They all looked scared. Heck, some of them even looked downright petrified. Their knobby little knees shook. Their eyes darted from one direction to the next as though the were some horribly guilty criminal. Their hands went to their mouths as they chewed at fingernails already sheared to the pink and, in some cases, terribly beyond. Their lower and upper lips sucked in as they chewed off excess skin—one girl, red as a beet, wiped roughly at her bleeding lips. It didn't help in the slightest. She apparently tried to ignore it, then tried again, as though everyone could notice. Bill certainly couldn't, and wouldn't have if she hadn't gone crazy wiping.

Good, he thought, suitably content. He was even content enough to tuck back into his fourth helping of delicious chicken, slathered in some sort of sauce that he couldn't be bothered to think of. What mattered was how good it made the chicken taste. And there was no need for him not to spoon some black pudding into his mouth, as well. After all, he wasn't too full yet, and the night was going pretty well by now.

The sound of chewing reverberated into his mind, only drowned out by the screaming in his mind that said to take another helping. It was delicious. But when he swallowed, he paused only slightly to allow his other thoughts to take hold. Continuing with what he'd been thinking before, he thought, They're all making complete fools of themselves this year. Even Charlie can't be worse than that. Right?

He fought the urge to look back to the huddling mass of first years. This moment was crucial. And it set his heart to pounding as he thought of everything that could happen to Charlie. No, forget Charlie. What about Bill? If Charlie didn't get this right, he'd be hopeless, and that was that. More work was not what Bill had in mind. Not in the slightest.

"Cassandra Wealyrfang!"

That was awfully close to Weasley, Bill thought. He frowned. Why couldn't they get it over with already?! There was something particularly foreboding about the situation, so why couldn't it be over with already?

He grabbed another chicken leg and crammed it into his mouth, knowing full well that this situation would reflect on him for the next few years of his life. He'd either be a cool, amazing guy or someone related to a clumsy—

A mouth moved in front of him. One of his friends. Hastily, Bill swallowed, then almost choked, to clear his hearing and thoughts. "Isn't that your brother?" the other boy asked.

Bill turned his attention to the Sorting, but worked to do so slowly. And he saw his brother, peaky and pasty with blindingly red cheeks and equally red hair, making his way to the Sorting Hat. He looked horrified to see that he was next in line. And he stepped up, and…

Bill's heart clenched.

Charlie had almost tripped. How? Why? If that kid messed up, everything would go wrong. There would be so much work to do and covering up that Charlie was his brother…

Then Charlie sat down, slumping into his seat as though exhausted, before straightening stiffly once more. Bill breathed a sigh of relief. Now, as long as Charlie became a Gryffindor, there would be virtually nothing to do. Though, why did he have to give his brother words of encouragement anyway?

Because I don't want a howler. Because I don't want Mom to be mad. Because I don't want my reputation to be ruined.

So Bill knew he'd obey, no matter how much he sincerely did not want to, because of his mother's words: "Bill, honey, can you please help Charlie out once he gets to Hogwarts? Just once?"

Bill had been outraged, so much so that, for the longest time, he'd said nothing. His mouth went slack. At Hogwarts, he was cool! It was bad enough having someone related to you come to the same school, but having to talk to them? That was almost too much to ask. Almost. Howlers were even more embarrassing, though.

"Gryffindor!" the hat yelled. Blinking, Bill looked towards Charlie, who seemed to be flushed red with some unusual mixture of excitement and maybe nervousness, too. That, in essence, made Bill squirm even more. Charlie only got more clumsy when he was nervous.

Get down the stair things! Get down!

Charlie, at that exact moment, made a squeaking sound like a squeaky toy and plummeted onto his stomach. A blanket of stillness filled the room, replaced only by the whoomph sound that came as the air was driven out of Charlie's lungs. Bill put his sauce-slathered hand on his forehead and hastily looked away.

I didn't mean fall down the stair things!

"I don't know that kid," he grumbled finally, then turned back to his chicken.

In the hustle and bustle of the corridor, Bill knew that no one would see anything. At least, he hoped that no one would see anything. Either way, it didn't matter. What had to be done had to be done, and that was that.

He finally picked out his brother from the crowd, looking considerably downcast, and grabbed him by the scruff and pulled him into the corner with him.

"Bill?"

Bill slapped his hand over the kid's mouth, squishing himself even closer to the wall as a few of his friends passed by. Then he looked back to his brother and mumbled, "You say anything and you're dead."

At that, Charlie merely kicked him. Bill shrieked at the top of his lungs, but still didn't let go. Instead, he began to speak hastily, "Because of your little spill, you're probably gonna be called a klutz for the rest of your life. You know it's true. So what you have to do is trip again, spill your books all over the place—"

Charlie opened his mouth in outrage, and Bill simply tightened the grip, making the other boy's lips poke out like a duck's bill, continuing, "And joke about yourself. It'll make it better, trust me."

As quickly as that, Bill turned around and began to stalk away.

"But—"

"I wasn't here," Bill snapped over his shoulder, "and I don't know you." Then he was lost around billowing black robes.

For some reason, Bill felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. It was a most unusual feeling, like he was a little bit happy about... something.

He shrugged. It was probably just that he wouldn't be getting a Howler.

Deep down, he knew that it was bigger than that. But he didn't acknowledge it—he only smiled to himself very, very faintly, so faintly that he barely knew it had happened.