December 1995
Down the corridor to the last door on the right, Bill stopped outside of one particular office and knocked on the open door frame to announce himself. Inside, a few heads turned to look at him, though Fleur's was the one he was looking for.
He found her sitting at a desk; her face lighting up upon seeing it was him. She immediately stood and began walking a very curious looking smile in his direction.
"Hey," he said, returning her smile as she drew nearer. "Do you have a second?"
She nodded, seeming pleasantly surprised, though clearly confused since he rarely dropped by her office at this time of day. Unfortunately for him, he wasn't coming with good news.
"What a surprise! What are you doing 'ere?" she asked once they stepped out into the corridor. She immediately flung her arms around his neck and kissed him quickly.
He returned her embrace, leaving his hands to linger on her waist once he pulled back. "I'm here because they've called me down into the vaults for the rest of the afternoon. Which means I'll probably be down there late..."
She frowned. He knew that frown. He'd seen it a time or two—or ten—when he'd had to change their plans last minute, which happened more than he'd like to admit. Whether it was because the Order required something or the Gringotts did, this wasn't the first time he'd had to have this conversation with her.
"And that means," he said slowly. "I won't be able to see you off before your Portkey home leaves."
She continued to frown.
"And..." He let his expression grow hopeful. "I was hoping to fit in a quick goodbye?"
She sighed and looked away, looking none too pleased, but also somehow understanding. She was always understanding. It was one of the many reasons he loved her because she always tended to take these last minute changes so well. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd got so lucky since she easily could have blown up at him a time or two—or ten—but she rarely showed anything more than mild annoyance.
Rarely...
"I assume France iz not an option now?' she'd said to him on the night they'd had dinner with his folks; once they'd arrived back at her flat. She'd seemed irritated, which he didn't quite understand. She wasn't the one getting told off in front of his girlfriend by his mother.
"Why would you say that?"
She threw him an obvious look, both of them standing next to the counter in her kitchen. "I was zere, Bill. I witnessed everyzing zat occurred."
"Which was ultimately nothing," he said. "If I want to go to France, I'll go to France. My mother can try to guilt me all she wants, she doesn't make my decisions for me."
Fleur suddenly reached out toward the counter, where he had just dropped off the cake holder that they'd lugged all the way from the Burrow. Inside, two-thirds of the massive chocolate cake that his mother had made him for his birthday sat. She held it up for him to see. "She does not?"
He stared at the cake. He didn't quite understand what it had to do with anything. "No. She doesn't."
"Because I did not want to bring zis cake wiz us," she continued. "And neizer did you until you were made to feel—"
"That's different."
"No," she said. "It iz not. She knew exactly what she was doing."
He actually laughed a little. "I see how you might think that, but I promise you that in taking that cake, I was saving everyone a lot of grief. It was easier this way."
She stared at him, looking entirely unconvinced.
"And it's not as if the cake wasn't delicious," he added. "Even you said so. God forbid we have some cake lying around for a snack."
"I planned on 'aving cake 'lying around' tomorrow for your birzday!" she said, her voice rising. "Ze one I wanted to make for you! What is even ze point when zere iz enough 'ere," she pointed to the large cake, "to feed an army of people? Who needs zat much cake?"
"Can you really have too much?" he joked.
She didn't laugh. Instead, she pulled the lid off the cake holder and proceeded to walk the remaining platter over to the bin. Bill watched her do, knowing exactly what she was planning on doing, but still felt the need to say, "You're actually going to bin it?"
She let it loom over the bin and looked back at him. "Do you object?"
"Seems wasteful, is all."
She sighed. "Bill, I 'ad a plan tomorrow. For your birzday. I was going to surprise you wiz a cake zat I made—"
He let his face turn skeptical at that. She'd been telling him about that cake for days now. How was that a surprise?
"—and zen," she continued, her tone sharper, "en lieu of plates, I was zought it could be fun to eat it in bed." She paused. "Off of each other..."
Alright...that part was a surprise.
"But I do not want to do any of zat wiz your mother's cake," she said. "So if zis is what you want—"
"No, that's not…" He didn't let her finish. He stepped over toward the bin to pluck the platter from her hand, flipping the tray so that its chocolatey contents dropped inside. Both of them watched as the remnants of cake splattered all over the other rubbish inside.
He looked back at her. "I pick your cake." When she didn't speak immediately, he added, "And I pick you. I'll figure out France."
And that was exactly what he was going to do. He was going to figure out how to make a few days away happen because that was what he wanted. He wanted to have a holiday with Fleur. He wanted her to show him around her home and meet her family. He wanted to get away for a bit because he simply enjoyed travel and adventure. He was allowed to be a little selfish sometimes and do what he wanted to do. He shouldn't be made to feel guilty for it by certain people...
"Don't worry about your mother," his father had told him days after the fact, once the pair found a quiet moment together at the Burrow. "It's the stress of the world getting to her. With You-Know-Who getting stronger, she fears the worst constantly. All of us do, but you have to remember that she lost both of her brothers the first round of this, and much of the trauma that she'd dealt with the first go round is now rearing its ugly head again. It can make the best of people crack under the worry and pressure."
Bill said nothing. While he understood where his mother was coming from, what did she want him to do? Hide in his room until You-Know-Who was gone? Stop living his life?
"She knows you're a grown man and you'll ultimately make your own choices," his father continued, "but try not to hold it against her that she's clinging to what she can. Being a mother and protecting her children has always been her number one priority; one of things she's felt control over. And right now she feels out of control, which is what you saw the other night. You saw it tenfold because with everyone away and you being the only one around…" He shrugged. "You could say you're getting everything she usually reserves for seven directed entirely onto you."
"Lucky me," Bill muttered.
His dad chuckled. "Well, I suppose it's not just you. I get it as well. We'll split the load."
Bill looked out the nearest window. A part of him couldn't help but think that this was what he signed up for when he agreed to move home—dealing with his parents and their quirks—but he'd expected them to be more similar to old days. Back when it was more simple fretting and typical doting about picking up after himself and not staying out until all hours of the night. But his father was right; the world was much different now and things really could change in an instant. While his mother apparently fixated on that, he couldn't quite bring himself to lend all of his thoughts to worrying like that yet.
"I don't know whether you've made a choice or not," his father continued, bringing Bill's thoughts back into the room. "But if it were up to me, I'd go to France for Christmas with Fleur. Your mother will be fine."
Bill looked back at him, letting his expression say that he strongly doubted that. "And be the bad son? Destroy mum? I can practically see the image of her lonely and depressed on Christmas. You're trying to saddle me with that?"
"She'll be fine," his father reiterated. "Despite what she says about the boys having exams this year and wanting to stay at school to study, given everything I've heard—everything I know—about that wretched Umbridge woman and what she's done at Hogwarts, I wouldn't be surprised if our lot were the first ones off the train for the holiday." He paused for a moment, as if a thought occurred to him. "I'm honestly surprised Fred and George have lasted this long. She does not seem like the type to put up with their usual levels of...pushback."
Bill smirked, having heard the same awful stories about this Umbridge woman that his father had from Professor McGonagall during Order meetings. The way things were going, if Fred and George made it to the end of term without expulsion, then they truly were better at restraining themselves than any of them ever gave them credit for.
"And if they all come home," his father said, "as I believe they will, your mother and I will be plus four—rather, five with Harry—for Christmas." He grinned at Bill. "So go to France guilt free."
Bill wasn't entirely sure he could pull off guilt free, but he wanted to believe that his father was correct; that his four youngest siblings and Harry would be itching to escape a rather oppressive Hogwarts for Christmas. Still, it didn't stop him from wondering: what if they didn't? What if they didn't come home. What if his mother was right? What if something eventually happened to him, or her, or his father in this impending war and this had been their last opportunity to be together for Christmas? The idea of his parents spending a potential last Christmas with not one of their seven children around was a rather depressing image that he could not shake.
But he tried not to think like that and instead moved forward with his plans. The time off from work had come easily. The business end of the bank slowed down significantly during the holidays and some departments shut down entirely until the new year. His department mostly became entirely volunteer run for those last weeks around Christmas, so it wasn't difficult for him to secure the time he needed to get to France.
The Order he knew would be a bit more difficult, if only because they didn't run on an organized schedule or holiday hours. Voldemort's plans didn't break for Christmas dinner, and rumblings around the Ministry about infiltration were in full effect. Bill had been hesitant to even ask for more than a weekend so as to not appear as anything but fully committed to cause, but it turned out he didn't have to. Apparently, his father had gone and personally spoken to Dumbledore, telling him that he would do double duty to cover any watches Bill may have been needed on. Dumbledore, in turn, claimed that no one should feel shackled to the Order and that lives were still meant to be lived while there was time to live them. He was encouraged to take some days to himself.
With that, the pieces had all fallen into place. Outside of his mother's still cool attitude toward the entire idea, he had no further obstacles in his path. No physical ones, at least.
Fleur didn't say it outright, but he sensed she assumed he would eventually choose to stay in England; to be the good son. She told him she wouldn't be angry; that it would be hypocritical of her to chastise him for wanting to spend Christmas with his family when all she wanted to do was spend it with hers. She'd even commented that he could always come visit during a time of the year that was less significant. "Perhaps, a week your mozer would 'ave less misgivings about."
The fact that she'd said 'less' instead of 'no' wasn't something that was lost on him.
"You leave on the 18th," Bill had said to her one afternoon in the tearoom at Gringotts as he looked over a December calendar. "I have that meeting with the head goblins on the 19th, but I'm completely free after. I can get a Portkey that afternoon if I schedule it soon, then I'd be in France on the 19th, where I then spend a few days there before Portkeying back here on Christmas day in time for dinner." He looked up at her expectantly, attempting to gauge her reaction.
She stared at him over her teacup. "And zat will work?"
"Why wouldn't it?"
She shrugged and sipped her tea. "You would certainly please ze most people zat way." She set her tea down. "I would enjoy even a few short days wiz you if you can make zat 'appen."
He was nodding. "Yeah, I think that's what I'm going to do." He grinned at her. "It works out perfectly. I told you I'd make it happen."
She smiled back at him in a funny way that he almost wanted to interpret as, "Whatever you say, love."
And as he stood there in that Gringotts' corridor, kissing her as they said their goodbyes—a day away from departing and beginning his own holiday—everything had worked itself out perfectly. His plans were made, his Portkey was arranged, Fleur's family had been informed and were apparently eagerly awaiting his arrival, and his own mother had been tickled to hear he would be home for Christmas dinner. If Bill didn't know any better, he'd have thought she was holding back a couple tears when he told her.
He'd worked everything out and made everyone happy. Just as he always had; just as he always did. He didn't know why he'd even worked himself up.
It always worked out.
Fleur pulled away from kissing him and tugged playfully on the front of his robes. "I still will not be surprised if somezing does come up before you make it to France."
"Nope," Bill said affirmatively. "My schedule's clear. My Portkey is booked. My bags are…" He paused. "Well they're not packed yet, but they will be. Only thing that can stop me is…" He lowered his voice and let his forehead rest onto hers, "if You-Know-Who turns up in my sitting room before I can get out. Even then, I'll figure out a way."
She smiled at him, though the smile quickly fell away. "Iz zere a chance You-Know-Who would ever do zat? Turn up in your sitting room?"
He shrugged. He didn't want to scare her, but he also didn't want to lie and claim there was no chance. There was always a chance, especially considering his family were a load of dirty blood traitors who had close ties to Dumbledore and Harry Potter. You-Know-Who had turned up in people's homes for much less in the past.
"I was kidding."
She continued to stare at him, her expression begging the question, "Were you?"
Those looks were become more common. The closer they became and the more she started to see just how involved in the Order he was, the more questions like this she started to have. She asked plenty of them, and sometimes she got answers, but most of the time she was met with the same excuse of not being able to get into details of the business at hand. She honestly had no idea whether You-Know-Who was an imminent threat or more of a general one; she had no idea just how involved he was in the process.
And it was frustrating; not only for her, but for him. He wanted to tell her things and wanted to bring her inside the bubble with him, but that wasn't his decision to make. That decision belonged to Dumbledore, and Bill was well aware that it was well past time to bridge the topic of Fleur with him. He needed to stop putting it off.
He had run the idea of her joining the Order by his father—during the same conversation they'd spoken of him visiting France—just to see how he might react before bringing it to Dumbledore's attention. It had been a casual ask, simply to see what he thought; if he could get his father on board, he knew it would be easier to breach the subject with Dumbledore and the others.
"Well, she is young," his father had responded after Bill had brought it up. "Don't get me wrong, I think she's lovely and she seems very sharp. She's mad about you, we could all see that, but…" He shrugged. "I don't know enough about her to say one way or another."
Bill drummed his fingers on the table in an antsy way. "But she's not only sharp, she's quick on her feet and she proved she was highly competent in the Tournament. She managed to hold off a bloody dragon on her own, for fuck's sake. That's not a small feat."
"It isn't," his father agreed. "And again, it's not that I do or don't think she'd be able to handle things, it's that I don't know her well enough to know where her head is. Where her loyalties lie."
"I'm telling you where her loyalties lie," he said. "They lie with ours."
"Bill, I'm not saying you're right or wrong," his father said. "I'm saying I don't know. I would have to get to know her better. Or Dumbledore would since it's his decision, not mine. It's something you would have to speak to him about."
Bill sighed. Well, that wasn't a particularly easy task since Dumbledore was a terribly busy man. Even when he turned up for Order meetings, he usually breezed in and out after the matters at hand were discussed. If he had a few extra moments, his time was usually granted to Mad-Eye or Kingsley or Remus. Bill was the low man on that pole...
But he needed to stop making excuses and do something. Fleur's patience was running thin; he could sense it. Between the demands of his job, his family, the vague answers he was always giving her, and the constant last-minute rescheduling of their plans, she would probably crack one of these days and tell him she was done with it all. Who could blame her?
"Have a good trip, alright?" Bill said to her back in the corridor, knowing he needed to get moving down to the vaults. "I'll see you tomorrow evening."
She nodded and reached up to push some stray pieces of hair out of his face before kissing him once more; this time letting it linger for much longer than they typically would around the bank. Once they did break apart, she said, "I cannot tell you 'ow excited I am for you to come and see everyone; everyzing. I 'ave so many places I want to take you and zings I want to show you. Everyzing iz so beautifully decorated for Noël. It iz picturesque!"
"I can't wait either," he said, matching her smile and feeling a sense of warmth at knowing he was the one who'd caused that reaction in her. "I only have to get through some trips into the vaults and a chat with a few goblins before I can focus entirely on our holiday."
She kissed him again, both of them stretching their goodbye out until the last possible second; until Bill really did have to tear himself away in order to not keep the goblins waiting.
One more day. One more bloody day…
It was late that night when Bill arrived at the Burrow after work, having been stuck in the vaults until half past eleven. It was nearly midnight when he'd walked in through the door, finding his mother in the kitchen using her wand to charm a brush to thoroughly scrub out her older cauldron. His father was nowhere in sight, which if his mother was awake at this hour meant he was either working late or on watch for the Order.
"You're still awake," Bill said, kicking off his shoes and removing his cloak as he entered the warm kitchen. His mother wasn't usually much of a night owl. She generally liked to turn in early, and she certainly didn't usually scrub cauldrons in the middle of the night unless she had a reason.
"I couldn't sleep," she said, suddenly glancing over toward the clock on the wall—not the regular clock, but the one with all of their names on it that indicated where any of them were at any moment. The twins, Ron, and Ginny's said they were at school. Charlie was at home. His father was at work. Bill's own had just moved from travelling to home.
His mother gestured to a second, smaller cauldron that was on the counter. "Did you eat? Are you hungry? I have some lamb stew from earlier that I can heat up."
He was actually famished and would love some. As much as he wanted a hot shower straight away given he was still freezing from his hours spent in the depth of the Gringotts, he decided instead that he could definitely eat first. Though before he could say any of this, his mother was already charming the cauldron to levitate itself to the fire, where the flames suddenly kicked up and began licking the bottom of it. She told him it would be just a couple of minutes.
"Dad on watch, then?" he asked, noticing that the clock had said work, but in the past it often stayed on work as long as he was at the Ministry. Given the hour, he had to assume he was still at the Ministry for Order purposes instead of work.
"Yes, until very late," she said, not sounding too excited by the idea. "He's on watch three times this week."
The cauldron started suddenly scrubbing itself more fiercely.
Bill offered a sympathetic smile, knowing how much she hated the idea of her husband spending his nights down at the Ministry and keeping a watchful eye on the Department of Mysteries. He was one of the favorites to do the job however, seeing that—as a Ministry employee—his appearance around the corridors was rarely questioned. If he were caught and questioned, it was easy enough for him to come up with a cover story as to why he was lurking about. His father was excellent with coming up with reasons as to why he was in places he shouldn't be.
Once his dinner was warm, Bill helped himself and tucked in—which was hearty and warm and exactly what he needed. It was the. his mother casually asked, "Fleur managed to get her Portkey without any issues?"
Bill shrugged, but also nodded since he had to assume she did. He hadn't heard from her after all, and she was due to leave directly after she'd finished work. "I think so. I didn't get to see her off."
"Why not?"
"Dey 'ad me in da vaults all afternoon," he said with his mouth full. He swallowed then and added, "I managed to say goodbye to her before she left, but that was hours before. I haven't heard anything. I assume she got there."
His mother pointed her wand to the side of the counter, where the cauldron went and gently rested itself in order to dry. She was nodding in an absent way before turning to look at him. "Well, you'll be seeing her soon enough. It's not as if you needed to have a big send off."
He shrugged lazily as he focused on spooning up a large piece of lamb, but said nothing.
"She must be very excited to see her family."
"She is. She misses them."
"And are you ready for your trip?"
He shook his head as he finally managed to get his lamb piece and put it into his mouth. He chewed for a moment before saying, "I'll pack tomorrow."
"Be sure to pack something nice to wear," his mother said, taking the seat across from him at the table. "Perhaps something you would wear to more important meetings at the bank. Or a nice night out."
He looked up at her, having found that comment random. "Alright?
"If you need anything pressed, leave it out and I'll do it for you before you go. I know you probably won't have the time, but you don't want to turn up with a mess of wrinkled clothes."
"I wouldn't be a mess of wrinkles since I know how to work out an ironing spell," he said with a chuckle. "But thank you." He stared at her as he chewed. "What's with all the concern about my clothes?"
"Oh, it's only...I can only assume Fleur's family is very posh," she said. "I want to make sure you're prepared."
She wasn't wrong for the assumption—he'd made the same one. It wasn't a hard one to make after seeing how sophisticated and put together Fleur always appeared to be; how easy she made it all seem. But there had been something in the way she'd said "...family is very posh" that had come off a bit loaded. As if it were a concern that she might have come from a bit of money.
"I'm not worried about it," he said, digging around to get the last few bites of stew before he stood to clear his plate. "Stew was great. Thanks for saving me some."
She smiled. "Of course, dear." She stood as well, looking as if she was clearly ready to turn into bed for the night, but he knew she would probably find another chore that needed tending to for a couple of more hours.
He decided to make that trip upstairs to finally shower, knowing he'd turn in soon afterward. He wished his mother goodnight, having noticed that she was already beginning to rearrange the cupboard under the sink, before he went upstairs. It took him ten minutes to shower, and only then did he finally feel as if he'd worked the cold out of his bones. The vaults in the dead of December truly was one of the coldest places he'd ever been. He now fully understood why the goblins chose to do most of their security upgrades in the summer months as opposed to the winter.
He dressed and went back to his room, collapsing onto his bed for what felt like the first time in ages. He spent so much time at Fleur's lately, he honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in it. His thoughts drifted to Fleur as he lay there, wondering whether she'd got in and settled alright. It felt strange not having her lying beside him.
A loud thump—as if something heavy had fallen downstairs—caught his attention before he'd fully fallen asleep. A part of him wanted to ignore it, but something else was telling him not to. He listened again for another moment, faintly hearing his mother exclaim something out of frustration from the kitchen. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, reaching out in the dark for his wand and to find his trousers.
"Mum, everything alright?" he called after he'd left his room and hovered at the foot of the stairs. "I heard a noise."
"Yes, yes, fine!" She called back, though she sounded frazzled. More to herself, she added, "Oh no, I think it's cracked."
Bill made his way down the stairs, pulling his wet hair back and into a ponytail as he went. When he reached the bottom, he found his mother kneeling on the floor beside the cauldron she'd set on the counter earlier. If he had to guess, it looked as if it had fallen and been damaged. As he inspected the scene further, he remembered that she'd been just under it beneath the sink when he'd left the room earlier. If it had fallen, she was lucky it missed dropping on her.
"I wasn't paying attention," she mumbled, examining a large crack in the cauldron. "I was charming things around and…" She trailed off and gestured to the crack and sadly said, "This cauldron belonged to my grandmother."
"I'm sure we can mend it," he offered.
"I'm not so sure," she said, sounding quite sad about it. "It's over a hundred years old. Eventually they start to give way, but it's really very difficult to find them this size and of this quality anymore." She looked back at him. "They build them to be replaced every ten years now."
He grinned a little as he walked over to a cupboard to fetch a glass. "If anyone can mend it, Mum, it's you. Let's be thankful it was the cauldron that was cracked and not your skull."
She sighed, still examining the damage as Bill stepped around her to fill his glass up with water from the tap. He gulped it down quickly and refilled it before stepping back and taking this second glass much slower. His mother had started mumbling something about how she'd never be able to find another cauldron this useful, but Bill was only half listening. While he'd been drinking, his gaze had wandered over to the family clock on the wall. Unlike twenty minutes earlier, something had changed.
His father's hand now read: Mortal Peril.
He lowered the glass and practically tripped over his mother to get a better look. That couldn't be right. In all the years he'd stared at that clock, he'd never once seen any hand rest on Mortal Peril. How could it be on Mortal Peril? That would mean his father was in danger; potentially fatal danger. That meant…
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He wanted it to be the clock that was wrong, but he knew it had never been wrong once in all years they'd had it. And that was now what was causing a wave of panic to wash over him.
"Mum."
"Yes, dear?"
"The clock. Dad."
"The clock…?"
He then heard his mother make a noise that he'd only heard come out of her one other occasion—the night of the Tournament when Harry had returned with Cedric's body. It was a combination of a gasp and a shriek. "Does…? When did it…? How long has it been like that?!"
He immediately turned around to see that his mother had risen from the floor, looking pale in the face and clutching onto the counter for dear life. Her eyes were wide with shock and alarm.
He shook his head. "I don't…"
"I only just looked away and…" She was taking short breaths now. "HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN LIKE THAT?"
Bill didn't have an answer for her, but he was already making his way toward the door to retrieve the shoes he'd left there earlier. If his father was in mortal peril, then he needed to find him. He needed to get to him.
"I'm going to the Ministry."
His mother had tears in her eyes now, the panic really setting in. Everything he wanted to tell her to calm her—how the clock was probably wrong, though they both knew it wasn't—failed to make it into words. All he could do is repeat, "I'm going to the Ministry" before adding, "Everyone needs to be contacted. Dumbledore, the rest of the Order—"
He didn't get to finish that sentence because at the same moment, a burst of fire illuminated the room and caused Bill—for a split second—to fear for the worst. His father was in trouble and now fireballs were invading his home; they were under attack. However, the fire was gone as quickly as it came; all that remained was a roll of parchment and a golden feather on the kitchen table.
"Dumbledore," his mother said, scrambling to the table to collect it. "He must…"
She didn't finish and instead unraveled the parchment with such a fierceness that she tore a slit down the middle and was forced to hold everything together in order to make sense of what had been written. Her hands were shaking so badly, that Bill—who'd joined her to read over her shoulder—could barely follow.
Molly—
Time is of the essence. Arthur has been gravely attacked this evening. He is alive as I write this, though terribly injured. Due to means that are rather difficult to explain, I was made aware of this attack shortly after it occurred. Actions were taken immediately to ensure his rescue; he has now been securely moved to St. Mungo's.
Bill noticed his mother looked at the clock on the wall and followed her gaze. His father's hand had moved off 'Mortal Peril' and was now resting on 'Hospital'.
St. Mungo's will likely contact you within minutes of receiving Arthur, and I implore you to remain calm when confronted with the truth of his attack. The need to ask questions will naturally occur, but outside of inquiring about Arthur's well-being, I ask that you allow me to explain when I can. Ministry officials may appear looking for answers to their own questions. They are to be ignored to the best of your ability.
I will be in contact soon. In the meantime, your four youngest children, along with Harry, have been sent away from Hogwarts to the safe location. They are aware of much of what happened and are visibly shaken. I would ask that you contact them as soon as possible to help calm their nerves. I have instructed Fawkes to remain to bear the message.
Bill looked around, finding himself startled to see Fawkes in his red and golden splendor perched on the chair that—coincidentally—his father always sat in for dinner. Bill suddenly wondered if he'd been there since arriving with the message earlier. He hadn't noticed.
Then, with a loud crack, an object—a Howler by the looks of it's red color and shape—came shooting out of the fireplace and landed directly onto the kitchen counter. It immediately began shaking a bit, clearly begging to be opened. He and his mother both stared at it before she moved forward to break the seal to keep it from erupting; within moments, the loud sound of a female voice rang throughout the room.
To the next of kin of Weasley, Arthur. Your aforementioned family member has been admitted to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries on the 18th night of December at 12:27 A.M for the reason of: Bodily Harm and/or Injury. The state of his condition has been ruled as: Critical. Your presence is immediately requested. Please check-in at registration upon arrival for further details on your family member, such as floor and room number location and/or information on the attending Healer. Thank you and have a pleasant evening!
Bill blinked. Have a pleasant evening? Were they serious…?
He looked at his mother, who was still as pale as she'd been before, but there was now an alertness—a control—in her eyes that hadn't been there before. She'd somehow pulled together and gathered herself for what was likely going to be a very, very long evening.
He put his hand on her shoulder. "Mum, do you need—?"
"Right," she said, cutting him off with a very purposeful nod of the head. She let her eyes land on Fawkes, who was staring at them expectantly. If Bill didn't know any better, he'd have thought the bird's expression was one of impatience; as if they were keeping him from something else he should be doing.
"Right," she repeated. "We'll go to the hospital straight away. But I'll need to let your brothers and sister know…" She trailed off and was nodding again. "It will be alright."
He nodded and half wanted to ask her how she knew that, but he didn't. It felt better to just take her at her word.
She'd gone to gather a quill and Bill said nothing for a very long moment, only watching as she found a piece of parchment and began scribbling out a short note that she would hand to Fawkes and send off to Grimmauld Place for his siblings.
In the silence he took a deep breath, which felt like the first real breath he'd taken in the last five minutes. His chest felt heavy and tight, as if he'd been holding his breath without knowing it for quite some time. When he glanced down at his hands, he saw they were trembling a little. He had so many questions; so many dark thoughts. His father was in hospital right now in critical condition due to bodily harm. That could mean so many things…
And what if he didn't make it? The possibility had always been there since the minute Voldemort returned, but confronting it like this was something he certainly hadn't been prepared for. He'd just spoken to his father that morning. They'd discussed what he was planning to buy his wife for Christmas on his lunch break that day. Had he gone and bought it? What if he never got to give it to her?
Another blinding flash and Fawkes was gone. Bill realized his mother was pulling on her cloak and shoes and looking at him resolutely, as if they both knew where they needed to be and that they needed to go now. She seemed remarkably composed now, almost as if she'd gone into a sort of trance or shock. She was going through the motions. A part of him wished she was falling to pieces a bit more—if only because it would give him an excuse to hug her.
At the moment, it was a hug he needed more than her.