This year's Weasley Christmas Extravaganza was held at Shell Cottage, under a lilac sky with salt on the air. The sea change was welcomed by all. The raucousness that ensued at special occasions in The Burrow seemed incapable of coming into being here. A solemnity pressed down on them from the stars, suiting thoughts of those the war had swept away.

Bill and Fleur were delighted to play host as well. Hermione loved to watch them together as they entertained and organised, running seamlessly alongside one another as if their thoughts flowed in one continuous stream. They were always touching; Bill's hand on Fleur's waist as she laid cutlery, her thin fingers resting in the crook of his arm as he lit the lamps, their hands tightly twined and white in the firelight as they toasted lost friends, and an absent brother.

She watched them and she thought of Draco. She watched them, and wondered why their affection led her thoughts straight to him.

Hermione rubbed a hand lightly over the faint swell pushing at the bottom of her cardigan. More than ever, she felt the reality of impending motherhood. She wanted a whole life for her child – one with a loving father and a close-knit family, not a distant father who swung by on special occasions, out of a sense of duty rather than love.

'Mione,' Ron voiced from next to her, through a mouthful of black bean burrito (he'd adopted vegetarianism sometime in the last week in an attempt to convince her how valuable he was as a mate with his dedication to protecting more vulnerable life forms from his own ravenous appetite).

'You okay?'

His hand reached out to touch the one resting on her stomach, but she brushed it away.

'I'm fine. Just, trying to find something that won't upset my stomach.'

'Have you tried the honey ginger chicken dear?' Molly called from the other end of the table. 'It always went down well when I was expecting each of the boys, though Ginny hated it. Just have a pick away at a salad if you're feeling nauseous – it's important that you eat something, after all.'

- o -

After dinner, Hermione was bathing in the warmth of one of Fluer's many Himalayan salt lamps when Bill Weasley approached her. He looked, as usual, quite rough around the edges: long pink scars ran from temple to chin on the right side of his face and his shaggy hair brushed his shoulders. His jaw was rough with reddish stubble and the ever-present fanged earing swung in its usual place. In the dim half-light of the den, Hermione couldn't help recalling everyone's uncertainty about the effects of Fenrir's attack. It had been years, and Bill had never transformed. He'd never hurt anyone, but there was something in his eyes at that moment that made her recall conversations of 'possible animalistic behaviours.'

Bill stepped closer to her, into the circle of lamplight, and his eyes subtly warmed. His lips twitched in a nervous smile, which she returned.

'Can I talk to you for a moment, Mione?' he asked. 'Away from the others.'

'Of course,' she said automatically, and got hastily to her feet. 'Where would you like to go?'

'This way.'

The eldest Weasley brother turned on his heel and slid quietly to the door that lead on to the wooden veranda. Hermione glanced about for Harry or Ron, hoping to let someone know where she was going, but the room was empty, and she followed the other Weasley without a word.

Outside, the sea breeze was brisk and cold. Bill had paused for a moment at the top of the stairs leading down to the sand. When Hermione closed the door with a soft snick he strode off into the dunes, obviously trusting that she would follow. By the time he had stopped, Shell Cottage was a prick of yellow light in the distance. He whirled to face Hermione, and grasped her shoulders gently with his large hands. Illuminated by dull moonlight, the look on his face was so unlike Bill Weasley it made her heart leap into her throat.

'Hermione Jean Granger,' he said. 'You tell me the truth, right now. Was this child conceived under the effects of a love potion?'

Hermione stumbled backward, her bare foot catching under a coastal vine. Bill caught her, and drew her closer to him. His scarred face was inches from hers. He was panting.

'I have to know Hermione. Please.'

'Draco would never…' she paused, took a deep breath, continued. 'I submitted to him willingly. I am carrying his child, willingly.' She looked Bill dead in the eye, and placed a shaking hand over his heart. She felt its wild thundering pace. 'I have never loved Draco, but I have chosen to bear our gift.'

Bill's blue eyes searched hers for one more moment before his grip relaxed, and he lurched back to lean heavily against the face of a sand dune.

Hermione regained her balance, wrapped her heavy coat protectively around her middle, and sank to the ground, trembling slightly.

'Why is this so important to you?'

Under the rustling of spinifex, all she heard was his heavy breathing.

'Bill. Tell me why.'

In a strangled voice, the eldest Weasley began, 'A child that is conceived under the influence of a love potion will never know real love.'

'Like Tom Riddle,' Hermione added. She'd researched the phenomena herself when she came across a mentioning of it in Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century. Her knowledge was rudimentary, however, given the surprising lack of research into the condition. She regarded Bill curiously, wondering what he could tell her that she did not already know.

'Yes. Like Voldemort.' He scratched at the stubbled on his chin, and ran a hand over his mouth before continuing. 'It is possible to learn. A child like this who is born into the right family will learn the value of love, and how to emulate it. Voldemort, who grew up in an orphanage and was never loved himself, developed no knowledge of the workings of the heart. Thankfully, most of these children do not grow into mass murderers. They can get by, but the euphoria of affection will almost always elude them forever.' He looked up at her then, his brow knitted in anguish. 'It is a lamentable existence, Hermione, and I had to know that you would not be unwittingly inflicting the same upon your own child.'

Hermione moved herself so that she was sat next to Bill on the side of the dune. He looked away from her, towards the half-moon hanging just above the horizon. His eyelashes glistened wetly, and Hermione realised with a start that this was the first time she had seen Bill Weasley cry. Even the morning after the final battle, as so many lay dead or dying, he'd stood firm for his family. If he'd shed a tear, it was where no one else could see.

'Your Mother,' Hermione whispered.

'My Father. An accident. He only meant for Molly to notice him. He didn't intend for things to go so far.'

A cloud flitted across the moon. Softly, she reached out and took his hand. She had been close with Bill since their first meeting when she'd accompanied the Weasleys to the Quidditch World Cup. His fortitude and academic prowess were admirable, and they had gotten along well, with Hermione fancying him a little, before their relationship settled into one more of mentorship. Still, she should have noticed something – some small sign of apathy that signalled Bill couldn't love like the rest of them could.

'This is… unexpected,' she voiced.

'Though not entirely unheard of.'

'I've never researched this, but there aren't any restrictions on the legal use of love potions, are there?'

'There are some on the use of such potions in magical-muggle relationships. Those without magic have no awareness or defence against that kind of influence, so it is extremely frowned upon, though not illegal. In magical relationships, love potions are a triviality, something that just happens. In the worst cases, the victim is often blamed for failing to detect the potion in the first place.'

'But that's…' Hermione struggled to keep herself from spluttering in indignation. 'There should be inquiries into this condition, more restrictions on the potions. The people using them out to be held accountable.' She blushed awkwardly after saying this, remembering that they were speaking directly about Mr Weasley. 'I'm sure your father didn't mean any harm, but if he'd just been educated before hand…'

'Perhaps.'

Hermione squeezed Bill's hand. They sat for several moments in companionable silence, listening to the keening sound of the wind across the water. Then, Bill gently pulled his hand away and cautiously lowered it towards her stomach. Hermione stiffened for a moment, and then relaxed when she realised he wanted nothing more than to feel the slight swell and gaze in wonder.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered after a moment, dropping his hand back into his own lap. 'Fleur and I are… we're trying for baby of our own. I am… terrified.'

'Bill…'

'I'm worried I won't feel for it what I feel for Fleur. When I'm with my wife, everything is in its place. Everything is warm and bright and there is a lightness in my soul that no-one else has ever brought to me.'

'You love her.'

'I love her,' Bill agreed. He broke into a wide grin, a single tear dislodging and sliding along his cheekbone. 'This must be love. She tells me it is. I feel this incredible warmth in my chest when she looks at me. And I know, I know it comes down to her blood, her Veela blood, but I can't help feeling in my heart that we crossed paths for a reason.'

'You're scared that you won't feel the same for your children.'

Hermione's chest ached with sympathy for Bill. All these years, and she'd never know the silent torment and constant questions that threatened to tear him apart. She felt suddenly and incredibly glad that the universe had thrust Fleur into his path.

'You will love your children, Bill. I know it. We're logical people, both of us, and sometimes it's easy to focus on chance and probability. But I think that when it comes to something like this, and someone like you, all the odds are going to be in your favour.'

'Someone like me.' Bill smiled a modest smile. 'You really are something, Hermione. I hope you find as much happiness with your little one as I've found with Fleur.'

- o -

As they wandered back towards the cluster of faint yellow stars that were the windows of Shell Cottage, Hermione thought of Draco. His character and Bill's came together and clashed horribly in her mind as she pondered what she truly wanted. Bill was everything she'd dreamed of as a child, when she imagined that perfect family. He was loyal, soulful, fiercely protective. Draco was distant, brooding, and unable to sweep aside his own issues to deal with the problems that concerned them both equally.

Her fingers lightly brushed against her stomach, and Hermione took a deep breath. Everything would work out. Her child would always have her. And the Weasleys would always be there for them. They'd make it through, with Draco or without him.