Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Molly's back was to the door when Arthur walked in from the garden. He took one look at the thirteen pots on the stove and tried not to laugh.

"How much do you think George and Percy will eat?" he asked, coming up behind his wife and kissing her cheek. He sniffed at the delicious aromas wafting out of the pots, but when he reached for the lid, she swatted his hand away.

"I also invited Bill, Fleur, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Harry," she informed him, kissing him back and then turning her attention once again to the food. He studied her for a moment but said nothing. He would be happy to see his other children, but there had been something in his wife's voice that made him wonder if there were some other reason for the additional invitations.

Realizing he was hoping for an explanation, Molly sighed. "It's just… I want as many of us as possible to be together now. You saw the … the Prophet yesterday…" her voice trembled, and she stopped talking, her shoulders slumped. Arthur felt tears spring to his own eyes, and he reached for her, pulling her against him and dropping his chin onto her head.

They were both silent for a few minutes. It wasn't until one of the pots started whistling that Molly sniffled, cleared her throat, and straightened her shoulders. Arthur let go of her, and she turned back to her cooking. He wiped his own eyes and trudged up the stairs to their room, so he could change into his more comfortable Muggle clothes.

By the time he returned to the kitchen, they had both recovered themselves somewhat, and he sat at the table with the newest Prophet, somewhat relieved to see Dumbledore's face smiling calmly up at him. Even though he still felt Dumbledore's absence keenly, nothing could hurt as much as the picture of his son that had confronted him the day before.

"Who's on the cover today?" Molly asked. Her voice was quieter than usual, but she seemed calm, so he turned the page to show her the picture of Dumbledore.

"Oh," she said, a pleased expression on her face. "Well, I'm glad they realized that even though he didn't die in the Battle, he was also a victim of this war."

Arthur nodded his agreement. "Yes, and I'm sure they saved his for last because of the … the thing at Hogwarts tomorrow."

There was another silence as they both tried not to think of the day that was approaching at a much-too-rapid pace. Happily, this time, the silence was ended by a loud crack, and Percy was suddenly standing before them.

"Evening Mum, Dad," he said, flickering quick glances in each of their directions before heading directly for the stairs. "I'm going to go clean up before anyone else gets here."

He disappeared up the stairs, but Molly had seen his face, and she felt the familiar cloud of worry settle over her. She glanced at Arthur, but he was buried in the Prophet, so she sighed and turned back to her food. If all else failed, she'd have plenty of other people there tonight. If she didn't get to Percy, she was sure someone else would.

She wasn't wrong about the crowd in the house. By the time everyone (but George) had arrived, it almost felt like it used to when all of her children still lived at home. She had just begun to relax into the bustle, even starting to feel complete again, when George finally arrived. One look into his eyes took away every feeling of comfort that she'd begun to experience, and the now-familiar knot in her stomach started to tighten once again.

"Come on in, dear," she said, moving over to him where he'd stopped short. He wasn't even sure why. This was the house he'd grown up in, and all of a sudden, he felt like a stranger … a feeling he hadn't had in almost a year now. But he felt the overwhelming need to turn and run, not let himself be guided to a seat by his mother who had now taken his arm and was pulling him toward the recliner. He didn't run, though. He sat and looked around at the over-full living room, trying not to think about why they were all there. His mother hadn't told him that she was making this dinner into an impromptu family reunion, most likely aware that he would have found a reason not to come if he'd known.

The conversation went on around him, and he was perfectly content to let it. He tried not to let it hurt that Ginny was too caught up in the conversation to even notice his arrival. He wasn't successful. In an effort not to think about that, he continued to look around the room. Harry was watching Ginny, he noticed, but not in the same moony way he normally did. No, he looked worried, George realized, and he looked at his sister again. Maybe she wasn't oblivious to his arrival, he thought. Maybe she didn't know how to do this either. Another quick study of her face made him even more certain that this was a strong possibility, and he was surprised to find himself resolving to talk to her. It was odd for him to want to talk to anyone these days, but Ginny was different. She always had been, he acknowledged to himself. If there were anyone he and Fred felt comfortable entrusting their jokes to, it was their little sister.

That would have to come later, though. Right now, he was more than happy to just watch everyone and not say a word. Bill glanced over at him a few times, he knew, but he refused to meet his older brother's eyes. For some reason he could never figure out, Bill could always figure him out. Always. But George didn't want to be figured out right now. He kept looking around. Fleur was caught up in talking to Ginny and Hermione with the occasional contribution from Ron and even Bill, when he stopped looking at George long enough to follow what his wife was saying. But… George realized with a jolt when he finally got to the last person in the room… Percy wasn't part of the conversation. He wasn't talking to their father either, who was sitting beside him on the couch. No, he was staring directly at George, and in his eyes, George found mirrored all of the pain and confusion he was suddenly feeling against his will. His eyes stung as they stared at each other, and he looked away. He didn't want this.

Without a word to anyone, he got up and found his way unsteadily out of the room and out into the garden. He'd thought for a moment of going up to his old room, but the last thing he could handle seeing right now was all of the pictures of the time he could never recapture. The past. If only he could go back to the past…

He kept walking. He didn't know where he was going, but he didn't stop until he reached the top of the next hill, and then he was looking at the headstones in the distance, and he knew where he was going. It was the last place he thought he wanted to be, but his feet seemed to be carrying him there almost against his will.

He didn't know that he wasn't alone.

A/N: I'm not usually one for cliffhangers, but just this once…

I know it's not as long as the last couple, but I think this night at the Burrow will be a multi-chaptered deal. There's too much for just one chapter. The reviews keep me going, so keep 'em coming. Thanks for the endless encouragement. (I think I'm also subconsciously holding off on writing the actual one-year anniversary because I have to face one of those of my own tomorrow, and I somehow think I'll be able to write it more realistically once I experience the awfulness of it in real life... weird how life sometimes unfortunately mirrors fiction. I didn't even realize when I started writing this that the timing would be so eerie.)