For many, it was a day of celebration, of happiness. Parties were thrown, butterbeer was drunk. Families reunited for the day, just to see each other and count their blessings that they had survived.
Of course, not every family was so lucky; many reunited to grieve those who had been lost, to remember their sacrifices and to honour them.
On the first anniversary of Voldemort's downfall, each of the Weasleys (and Harry and Hermione, of course) had separately made plans to spend the day at the Burrow with Molly and Arthur. They hadn't known the others would be coming, but they hadn't been surprised, either.
They had sat mostly in silence, each lost in memories of the war, memories of Fred, of baby Teddy's parents.
And now, there they were, a year later. Two years had passed since that turning point in history, and everyone knew without saying that they would, again, be spending the day at the Burrow.
Bill put a careful, guiding hand on the small of his wife's back as they prepared to Apparate. She was moving much slower than usual due to her massively swollen belly and the baby that was due within the week. Her back arched as she walked and she groaned with the effort of making her way down the steps into the front yard.
The long walk was much more difficult for her than it had been the year before, but they took it anyway, despite Bill's protests that she shouldn't exert herself; after all, the little elf buried on their land had given his life to save Harry, Ron, and Hermione's. She insisted on Disapparating from in front of the stone that declared him free.
They reached the little flower covered mound with the headstone Harry had carved. Neither of them had ever even met the elf, but they regarded it for several long moments. Once they'd looked their fill, Fleur gripped Bill's arm tightly and he Disapparated. They reappeared with a crack in front of the Burrow, and Bill carefully held Fleur's long silvery hair as she fell to her knees and vomited up her breakfast, the sickening sensation of Apparating combined with the child in her belly proving especially conducive to stomach sickness.
Molly had been standing in the kitchen, watching out the window for them to arrive; she now came rushing out to help, bringing with her a glass of water that floated along beside her. Bill helped Fleur to her feet and she gratefully gulped down the water before allowing Bill and Molly to guide her into the house.
They were last to arrive. Everyone sat at the kitchen table, including a squirming, blue-haired toddler in his godfather's lap. At Bill and Fleur's arrival, nearly everyone leapt up to give greetings and hugs and to rub Fleur's massive stomach. Bill hugged his parents, kissed his little sister's forehead, hugged Harry and Hermione and all of his younger brothers...except...
He helped Fleur into a chair which Molly had transfigured to be larger and rather more cushioned than the others before heading up the stairs to find the surviving Weasley twin.
Bill remembered rushing into the Great Hall, searching desperately for his wife after they'd been separated in the fight. He remembered his stomach sinking as he saw the bodies of children no older than his sister, the horrible empty feeling he'd had as he'd seen Remus and Tonks laying side by side. Mostly, though, he remembered the moment his heart had stopped as he'd seen the cluster of redheads gathered in the corner. He'd sprinted over and seen his mother draped across a body whose face he could not see, but he'd known from the bone-chilling howls of the one-eared twin kneeling at the head to whom the body must belong...
George no longer lived here, and though his and Fred's room was still his, Bill couldn't imagine he'd have holed himself up in there now.
Bill passed the open door to the bathroom and glanced sadly at the shattered mirror over the sink; George had done that the first horrid, painful, tear-filled night that the Weasleys had returned to the Burrow after the Battle of Hogwarts. No one had felt the need to fix it, even now, two years later.
"George," Bill called quietly.
"I'm in here," came his answer. He followed the voice into Ginny's room, where he opened the door without knocking to find his brother sprawled sideways across Ginny's bed. His eyes were squeezed shut, his arms crossed over his chest. Bill barely even noticed the large hole where his ear should have been; it was now as much a part of him as the scars on his own face.
"Hey, Bill," George mumbled as Bill stepped in. His eyes opened for a second and ascertained that he was in fact speaking to Bill before squeezing shut again. "How's Fleur?"
"Big, tired. Very pregnant." said Bill, coming over to sit on the foot of Ginny's bed. "How are you?" There was a long pause.
"No one wants to look at me," George whispered.
"That's not true," Bill said.
"No, it is. Hell, I don't want to look at me." His arms were still crossed over his chest, like he was in a coffin. It gave Bill chills to think about.
"Is that why you're in Ginny's room instead of yours?" he asked. George snorted.
"No. Mum's packed up all of... his stuff since I last was here. It looks all wrong in there now."
"I bet she still has it," Bill said. "She wouldn't have gotten rid of it; it's probably in the attic. You could go put it back where it goes." George exhaled and opened his eyes and uncrossed his arms.
"That'd just be morbid," he said, and there was a noticeable change in him, like a switch had flipped. Moments ago, he had been a George whom Bill had worried would never truly recover; now, he was still sad, but he also seemed to be moving on in a healthy way, and there was a glimmer of hope that he could regain some of his old humor. George sat up. "I should go say hello to the little French Weasley." Bill grinned; this was what George had taken to calling the as-of-yet unborn baby.
"I'm sure Fleur wants to see you, too," he said as George hopped off the bed. The mood swings were disconcerting, but this, at least, Bill could handle. Sad but willing to move forward was a lot more manageable than depressed and unable to look at his own family.
Bill followed George down the stairs, and when they reached the dining room, Molly leapt up and went to George, but George walked past her to Fleur and bent down to touch her stomach.
"Hey there, little French Weasley," he murmured. Fleur smiled slightly at the nickname, but one look at her face—and those of the rest of his family—told him that the topic of conversation while he'd been upstairs had been a serious one. Given that it had stopped when George had come in, they'd either been talking about George's behaviour or Fred.
Everyone missed Fred. Everyone loved him. Bill had been too young to remember Charlie or Percy being born, but he remembered the twins. He'd been seven years old, and he'd woken up one morning and, after his mum had apparently been in labour for eight hours, he'd suddenly had little twin baby brothers. No one had known there were going to be two of them, and he remembered asking curiously how they'd tell them apart until they were old enough to know their own names. When he'd asked if he could hold them, Molly had fretted and said he should only hold one at a time, but he'd insisted he could hold them both. With his dad supervising, he'd sat with the twins on his lap—not even knowing which was Fred and which was George—and made sure to support both their heads, which he remembered from when Percy was a newborn. Together, they'd been almost as big as he was, but even so, he'd been strong and competent with them. One of them had yawned and grabbed his finger, and it had given him a little thrill to know that he was their big brother, that he'd always have these little identical boys to look after.
He never knew whether it was Fred or George who'd squeezed his finger that day. The thought made his heart clench.
Yes, they all loved Fred, they all missed him, they all grieved him in their own ways; but it was almost harder to watch George try to exist in a world without Fred than it was to do try to do it themselves, so much of their energy was thrown into trying to help George. So it was watching George rub Fleur's belly; as much as he loved that it was making George smile, it made his heart hurt equally to think that Fred, that little baby who may or may not have squeezed his finger, would never meet his son or daughter.
At some point, everyone moved into the living room. They were chatting about inconsequential things, nothing of importance. Ginny, Ron, Harry, and Hermione were all graciously sitting on the floor so Fleur could stretch out on the couch, her head in Bill's lap. Molly fussed over Fleur, insisting on bringing more pillows, more blankets, a glass of water, anything.
George sat in the armchair where Bill had sat when he'd held him and Fred for the first time, though, of course, George didn't know that. His eyes were following Teddy as the little toddler darted around the room, Ginny and Hermione never far behind. George's eyes were sad and haunted as he watched Teddy's hair change from bright blue to Weasley orange.
"Bill!" Fleur gasped suddenly, and he grabbed her hand, barely noticing how all the eyes in the room had turned to look at him and Fleur. "Bill! 'ow do you say? I don't know ze English!" Her English was nearly perfect, and it was now very rare that she didn't know a word. She sounded frantic, and her fingers tightened around his. His heart sped up.
"The baby?" he asked, and she nodded.
"Ze—dammit! I don't know ze word!" Suddenly there was a little shriek.
"Her water's broken!" Hermione cried, and sure enough, it had. Bill's brain went into overdrive. This was happening. This was happening today.
Molly immediately began barking orders. "Charlie, send a message to Mrs. Delacour, tell her to get here now. Arthur, go to the fireplace and get Mindy—"
"'oo is zat?" Fleur interrupted.
"She delivered your husband," Molly said, and Bill barely even blushed such were his nerves. "You two should go up to Bill's room, your contractions may start at any moment."
Bill practically leapt off the couch, then gently pulled Fleur up. Everyone rushed over to help, but Molly began shoving them back. Charlie clapped Bill's shoulder as he passed. Bill met George's eyes and they were no longer hauntingly empty. They were laughing. George was looking forward to meeting the little French Weasley.
They were halfway up the stairs when Fleur stopped and gasped, clutching her stomach. Bill carried her the rest of the way and settled her on his old bed.
It was an all day affair. Where the energy in the house had before been sad and grieving, there was now an excitement about the place. The midwife had arrived and been sent upstairs, as had Mrs. Delacour. Mr. Delacour and Gabrielle were waiting downstairs with the rest of the Weasleys.
The couch had been cleaned up and was now jam-packed with people. George sat where Fleur's feet had been, Percy next to him with a book—though his rapidly tapping foot betrayed his excitement. Charlie was making a show of marching around with Teddy on his shoulders, every so often bending forward and grabbing the toddler's feet so that he dangled upside down, which amused him greatly. Arthur was in the kitchen attempting to make lunch for everyone while Gabrielle Delacour supervised and Mr. Delacour translated. Ginny sat curled up like a cat next to Percy, and Harry sat next to her and put an arm around her, earning a look from George that secretly made him grin in how like the old George it was.
Several hours in, they could hear Fleur alternately screaming like she was under the Cruciatus curse and swearing loudly and in French at everyone in the room; even though they couldn't understand her, her tone was unmistakable. At one point Mr. Delacour actually slapped his hands over Gabrielle's ears.
It went on for hours. Everyone was tired and hungry, and yet that energy never went away. A new life was entering the world upstairs. It was the exact opposite of the reason they'd been at the Burrow in the first place—to mourn. It was almost a reminder, even; because of the war, Bill and Fleur's baby would grow up safe and happy.
It was around sunset when they started hearing Mrs. Weasley and the midwife telling Fleur to push while Mrs. Delacour shouted encouragements in French. Everyone fell silent. It was time.
Bill cringed as Fleur let out the worst scream yet, squeezing his fingers so tight he was sure she would break them.
"One more good push," said the midwife. "We're almost there, Fleur, we're almost there." Fleur screamed something in French and Bill stroked her sweaty face.
"We're about to meet our baby," he whispered.
She met his eyes for a split second, and then another scream escaped her. She was screaming and the midwife kept telling her how good she was doing and suddenly, Fleur wasn't the one crying.
"Here she is," the midwife whispered. Bill froze.
"It's a girl?" he asked, voice cracking.
"She's beautiful," the midwife answered. "Just like her mama. Would you like to hold her?"
Bill had held babies before, but he'd never held his baby—his daughter—before. He took her from the midwife and stared, transfixed. She was beautiful like Fleur, just as the midwife had said.
"'ow does she look?" Fleur panted, catching her breath. Bill knelt down by her head, and he barely registered when Mrs. Weasley, Mrs. Delacour, and the midwife quietly slipped out to give them some space.
"Like you," Bill said. He helped Fleur grasp the baby, and watched with tears in his eyes as she looked at the baby for the first time. She gasped and smiled, but soon her eyes filled with tears and she was crying as she held the baby to her chest.
"What a day to be born on," she whispered, turning to look at Bill. "Today will always be a sad day for your family."
"This day was a victory for wizards everywhere," he answered. "And today," he continued, "today was a victory for us. Our own little victory." Fleur gave a weak smile.
"Notre petite victoire," she murmured. Her eyes flicked up from the baby's head to meet Bill's. "We could name 'er zat," she said suddenly. "Victoire. If you want."
"Victoire Weasley." He leaned forward and buried his face in Fleur's neck, his hand stroking little Victoire's head.
It wasn't long before the Delacours came in to meet Victoire, cooing at her in French baby talk and exclaiming over Fleur and Bill, the brand new parents.
Once the Delacours were done, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley went in to meet their granddaughter, and the rest of the Weasleys anxiously waited their turn. Charlie and Ginny and Percy went in, then Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and then, finally, George, who had declined to go with either of the other groups.
He smiled—actually, really smiled—when he saw the little baby in Fleur's arms. Bill couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a real smile from George, but he was sure that, whenever it was, Fred had been with him.
"Little French Weasley sees the light of day," he said as he strode toward Bill.
"That she does," Bill answered. George stopped, his smile even bigger.
"Little French Weasley's a girl, then?" Bill grinned.
"Meet your niece—Victoire Apolline Weasley." George turned to Fleur.
"Apolline's your mum's name, isn't it?" She nodded. "And Victoire...?"
"It is ze French word for victory," she answered.
"Victory," George murmured. There was a long silence. "It suits her," he finally said.
"It does," said Bill.
"Would you like to 'old 'er?" Fleur offered. George nodded, and Bill transferred Victoire from Fleur's arms to George's. He looked down at her little sleeping face.
This was a sign, George thought. Bad things had happened—unthinkable things had happened—but it was time to move forward. Bill had. Bill had a daughter now.
This day could no longer represent such consuming, overwhelming sadness and death, not when it would now be forever associated with the birth of Victoire Weasley. This little baby was so beautiful, so innocent, and so, in every way possible, the complete opposite of death. And just like Bill and Fleur's wedding in the middle of a war, this baby's birth in the middle of the family's grieving was like a shard of light in the darkness.
Maybe, thought George as the baby gripped his finger the way either Fred or George had gripped Bill's, Victoire wasn't even really a victory; maybe she was, in its purest form, hope.