scooting down so her thighs were across his lap and crossing her ankles. "I suppose so. I can work for Gringotts anywhere. There wouldn't be treasure like Egypt, of course—the civilization isn't nearly as old, especially on the East Coast—but everywhere wizards have lived, they've placed curses on land and buildings to protect their property."

She reached up to adjust her hat, the sleeves of his jumper hanging off her smaller frame. Navy was a good color on her.

"How is David?"

"Fine."

Which meant "not fine." Amy picked pills off his Weasley jumper with unnecessary concentration and Charlie sighed. After four days at home, he knew what it felt like to have well-meaning people prying into your life. He changed the subject.

"How long can you stay?"

"This is a Portkey stop. My fast food wrapper activates at two p.m. tomorrow." Her forehead wrinkled, the fine lines diffused in the firelight. "Actually, I don't know if that's two p.m. Greenwich time or here. Or Boston—I booked through the Boston office. They're usually all local times, right?"

"Usually. You know I love seeing you, but what are you doing here?"

"I had to layover somewhere in Europe."

"Amy."

She turned from the clock on the mantel to face him, her expression sober. "I thought you might have had a rough Christmas."

Charlie inhaled sharply. "Rough" wasn't the half of it. She sat up, tucking her legs beside her and leaning against his shoulder. He continued staring into the fireplace, which burned at a more normal height now. Amy had finally warmed up; he could feel the warmth of her body against his arm.

"How is your family?" she asked.

"Fine."

She let the lie slide for a few minutes, then tried again.

"Did you get a new sweater?"

"It's still in my bag." The arm she was leaning on was starting to tingle, so he moved, putting it around her shoulders. She shifted, leaning back against his chest.

"Does that mean I can have this one?"

He brought his arm up in a playful chokehold. "Don't even think about it."

She smiled. She really was a beautiful witch. A beautiful, unavailable witch. Regardless of what was happening—or not happening—with David, Amy was off-limits. Charlie had done the friendship turned romance turned long-distance relationship once; he was not making the same mistake again. And Amy didn't do casual relationships.

"Charlie?"

"Hmm?"

He didn't realize he was playing with her hair, running his fingers through the thick strands, until she touched his hand.

"How was your Christmas?"

He resumed stroking her hair. She had told him, a long time ago, that she liked it.

"George walked out. We were eating dinner on Christmas Eve, and he just left. I don't—no one has seen him since."

Amy sat up with a gasp. "You don't think—"

He shook his head. "No, there's no reason to suspect anything bad has happened. Ron and Percy asked around at work, and both the Auror Department and the Magical Law Enforcement Squad say there's been no attacks or crimes of dark magic over the last few days. Dad even checked with the hospital. He just— I didn't see him leave. I was sitting right beside him, and—" His voice cracked. He coughed and swallowed, but the lump in his throat and the stinging in his nose wouldn't let up.

()()()()

"It's not your fault," Amy said, rubbing one hand up and down Charlie's back. His muscles were tight, his hands gripped together.

"He's my brother," Charlie said, and when he turned to look at her, his eyes were wet. "I should have noticed. I should have gone after him. I couldn't—there wasn't anything—with—with F-F-Fred, I couldn't—but George, he was right there. I was right there, and—"

His breath hitched, and Amy pulled him to her. "It's all right, it's not your fault. It's going to be okay."

Charlie's broad shoulders shook, his face pressed into her neck, and his fingers gripped her waist so hard it hurt. She had expected this. She had expected, despite going home every couple of months to see his family, that Charlie wasn't really dealing with his brother's death, that he was using the isolation of the dragon reserve to hide from his feelings. She had expected it—it was why she had arranged for a Portkey stop in Romania, which was less than convenient—but it still hurt to see him like this. Big, burly Charlie, so strong, so compassionate, always taking care of everyone else, always so concerned about the creatures in his care, hadn't stopped to take care of himself. She wouldn't be surprised if this was the first time he had cried since right after the Battle.

Amy could feel him fighting it, sniffing and trying to bring himself under control, pushing away from her, but she wrapped her arms around him, sliding one hand into his hair and holding him close.

"Don't be ashamed," she said firmly. "Fred was your brother, and he was—" She swallowed back her own memories of a laughing, mischievous fifteen year old. "He was wonderful. Don't be ashamed of your tears. Fred is worth them. He's worth grieving."

It was long minutes later (long enough for Amy to have a cramp in her back from bearing Charlie's weight) when he stopped crying, and longer still before he turned his face away and dried it with his sleeve.

"Merlin," he said with a shaky laugh, one arm still around her. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He was your brother. He's worth your tears."

He gave a jerky nod, still not looking at her.

"Charlie?" She turned his face with her hand, and as his eyes met hers, she knew what was going to happen a split second before it did.

His mouth was warm, his lips slightly chapped, and Amy didn't protest the kiss. She had somewhat expected it. Everything Charlie did was physical, from his job to expressing affection to his love of Quidditch; it only made sense that he would seek physical comfort too. He cradled her neck and deepened the kiss and she allowed it, framing his face in her hands, trying to absorb his pain, to absolve his grief. She had forgotten—Charlie had kissed her once, years ago, when she was the one who was hurting and didn't want to admit it—and she had forgotten how the man could kiss. She closed her eyes and let herself feel: the reassuring weight of his chest against hers, the raised scar at his neck and shoulder, the pulse racing beneath her fingertips. She poured every ounce of comfort she had into the kiss, into her hands stroking his face and hair, and it was only when his own hand slid under the edge of the Weasley sweater that she protested, grabbing it with her own. She softened the kiss, then broke it, brushing her mouth with his once more, trying to tell him without words that it was okay.

She saw the moment he realized what he'd done, when his brown eyes turned from smoky to shocked, and he jumped up, tripping over the hem of his robes and nearly falling into the fireplace as he backed away.

()()()()

"Amy, I—shit, I'm sorry!"

She swung her legs onto the floor and flipped her hair behind her back. "It's fine."

"It is not fine! I just—you—we— Shit, David! Shit!"

"Would you please stop swearing?" she said impatiently. "I did not kiss you just so you'd have something else to beat yourself up about."

Charlie stared at her in disbelief, completely unable to understand her calmness. "But we're not—we haven't—I didn't mean—" He took a deep breath. This was just what he needed, getting mixed up with Amy when nothing could come of it. They knew nothing could come of it; it was why they were just friends in the first place.

"I know, Charlie." Amy stood up and walked to him, placing a hand on each shoulder and looking straight into his eyes. "It was about comfort, nothing more. You needed it, and I wanted to give it to you. Okay? I'm not mad, and I'm not offended. Okay?"

Amy had never lied to him; unlike many women, she didn't play games. There was no trace of guilt or regret in her expression. "You're sure?"

"Positive." She brushed her mouth against his again, feather light.

"You should—" He cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling very much the awkward schoolboy. "You should probably go."

Now she looked amused, one hip cocked and her dark hair gleaming in the firelight. He must have pulled her hat off when they were kissing.

"I can—I'll see if Darya will—if she can make room for an overnight guest." He would not blush, he would not….

Amy sat on the floor to pull her boots on and smirked up at him. "I take it I shouldn't mention the kiss?"

"That would be nice." Charlie kept his back turned, searching around the sofa for Amy's hat.

"I knew there was someone. You've been way too vague about what you've been doing in your free time." Both boots on, she watched as he felt between the cushions. "Are you sure you don't want to spend the night with Darya and I'll stay here?"

Godric, that was tempting. Darya was lovely, she was interested, and unlike with Amy, he wouldn't be risking a long-standing friendship.

"I like her, okay? But I haven't said anything to her yet, so don't you say anything, either." There it was, on the floor beside the armchair.

"I make no promises."

Amy's hands were full as she struggled into her parka. Charlie pulled the hat on her head, stretching the gray wool down over her smug face. She reached up and folded the brim out of her eyes.

"Happy Christmas, Charlie."

"Merry Christmas, Aim."

a/n: Amy Green is mine, all mine, but Darya (and Charlie's crush on her) belong to the wonderful My Dear Professor McGonagall from her fabulous story "Twelve Days." Special thanks to both vancabreuniter and kankusan for doing a quick read-through yesterday. For anyone who wants to read more about Amy and the start of her friendship with Charlie (including that previous kiss *wink*), check out my story "Hidden Chambers and Unseen Monsters," which is about the Weasleys' visit to Egypt after CoS. For those of you waiting for my Camp NaNo/Eighth Year Fic (I adore you!), consider this an outtake :)

This was written for the Fic Exchange for All Occasions for HedwigBlack, who requested anything Charlie centric! and the prompts dragons, fireplace, smugness, coffee, Hogsmeade, scars, Weasley sweaters, and fine lines. Hedwig, I hope you enjoyed it!

And no, I'm not J.K. Rowling.