A/N: Well – it's been some delay. I'm finally getting back to this one and my others… sorry for anyone who's been waiting, but I have time again at long last. I hope this chapter (and assorted others) will have been worth the wait.

Ginny can't stop clutching at the small silver broomstick she keeps in her pocket. Whenever anyone asks her for something – and it seems like someone is always asking her for something these days – she unconsciously tightens her grip before she answers. It's as if this broom is the only thing bringing her strength these days.

Looking at anyone in her family threatens to drown her in weakness. She's let the waves consume her too many times already. The first time, she really wasn't able to help it. She'd only just found out about Fred, and Mum was a wreck, and really, she could hardly think at all let alone think of what she was doing.

The other time – well, she knows that Charlie needed to cry – as much as she hates to think that. And if it took her tears to release his, then maybe that one time, it was worth it. But really, that's it. It has to be it, she finds herself thinking almost desperately as her fingers run over the smooth handle of the broomstick. It's just – well, it's just too hard, otherwise.

Her eyes scan the room. Harry is sitting with Hermione and Ron, and none of them are speaking. She doesn't have to think about why Ron isn't. If there's anything she knows, it's that Ron is having a much harder time with this than he'll ever admit. As far as Hermione goes – well, her face is white, and she's holding Ron's hand, and Ginny finds herself wondering that her bones haven't been crushed to a fine powder yet because she's seen the way Ron grips her at times. When she looks at Harry, though, she feels a pang of guilt. She knows he'd prefer to be sitting with her. She knows he wants nothing more than to be able to put his arms around her and forget the world around them. She even let him do that once, but then she found herself pushing him away abruptly when she felt his breathing change. Suddenly her hand convulses on the broom. She'll never forget the look of mortification on his face even though she desperately wishes she could.

Her eyes drift over to Percy, and she forces herself to examine him for a moment though she would like nothing more than to pretend he isn't there. She can't help it. She can't forgive him yet. She knows Fred did. That's great. But she can't. Not yet.

She continues to scan the room, her eyes flicking quickly over her parents, over Charlie, over George, over Fleur, over Bill. Over Bill… when she looks at Bill, she feels as though she's been doused in ice cold water. But --- shouldn't it be George who does that to her? She looks at him again, expecting to feel the same chill, but she doesn't. Katie is sitting with him, Ginny realizes now, and he's leaned into her, and he, at least, seems almost relaxed for the first time. She sighs and lets her eyes return to Bill.

He is staring at the carpet, and he's blinking too quickly for Ginny to be at all comfortable with it. As she starts to process the muted conversation going on around her, though, she understands why.

It's the memorial service tomorrow. It's the funeral a few days after that. It's the thought of all of these ceremonies they still have to get through just to get through the rest of their lives. And it's too much for Bill, suddenly, and Ginny is the only one who isn't surprised when he bolts from the room, climbing through the portrait hole, his footsteps stumbling away. Fleur moves to stand, but Ginny pops out of her seat and motions for her sister-in-law to stay. Fleur, looking surprised (and Ginny can't really blame her), slowly sits back down, and Ginny silently turns and follows the path her oldest brother just took.

She doesn't have far to go. She hears Bill before she sees him, and her stomach twists. She knows he wants to be alone; she, of all people, knows that better than anyone else, but she'd said she would go, so there's no turning back now.

She finds him exactly where she knew she would. But she's never seen him like this before. He's huddled on the floor, just inside a classroom door, his knees drawn up his chest, and his head in his arms. Ginny's feet are like lead, but she makes her way over to him, and she crouches beside him. She knows that he knows she's there. He stiffened when he heard her footsteps after all, but she doesn't say anything for a moment. She doesn't trust herself to. Her fingers are clenched so tightly around the broom that she hardly realizes she's taken it out of her pocket until Bill lifts his head and looks at it rather than at his sister.

"Where did you get that?" he asks, his voice muted, and she finds herself looking at it, too, but she still can't seem to open her mouth. Finally, when she realizes that Bill is actually waiting for an answer, she clears her throat.

"Fr – Fred. He got it for me. When he and George opened the shop. It was from his first earnings. He told me he'd get me a real one just like it one day when I got recruited by one of those big…"

Her voice trails off because she couldn't say another word if she tried. It's just hit her – even if she's recruited by every Quidditch team in the world – Fred will never know. The only broom he'll ever get her is the one she is now clutching – the one that's suddenly being splashed by tears she didn't even realize were in her eyes.

"He wanted to," Bill whispers, and he pulls Ginny against him, holding her tightly.

It doesn't matter, she can't help but think, if he wanted to. The point is that can't anymore. He's gone – and I feel like all I have in the world is this stupid silver broomstick.

But she still can't let it go.