It was late morning when Fleur opened her door on the first knock. She hadn't opened a door on the first knock—and without ten follow up questions, each deep-diving for proof and information—in ages.

It was very strange.

She still had her wand by her side, she didn't think that would change any time soon, but as for the rest of it, she refused to let herself live in fear anymore. Voldemort was gone, and yes there could be some rogue Death Eaters out there who still wanted revenge, but if she was going to still live in fear of every knocked door, then what was the point of yesterday?

From here on out, she was going to open doors on their first knock now. Especially when she recognized the person on the other side through the sitting room window.

She wasn't surprised to see him.

"Bonjour, Charlie," she said rather coolly, staring at her brother-in-law on her doorstep. If Charlie was capable of knocking on their door, that meant Bill's attempt to remove the Fidelius Charm had worked.

They were now officially back to real life.

Charlie looked tired, but not haggard like the last she'd seen him. He'd clearly showered and sobered up. He still had the eyes of a man who hadn't got a proper night's rest, but truthfully, she'd have judged him if he had. She certainly hadn't.

"Hey," he said with an awkward smile, though he was clearly trying to add some of his usual, cheeky charm to it. He glanced down to a box in his hand—a bakery box, by the looks of it—but then quickly back at her. "How angry is he with me?"

She stared at him.

"Alright, rephrase," he said quickly. "How angry are you with me?"

She rolled her eyes, but stepped aside for him to enter the house. "I am angry that you upset Bill—even if he will not tell you that. He was hurt that you felt the need to take your pain on out him—"

"I know, I know," Charlie said apologetically. "They told me how I acted last night. It's why I'm here. I fucked up. I do that sometimes."

"Could you, perhaps, not do that on the day he also lost his brother and several friends?" she asked rather pointedly. "On a day when he—we all—were going through absolute hell. It was the last thing he needed—"

"I know that," Charlie said, looking right at her; his eyes clearly agreeing. "I was drunk, and I was upset, and I don't even fucking know what I'm doing most hours of the day now, and…" He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry to you and I'm sorry to him. I'll tell him that myself if I…" He looked around. "Where is he?'

"Walking the beach," she said. "With George."

Charlie's entire demeanor changed with that comment. "George is here?"

She nodded.

"Oh, thank god," Charlie said. "We were starting to worry." He glanced over her shoulder, to where the front door was still open. "Do you know where they went?"

He seemed to want to catch up with them, so Fleur walked him out onto the porch and pointed in the direction she'd seen them go off into. Before Charlie set out, he turned and handed her the bakery box, offering up a feeble, "A peace offering."

She opened it up, finding a collection of sweet buns.

"Those used to be some of Bill's favorites," Charlie said, sounding as if he was trying to defend his offering despite not being asked to. "From a shop in the village near the house. We sometimes had them as treats when we were kids."

He'd paused. "I don't know if he's like me and having a hard time finding an appetite right now, but for some reason, these sounded good this morning, so I went and…" He sighed. "I finally ate something. Thought he might…"

She nodded. That was thoughtful. Bill hadn't actually eaten—neither had she or George. They seemed to be existing on tea and tea alone in these last few hours. Even then, Fleur found most of the cups scattered about the house, barely touched.

"I'll keep them here," she said. "Merci."

Charlie offered a weak smile, glancing out toward the beach. In the silence, it prompted Fleur to ask, "How is everyone today?"

He shrugged. "Burrow's the quietest I've ever heard it. Everyone's mostly keeping to themselves, or coming and going. I know Hermione wanted to go see her family's house to see if there was damage—Ron and the others went with her. They mentioned going to visit and check on people as well." He paused. "Mum hasn't left her room."

Fleur frowned, unfortunately not surprised to hear that.

"Dad comes in and out," he added. "There's been a few visitors who have popped by with food and condolences. The Diggorys came by and dad talked to them for a long while."

He sighed. "No one seems to know what to do. That's the hardest part. Feeling like you should be doing something, but not knowing what that is."

Fleur could sympathize with that sentiment entirely. That was exactly how she felt. It was a helpless feeling. Wanting so badly to be distracted and not feel so empty, but then feeling terrible about not focusing entirely on everything awful going on around her.

Harder yet, she and Bill were handling things very differently. Bill didn't want to do anything but self-reflect and spend quiet time in his own head. He wanted long walks on the beach to think and be sad or angry. He wanted to stare out at the horizon in silence, processing this trauma on his own time and in his own way.

And while that was perfectly fine and Fleur fully understood, she couldn't just sit and remember. She'd go mad. She knew that, if left to her own thoughts, it would bring dark feelings and hopelessness that she would struggle to shake; it took too much of a hold on her. She needed to be doing something—anything—but letting her nightmarish thoughts take over. It was something she's learned after the Tournament—she needed to keep busy in order to move on.

But she also didn't know how to do that when everyone she knew was currently sharing similar pain. After the Tournament, she had felt stranded and alone on a deserted island, dealing with her trauma in an isolated way.

Now, she still felt stranded, only the island was very crowded.

"I'm going to look for them," Charlie said, gesturing in the direction Fleur had indicated before; taking off at a brisk pace. She watched him go for a moment before she looked back at the buns and picked one up.

She, like Charlie, also hadn't eaten much since the battle. Her appetite too had vanished, but she forced herself to take a bite. As she chewed, she made a face. They were sickeningly sweet.

She dropped it back in the box, immediately thinking how she could do better than this. How much flour did she have in the house…?

It was with an odd sense of purpose that she set the buns down and walked to the kitchen. She pulled out her wand and began summoning ingredients to the table, double checking she had everything she needed and preparing her workspace. She quickly began melting and combining; mixing and scraping bowls. The buns were coming together nicely, but honestly…why stop there?

What else could she make?

"What are you doing?" Bill had asked hours later, once he, Charlie and George had returned from their walk to a very different, very productive kitchen. Honestly, it probably looked like her entire pantry had exploded. She'd been cooking up a storm. Dinner for that evening…for several evenings and for several people.

"Cooking," she answered plainly.

"For an army…?" Bill asked, looking around.

She shrugged. "You could say that." She turned to him. "Earlier, Charlie mentioned people were bringing food with their condolences. It got me thinking about how I could help people during these difficult times.. I am hoping to help those in need from the battle—starting with your family, of course. I have made many of their favorites."

He stared at her. He seemed both awed and confused.

"Charlie said your mother isn't leaving her room," Fleur continued. "Which means everyone in the Burrow will likely starve soon unless someone helps." She gestured to the bakery box Charlie had brought. "They can only sustain on those much-too-sweet buns for so long."

"They're not much too sweet," Bill said, sounding slightly affronted as he walked over to look inside the box. "I grew up loving these—"

"Mine are better," Fleur said without hesitation.

He didn't argue. He didn't say anything really, and instead left her to her cooking. He had an attitude that was very much, "If you insist…" which she was thankful for because if he had tried to stop her or talk her out of it, she would not have been pleased.

This was the distraction she'd been desperate to find.

And so in those first few days after the battle, she cooked every moment she could. She woke up from terrible, restless sleep and went to the kitchen; she cooked until well into the night. She'd liked to have cooked and baked constantly—anything to avoid sleep and nightmares. Anything to avoid reality.

Because the first of the funerals were now upon them. She knew she couldn't cook through all of them.

It was next to impossible to attend every one, but Bill and much of his family were determined to attend as many as they could. Harry and Hermione were also trying to pay their respects as much as possible, but at some points, funerals were starting to overlap with other funerals. One day, Bill went to four—mostly friends of friends or the children of people he'd known at some point.

Fleur wasn't as comfortable with the idea of turning up randomly to people's funerals that she did not know, feeling that they were private events for friends and family to mourn together. Yes, the wizarding community was banding together and that was admirable, but she could never shake how out of place she felt when she'd never met the individual. The Weasleys seemed to know everyone on some level—an old co worker's child; an ex-girlfriend's uncle; a former school friend's cousin.

They'd met everyone through some degree of separation. She, however, felt like a gatecrasher.

Bill understood this. He didn't request or ask her to attend all of them with him, insisting she come when she was comfortable. She didn't entirely opt out of participation, however; often she would send food or flowers—or both. It was her way of paying respects; it gave her even more of a purpose to cook.

Still, even she knew she couldn't avoid all of the funerals.

"We need to plan Fred's," Charlie was telling Bill and Fleur as they turned up at the Burrow one afternoon with meals for the family. Fleur had been bringing them breakfast, lunch, and dinner for three days now, but rumor had it that Molly was up and about again. Charlie had told them when they arrived that day that once George had returned to the Burrow the day before—finally having found the strength to confront it—and Molly had pulled herself out of her room as well. She'd even started coming down for meals.

Whether she'd want to start running her house again, that remained to be seen. Fleur was happy to help fill in for the meantime.

"We can't put it off anymore," Charlie added, addressing Bill specifically.

Bill exhaled heavily at that, not looking excited by the prospect. "We can't."

"Percy and I have started talking about it," Charlie continued. "We're trying not to bother mum and dad with the minor details—"

"We'd rather come to them with a plan," Percy offered from his spot at the table across the room. "So they don't have to think too much about it."

"But we're also not sure if we should apply that to George," Charlie continued. "Or if we should ask him for input."

"You can't not include George," Bill said. "How can you even ask that?"

"It's not that we don't want to," Percy argued.

"It's that we don't know if he wants to," Charlie finished. "I mentioned in passing last night how we were going to start thinking about it—because we have to—and George stood up and left the room before I'd finished the sentence."

"He didn't want to hear it," Percy said. "We haven't seen him since. He hasn't left his room."

Bill sighed loudly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Then I suppose we figure out the details and then run it by him, and then mum and dad, before it's finalized." He then looked back at his brothers. "But what does that even mean? Who knows how to plan a funeral?"

None of them had, though they reckoned that it apparently meant casket arrangements, flowers, and burial spots. It meant scheduling someone to oversee the funeral, which—according to Percy—was going to be difficult because, "There are only a handful of proper ones and they're all very busy right now."

"Not to mention finding time when another one isn't occurring," Charlie said. "I've got one this afternoon. Tonks' and Remus' tomorrow—"

"Theirs will be together, will it not?" Fleur asked, having remembered Bill mentioning that he'd been told that days ago.

All three Weasley boys nodded slowly, with Bill adding, "That's what Kingsley told me yesterday. Tonks' mum is having a memorial for both of them and her late husband."

The room grew quiet—as it always did these days after comments like that—and Fleur found herself thinking of poor Mrs. Tonks', having lost her husband, daughter, and son-in-law all in such a short period of time. She could not imagine the pain she was going through.

"Mum said she's going tomorrow," Percy said finally. "It'll be the first time she'll have left the house in days."

No one immediately said anything, though Fleur was silently realizing how Tonks' and Remus' funeral would be the first one she would attend as well. It was the first where she actually knew the victims; the first where they were her friends.

It pained her to think of them not being in her life any longer. Remus—for all their disagreements and minor spats—was someone she ultimately respected a great deal. He was brave and loyal; a vital support system to Bill during his post-injury days and a welcoming source of friendship these last few months when it seemed like they'd been forced to shut the rest of the world out for their protection.

And Tonks…Fleur found it hard to think about her. The idea of how excited she'd been for Teddy, and now he'd never even know her. It made Fleur well up with tears whenever she thought about it. She was so tragically young and had her whole life ahead of her; so bright and courageous. Fleur sometimes felt guilty for still being here when she wasn't—her survivor's guilt having returned with a vengeance these last few days.

But what she'd miss most was their friendship. Without a war keeping them apart, she sensed she and Tonks would have already grown into great friends. Not that they weren't, but they'd been limited. Their friendship had been so young—barely explored. They'd had lovely chats on many occasions, but those had been forced due to circumstance—when they were both on night watch at the same time; both at the Weasleys and surrounded by others.

Only once had they ever come together simply because they'd wanted to enjoy each other's company, and that had been the day Tonks' had turned up on her doorstep six-months pregnant to escape the confines of her mother's house. Fleur had assumed that would have been the first of many get-togethers they'd have one day; she'd taken time for granted.

As it were, she had never ever made good on her promise to visit Tonks during her pregnancy—something she knew she'd forever regret. She'd never got the opportunity to let Tonks, or Remus, properly introduce her to Teddy and show him off as happy, proud parents would.

The war had just stolen so much…

The morning of Remus' and Tonks' funeral, Bill seemed almost professional at getting ready these days. He was rotating his two best dress robes out every other day—barely having time to have them cleaned in between. Watching him go through the motions of shaving, fixing his hair, and getting dressed up in black, yet again, was practically the norm at this point.

Fleur found herself taking far more time. She had pulled out her black dress that she'd yet to wear and stared at it, hating that she needed it; hating that it's sole purpose was to be worn to a place she wished she never had to attend.

She took her time with her hair, which was necessary since it was still damaged from the battle and the fire, but also because she couldn't find the strength to go any faster. The same could be said of her make-up, which she didn't even feel like wearing. Eye-makeup seemed pointless; she already knew she was going to cry and ruin it all.

"You ready?" Bill had asked her, popping his head into their room to find her looking at herself. "We need to get going."

She continued to stare at herself in the mirror—pale, aged, and in head-to-toe black.

"No."

He came over and put his arms around her, giving her a squeeze. "I know. This one is going to be especially difficult."

They'd Apparated to the location specified, a modest sized house set amongst rolling, green fields. It had a similar feel to where the Burrow resided—mostly private; no visible neighbors—but the house was far more typical looking and not as eccentric as the Burrow. The garden was well kept, as was the large pond that sat directly beside the house. Someone clearly enjoyed gardening here.

Fleur could already sense the presence of other people as she and Bill approached the house, where the door was ajar, as if encouraging people to enter. She let Bill go first to enter the scene, seeing as she was now feeling an overwhelming wave of anxiety wash over her.

They entered to find several people—all in black—milling about; chatting in low voices; hugging and greeting one another. Fleur was actually surprised by how many she recognized at first glance. Kingsley was talking to a small group—all of whom had the vibe and appearance of Aurors; several of the Hogwarts professors were also present, all talking together with Hagrid towering over them.

She saw Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny all splintered into smaller groups, talking with the likes of Luna, Dean and several other similarly-aged peers and people. Dean caught her eye and offered a polite smile as if to say hello. She somehow found the energy to muster a quick one back.

Fleur let her gaze find the side of the room, where a table with several photographs had been set up—three larger than the others. One of an older man—who Fleur assumed to be Ted Tonks; one of Remus; and one of Tonks. In front of each photograph, a large urn accompanied it; though only Tonks' and Remus' had wands. They'd been crossed into an 'X' formation between them.

"That's how I'll always remember Tonks," Bill said, pointing at a photograph—one of many smaller ones on the table—of a young girl of about fourteen or fifteen in Hogwarts robes and bright pink hair. She was smiling in a forced, "Just take the bloody picture," sort of way, typical of teenagers.

And there were photos of her as a baby being held by her father. As a small child with an overgrown nose that she'd clearly morphed. A younger photo of Remus as a child. A photo of him with friends, all in Hogwarts robes. There was Ted in a dress robe, laughing at something. There was a wedding photo of both Ted and his wife and of Tonks and Remus, all looking sweetly at each other. A very recent family photo of her and Remus gazing down at a barely born Teddy…

That last one made Fleur look away. She felt a lump in her throat.

"There's my folks," Bill said, gesturing to the other side of the room where some of the Weasleys were —Molly, included, who along with Arthur was talking to people Fleur didn't know. It was clear that Molly had been crying fresh tears and, as Fleur watched, she embraced another woman in a tight hug. There was much hugging going on around the room.

"Alright?" she heard Bill say, turning to find him addressing Charlie and Percy who were standing near their parents, though off to the side.

Charlie nodded in acknowledgement, walking forward to hug Bill almost instinctively. Percy did the same afterwards, and then they both gave her hugs as well. She didn't hug Bill's siblings much—perhaps Charlie after not seeing him for months—but it felt strange not to given the circumstances. It was almost as if people just wanted to touch in order to make sure things were real.

"Did George come?" Bill asked, glancing around the familiar and unfamiliar faces in the crowd, politely smiling and nodding at someone who caught his eye.

Charlie and Percy nodded, with the latter saying, "He did. I believe he went outside to speak with some friends."

"Did either of you show him any of the plans we discussed yesterday for Fred?"

Neither of them reacted—Charlie even looked away, almost as if avoiding his eyes—prompting Bill to add, "We have to show him."

"You're welcome to bring it up with him," Charlie said. "Please give it a go, because if anyone says 'funeral' and 'Fred' in the same breath, it's as if he goes deaf."

Fleur wasn't surprised to hear that. In the few days that George had stayed with them, he'd also been very reclusive and completely uninterested in talking about Fred in the "after" sense at all. She had however noticed—especially after a couple of drinks with Bill and Charlie one particular night—he could talk for ages about him in the "before." There had been one instance where she'd actually caught him laughing about some silly prank the pair had played once as children, reminiscing happily with his brothers.

But then it would suddenly seem to hit him, almost out of nowhere, that his new reality would forever now be reminiscing about long ago and telling silly stories of the past. His expression would fall off; his body language would slump. He'd slowly start to get emotional, Bill and Charlie would also, and the entire jovial scene from five minutes prior would fall to pieces. If anyone brought up Fred not being there in any capacity, even just to say they missed him, George immediately turned into a different person. He would excuse himself from the room.

It wasn't surprising to her to hear that he was also running from the funeral plans.

"Dad forbade us from saying anything today because they'd finally managed to get him up and moving," Percy added. "Said we would figure it out and George could choose to be involved as little or as much as he'd wanted."

"That being said, he and mum have approved of our plans," Charlie said. "Ron and Ginny gave their approval as well. Dad was appreciative that we took the time to sort things out."

"Mum actually said something?" Bill asked.

"Not to us," Percy said. "But she and dad talked, and he told us what she said. Her only request is that she had a very specific spot in the orchard she wanted him buried."

"Over by the big tree," Charlie said to Bill, clearly trying to get him to picture it. "By the pond…."

"Oh yeah," Bill said quietly. "That makes sense..."

They all nodded silently as if to agree, each seemingly lost in thought. Bill finally cleared his throat and said, "Alright, so we get everything else confirmed and we…get it done. If mum and dad are good and George doesn't want to deal with it, then…" He looked at his brothers. "Right?"

They both nodded again, though quickly they all seemed to want to discuss something else, as if they could rehash this later. It was time to focus on the task at hand.

"I see a few of your old classmates," Bill said to Charlie, reminding Fleur that he and Tonks had actually been classmates in school.

Charlie was nodding. "Yeah, I've said my hellos. Shitty circumstances for reunion, innit?" He rubbed his nose. "I've been thinking a lot about Tonks today—our time at school together." He looked at Fleur. "I've known her since I was eleven. We were in the same year."

She smiled sadly.

"She was always brilliant," he mused. "Far cleverer than me, and I was no dummy. I did alright. But she was more like these two—" He gestured between Percy and Bill. "Just naturally good at school. We all knew she was going places. No one was surprised when she'd been accepted into the Auror program."

"I remember her mentioning knowing you in school," Fleur said. "You and Bill. She said you weren't quite friends—"

"We were friends," Charlie said defensively. "I considered her a friend."

"Yeah, but she wasn't part of your little crew," Bill said. "You didn't didn't hang out. She wasn't one of your mates."

"But I still considered her a friend," Charlie said, sounding rather put out.

"I think she felt you were friendly," Fleur corrected. "That was the impression I was given. She did say you both had your own friends and were busy, but that you both were always nice people. She had lovely things to say about both of you from when you were younger."

Bill forced a watery smile at that; Charlie now just seemed sad. They were distracted however by Arthur and Molly approaching the group then; their eyes on Bill as if noticing he'd arrived and the woman who Molly had been embracing earlier following behind. Fleur couldn't help but be immediately struck by the woman's appearance, for she looked startlingly like that madwoman—the one who'd been Voldemort's confidant. It made her think of the battle and chaos and…

She took a deep breath, trying her best to push the dark thoughts away.

"Hey Mum," Bill said, hugging his mother tightly; her returning it.

"Hello, dear," she said quietly, reaching up to touch Bill's face and stare at him a bit before turning her tired, slightly swollen eyes onto Fleur. She immediately stepped forward to hug her as well. "Good to see you. And thank you for all the food—"

Fleur waved her off, saying it was nothing and no need to thank her. Molly had smiled and turned toward the woman, saying immediately, "Andromeda, I don't know if you remember my eldest son, Bill. And this is his wife, Fleur." She turned to Bill. "Andromeda—Tonks' mother."

Fleur felt something catch in her chest for a moment, very much a startle. She'd been so focused on this woman looking like that madwoman, she hadn't realized…

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Bill said earnestly.

Andromeda forced a polite smile, the same sort of ever present haunted exhaustion that so many people were carrying with them flashing briefly. "Thank you. I am sorry for yours as well. It seems everyone…"

She trailed off, reaching up to nervously fiddle with a necklace she was wearing. "But thank you for coming. Dora talked of you both often. Remus as well, they both always had such lovely things to say about the both of you."

Fleur mustered a smile. "Your daughter was an exceptional woman."

"She really was," Bill agreed.

Andromeda continued to force her smile, but did not get a chance to respond since someone called out, "Dromeda! He's awake!"

"Oh goodness," she said, looking flustered. "I had hoped he'd sleep a bit longer, but I suppose with all the noise and people, that was a bit much to ask for. If you'll excuse me, I'll just—"

But she'd stopped speaking when a woman approached. She was carrying a blanket with a very obvious, very small baby inside. Fleur could hear the muffled cries and tiny squeaks growing louder as the woman grew nearer.

"I picked him up because he was crying," cooed the woman in a baby voice, addressing the blankets. In the same voice she said, "Didn't I?"

Andromeda instantly looked irritated. A dark sort of shadow had passed over her face. "Maura, I was hoping to keep him away from the crowds. He is a month old and all of this is overwhelming for a newborn."

"Do you really think it's appropriate to keep him away from his own parents' and grandfather's funeral? Personally I think he should be front and center. A baby would bring some cheer."

Andromeda reached over and plucked the baby from the woman's arms with a quickness that was rather impressive. "I'm sorry there's not enough cheer for you at my daughter, husband, and son-in-law's funeral. The next time I lose nearly my entire family, I'll be sure to book a clown."

The woman looked slighted and rather embarrassed by the comment, though she attempted to save face by muttering, "I was only trying to help by bringing him to you. He clearly wanted his granny."

"No," Andromeda snapped. "He clearly wants his mother. It's all he ever wants, but that's no longer possible."

Little Teddy cried out at that, a typical sort of baby noise, but enough that it put everyone's focus on him. Andromeda immediately pulled him up close, shushing him in a comforting way while repeating, "It's alright, Teddy. It's alright."

The woman had slunk away at the distraction without a word, Andromeda muttering, "One of Ted's..." She made a face. "She's dreadful and I've barely ever spoken to her. I suspect she even woke him up." She sniffled. "I'm sorry for getting snippy, I just can't help—"

"Don't be," Molly said, laying a comforting arm on her shoulder, gazing down at the bundle of blankets and smiling—actually smiling. "This is him, then? Oh, he's precious."

Andromeda was nodding, and for a brief moment she looked like nothing more than a proud grandmother showing off her grandson. The type that would brag to all of her friends, spoil him rotten, but ultimately hand him right off to his parents at the end of the day. The way grandparenting should be.

But just as quickly, her reality seemed to come rushing back to her. That she was currently standing with her grandson, who'd she'd now need to raise, at his parents' funeral.

"He's the only thing keeping me going these days," she confessed, her tone with a bittersweet quality to it. "I forget no one's properly met him. Dora and Remus had been so excited to introduce you all." She let out a loud sniffle. "They were just so excited about him."

Watching Tonks' mother break down, Fleur couldn't help it; she couldn't fight it anymore. Tears started welling at that and she let out a quiet sob that could rival one of Teddy's little cries. It was enough to get everyone else's attention to look at her. Bill put his arm around her.

"Oh no," Andromeda said, shifting the baby in her arms. "No, you can't cry, dear. If you cry, I'll cry. Then Teddy will cry, so I have a no crying rule around the baby." She smiled a little. "Here, would you like to hold him? I find it very difficult to cry with a baby in your arms. One look at that face…"

"Oh," Fleur said, composing herself and wiping her eyes. "I could not. He is too…"

But Andromeda was already handing little Teddy off to her without hesitation. And despite what Andromeda had said, it looked as if she'd done it because she'd needed a moment to gather herself; the baby was not doing the job she'd promised to keep the tears at bay. She had immediately turned away to dab at her eyes with a handkerchief; Fleur distinctly heard a cry escape her.

She looked down at the new bundle of blankets in her arms, pulling back the bunched up part around his head that was partially obscuring his face.

He…he was…so tiny and sweet. His little eyes, and his little nose, his little face, his bluish colored hair which, while different, was so perfectly reminiscent of Tonks. But he also just looked so much like Remus. He was unmistakably theirs.

His eyes were open, though he wasn't looking at anything in particular. He was making gurgling sounds, his mouth and tongue moving in a way that indicated he was probably hungry and looking for something to suck on.

He was the sweetest little thing.

"He's so cute," she heard Bill say beside her, looking over her shoulder. Though as he spoke, little Teddy sneezed and his hair went from blue to green to brown, causing everyone observing to 'oooh' in an impressed sort of way. It took a few seconds, but it slowly went back to blue.

"He's a Metamorphmagus like Dora was," Andromeda said, having composed herself and returned to the conversation. "All the same signs are there. Having raised one, I know one when I see it."

"Remus was so worried he'd be a werewolf," Bill said, reaching down to give little Teddy's tummy a tickle. It caused him to look in Bill's general direction and gurgle some more.

"Remus worried about many things," Andromeda offered, sounding tired. "And while he hasn't been tested for lycanthropy yet, we had a full moon two weeks ago and he was as typical as ever. Apparently he should have shown some sign—even if just a bad fever or extreme discomfort. But he was fine. Seems to have favored his mother's condition over his father's. Which is good because I can handle a Metamorphmagus."

"Wonderful news," Molly said. "What a blessing."

There was a murmur of agreement among the Weasleys. Fleur continued to stare into this sweet little face, already in love and wanting nothing more than to keep the promise she made to Tonks that their children could be friends someday. That obviously meant she and Bill would need to start considering starting their own family and trying to have their own sweet little bundle wrapped up in blankets.

She looked up at Bill. "I want one."

She could hear Molly say—in the most upbeat she'd sounded in days—"Oh, that would be amazing." She turned to her husband. "Could you imagine, Arthur?"

"Better get on that, Bill," Charlie urged, smirking at him.

Bill made a funny sort of face, offering, "Sure, I'll just pop out to the shop and get one."

"Did no one tell you where babies come from?" Charlie teased. "Do we need to have a chat?"

Bill swatted him playfully, "Well aware."

Fleur looked over at Andromeda, not particularly wanting to give sweet little Teddy back, but knowing she must. She'd been right. The urge she had to cry earlier was now gone after a few minutes looking at him.

She held him back out for his grandmother. "Tonks had told me she'd hoped our children would be friends one day." She smiled a little. "She joked how we needed to start trying straight away."

"Well, by all means, pop out some babies and please stay in touch," Andromeda said, adjusting baby Teddy in her arms. "I'm an older woman who does not know many children these days, and I live away from most people. There will come a time where I'll be begging Molly to let Teddy come 'round and have a visit with her grandchildren just so he can be around other kids."

"You'll never have to beg," Molly said. "You and he both are always welcome at the Burrow." She looked at Fleur and Bill. "Though…if he had some playmates, that would be lovely."

Fleur smiled and Bill laughed, the latter saying, "Everyone is looking at me. Charlie and Percy are right there. Put some pressure on them."

"I don't even have a girlfriend," Percy said, as if that suggestion was daft. Charlie, meanwhile, simply laughed.

"Yeah, No. Not happening. No kids for me."

"Oh Charlie, you'll change your mind someday," his mother muttered.

Charlie was shaking his head as if he would not, but he had the good sense not to say anything. Because for the first time in days—and due to the topic of babies and new life—Molly seemed to have poked her head out of her grief, even if only for a bit, to smile for a brief moment in time.

It likely wouldn't last—Fleur was sure it wouldn't—but if they were like her, they'd all take any minute of reprieve that they could get.