the seventh son of a seventh son II
Bill was only ever called William when Uncle Billius was visiting. He didn’t like it much. Thankfully, it didn’t happen often. The cantankerous old man rarely left his old house in the north of Galway.
He only ever came to England twice a year, for the wider clan reunion and for what Bill’s father called the Brothers’ Council.
The term had been coined by Arthur’s brother Ector when he was still alive, a promise of brothers to always see each other once a year no matter where the wind took them.
The war had struck the Weasley family hard: of the seven sons of Septimus Weasley, only four still lived and one of them was disabled for life due to Curse Damage. Uncle Bedivere was being taken care of by Uncle Gareth and his wife. They lived in the Alps mountains in France, where Gareth cultivated potions ingredients for the wider international markets. They too rarely stepped foot in England. But still they kept to their promise and made the trip to their motherland once a year at least.
Bill thought Uncle Billius smelled like old cheese and Uncle Gareth’s jokes were always terrible, but he did love his uncles.
He just wished they didn’t insist on calling him William.
This year, the Brothers’ Council would happen at the same time as little Lance’s seventh birthday.
Bill often wondered if they'd make their own Council when they were all adults. If they did, he hoped there would be more than four out of seven of them left to attend it.
None of them – except the twins – would ever admit it, but each Weasley had a favourite brother.
Ron’s was Charlie. He thought he was the coolest. He couldn’t handle the attention the youngest of the brood received, disliked the twins’ mischievous streak, thought Percy was a bore and found Bill intimidating.
The twins were each other’s. Fred and George lived in their own little world and understood the other best. They liked to tease Percy and Ron, talked to Lance with a baby voice and let themselves be somewhat serious with their eldest brothers – though never for too long. But they’d shut out everyone once they’d realised no one could truly tell them apart. (Until came Harry Potter, that is.)
Percy liked Bill best. He saw him as someone to look up to, appreciated his ambition and his studiousness. He disliked the twins’ rambunctiousness, Ron’s laziness and Charlie’s wild attitude. He liked Lance, but couldn’t relate to him due to his age, and privately resented the way people always inquired after him. Though he was fond of them all, he only had true respect for the eldest. Bill wished Percy liked him for things that actually related to his personality.
Charlie would give the impression that he preferred the twins and he certainly found them hilarious, but he loved their serious middle brother who always had the patience to listen to him ramble about dragons. He was warm to Bill, but never forgot the few years where it was only the two of them. It made things awkward. And he’d never related to the two youngest.
Bill’s favourite was Lance, and he was Lance’s. He loved all of his brothers, and he’d kill for them, but Lance was precious to him. One day maybe, he’d be able to articulate why.
It probably started on that fated seventh birthday, where Lance touched Uncle Bedivere and undid the Curse that had plagued him since the war before he collapsed, his nose, eyes and ears bleeding.
When he woke, their parents were too distraught to explain anything to their youngest son. Bill had to be the one to explain to his little brother that what he had done was not normal, and that he should keep his abilities close to his chest. Lance’s eyes had glimmered with unshed tears and he’d asked Bill a question that broke his heart.
“Is there something wrong with me?”
“No,” Bill had said. “Everything’s right with you. It’s the world that’s wrong. And I won’t let it hurt you.”