He shook his head in amazement. The room was easily twice as big as his last office—no, make that five times. Windows lined the walls and there were three desks—not one, but three! He shook his head once more.

"It's yours, friend," Kingsley said warmly, clapping one large, meaty hand on his old friend's back. "You've earned it, certainly."

"B-b-but. . ." Arthur couldn't even force the words out anymore. Never, in his wild imagination, could he have foreseen something like this. The initial promotion and creation of a new position (Ministry Director of Muggle Affairs and Relations) was a shock in itself, but now the office.

"No buts from you, Arthur," Kingsley said amiably, waving a sausage of a finger in front of the other man's face. "I'm Minister of Magic, now, and I say Muggle Relations require a director, and that director requires space. So take it and stop complaining."

"Well, thank you," Arthur said, beaming now from one freckled ear to the other. "Thank you!" Kingsley nodded and walked out the door, leaving Arthur to stare throughout the room in abject wonder. He walked quickly to the fireplace, and threw some powder into it.

"Molly!" he yelled, perhaps a bit louder than necessary. A few wandering wizards peeked in curiously to see what the Wesley man was up to. He, however, was focused on the spluttering green fire. "Molly! Oy! Are you there?"

"Arthur, yes, I'm here," his lovely wife finally responded. Well, maybe not so lovely at the moment, with her hair in disarray and what looked to be a bit of gnome hair on her head. "What's going on? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong!" Arthur responded, chuckling merrily. "I got promoted! And I got a new office!"

"Oh, that's lovely, dear," Molly beamed, a bit more life coming back to her cheeks than had been there in the past week. "I'm so proud. . .but listen, did you ask. . ."

"Kingsley agreed to give me the advance, as well," Arthur snowballed over her question. "Said he realized that of course I hadn't been able to work back when. . .when You-Know-Who. . .no, no, when Voldemort, when Voldemort was around. Said he was glad to help. Imagine!"

"Imagine indeed," Molly said, and thesmile became, if anything, a tad wider. "I'll Floo up the whole family, we'll have a celebration dinner. Heaven knows we could use something to celebrate."

Arthur nodded in agreement before stepping back. The minute the fire had winked out, however, the grin disappeared from his face. There was something wrong with that. . .the family needing to find reasons to celebrate when the Darkest Wizard of all time had just been defeated.

He wandered over to his new desk, already with boxes piled high atop it. Slowly, he began to pull out his files and books. When he came to the bottom of the box, his hand trembled. Did he really want to begin all of that? Was he strong enough?

And then, the other voice in his head, did he really have a choice?

The first photograph was fine, it was just him and Molly on their wedding day, she all bouncing red curls, his face as red as his hair.

Then there was the picture a few years later, Bill standing proudly in a small suit, Charlie in suspenders, and Percy held tenderly in Molly's arms. As he watched, Charlie solemnly sucked his thumb and Bill crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.

The pain hit with the third one. There they all were, Ginny just barely born, a little red blob and not much else. Bill was older now, standing proudly in his school robes, Charlie not much younger beside him. Percy's hair was madly brushed down. There was Ron, playing idly with a teddy bear and refusing to look at the camera no matter how much his mother admonished him. And there they were, playing some kind of hand game together, Fred and George, George and Fred. . .

He quickly put it on the mantle, pulled out the next, all of the family as Egypt. He put that one down quickly, too.

And then he pulled out a third picture, smaller than the rest. He frowned. . .he didn't seem to remember this one. . .

Only three figures in this picture. A bushy-haired young lady, perfectly poised, though occasionally a hand moved self-consciously to her hair, which she pushed out of the way. And then Harry, his hair all mussed, glasses a bit crooked, smiling as Ron nudged him in the side. And Ron, with hair that looked like he'd just come off a broom.

Arthur stared at the picture for a long time. He'd been so caught up in his grief over Fred. . .he hadn't even considered. . .he looked at the picture again.

Hermione still looked the same, almost. A thin white scar across her throat, and bits of shiny skin from burn scars marred her arms. And Harry, with that clear lightning bolt. . .he was different, too, now. The green eyes weren't quite as bright. And Ron. . .

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment. Ron had scared him more than any of his other children. Bill, Charlie, and Percy had been easy, growing up as proper, law-abiding citizens. True, Bill was sometimes more secretive about his work then he needed to be, and Charlie had come home with some frightening burns at time, but he'd always felt safe about them. And the twins. . .they were trouble, but they were safe. No dangerous calls home. But Ron. . .

The first year he'd heard about Ron, knocked out by a giant chess set. Then the third year, he'd heard about the rat, Scabbers, and Ron was in the hospital again. Ron's fifth year he'd been in the hospital even longer, with doubts about whether he would ever be the same after the attack by the brain. And in sixth year he'd fought a full battle, he'd been poisoned. . .and that was all in school.

Had he ever said that to Ron? How proud he was? How amazed he was?

No, of course not. He'd always just assumed his son knew. The newly appointed Director of Muggle Affairs sat down at his desk and for the first time since the war, made a conscious effort to focus his attention on the living, instead of the dead.