Arthur stood on the doorstep of the address that Charlie had given him. The past couple of days were a blaze of confusion. He didn't remember a lot. First had come the tars, then a slow emptiness and exhaustion. He knew he hadn't been able to be there for his family, not supported Fred and George as he should, not written to Ginny and Ron as he should, but right now all he felt was a yawning emptiness. He could feel a stale anger starting to bite around the edges of that emptiness, and he feared that he was going to turn into an angry man by the time this was over.
He nearly had decided not to come to Charlie's. He really hadn't the strength for the train trips and bus connections. In the end, though, two things had brought him. One, he had to break the news to Charlie, and Charlie was not bound to take it well. If Arthur could tell Charlie in person, he owed that to his son. Second, life was teaching Arthur that children don't last forever, and that every time he saw them might very well be the last. Every word exchanged could be the very last words. He had to see Charlie before he lost his second-eldest as well to the savageness of this unfair world.
And so he rang the demur, civilized little doorbell, wondering how he could possible tell Charlie the news.