A/N: As I said before, this story is conversations between many different characters. In no particular timeline, or order, even if they will of course work together. Molly/Arthur was a request from Amaherst, so this is for her.

Day VII. Arthur/Molly.

She cries, and she can't stop. In front of the kids, she attempts to be discreet about it, making it a natural gesture to bring her fingertips to her tear channels every few seconds, not letting anything escape. Arthur knows that they're not stupid and that they can see what she's doing, or trying not to do. Molly knows it too, but she persists anyway. She cannot break down in front of her children.

As soon as they are alone however, she lets her guard down, sobbing unrestrainedly into his chest. Arthur attempts comfort the best he can, obviously, but more often than not, hot water finds it way down his nose too, onto her neck. (He doubts she even notices, though, as he barely does himself.)

At night, however, all traces of numbness and being strong for another are wiped away by the nightmares. They both sit up in their sleep, panicking, with wet cheeks. Sometimes, they're in sync, waking almost simultaneously. Otherwise, the one who is awoken by the other's nightmare attempts comfort, but the consoling usually turns into a shared crying session instead. Somehow, it's even worse at night, at least for him. Because when you sleep, you almost forget, almost, until the nightmare reminds you. And then it washes over you, all over again. It's worse at night.

Right now, it's late evening and that's the hardest time for his wife. Having used all of her strength (and a lot more) to keep herself going during the day, her ground falters. She falls, and he's there to catch her.

When her flow of tears eases (it never seems to end properly), she stays close to him, breathing shakily into his shirt. They should be sleeping by now, but he knows she's afraid to close her eyes. It's been that way for years now – years – but he also knows that the already horrific nightmares have gotten worse since last week, even more vivid (even worse than they were a million years ago, when she had just lost her little brothers, and woke up screaming every other hour).

He wants to say something, but there is nothing to say anymore. He can't promise her that everything will be fine, like he always used to. Not now that it's not unlikely anymore - it's not even possible.

"Do you… do you think Charlie meant it?" Molly whispers, her voice barely audible against his neck.

"That he's staying here indefinitely?" Arthur replies, relieved at the slight change of topic (well, it's not, really, because Charlie would never consider staying here if it wasn't for the event that Arthur's trying not to think about, but he can pretend). "Yes, I believe so."

She's quiet for a while, and he wants to pretend he can't hear her swallowing before continuing. "I… I know I'd love to have him here again, but I… do you really think it's the best thing for him? To put his life on hold like that? Just because…"

He knows better than to expect her to finish that sentence, so he nods, letting her know that there's no need, but taking a minute to ponder her words. "I do," he finally states with more conviction than he feels. "I think he needs to be here. For himself, and for the others. They all need each other – right now."

"Bill needs him," she agrees unevenly. "Oh, I'm so worried about him, Arthur. He… he's trying to be so responsible, taking care of everyone else. I want to let him know that there's no need for that, that he needs to give himself some – some time. But I… I don't even know how to get through to him anymore."

Arthur tightens his grip around her, blinking hard against the wave of guilt. Bill wouldn't have needed to pick up so much slack if he'd have known how to take care of his children. But he doesn't. He tries, of course, but Molly is the only one he really knows how to deal with.

"I don't either," he admits, his voice shakier than he would have liked. "But Charlie might. And I am fairly confident that at least Fleur knows how to deal with him. We… we'll just have to trust her to… to take care of him."

She nods, wiping at her constantly leaking eyes. "I saw them at… at the funeral," she mumbles. "She really did seem to know how to… how to…"

She can't go on, and he shudders with her as her shoulders start trembling again. "She did," he affirms, sighing. "Molly, I know it's hard, but I think we'll just have to leave him to her, for now. If he needs us, he knows we're here." (But he wishes so much that Bill would instead come to him, letting him be useful.)

As if she's reading his mind, she exclaims with a sniffle, "But I hate it! I hate that he doesn't need me anymore."

"I know," he says quietly, taking one of her hands in his. "But we shouldn't think like that. We should be grateful that our children have others to care for them too. You know as well as I do that Ron never would've made it through these days without Hermione. Bill wouldn't have been able to take care of everyone else if he hadn't had Fleur to be there for him, and by now Ginny and Harry seem to be depending on each other almost as much."

Her agitated protest gets lost in his shirt, and he asks her to repeat it, even though he can guess the gist.

"Ginny's not letting Harry in!" she repeats, looking up at him, eyes glimmering in the darkness. "Didn't you see her at… at the f-funeral? She… she looked so… so numb, so lost. She wasn't accepting anyone's comfort, she wasn't even touching anyone. Not even H-Harry."

Of course he remembers. A father will never forget the image of his daughter so lonely, so devastated. Never. But he has to be optimistic tonight. When one of them is too close to falling off the edge to hopelessness, the other one has to drag him or her back up.

"I know, and it concerned me too," he says as calmly as he can. "But haven't you seen them together since? Yesterday, in the living room, when she fell asleep against his shoulder? They're getting there."

She nods, and he lets out a breath of relief, taking the opportunity to move on to his right now most pressing concern. "They'll be okay," he assures her again, then continues. "In fact, I'm a lot more worried about Percy. He doesn't have anyone outside the family to turn to, and I don't think he trusts us to trust him enough to let anyone in quite yet."

"He… he's feeling so guilty," she whispers. "I… I wish we could just make him see that we don't blame him. That he's just as much a part of this family as anyone else. That… that we have forgiven him, and he should forgive himself."

"I'm afraid it's not that easy, Molly. Especially not after…" he stops himself, still unable to speak the name of the son he has lost (he wonders if he ever won't be). "After last week," he says instead. "And with Ginny barely speaking to him…"

"I know," she sighs with a grimace. "I've been meaning to talk to her about that."

"Actually, I was thinking I could do that tomorrow, if you don't mind." He feels that this is a conversation for him, not for Molly. He's not sure why, but it has something to do with the fact that Ginny will be a lot more likely to listen to someone composed and sensible – not emotional. And right now, he doesn't trust his wife to accomplish that.

"Okay. That sounds good." She seems mostly relieved, and he plunges on.

"I think the others might've gotten through to Percy a bit today, though."

"Really?" Her head snaps up and there's an almost-smile behind her red-rimmed eyes.

He nods. "I saw Bill, Charlie, George and Ron coming out of his room with him today. It was obvious that at least Percy and George had been crying, but they seemed… all right, I guess. Didn't you notice how Percy seemed a bit less – distant – at dinner?"

"I – yes. I did," she says thoughtfully, biting her lip as though trying to prevent the following words from escaping. "But… but George…"

It's enough. Just his name is enough to set her off these days. Him too, when they're alone. The mere thought of the indescribable pain their son is going through and will always have to live with, the hollowness in his eyes, his nightly cries after his twin, his violent shaking as they find him after a nightmare… It is unbearable for a parent to watch their child suffer like this, knowing there is nothing, nothing, they can do.

"He'll be all right," Arthur forces himself to assure her, smoothing her hair affectionately (after all, it's still his night of optimism). "He will. We'll all be there for him, every step of the way. We've already seen how they're all ready to step in when things get rough. Percy might've had some trouble with it, but he's trying, and I think he's getting there. Ron, Ginny and Bill have others to lean on that'll help them be strong enough to be there for him. Charlie has decided to stay, and I believe that was jus as much for George's sake as for Bill's and his own. And today, George even seemed to be able to help Percy. They… they'll get through this, together. We – we'll make sure of that."

He wants to believe his own words. He almost does.

"But… what if…?" Her doubtful, trembling voice is interrupted by his strong, determined one.

"Molly, don't, please. They'll get through this. We will get through this. I promise."

"You promise?" she asks breathlessly, her eyes begging him.

"I promise, Molly, I promise."

Somehow, he kind of believes it then, and not just because it is his night of optimism. But because it just might be possible after all. They can do this. They have to, don't they?

A/N: Even if I said that these will come in no particular timeline, I do plan to do all the conversations I allude to. A Ron/Hermione one will come eventually, obviously. And a Bill/Charlie/Percy/George/Ron conversation too. Just be patient, okay? Anyway, if anyone's interested, the funeral itself won't be part of this story, but it can be read as my oneshot "Not Touching Anyone".

Oh, and please let me know what you thought of this. My first time writing the Weasley parents, and I'd love to know how I did!