Title: Cracks

Characters: Harry Potter and Bill Weasley.

Prompt: #1 - Please.

Notes: This is going to be a little (humongous) collection of 1000-words-or-less drabbles for the challenge on HPFC - Slash/Femmeslash Boot Camp. It's basically Harry. And everyone. (Within semi-reason). There will be 25 half fluff, half angst chapters... and I sincerely hope you enjoy this first snippet! Thank you!


You think you're broken. You're not.

He has Fleur - pretty, empty Fleur who sings like an angel without her wings - and you have Ginny - lovely, broken Ginny who never pretended to be anything else - but you have each other, and maybe that's worth more.

After all, Ginny can't comfort you, and Fleur doesn't understand scars. There are cracks in both of your hearts.

You say, "Please." He holds your hand and doesn't ask what you want; he can't guess either, but he doesn't need to. Anything you want is irrelevant, now. He gives you want you need.

You all lost someone in that war, and you're not the only two who gained someone, but you're the only ones that don't respect the balance.

You are the only ones who don't believe it's a fair trade.

Sometimes, when the moon is full, he leaves Fleur, and comes to you. You both sit on the couch with his head in your lap, and you don't speak. You don't question... this, whatever this is. You patch up the cracks and kiss them better. You don't think of Molly's wrath or Arthur's disappointment, his brothers' shock, or even Fleur's tears and Ginny's silence.

You think of green eyes and red ponytails, and you fall into place.

"Please."

You honestly thought of not telling them; of hiding under stars and balconies, wearing masks and playing harlequin just to appease the rest of them. You thought of ignoring the cracks in your armour.

You decide against it, because this is the only selfish thing you've done in your life, and you want to do it properly.

"Please."

It's almost strange; Molly sits and stares at you both, hand in hand, and then looks up at the family clock. She looks disappointed when Bill's hand points to lost.

Arthur shouts and screams and throws a vase at the door behind you. His freckles stand out and he shakes as he asks you why and how and why and when and why you insolent children why would you do this to Fleur Ginny Molly me us?

You don't - can't - answer him.

Ron just looks sad.

Charlie couldn't make it because he knew what was coming and George doesn't look surprised. Percy pushes his glasses up his nose and shakes his head. They knew.

"Please."

Ginny is begging you now, tugging at your sleeve, wondering where she went wrong. She asks what she could've done better; she asks what she could have done right.

You say, "Nothing. Nothing at all."

Because if you had wanted her to be smarter, you would've listened to Percy. If you wanted her to be prettier, you would've followed Charlie to Romania. If you wanted her to be funnier, you would've moved in with George. If you wanted her to understand you, you would've chosen Ron.

If you wanted to hate yourself, you would've thought to fall in love with Fred.

But it isn't that Bill is more than Ginny, or any better.

He's just... Bill.

Ginny starts to cry. Fleur stays silent.

And Bill looks round at all of them, and his grip tightens on your hand. He blinks softly, and Molly looks away from the clock, Arthur sinks low in his seat, George straightens in his and Ron doesn't say anything at all.

Fleur rubs circles on Ginny's back and refuses to look at any of them.

"Please." The noise is seemingly ripped from Bills' throat - raw and pleading. You shrink where you stand, half hidden behind the man you have come to love.

None of you know what he's asking for. Silence, maybe, but he already has that. Acceptance, possibly. Love, most of all. Molly stands shakily, and walks over to you. She dabs her eyes with the apron, then looks the two of you in the eyes.

She leans forward and kisses your cheek. She takes off your glasses and dries the tears you didn't know were there. She grabs your hand. With her other, she holds Bill.

"Thank you," she whispers, and you don't know which one of you she is talking to. "Thank you."

Your thumb rubs the spot on Bill's fourth finger that you know for a fact is lighter than it should be. He kisses you on the forehead, over a particular scar that has faded now, that has been patched up and forgotten. You feel better for it; Bill has chosen you. Molly accepts that. The others will, in time. Your cracks are healing.

There is nothing more to ask for, now.

You are complete.