Written for the Family Boot Camp challenge.

Charlie felt like he'd been crying nonstop since Bill left. His big brother had left a hole behind; sometimes Charlie felt as if it was a hole in his head.

Whenever Charlie went outside, to the orchard, he expected to look up and see Bill, already flying on his broom, hand raised in a wave as he looked down at Charlie. Or lazing on a high tree branch, dangling legs and bare feet the only visible part of his older brother. Instead there was nothing. No Bill. Charlie's eyes would start to sting every time he looked up, up to the sky, up a tree, and there was no Bill to greet him.

Whenever Charlie went to the table to eat, he expected to see Bill across from him, making faces at their younger siblings. Making them and Charlie - rarely Percy - laugh. Then he'd look, really look and Bill wouldn't be there. Whenever someone else would move as if to sit across from Charlie, he'd want to cry out, no, don't sit there. That's Bill's seat. He never did, a few times he even had to bite his tongue so he wouldn't.

The nights were the worst. Charlie had always assumed that when his younger siblings grew up - Ginny and Ron, especially - he and Bill, when they were home from Hogwarts, would share a bedroom. It felt to Charlie like they already did. They often slept in the same bed, in either of their rooms, just so they didn't have to be alone - vulnerable, as they slept.

It was because of the nightmares they both had, remnants of You-Know-Who's reign of terror. The twins and Percy were a bit too young to remember properly.

The oldest Weasley sons were not; so they were a source of comfort to each other at night. A shoulder to cry on, a scruffy head of hair to ruffle after they'd both been startled awake and were still gripped in the residual terror of their dreams - their memories.

But now Charlie was alone.

He slept alone.

And he was scared. Scared that he'd be taken in the night, scared of the noises that woke him until he realised that it was only the clanking of the plumbing (just the plumbing, it needs to be fixed again - that's all). Until he realised that it was just his youngest siblings (they're not being tortured in their beds, they're just hungry or too cold or need changing). And he would try to calm his racing heart, try and fail.

Once Percy, bleary-eyed, had pattered into his room, barefoot and sniffling a little. He'd had a nightmare, rare for him, but not as rare as Charlie would have liked.

Charlie had pulled back his covers, patted the seemingly wide space beside him. It gave him a strange sense that he was now Bill. He was now the one to hold his younger brother close, nose in his hair, breathing him in; he was now the one ruffling those same strands of hair after Percy, still awake, yawned his thanks.

That had been a strange night.

When Percy had a nightmare and Bill had been home, their older brother had told them stories until one of them or both - it was usually both - fell asleep to the sound of his soft, yet still animated, voice.

Charlie hadn't known any stories, so he'd told jokes. Up until his and Percy's laughter had gotten so loud he had to stop for fear of waking someone up, that is.

Weeks went by, at an agonisingly slow pace, and there was no word from his big brother. Only a few short letters to mum and dad. Well, they were addressed to the whole family but Charlie knew they were really for mum and dad, who both worried - a lot.

It took no time at all for Charlie to wonder if Bill had forgotten him. Wonder if Bill had really made lots of friends, and if those lots of friends had filled up the space where Charlie had been in his life.

Charlie hoped not. He hoped Bill missed him just as much as Charlie missed his big brother, if not more! It didn't even cross his mind that that was a rather selfish thought, that he may not be the only one who missed Bill, or who Bill could miss. He was too consumed by his sadness.

A sadness so strong it felt like a second shadow - because it was always with him, day and night. Week after endless week.

Charlie hadn't even been allowed to go to King's Cross with Bill and dad.

"But why?" Charlie had whispered, staring up at his parents with wide eyes.

As if on cue Ginny, in his mum's arms, started to wail. Tutting, his mother had left the room - going by the sudden stench, probably to change Ginny's nappy. Charlie hadn't missed the look she'd given his father before doing so.

His father who'd been left to explain. "Work," he'd said with an apologetic smile, "I have to go to work as soon as I see Bill off." To this day, Charlie wasn't sure that had been the whole truth. He thought it may have been: your mother needs you here.

Didn't she always?

Bill had said his goodbyes at the house before he left. (Left without Charlie.)

"I'll send you something." Bill had promised, hugging Charlie to his chest.

"You better," was Charlie's reply. He'd held in his tears, then. Even now he didn't let anyone see him cry. But especially not his parents. He always made sure he had wiped his eyes before they saw him.

He thought his dad may have caught him doing just that one day, a whole month into Bill's first year at Hogwarts. He'd squeezed Charlie's shoulder, and Charlie had hoped - rather foolishly - that he would treat him to one of his 'bear hugs', as Muggles called them. Charlie couldn't remember how long it had been since his dad had given him one of those.

But his dad didn't give him a bear hug; he just left - probably to go to his shed.

Charlie tried extra hard to hide his tears after that day.

And then Bill sent him a gift! It came with a long letter about Bill's time at Hogwarts. Charlie had been so pleased; Bill hadn't forgotten him! He'd just been busy with schoolwork, which he'd had a lot of.

The gift was a quill Bill had failed to successfully turn into a needle during Transfiguration. In the comfort and privacy of his room, after running his fingers over the silvery, slightly cool quill in his palm, Charlie laughed.

He laughed until tears came to his eyes.

But Charlie's laughter didn't give way to him actually crying, all over again, until the day Bill came home for Christmas. He'd run to his big brother (was it his imagination or had Bill gotten taller), and thrown his arms around his neck, thinking, Best Christmas present ever!