Chapter Text
The First Sunday
The Burrow, at its fullest, was overwhelming. Laughter bounced off the wooden walls, chairs scraped against the well-worn floors, and Molly Weasley flitted from guest to guest, cheeks pink with the joy of having her family together. It was warm and alive—the kind of setting where even the ghosts of war couldn’t linger for long.
Bill sat at the far end of the table, fork idly pushing his steak around. The full moon was closing in, and with it came the creeping restlessness, the sharp awareness of every movement, every sound, every scent in the room. The smell of roasted chicken and cinnamon-spiced cake should’ve been pleasant, but all Bill could focus on was the raw meat on his plate, barely seared. His hunger was different now. Not just food. Something primal, something instinctual. And he hated it.
Hermione slid into the seat across from him, fresh from helping Molly with the drinks. She was laughing at something Ron had said, her head tilted back slightly, loose curls shifting with the movement. For years, Bill had trained himself not to watch her, not to notice how easily she fit into their family, how effortlessly she commanded a room. He had tried, Merlin he had tried,to tell himself that she and Charlie would make sense. That they were the match Molly should be pushing for.
Percy's birthday had drawn everyone in, and predictably, Molly was already meddling.
"Charlie, dear, you should ask Hermione about that new magical creatures bill she’s been supporting outside of her normal work. You two have so much in common," she said, voice far too innocent to be anything but matchmaking.
Bill clenched his jaw.
Charlie snorted, leaning back. "Oh yeah, Hermione, fancy running off to the Romanian wilderness with me?"
Hermione rolled her eyes, amused. "Oh, absolutely. Spending my days dodging dragon fire sounds like a dream."
The table erupted with laughter, but Bill barely managed a smirk. He hated how his stomach twisted at the thought—hated that some selfish part of him still believed Charlie could have something with Hermione when he never could.
"Actually, dragons are quite fascinating," Percy piped up. "Did you know they..."
"Not at dinner, Perce," George cut in, shooting him a look. "Save the educational lecture for later."
Conversation shifted as plates emptied, but Bill felt himself retreating. He knew Hermione was aware of him—she always seemed to notice when he was quieter than usual, more withdrawn—but he didn’t have the energy to dodge concern tonight.
"You're barely eating," she said softly, nudging her glass aside to look at him properly.
Bill hesitated, debating a deflection, but instead let out a slow breath. "Not very hungry."
That was a lie. He was starving. But not in a way he wanted to acknowledge.
Hermione frowned, clearly unconvinced. "Is it the full moon?"
His grip on his fork tightened. She always asked the right questions, the ones that dug just deep enough to make him uncomfortable.
"Something like that."
She didn't press, but the weight of her gaze lingered. She was kind like that. But kindness didn't mean much when Bill couldn't believe he deserved it.
The night stretched on, conversation growing lighter, the energy of the family buzzing all around him. Hermione was pulled into a game between Fred and George, laughing freely, while Charlie leaned in, intrigued. And Bill? Bill sat there, watching, pretending it didn’t affect him.
Because it couldn’t. Because it shouldn't.
And still, when Hermione glanced his way again, amusement in her eyes, Bill felt himself unravel just a little more.
Hermione nudged her glass aside, setting her full attention on Bill. “You’ve barely eaten. Still.”
Bill exhaled through his nose, offering a half-shrug. “Not very hungry.”
Hermione raised a skeptical brow. “Bill, that steak is practically raw. If you’re not hungry, why’d you ask for it?”
Bill tensed. She never let things go easily. He could lie, make some excuse, but Hermione has a way of seeing right through him.
“Something like that,” he muttered.
Hermione studied him for a moment, searching his expression, then softened. “Is it the full moon?”
Bill stiffened. She’s never said it quite so plainly before.
“More or less,” he finally admitted.
She tilted her head, her voice quieter now. “Does it hurt?”
Bill hesitated. No one asks that. Not really. Everyone assumes they know, thinks they understand the battle scars and the side effects. But Hermione? She wanted an answer.
"It’s not pain exactly," he said, voice low. "More like…everything’s sharper. Too loud. Too bright. Too much." He glanced away, jaw tight. "And I get…restless."
Hermione leaned forward slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Restless how?”
Bill gave a dry, humourless chuckle. "Like I could run halfway across England and still feel caged."
Hermione hummed thoughtfully. Then, because she’s Hermione, she simply said, “Have you tried running, then?”
Bill blinked at her, caught off guard. “What?”
She gestured loosely. “If movement helps, maybe you need an outlet. I mean, if I had that kind of energy before the full moon, I’d probably take up duelling or something. Just. You know. Let it out.”
Bill stared at her. No judgment. No pity. Just practical, easy conversation.
“Haven’t thought about it,” he admitted, lips quirking slightly. “Might end up terrifying half the countryside.”
Hermione grinned. “Then at least make sure you send an advance warning to Muggle authorities.”
For the first time that night, Bill huffed out an actual laugh. She always did that, pull him out of his own head without even trying.
Hermione, settling into her chair, noticed Bill’s silence again. She tilted her head, studying him as the rest of the family chatted around them.
“You’ve barely said two words since you sat down,” she said lightly, passing him a glass of pumpkin juice.
Bill took it but didn't immediately respond. He knew Hermione well enough to sense the underlying question—Why are you retreating?
“Just listening,” he finally muttered.
Hermione arched a brow. “You? Listening?” She gestured toward the chaos of the room, where George was loudly recounting some ridiculous story about his shop mishaps in America. “I doubt you’re finding any life-changing wisdom in whatever Fred is yelling about.”
Bill huffed out a laugh- brief, but real. She always did that. Picked at the edges of his moods until he cracked.
Before he could reply, Molly swooped in, beaming at Hermione.
“Hermione, dear, have you ever considered dating a dragon handler?”
Bill tensed instantly. Here we go.
Charlie groaned. “Mum...”
“Charlie is quite eligible, you know,” Molly continued cheerfully. “Brilliant career, strong, a bit reckless sometimes, but a good heart.”
Hermione laughed, shaking her head. “Charlie’s wonderful, but I don’t think I’m the right person to run off to Romania with him.”
Molly clapped her hands together. “Nonsense! You’re adventurous! And clever. Oh, you two would have the smartest little...”
“Mum,” Bill cut in before she could say something truly horrifying. “Let them breathe.”
Hermione sent him a grateful smile, but he forced himself to look away. Because this is exactly what he wanted, right? To convince himself that Charlie would be perfect for her. That she deserved someone whole, someone untouched by scars.
Still, when she turned back to him, her voice lower, he knew she wasn't letting him slip away entirely. “Do you really believe I could live in the middle of nowhere handling dragons for a living?” she teased.
Bill smirked, swirling his drink. “You’d last a week before lecturing them into behaving.”
Hermione laughed, but her expression softened as she watched him. She saw him withdrawing again, sinking into himself like he always did when his mind drifts toward the scars.
“You know,” she said casually, “I read somewhere that werewolves don’t actually crave rare meat more than anyone else.”
Bill stiffened. That’s…unexpected.
“You looked this up?”
Hermione shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I was curious.”
“And?”
“Well, the research suggests it’s more psychological than biological. The craving comes from a heightened sense of hunger and instinct—like your body telling you what it thinks you need, rather than what you actually do.”
Bill stared at her, momentarily thrown. No one ever talked about it. No one bothers to understand it past what’s visible.
Hermione tilted her head again, watching his reaction carefully. “I just thought it was interesting.”
Bill exhaled slowly. It’s not just interesting, it’s the first time someone has made him feel seen in a way that wasn’t tied to pity or wounds.
“I think about it sometimes,” he admitted, voice lower now. “How much of it is real, and how much is just…in my head.”
Hermione nodded, her voice gentle. “You’re not defined by it, you know.”
Bill’s fingers tightened around his glass. He wished he believed her.
That evening, The Burrow’s living room hummed with warmth. The air carried the scent of cinnamon tea, fading candlelight flickered against the walls, and the casual lull of conversation wrapped around them like an old quilt. Bill sat in the armchair nearest the fireplace, absently swirling the tea Hermione had insisted he drink. Not because he wanted it, but because refusing would’ve meant letting her win outright, and he wasn’t about to do that
Hermione had settled onto the sofa beside Charlie, tucked comfortably into the corner with her legs curled beneath her. She had always been good at these moments, knowing when to contribute, when to debate, when to simply listen. It was a skill Bill found both impressive and maddening
After a while, Charlie stretched and stood, rolling out his shoulders.
“Bit stuffy in here,” he muttered, glancing toward Hermione. “Fancy some air?”
Hermione nodded, smiling as she unfolded herself from the sofa. “Sounds nice.” And with that, the two of them slipped out the back door, leaving the rest of the family in their cozy sprawl.
The reaction was immediate. Molly gasped, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Oh! Oh, Arthur, did you see?” she whispered frantically to her husband, who looked mildly amused. “They left together! Oh, this is lovely.”
Bill clenched his jaw. Lovely. Right. That’s exactly what this was.
“They just went outside, Mum,” Ginny said, though her voice held an edge of amusement. “They’re not eloping.”
Molly waved her off, eyes still fixed on the door. “Oh, don’t be silly. But I knew they would get along! And Charlie needs someone, you know. He’s such a handsome man. And Hermione. Well, she’s just wonderful.”
Bill stared at his tea, his grip tightening around the ceramic mug. Charlie needed someone. And Hermione was wonderful. Right. Of course.
Ginny watched him from across the room, her expression unreadable. Bill wasn’t oblivious—he knew his sister was observant, sharper than most gave her credit for. And right now, she was watching him, not the door. Minutes passed.
Bill forced himself to sit still, to ignore the ridiculous heat curling in his gut. They weren’t doing anything—just talking—but that didn’t matter, did it? Because Molly thought it was something, and maybe that meant Hermione thought it was something too.
Finally, Ginny spoke, her tone light, but just pointed enough.
“You’re awfully focused on your tea, Bill.”
Bill exhaled sharply through his nose. He was not doing this tonight.
“I’m just listening,” he muttered.
Ginny’s lips twitched. “Right. Listening.”
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the crackling of the fire and Molly’s continued murmurs of excitement to Arthur. Bill refused to look at the door, refused to entertain the stupid, irrational thought creeping into his brain.
“They’re just talking,” Ginny offered suddenly, voice softer now.
Bill flicked his gaze up, meeting her stare. She knew. Of course she knew.
“And?” he asked, feigning disinterest.
Ginny shrugged, sipping her tea. “And you should probably ask yourself why you care so much.”
Bill didn’t answer. Because he already knew the answer. He just didn’t want to say it out loud.