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Fleur sniffed softly in her sleep and tucked herself closer to Bill without waking up. Bill smiled, his fingers gently smoothing a strand of her silvery blonde hair. Fleur was truly interesting to watch while she slept—not that she was uninteresting when she was awake.

She had always slept very close to him. He did not know what it was, but something drove her to stay as close to Bill as possible, from the very first night at his flat, almost three and a half years ago. He gazed down at her, hypnotized. Why couldn't he let himself be as free to pull her closer, to assure her that nothing was wrong, that he loved her no matter what?

She stirred again, and Bill felt a slight lump rise in his throat. It was suddenly crashing over him how rarely he had made time for Fleur in the last six months. She had willingly opened their home to Harry, the most wanted man in the world, and six other escaped prisoners of the Death Eaters for more than a month. Then she had thrown herself headfirst into trying to help his parents pick up the pieces after everything that happened in May. And yet for the only half of their marriage that hadn't involved open warfare, Death Eaters, or Voldemort, he'd been focused on his family, work, and everything else that came up, to Fleur's neglect.

Was this the root of it all? Was Fleur afraid to speak to him because she felt that he would not have time to hear her? Or worse, that he would not care to hear her? And was he skirting around her because he was afraid that she would say exactly what he had just realized, and that she no longer wanted a part in it?

Fleur opened her eyes. "Good morning," she murmured happily. Then her smile faded. "Are you all right, chére? You look upset."

"No, I'm fine," he said, twisting his fingers into her hair. "I was just thinking."

Fleur frowned, pulling herself up so that she too leaned against the headboard. "About what?"

Bill took her hands in his, sitting up slightly. "I just wanted to talk to you about something. But I don't want to hurt you."

Fleur's breath seemed to catch. She stared unblinkingly at him. "Go on," she whispered.

Bill chewed his lip for a moment. "I owe you an apology," he began. "I've not been fair to you—well, about a couple of things, but I've not been fair mainly because you deserve a lot more than I've been giving you. And I know, it was a difficult way to spend our first year of being married, but still. You deserve better—Fleur?"

She had burst into tears, but was trying to hide it, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. She scrambled out of the bed, clutching her face. "I was afraid of zis!" she cried. "Bill—I don't know—what can I say to you?" She rushed suddenly towards him and seized his hand. "Bill, please, please, let me explain—"

"Fleur!" he cried, utterly shocked.

Fleur clung to him, tears sparkling in her eyes. "I am a veela—you know zis, yes? My muzzer—she could not 'ave me before eight years she was married to Papa—my grandmuzzer was twenty-two! We—not so long! Not so long for us, you know!"

"Fleur, you need to slow down, I can't understand you—no French—"

"Bill, do not be angry wiz me," she begged. "I did not tell you, but I should 'ave, to spare you ze pain—she was right! I am so sorry—I am so sorry, Bill—"

Only because he could not make her stop talking any other way, because she was hysterical and upset—Bill kissed her. Fleur relaxed immediately. He felt her arms go around him.

"Now," he said, pulling back after several long moments. "What is this about?"

Fleur drew a slow breath and released it. Then she looked up at him, giving a watery giggle. "Zat 'elped." Then she held up a warning finger. "Don't ever do eet again."

Bill pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "I won't. I promise. Now will you tell me what's going on?"

Fleur sighed. "First, I must say zat I plan on 'aving as many babies as we can fit in our 'ome."

He laughed again. "Well, that sounds like a plan to me."

"Good," she answered. "All right—let me go back to ze beginning…"

"What'd you get Ginny for Christmas?" Ron asked.

Harry was startled out of his reverie just in time, for the knife that he had enchanted to chop mince was coming dangerously close to his hand. He stopped it and looked around, startled. "Sorry?"

Ron looked very uncomfortable as he mixed pastry dough. "Just—what'd you get her?"

Harry stared at him, concerned. "What'd you get Hermione?"

Ron turned bright red and turned back to the counter. "Never mind," he muttered.

"Are you and Hermione at it again?" Harry asked. "She seems upset."

"Drop it, Harry," Ron told him, rather sharply.

Harry lifted his eyebrows; he could only see the back of Ron's neck and his ears, which were glowing scarlet. He shook his head and picked up the knife again, preparing to scoop the mince into a bowl.

Ron pounded the dough a bit more, then turned to face Harry. "Where d'you reckon George is?" he asked.

Harry shook his head. "I dunno, mate."

"Hermione said he'd write," Ron mumbled, almost to himself. "Mum's probably worried about it."

"Your mum knows he'll come back," Harry said, though even he was not entirely sure of this. And, although he cared about George and his whereabouts, Harry was rather more interested in determining why Ron was behaving so oddly. "Ron, what's going on with Hermione?"

"Hello?"

Harry turned, and Ron quickly returned to his dough. "Hi, Darya," Harry said, giving her a nod. Charlie's friend was very nice, though she seemed to be rather star-struck by Harry, who, even now, found her interest surprising. He had not drawn so much attention within the Burrow for years.

She came limping into the kitchen, looking very embarrassed, and holding a wrapped gift. "I was looking for Charlie's mother."

"She's not been down yet," Ron said harshly, without looking at her. Harry threw him a warning look, and turned to smile at Darya again.

"I think if you put it under the tree, it'd be all right," he said, nodding to the package in her hand.

"Can I help you with anything?" she asked, looking at the piles of vegetables that needed to be washed.

"We're fine," Ron muttered sourly.

"No, but thank you," said Harry, loudly enough that Darya couldn't hear Ron, who was plainly off in his own world. "We've got it under control."

Darya blinked. "All right," she said. "Will you let Charlie know I have gone for a walk?"

Harry stared at her; she still leaned on a cane, and he was not at all sure that she could walk very well. "Erm…sure…"

"Thank you," said Darya, and she left. Harry stared after her; she paused outside the garden gate, then continued on down the road in the direction of Ottery St. Catchpole.

"Harry, can you help me with something?"

Harry looked around at Ron; it was Hermione who had called out. At once, he and Ron had a furious and totally silent argument. Finally, he gave Ron a hard shove towards the kitchen door, shouting, "I'm washing carrots, Hermione, but Ron's coming!"

"Traitor," Ron hissed.

"Don't be a flobberworm," Harry hissed back, giving him a push. Dragging his feet, Ron disappeared into the sitting room.

"Hi," he mumbled to Hermione, and Harry rolled his eyes.

The kitchen door swung open, admitting Ginny, whose face was pink from the cold as she pulled off her gloves. "Was that Darya I saw leaving?" she asked Harry, coming to take a bit of mince and kiss his cheek.

Harry nodded. "She wanted to go for a morning walk, I guess."

Ginny stared at him. "How was she going to manage that?"

He shrugged, folding his arms as he gazed at her. "Where've you been?"

"The garden," she said, smiling mysteriously as she hoisted herself onto the counter and smirked at him. "Have you seen my mum this morning?" she asked. "Did she ask you to get all this ready?"

"Indirectly," Harry said. "Your dad's just gone out for more soup, but he says she'll be down later. I wouldn't worry," he told her gently, when she looked anxious. "I think if anyone's got this under control, it's your parents."

Ginny bit her lip. "I know."

"Honestly, Ron, I'll do it myself!"

Ron came pelting back into the kitchen, straight out the back door, without sparing even a glance at Harry and Ginny, who were very close together at the countertop. They looked at each other, stifling laughter, and Ginny slipped off the counter, hugging Harry close. He felt every muscle in his body relax, and hugged her back tighter.

"We'll have to do something about them," she sighed.

"Let's not rule out any Christmas miracles," said Harry.

"Has there been a letter from George?" Molly asked as she drank her soup; she was feeling tired, but much, much better. Still, Arthur had insisted that she stay in bed just long enough for some chicken soup, to be sure the fever was gone. She leaned against the headboard, her knitting project (Hermione's first-ever Weasley sweater) lying beside her.

Arthur was tidying the bedroom around her. "I don't think so, Molly," he said, meeting her eyes.

Molly's heart twisted, but she put on a bright voice. "Well, who knows? He might show up at three o'clock in the morning expecting dinner."

He gave her a tight smile. "I'm sure he'll get here as soon as he can," he agreed.

"Of course," Molly murmured. She set aside her empty bowl. "I need to do some cooking, Arthur, we've got all these people here tomorrow night."

"Take it easy," Arthur said, hurrying over and sitting down beside her. "I've already got Ron and Harry starting things for you." Molly arched an eyebrow. "Well, it doesn't sound as though they've wounded each other yet."

"Yet being the important word there," Molly agreed, pushing the blankets back.

"Molly, please relax," he begged, producing from his pocket a potion. "Take this, let me check for your fever, and then you can worry about us."

Molly took the bottle, closing her eyes and clutching it in her hand for a moment. "Arthur, darling—"

"I can't let you make yourself worse, like you were yesterday," Arthur was saying. He had gotten up and was straightening the room again.

"Arthur," she said, raising her voice. He stopped and faced her. "Come here." She beckoned for him to rejoin her on the bed. "I want to talk to you, please."

He sat down, and she took his hands gently in her own.

"I know that my being sick has been…stressful for you," she began. "And Arthur, you're so good at knowing when I need you, and why I need you. And I know that you're just trying to keep everyone close, like I am." She swallowed, trying to break the tremble in her voice.

"Molly," Arthur said, trying to reach up a hand to her cheek, but she held him fast.

"Just wait," she told him. "This—getting sick, I mean—it was my fault. It was all my own fault, it was my fault I ignored the warning signs, and it is my fault that you're so tightly wound, we can't even have a proper conversation about it." Her chin shook, and tears blurred her vision.

"Molly," he said again, "that's not true at all—"

"I've been trying to make you believe that I'm just fine," she said. "I couldn't bear the way you looked at me this summer. I just wanted to show you that I was all right." She took a slow, deep breath, and met his eyes. "I had a lot of opportunity to think, yesterday, and…I am not all right, nor will I be, ever again. But that doesn't mean I can't be happy."

She put her arms around him, bringing him into a tight embrace that he couldn't escape. "I'm sorry, Arthur," she whispered. "I really am. All I wanted was to make you feel better, but I've made it so much worse."

"Oh, Molly," he murmured, behind her back. He sniffled, hugging her. "I'm sorry, too."

Molly laughed, finally pulling back from him. "You know he'd be laughing at us, right now," she said, wiping away the tears on her cheeks.

"No," Arthur said, "He would've hidden fake wands around the house for us, then he would've laughed."

She gave another little sob, her shoulders shaking, and brushed away her tears again. "I think I've frightened our poor daughter enough," she said. "That was her, sitting with me yesterday?"

"Of course," Arthur told her. "She insisted. But I wouldn't worry. She and Harry were just downstairs with Hermione, having a great laugh."

Molly smiled. She started getting up from bed and moved to the closet to select her robes, a green set that Arthur had given her for Christmas one year.

"I love those ones on you," he said, getting up and kissing her cheek as he passed. She smiled.

"Hey, Mum," Charlie said brightly, coming into the overcrowded kitchen. His parents, Percy, Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Ginny were all crammed around the table, talking loudly as they ate their lunch. "How are you feeling?"

"Good afternoon, sleepyhead," she said happily, holding out one arm; Charlie bent and hugged her. "I'm just fine. Have all those hours ahead finally caught up to you?"

Charlie yawned, nodding. "Has Darya been down yet?"

"Not that I've seen, dear," Mum told him, preparing him a bowl of soup and several rolls.

"Oh—sorry, Charlie," Harry said, looking around. "I forgot—she took a walk, about an hour ago."

Charlie stared at him. "What?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "She went in the direction of the village."

No one else at the table seemed to have heard this; they all chatted loudly over each other. Without a word, Charlie hurried out of the room to check George and Fred's old bedroom. Darya's things were there, but she was gone. He hurried back downstairs. "I'm going to catch up to her," said Charlie, grabbing his cloak by the door.

"She can't have gone far, darling," Mum said reasonably, touching his arm. "And it's not bad weather."

"Right," Charlie muttered as he pulled his cloak on. "I'll be back in a bit!"

He hurried out the door and across the garden. He didn't know why—perhaps because she was injured, and he felt responsible for her safety—but being away from Darya was very unsettling. He skidded to a halt in the middle of the road beyond the garden gate, raised his wand, and turned on the spot to get to Ottery St. Catchpole.

"D'you like those?" George asked the young woman who stood before the Pygmy Puffs' cage. She leaned on a cane; his first instinct was to recognize a survivor of the war, but she turned in fright at the sound of his voice, and he did not recognize her from Hogwarts—at least not from before he and Fred had left.

"Oh," she said, smiling at him. "They are very nice."

George frowned; she had some kind of eastern European accent, which was very faint. He couldn't quite tell what it was, but he was now fairly certain that she had never gone to Hogwarts at all.

"I breed them here in the shop," he said. "They make great gifts."

"You are George Weasley?" she asked him, and he blinked.

"Er," he said, staring at her, "Yeah, I am. Sorry, do I know you?"

The woman shook her head, smiling. "No—I am sorry."

George frowned. "D'you know my family?"

The woman nodded slightly. "In a way," she said.

George felt very bewildered. "Sorry, what's your name?"

"Excuse me, how much for this?"

"Ten Sickles," George said to the wizard who had just thrust a bag of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder under his nose. "You can pay at the front. Hey! Wait a moment!" George called, hurrying after the woman, who had ducked into the crowd at his distraction. He cornered her near the Puking Pastilles display; she looked frightened—or, more accurately, like someone who had lost their nerve. "How'd you know my name?" he asked her.

"I guessed," she said quickly. Then, with surprising agility, she forced her way past him. "I have to go—"

"Wait a minute," George called after her. "Who are you?"

But the woman had disappeared. He scratched his head, confused, but smiled at a customer before heading back to the register. He was nearly there when Deirdre caught him.

"Mr. Weasley, there's an owl for you," she said, pointing towards the staff room.

"Thanks," he said, frowning as he changed course and went through the Employees Only door. His heart stopped. It was the owl he had sent deliver Angelina's Christmas present. He hurried forward, looking for a note, but then he saw that the gift was still tied to the owl's leg. It had come back to him, unopened. "What are you…?"

The owl gave a dismal hoot and extended its leg as if to say, I tried my hardest.

George freed the owl's burden, and it fluttered away. He stared down at the gift. He had been so sure that if she had just opened it and seen that he had, in fact, tried to give her the attention she deserved, he would have been able to speak to her again, if only to apologize and say goodbye, if that was what she wanted.

But, now, anger was filling him, boiling over inside. Angelina hadn't even bothered to open the stupid gift. She didn't care about him enough to even look.

He stuffed the box in his pocket and slammed the window shut. He then shoved past Verity, who was just coming in the staff room door, and said, "I'm going upstairs. Let me know who locks up. You can all go home after lunch."

George stormed up the back stairs to his flat, letting the door slam shut after him. He seized a mostly-empty bottle of firewhisky and dropped onto the sofa, seething. He wished his mind would just go blank. He wished that all the painful memories of Fred that kept coming up would just go away, but they were worse than ever, because he had come to realize just how selfish and horrible he had been to Angelina.

To Angelina! She had almost no family left in the world at all, thanks to the war. The only people she cared deeply about who had managed to survive were himself, her father, Katie, Alicia, Oliver, and Lee—and he had been almost cruel to her, because he could only selfishly think of himself and his own loss.

He drained the firewhisky, rubbing his face. There were still two full days left to go before Christmas.

Here he had been, thought George, congratulating himself on his heroic, sacrificial gesture of allowing his family to be happier without him, when really, he didn't even deserve to be with them. He was selfish, and cold, and should never be allowed near anyone who cared about him again.

Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. Tomorrow, his mother would expect him to show up at the Burrow, and be ready to open gifts and be happy with all of them on Christmas morning. He wouldn't be there, especially not now that he knew the truth about himself, that he was no better than the behavior he had so resented in Fred.

And the truth was that now, George couldn't even bring himself to contemplate leaving the couch, even for Angelina. It was too hard, too painful—it was all too painful.

"Darya!" Charlie waved her down; she was just leaving the Leaky Cauldron, where he had taken her only yesterday for lunch. She turned and smiled nervously at him as he caught up to her. "Blimey, I was worried! Where did you go?"

"I am fine," said Darya, smiling. "I wanted to make sure that the gift for your mother was the right one."

Charlie frowned. "Oh. I thought the scarf was really nice. Didn't you?"

"It is," Darya agreed, and he stared at her.

"Are you all right?"

She wrapped an arm around his elbow. "I am fine."

"Well," Charlie said, "D'you want to go back to the house? Or shop for a bit?"

For some reason, Darya's eyes looked rather wet. He stopped and faced her. "Darya?"

"Charlie, your family," she said, taking a breath, "is wonderful."

He smiled. "Thanks," he said. "I'm mad about them."

"Oh, I can tell," she replied. Charlie had the sudden impression that he was only just beginning to understand Darya, and this innate ability she had to read feelings and empathize with anyone. "And…I am so sorry you have lost your brother," she said softly. "If anyone did not deserve that, it is your family." She paused and laughed at herself. "I do not think that was English."

"Close enough," Charlie said. "Thanks, Darya."

She smiled at him, but it seemed to him that there was something wanting in that smile. And he wanted to kiss her—but if that was wrong, then what would he do? Avoid her for the rest of his working life?

"I think I would like to rest my leg," she said gently, linking her arm in his.

"D'you want to come and meet my little brother?" Charlie asked. "The shop looks busy, but I'm sure we can see him if you want to."

"No, no," said Darya quickly, "Let him work. We can see if your parents need help at your house."

Charlie chuckled. "He won't mind us bothering him. I've been doing it for twenty years." Darya laughed, and he shrugged. "Well, you'll meet him later. Come on, let's go home."