A/N: Written for a challenge last year on tumblr.

2 November 1994

The hot Egyptian sun bore no resemblance to the weak, gentle light Bill Weasley had known as a child. At the Burrow, sunshine was an occasion to celebrate, usually with quidditch brooms and special picnics. Here it was one more thing that could kill you if you weren't paying attention.

He paused, propping his left foot up on the weathered stones that marked the entrance to the tomb. It was a particularly troublesome job – when Hélène de Cluny had bought the pile of stones nearly 80 years earlier she had been fleeing the great Muggle war as it slowly tore France to pieces. She'd lived like a queen for two decades, selling off the relics she unearthed and slowly transforming the ancient mausoleum into a resting place fit for a descendant of Laure Beauxbatons herself.

It had taken him a better part of a week just to lower the outer shields. The challenge had him bounding out of bed every morning, a little extra spring in his step. He should be through the door in the next day or two, and then he'd be able to report back to his supervisor on the value of the items inside.

A shame, really, to destroy such beautiful spellwork. The French always did have style that was lacking in most Hogwarts graduates. But then, old Hélène should have willed her estate to more careful cousins. The spendthrift Gregoire twins had rather desperately presented their old great-Aunt's tomb as evidence of their ability to make good on their debts. Gringotts goblins were understandably skeptical when it came out that none of the family had entered the tomb since Hélène's death.

Which brought Bill into the picture.

He re-secured his long hair in its low ponytail and considered the door. These were the moments he loved about his job – treasure chests, hidden chambers, doors. Not the long slog of breaking through interminable shield and cloaking charms. Doors usually had at least an interesting hex or jinx that required attention to detail and a flair for the dramatic.

So why was he stuck on a line in his mother's letter from last night?

"I don't understand WHAT Dumbledore can be thinking, allowing Harry to compete in such violent nonsense. But your father says it will all work out for the best. We'll be attending whatever we can, of course."

He knew Molly Weasley had only two levels of worry: the idle, motherly concern of his childhood ("Oh, Bill, your hair. Must you?") and a low-voiced fear that was always simmering just beneath her brave smile.

After the mess of the Quidditch World Cup, the madness of the Daily Prophet… well, it left an uneasy feeling in his gut, that was for sure.

He would write back to her tonight, see what he could find out. He didn't like to see his mother worry.

Decided, he drew his wand. Right now, he needed to get through that door and pay Hélène a visit.

1 September 1982

"Now you'll go straight to a seat, dear, and be careful who you talk to on the train." Mum was smoothing his cowlick down for the third time today, flicking her wand irritably when it resisted her best efforts. "I'll never understand your hair."

"It's fine, Molly," Arthur patted her arm, leaning away as baby Ginny tried again to grab at his glasses. "No one's better prepared for school than our Bill."

Charlie was holding Ron's pudgy little hand, while Percy and the twins ran in circles around them.

"I still don't know, Arthur." His mother's voice was low, that whisper he was never supposed to hear, and never could help but worry over. "It's only been a year. Frank and Alice will never be the same. Maybe we should keep him with us, one more term."

Bill had been hearing versions of this argument for months. He did not remember Frank or Alice Longbottom, but his mother had been reinforcing the wards every night since the papers had announced the attack at their home.

Their son, Neville, was just Ron's age.

"Dumbledore promised that the school would be safe," Dad answered. "We've bought all his books, his trunk is packed. He'll write us every day, won't you, William?"

"Of course, Dad," he said seriously. Dad liked it when he was serious. Mum too, although sometimes he caught her watching him when he was reading, a worry line between her eyes.

"Yeah, well, I reckon I'll just spread out while you're gone, mate," Charlie said. He tugged Ron over, hurrying the toddling steps. "Hug Bill, Ronnie. He's going away forever."

Ron looked stricken, and big teardrops filled the two-year-old's blue eyes. "Forever?"

"No, dummy," Bill hefted him up for a hug. "Charlie's just trying to make you cry. I'll be back for Christmas holidays!"

Percy skidded to a stop in front of them, looking thoroughly put out. "But why does Charlie get to use your broomstick?"

"Cause you're not old enough, Perce, and first-years can't have their own at school." Charlie stuck his tongue out and laughed when the 4-year-old twins mimicked him.

Bill glared at the three of them, and reached to pat Percy's shoulder in what he thought was a very grown-up way. "Don't worry, I'll let you have my Beedle book instead."

The train whistle sounded and Bill's stomach swooped in anticipation. Hogwarts. After last year, he had thought he might never see it at all. He set Ron back on his feet and, in a sudden fit of nerves, wrapped his recently lengthened arms around his mother's waist.

"Don't cry, Mum," he mumbled into her soft stomach. "I'll make you proud."

She caught a breath, biting her lip as she smiled down at him. "Oh my Billy boy," she said. "Just be safe."

Dad patted his head. "Listen to the professors, as much as you can. Write to tell us your house so Mum can knit you a nice scarf."

He nodded, picked up his sack of snacks and books, and stepped into the biggest adventure of his short little life.

Charlie wrote later and said Gryffindor sounded amazing, Mum had cried herself to sleep for a week, and his broomstick pulled to the right.

26 November 1994

"You should have seen Harry's flying, Bill, it was absolutely incredible. And with a Hungarian Horntail nipping at his heels, no less."

The desert air was chilly, and he wrapped his cloak more tightly around his shoulders as he read Charlie's latest letter by the light of his wand. It had arrived, slightly singed, via a very uppity Steppe Eagle who was perched on his little home's roof, waiting imperiously for a reply.

"I'm gonna take time off for the task in June if I can swing it. You should come, too. Oh, and happy early birthday big brother. Cut your hair first, though. I'm tired of hearing Mum whinge about it."

Bill snorted. His hair was the least of his mother's concerns right now. Her last few letters had been full of news about Ginny's sudden interest in boys who were not Harry Potter, the twins' terrible discipline record and experiments, Ron's absolute refusal to write letters, and Percy's rather cutting remark to his father the week before during a ministry meeting.

The twins had sent him some Canary Creams, which had been a big hit at the Sihir Riad, Cairo's colorful and cantankerous counterpart to Diagon Alley. He'd written back to them immediately to encourage their endeavor. Ron never wrote letters home if he could help it. It just wasn't his kid brother's style. And he was glad to hear that his little sister was growing out of her shyness-inducing crush on Harry.

Percy bothered him. Perce had always been a bit of a stuffy prick, but Bill had hoped he'd grow out of it. He cared so much about rules and status, and being sandwiched between quidditch and dragon-mad Charlie and the eternal jokesters Fred and George had stiffened his already brittle spine. Bill had always found Head Boy duties a bit of a chore, but Percy had reveled in the relatively limited power. This posting with Crouch didn't seem to helping.

Maybe it was time to plan another visit home. He scratched out a short reply to Charlie, agreeing to the idea and suggesting they meet up in London first. The eagle accepted his tossed date as a peace offering and extended its leg just long enough for Bill to attach the note.

Then it swooped off into the night, heading back to the land of dragons and his feckless brother.

12 July 1979

"Mum! Uncle Gideon's here!"

"Are you sure, Bill?"

"Might be Uncle Fabian, but he's got that same cool scar from last visit."

Bill deftly caught the sweetie his uncle tossed his way, tucking it carefully behind the pages of his copy of the Tales of Beedle the Bard he'd gotten for Christmas. Charlie did the same, tucking his into his pocket just in time. Mum came down the stairs, giving her brother a hard look before turning to Bill.

"That's enough of that, then. The sun is shining. Why don't you and Charlie go play on those new broomsticks Dad brought home?"

"They hardly leave the ground, Mum!" Charlie pouted from his seat on the couch. "Besides it's blazing hot outside." Bill nodded along with his brother's complaints.

"Bill Weasley, I believe I told you to do something."

"Mum!" he groaned, palming the candy and dragging his feet audibly as he moved to put his book away.

"Now, boys! Out!"

They tromped out and Bill sank down onto the stoop in a sulk. Charlie, ever the sunnier personality, shrugged and ran off to the shed to retrieve the two play brooms their dad had confiscated from a muggle toy store last week.

"Not until I'm sure they're out of earshot," he heard his mother snap. Intrigued, he pressed himself back against the side of the house, ducking behind a large azalea bush and holding his breath.

"Molly, they're just boys. What can it matter?"

"I won't have them living in fear, not until it's absolutely necessary." Her voice wavered, and Bill bit his lip. Mum never sounded scared. "What is it, then, Gideon? More bad news?"

"Not necessarily," he said. "But it's not good either. By the Bloody Baron, I wish you would consider joining up. You were always a better dueler than either of us, and that's saying something."

Bill froze. Join up? His mother could duel?

"Fred and George's first birthday party was only three months ago," she hissed. "Arthur's already spending most of his nights with the Order. Who would I leave the children with, then?"

"I know, I know. I just – I love the little rascals, you know that. But you're the best of the Prewetts, Molly Weasley." Then he laughed. "Although I'm not sure how even you are going to survive Bill's troublemaking phase, if this is how it starts."

"He was very sorry."

"Was he?"

"Well, he will be when I'm done with him."

"I'm sure."

More punishment? It was just a couple of acid pops. "Aw, come on." Bill spat out the protest before the stupidity of saying anything at all when hiding underneath an open window could really sink in.

There was a moment of silence, and then three things happened at once.

First, Charlie came back around the corner of the Burrow with the two puny brooms in his arms and a smile on his 6-year-old face. Second, Bill decided that yes, his mother had heard his complaint and his death was likely imminent. (He'd just learned that word in Beedle and had been calling things imminent for the last week. "Dinner is imminent." "A bath is imminent." It was very satisfying.) He was preparing to make a run for it when, third, he found himself floating upside down in front of the very same window.

"Whatcha doin, Billy?" Charlie dropped the brooms. "New game?"

"Shut it, Charlie. Mum, I didn't do anything! I wasn't even listening!"

The door opened and his mother came out, followed by his uncle, whose wand waved lazily so that he rotated a bit to face her. Neither looked particularly pleased.

"Charlie, go inside and sit with Percy, please. What were you not even listening to, William Arthur?"

"Anything!"

His uncle smiled. "He's good under pressure, Molls, you have to admit that."

"Oh, put him down, Gideon." He came to earth with a soft thump and scrambled up, hoping for leniency. "I will not be lied to again, young man!"

25 June 1995

He had never seen his father quite so pale. He'd also never brought him the news of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returning from the grave. All things considered, Bill was glad he'd told him to sit down.

"Tell me again, exactly what Dumbledore said." As he watched, Dad shook off the shock, straightened his shoulders and looked Bill straight in the eye. "Word for word."

He nodded. The words were seared on his brain. "He said, 'There is work to be done.' Then he asked Mum if he could count on you both. Did – was Mum, last time, did she?"

"Not often," Arthur said, distractedly. "You all kept her busy enough."

"Right. Well she said yes, of course. And then he said, 'All those we can persuade of the truth must be notified immediately' and that you were in a good spot to do that discreetly."

"And he will be in contact?"

"That's what he said." Bill watched his father rise from his armchair and pace the length of the living room. "What does it mean, Dad? What happens next?"

His father turned a sharp gaze in his direction. Bill had never been under the misapprehension that his father was some kind of bumbling fool. He knew the intelligence and curiosity that lived in that kind soul.

But he was not sure he had ever been intimidated by Arthur Weasley until this moment.

"The Order. He won't have any choice, not with Fudge playing the idiot," he said finally. "I'm to recruit anyone I can from the ministry. Merlin, it's just like last time. Poor Bertha. And Crouch, I'd not have thought it of him."

"What Order, what do you mean?" A memory wafted through his mind, a hot summer day and an uncle long since lost. "Is it – like what Uncle Gideon and Fabian were doing? When they died?"

Arthur nodded. "Hopefully it's aptly named. Order of the Phoenix. There are so few of us left now…"

"You and Mum were part of the resistance in the war? You fought?"

"I was deemed more useful at the ministry. And like I said, Molly only helped when she felt she could. She did a lot of protective enchantments on robes for members, always sent her brothers with extra food to meetings. Those were lean and scary days." His father rubbed a hand over his face, looking again like the kind, middle-aged man he knew and loved. "How much do you remember of the day your uncles died?"

9 October 1981

"No."

Bill looked up from his word search, putting a finger down to keep the word quoth in place as it tried to escape and hide behind the picture on the right side of the page. Mum sounded wrong.

He knew her angry voice, her happy voice, her oh-Merlin-not-again-Bill voice. But not this one.

"No, you turn around, Alastor. You turn around right now."

Quoth forgotten, Bill hopped down from his chair and padded out to the hallway cautiously.

"Molly, just sit down, won't you? Let's call Arthur down. How about that, lad? Go and get your father?"

Bill couldn't move. He was staring at his mother's face. It seemed frozen, cold and white and blank. Her hands were shaking, and he reached over to put his small palm in hers.

"Mum?"

"No, no no no nooooo." She gripped his hand as she sank to the floor, his uncles' scarred and scary friend Moody hurrying forward to help her to the bench at the kitchen table. "Please, Alastor. Please."

"Son, your father. Go and get him."

Bill could feel his own tears burning hot in his eyes, held back only by his confusion. When he pulled at his hand, she let him go without really looking at him.

Dad was in the attic. Bill had never run faster up the stairs.

"…and that is why we don't throw jam at the gnomes, boys." His father looked up as Bill burst into the dusty space and Bill saw his posture change, his entire body tensed and his wand drawn. "What is it, Bill? Quickly."

"M-Moody, sir. Downstairs. Mum's crying."

"Good god. Take the twins to their room, Bill. Are Charlie and Percy upstairs?"

He nodded mutely, holding out his hands for his sticky, smiling little brothers. Dad hurried past them, descending at a terrific speed.

Bill had just settled them into their play corner when his mother screamed. Fred and George immediately started crying. One level down, he heard baby Ginny and little Ron join in, waking from their naps in tears. Charlie came bursting in, a wide-eyed Percy behind him.

"What's happening?"

"Did you make her mad again, Bill?" Percy's question was quiet, but Bill sent him a glare anyway.

"No! Mr. Moody came and she just," he didn't really know how to explain. She might rage and sigh and fret, but Mum didn't cry. "Something awful's happened. You keep them quiet and I'll go find out." He looked to Charlie. "You know I'm quieter than you."

"Are not! You tripped over the loose stair last week."

"Shut it," he snapped. They both clenched their fists, ready to settle this like brothers, when footsteps on the stairs leading up to this room made them pause.

Dad was supporting Mum on the near side, Alastor Moody on the far one, but his false eye spun in the direction of the five boys bickering in the toddlers' room. They all held their breaths as the three of them passed the doorway and continued up to Mum and Dad's room, on the next level.

They could hear Molly gasping around her sobs. She kept saying, "Heroes. Stupid bloody heroes."

Moody returned first. He paused at the doorway and turned both eyes to survey them. "Five." He shook his head and continued to the first floor, but they could hear him muttering "five" all the way down.

When Arthur came slowly down the steps, Bill was waiting for him. "Dad?"

His father blinked and turned to him with eyes full of shock. Then he looked over his head at the other four seated on the twins' beds. "Yes, I suppose I had better tell you."

He guided them back inside the room and sat down heavily. "Your uncles, Gideon and Fabian…"

There was a long pause, and a heavy weight settled in Bill's stomach. Charlie was hanging onto the headboard. Even Percy looked serious.

"They died today."

Percy started to cry.

"And your mother is very, very sad."

"Both of them?" Charlie whispered.

Arthur nodded. "They – yes, both of them."

No one spoke for a moment. Bill swallowed back the tears that had threatened from the moment he'd seen his mother's pain. Still, his voice sounded thin and sad even to his own ears. "Why?"

His dad's big hand landed on his shoulder. "Oh, Bill. Because they were brave men, who knew what was most important and wanted you, wanted us all to live free of fear."

That didn't sound particularly deadly, but he supposed he didn't know that much about it.

"I need to talk to Moody," Dad said quietly. "Fred and George, you stay here with Charlie. Percy will you please help Bill with Ron and Ginny?"

Percy nodded tearfully, wiping at his face with his sleeve. Arthur led them out, opening the door to the babies' room with a solemn "Thank you."

Ron had already fallen back asleep, soothed by the house's sudden descent back into silence. Percy sat down next to his bed and folded his little arms, prepared to guard the drooling infant. Bill tried to smile his approval, but it felt like he was only moving his mouth around oddly.

He lifted tiny baby Ginny and rocked her, pacing the room. Her wails quieted slowly, turning into hiccups and then baby snores. He could have put her down, then, but just kept pacing. It felt better, holding her.

Bill thought to the last time he'd seen Uncle Fabian. He'd caught him pilfering a biscuit last Sunday and said, very seriously, You are going to break your poor mother's heart one of these days.

His Uncle Gideon had been tired but laughing when he'd refereed a quick quidditch game two weeks earlier. Bill, frustrated with Charlie's quickness to the quaffle had hooked his leg and tumbled his brother off his broom. Gideon had called him over to discuss the foul. Think you're almost a man, don't you, Billy boy? Kid, you've got a long way to go. You'll have to start listening to your mother, for one thing.

He'd been so mad that he'd stomped off the field and cried to Mum about how he wasn't a little boy any longer. She'd solemnly agreed, then wiped his nose and attempted to smooth down his cowlick. He hated when she did that.

Percy was almost asleep, his head against Ron's bed, chubby arms still crossed. Charlie and the twins were playing up above them, but even that was relatively subdued.

Bill laid his sister gently back in her cradle. He thought about his father's face when he'd said Your mother is very, very sad. Then he made a decision.

He would be a brave man. A good man his mother could be proud of, like she was of Gideon and Fabian. A man they would be proud of, who listened to his mother and never made her cry like this again.

1 July 1995

"But, Bill, are you sure?" Molly turned to look at him from her spot at the stove, and her eyebrows drew together. "A transfer? I thought they gave you trouble for just taking the time off."

He'd written to Charlie. There had been a few late night conversations with his father.

But really, the decision was made long ago.

"If this gets as bad – anywhere near as bad as it was, before," he said, "Gringotts won't be safe either. I wouldn't feel right, running back to Egypt now. The fight is here."

"You sound like Gideon." Her eyes filled. "He was the believer. He always said I should have fought, that they needed me. Back then. But you were all so little, and Arthur and I had hoped…" She looked back down at the bubbling pot she'd been tending and moved it to a cool spot. "I've always wondered, if I had been there – if it had been three against five, and not two, maybe they'd have gotten old with me. Seen you all grow up."

Bill put a hand on her shoulder and she reached up to cover it with her own. She seemed small, fragile, sad. "Mum, don't."

Then, just like Dad a week earlier, she changed in front of his eyes. Her back straightened and her round face beamed determination.

"It's different this time. We know what's coming. And what's at stake. I suppose I'd better dust off my dueling gloves."

"Dueling gloves?"

"Well, it's been a few years," she smiled with no small amount of pride. "But I won the Inter-House Dueling Cup three tournaments in a row. Arthur always said I was a bit intimidating."

"Quick on the draw, were you?" he grinned. "This on top of the sneaking around Hogwarts after hours. I'm feeling like Fred and George didn't fall so far from the tree after all."

She brushed her hands on her apron and shook her head. "You're never to breathe a word."

"Unfair, Mum. It would reshape their entire world."

"And why would we want to do that? It's hard enough to get them to focus on school as it is. Not like you." She stretched up and kissed him on the cheek, her hand lingering on his face as she sobered. "Oh, but if you stay, promise me you'll be careful. I know it seems glamorous, fighting dark wizards and… but you remember well enough, when we lost my brothers. Promise?"

He nodded seriously. "You know you can count on me."

"There was a time I'd never have guessed you'd grow up so responsible," she said, wiping at her eyes with the back of a rough hand.

"Mum, you make me sound so boring!" he teased, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. Then he moved to start peeling the potatoes with a flick of his wand. "I have an image to maintain, you know."

"Of course, dear."

She left to search out the spices for tonight's pie, and Bill watched her go with a smile.

So they would fight side by side. Time to show his uncles what he was made of.