My Son That You Have Taken
The Burrow was quieter now. Molly had always known the transition from stay-at-home mum to empty nester would be difficult, but she hadn’t truly understood the true extent of this until Ginny had moved out.
She had more free time. Meals were easier to cook when there were only two mouths to feed. Laundry was less burdensome. Cleaning took less time when the only person absentmindedly leaving items scattered about the house was Arthur.
When her children had been small, she had fantasized about peace and calm and orderliness.
Now it was stifling. Lonely.
She could go insane in her neat, orderly, quiet, peaceful house.
She would, if her children didn’t visit as often as they did.
Bill and Fleur visited as frequently as two harried new parents could. She visited shell cottage less frequently; it was so evidently Fleur’s domain, now, and while Molly had accepted her changed role in Bill’s life, she remained uncomfortable ceding the matriarch role entirely.
It was easier for her when Bill brought his family to her.
Ginny and Harry visited occasionally, as did Ron and Hermione, but all four of them had thrown themselves head first into their new careers; she was surprised they had time even for sleep.
Ron and Harry had worked near miracle changes with the Aurors, or so Arthur said. Hermione had inspired a raft of legislative changes that rankled many of the more traditional pureblood families, but which had the full support of the Weasleys.
And Ginny had taken the quidditch world by storm. She reportedly trained for hours daily.
Molly feared the four of them buried their grief beneath a flurry of activity.
She knew something about using responsibilities to cover up her emotions. She dreaded the night, when she had nothing to distract her from her thoughts.
Out of all her children, Percy visited most often, perhaps out of guilt and shame and a sense of obligation. Their attempts at normalcy were marred by the heavy grief that hung around all three of them. And yet, Molly welcomed the company. Percy’s visits were a symbol that all had not been lost, that fractures she feared were permanent could heal.
But nothing could heal Fred’s absence, just as nothing had healed Gideon and Fabian’s before him.
She pointed her wand at the stove. Her arm trembled a moment, then she dropped it to her side without casting a spell. The floorboards creaked behind her, and then Arthur’s arms were wrapped around her torso. She felt his cheek against the top of her head.
“What’s wrong, Mollywobbles?”
She levitated a cutting board onto the counter. “This ought to be a happy time in our lives, and here I am crying like a…like a….”
“A bereaved mother,” Arthur supplied.
She waved her hand at him dismissively, which caused his robes to lift off the floor until she realized and hastily stuffed her wand back into her apron. “I know, but a granddaughter! What silly old woman cries when she has a granddaughter in her life? But…but…Fred would have made such a good uncle.”
She choked back another sob.
“I’d better degnome before Percy arrives,” Arthur said, voice thick with unshed tears.
Molly waited until he left before she resumed cooking. Now that she was alone tears flowed freely down her face.
The first grandchild was a milestone she read about in her magazines - Witch’s Weekly was full of other women her age bragging about how many grandchildren they had. But Witch’s Weekly was her social circle. She had no friends to discuss grandchildren with. Even when Pandora Lovegood had been alive, the Lovegoods had kept to themselves. She had done her best to keep Dawn Diggory from retreating into grief after Cedric’s death, but she was so busy with her own concerns that she knew her success was only marginal.
And while Dawn understood her pain at losing Fred, Molly was reluctant to discuss the topic of grandchildren with a woman who would never have any of her own.
It felt selfish, almost pointedly cruel.
A knock on the door announced Percy’s arrival. Molly spun around, shouting in the direction of the entryway. “The door is unlocked! You can come on in!”
A few seconds later Percy slunk into the kitchen. His eyes darted around the room without ever landing on her face, but he stepped into her embrace willingly enough, and patiently endured the kiss she planted on his cheek. “Hello, mother. It smells incredible.”
“Your father is out back,” She said, turning to tend the stove once more.
“I saw him.”
Silence fell between them for a heartbeat before they forged ahead into a stilted, hesitant dance composed of small talk and things left unsaid. By the time Arthur joined them the table was set and supper was ready, but their conversation had yet to soften into a more comfortable flow.
Percy was first to breach their unspoken contract. “I should have saved him.”
Molly dropped her fork with a clatter that made both Percy and Arthur jump. “Save who, dear?” She asked, though she knew.
“He…he was right beside me…” Percy swallowed and looked down at his plate, his normally pale face blotchy and his eyes rimmed red beneath his spectacles.
Tears sprang into Molly’s eyes. “It isn’t your fault, Perce.” Her voice cracked and she ducked her head, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin.
Arthur squeezed her shoulder, but it was his son he was looking at. “Your mother is right, Percy. Don’t blame yourself. We all fought as best we could. Nobody can ask for more than that.”
Percy’s shoulders slumped. “I wish…” He faltered, unable to find the language for the desires that haunted him.
“We all wish,” Molly dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her napkin. “Nobody blames you, Percy, don’t ever think we do.” She cast him a watery smile, and he gave her an uncertain smile back.
“I see his face at night,” Percy whispered.
Molly’s brow crumpled. “I know.”
“No, you don’t know!” Percy said, and he was yelling, now, and tears rolled down his face. “I dream that I almost save him. I dream that the curse hits me, and he still dies! If I had listened to you in the first place… if I had paid a little more attention, instead of being so grateful he forgave me I slipped up…”
“Don’t talk to your mother that way!” Arthur scolded, his voice rising to match Percy’s.
Tears blurred Molly’s vision and her voice quaked as she interrupted. “I do understand, Percy. I have dreams, too. About Fred. About… about G-Ginny.” She took a shaky breath and wiped her eyes again. “I wish I had supported Fred and George’s inventiveness more. We all have regrets, don’t ever tell me again I don’t know what that’s like.”
Percy lowered himself back into his chair. “I’m sorry, mum,” he mumbled, not meeting her gaze.
“I know.”
Neither Percy nor Arthur said anything, so she continued, striving desperately to keep her voice level. “After Gideon and Fabian died, I yelled at my mother daily for two weeks.” She gave a shaky laugh. “It’s a wonder she didn’t kick me out of the house. I blamed her for everything.”
Percy looked up from his plate, eyes round. “I never knew that.”
“I never talked about it, did I?” she said, spearing her potatoes. “I was furious. I blamed my mum, said she’d chased him into risking his life. All because she discouraged him from proposing to Amelia Bones.”
“Uncle Gideon was in love with Madam Bones?” Percy goggled.
Molly’s laughter was more sincere, now. “Oh, he thought he was. She wasn’t interested in him at all, though. Mum knew it, didn’t want him to break his heart proposing to a witch everyone knew had no interest in wizards. Oh, I told mum if she’d allowed Gideon to propose, he could have been married and alive and we’d all be happy. Somehow, if Gideon had married, Fabian would have survived, too. Don’t ask me how it would have worked. Ridiculous.”
Percy cleared his throat. “Speaking of… marriages… I’ve met someone.”
Molly’s eyebrows rose nearly into her hairline. “Percival Ignatius Weasley! You wait until now to tell us?”
“Tell us about her,” Arthur encouraged, gesturing at his son with his fork. “Let’s hear more about this girl of yours. Err… it is a girl, isn’t it?”
“She’s a woman, yes,” Percy said. “Her name is Audrey Rossignol. She was a classmate of Fleur’s.”
“Oh. Another French witch. How… lovely.” Molly knew she sounded strained, so she gave Percy a wide smile to cover up her initial falter. “When do we meet her?”
Percy glanced between his mother and father anxiously. “Will you be at Bill and Fleur’s next weekend?”
Molly appeared with a pop on the outskirts of Shell Cottage. The cottage was silhouetted against the pale sunset. It was lovely, but she eyed it with apprehension.
Arthur appeared at her elbow. “Are you ready, Mollywobbles?”
She tilted her head at him, smiling slightly despite her misgivings.
Bill and Fleur were a wonderful couple.
Molly recalled guiltily her initial dislike of Bill’s wife. Fleur had swept into her life an unwelcome burden, endlessly complaining about her housekeeping and her cooking and her taste in everything from reading material to clothing to music.
Molly was used to being judged. The wealthier members of the Wizarding community sneered at her husband’s career. They sneered at her clothing, and her home, at the number of children she had, and at her size.
Narcissa Malfoy, with her perfect blond hair and her perfect slim figure, and her mansion was the woman other wizarding wives dreamed of being. Fleur had the perfect blond hair and the perfect slim figure, and she was as aware of her own beauty as Narcissa was.
Even now, Molly felt inferior in her presence. She had long since realized this wasn’t Fleur’s fault, and she did her best to pretend, but she felt her own failures looming over her in her daughter-in-law’s presence. Fleur had thrown herself into the role of mother with gusto, and Molly feared that Fleur even outclassed her there.
Fleur would never fail to save Victoire. (She had saved Ginny; she hadn’t saved Fred. She had failed as a mother.)
They strode forward together, Molly holding onto Arthur’s arm for emotional support. She no longer disliked Fleur, but her inadequacies still loomed large in the younger witch’s presence.
Bill opened the door before they could knock. “Mum! Dad! Glad you could make it.”
Molly scrutinized him with sorrowful fondness. “Your hair is getting long again.”
He ran a hand through his shoulder length tresses and grinned. “Fleur likes it.” He stepped back from the door, gesturing.
Shell Cottage was no longer as immaculate as it had been when Bill and Fleur had first moved in. Even the incomparable Fleur couldn’t prevent wooden blocks from accumulating all across the floor, or ragdolls in pointy hats from lingering in corners.
Molly followed her eldest son into the sitting room, where Victoire was crawling across the floor. Immediately, she leaned over to wiggle her fingers at her granddaughter. “Hello, Victoire. You’ve grown since I saw you last.”
Victoire Weasley was an enchanting infant, much as her father had been - much as her mother surely had been.
Bill laughed. “She’s already outgrown that hat you knit for her last month. I never knew a baby’s head could be so huge.”
“I’ll knit another one,” Molly said fondly. “It’s no trouble at all for someone as adorable as you, no, not at all.”
Bill watched his mother and daughter, smiling, then said, “I’ll let Fleur know you’re here.”
He disappeared into the hallway, leaving a contented Molly to coo at her granddaughter.
These were blessed, fleeting moments of tranquility, when she forgot her grief for a time, and instead found only pleasure in the closeness of family and the joy of new life.
Bill reappeared ushering a radiant Fleur. Molly’s eyes traveled to the slight bump beneath her robe.
“Mum. Dad. Victoire is going to be a big sister.”
Molly gasped. “Oh, what wonderful news!”
Arthur clapped his son on the shoulder. “Congratulations. But you still have a few more to go if you want to catch up to us.” He gestured between himself and Molly, who swatted at him in exasperated affection.
“Don’t listen to him. You don’t need to catch up to us, Bill, dear. I’m sure Fleur doesn’t want to endure quite so many labors.”
But Fleur smiled serenely and said, “Oh, it is not trouble at all. Labor was not so very bad.”
Faint irritation sprang up within Molly at this inexplicable announcement. She suppressed it with as much brutality as she could muster. It was a good thing if another woman didn’t suffer during labor, she told herself firmly, while she smiled at Fleur and said, “That’s wonderful. I hope this one will be as easy.”
A knock sounded at the door, and Fleur said, “That will be your Percy and Audrey.”
Bill stooped to kiss her cheek. “I’ll let them in.”
Fleur smiled over her shoulder. “He is such an attentive husband.”
Victoire crawled to her mother and tried to pull herself up by gripping Fleur’s robes. Fleur plucked her daughter from the floor and tickled her tummy, making the little witch giggle. “Tell me, Mrs. Weasley, how do you handle two? I’m not sure I always have a handle on the one of them.”
Molly smiled wryly at that. “Oh, you’ll get used to it soon enough.”
Fleur’s eyes brightened. “Is that so?”
“You get used to never having a moment’s peace and feeling endlessly overwhelmed,” Molly clarified.
Fleur’s face fell for a moment, but then she reluctantly laughed. “My mother says this, also.”
“They grow up, eventually,” Molly said consolingly, and her heart ached from the truth of it. “And then you’ll miss this.”
Their brief moment of bonding (or was it still rivalry, in some distorted way?) was interrupted by the return of Bill, with Percy in tow. A young witch followed behind them, doe eyes darting all round the sitting room as if she feared danger might be lurking behind a sofa.
“You must be Audrey,” Molly said, standing in one swift movement and offering the other witch her hand.
Audrey hesitantly took it. “Yes, yes, I’m Audrey Rossignol. Percy has told me so much about you, Mrs. Weasley. Mr. Weasley.”
She looked up at Percy, and the anxiety slid from her face, replaced by adoration. But a moment later her nervous expression returned.
“I beg your pardon,” Fleur said, holding Victoire out to Bill. “I am being such a dreadful hostess. May I get anyone anything?”
“Nonsense,” Molly said, waving the girl away. “You’re pregnant. Let me and Arthur help.”
“Err, yes, quite right,” Arthur agreed, although he didn’t seem entirely certain what he’d agreed to.
Fleur hesitated, and Molly read pure reluctance in her face.
“I insist,” she said firmly. “You need your rest. If we need any assistance, we’ll ask Bill.”
Molly dragged Arthur into the kitchen before Fleur could muster up a more forceful objection. “Now, let’s see, how many guests are there…”
Molly and Arthur had only just finished serving drinks when there was a clatter at the door, and a voice called, “Hello? Are we late?”
“Harry!” Fleur said, while at the same time Molly gasped, “Ginny!”
She hurried into the hall after Bill, and flung her arms first around her daughter, then around Harry. “Oh, how have you been?”
She stepped back to scrutinize the pair. It was hard to believe that the smart young man before her was the same scrawny, timid little boy she’d first met at Kings Cross Station nine years ago.
“We’re fine, mum. Didn’t you get my owl?” Ginny asked, rolling her eyes in exasperation.
“An owl is no substitute for seeing you in person!” Molly chided.
“Mrs. Tonks is bringing Teddy,” Harry said as they all bustled into the sitting room together.
“Oh, I am so glad you made it,” Fleur cried, hugging Harry, and then Ginny, who had disliked Fleur with more naked intensity than Molly ever had. But Ginny was vivacious and pretty and popular, all words nobody had ever used to describe her mother.
Her acceptance of Fleur required fewer suppressing insecurities.
“Are Ron and Hermione coming?” Molly asked.
“Hermione had an important press release,” Ginny said apologetically. “And Ron is going for emotional support.”
“Oh. Of course.”
Molly tried not to show her disappointment at Ginny’s answer. She had raised her sons in the hopes they would support their wives; she wouldn’t wish Ron to abandon Hermione to the dragon-fanged journalists on her own.
“Has anyone heard from George and Angelina?” Percy asked, right as the door sounded again.
“I’ll get it. No, mum, it’s all right, you stay here,” Bill said firmly, handing her Victoire. “Enjoy being a grandmother.”
Molly sat back down, smiling at the baby in her arms. Victoire blinked up at her, then reached out a chubby fist and yanked on Molly’s hair, hard.
Molly winced as she freed her hair from Victoire’s grasp. “Your father used to do this to me, too, young lady,” she said, blinking back tears of pain.
“Where’s the girl who puts up with Perce’s ugly face? I need to pay her off,” said a voice, and then George stepped into the room, carrying a sleepy toddler and followed by Angelina Johnson and a weary looking Andromeda Tonks.
“Haha,” Percy said sarcastically.
Audrey looped her arms around his neck and glared at George in only the second non-anxious expression Molly had seen from her. “I think Percy’s company is lovely. Do kindly shove off.”
“That’s my brother, George,” Percy said in long-suffering tones. “He labors under the delusion that he’s funny.”
“But I am funny, brother dear,” George said, grinning, as Harry took Teddy from him. “Just ask Angelina.”
“I let him believe he’s funny,” Angelina stage-whispered to Audrey.
Audrey continued to cast suspicious glares at George, while Percy patted her hand reassuringly.
Angelina and Ginny crowded around Fleur.
“Is it true, you’re pregnant again?” Angelina asked.
Fleur gave Molly a mischievous smile. “It is true. Bill and I have to live up to his parents.”
Ginny grimaced. “Better you than me.”
“Oh, Ginny,” Molly said, shaking her head. “You’d make a wonderful mother.”
“Not to seven children,” Ginny muttered.
Molly’s smile faltered. Seven children, and only four of them had come. She hadn’t asked about Charlie; she knew he couldn’t fly home from Romania for a single evening like this.
And Fred would never have dinner with his family again.
The nightmares occurred with less frequency, now.
She still awoke, sometimes, out of a dream in which green light burst through the dim castle interior. It illuminated Bellatrix’s expression of malicious triumph for one heart-stopping moment.
And then Ginny’s body was falling, falling, falling through space. The floor transformed into a cavernous hole and Ginny tumbled away…
When she awoke, she still turned to Arthur for comfort, grateful for her husband’s steadfastness, for his solid reassurance that she had only been dreaming. Bellatrix was dead; Molly had killed her. (She had killed for her children. But not enough, not enough, not enough… she should have killed more, faster, earlier, spared Fred…)
She kept busy, now, rotating between her children’s homes, helping out with the multitude of little Weasley’s.
And the one little Potter, although James Sirius wouldn’t be the only little Potter, soon; Ginny was pregnant again.
And so were Angelina and Hermione.
Next year was going to be quite a year for grandchildren.
Arthur had taken to ribbing Fleur and Audrey, asking if they might not want to join the baby festivities. Molly rolled her eyes, reminding him in a whisper that pregnancy was difficult and most witches weren’t keen to be pregnant when they still had a newborn on their hands.
Audrey insisted stiffly that she was very certain that little Lucy was the last for her. (They had named their eldest Molly. Molly had cried when she heard.)
Fleur only smiled and said perhaps she and Bill would attempt to catch up with his parents when Louis was a little older, and less of a handful.
Louis reminded Molly strongly of his uncle George as an infant. She didn’t think Fleur was ever getting a break from that particular handful of son anytime soon, if ever.
Sometimes, Molly felt as if she were running a daycare, particularly when both Angelina and Ginny brought little Fred and James to visit so Molly could watch while they slept.
“Why is being pregnant so exhausting?” Ginny wailed.
She had made the same complaint all through her pregnancy with James. Molly felt for her; Ginny was ordinarily an energetic young witch, and months of pregnancy-related fatigue didn’t suit her at all.
“You’re growing a little wizard inside you,” Molly told her, taking James from her daughter. James clung stubbornly to his mother, who had to pry him off forcefully.
“I quit. Never again.”
Ginny had also said that last time. Molly remembered making similar statements, but it never took long before she conveniently forgot the worst parts of pregnancy and recalled only how sweet they had been as babies.
She didn’t expect Ginny to suffer through six pregnancies the way she had, but she wouldn’t be surprised if she soldiered through another one after this.
Ginny stumbled, grumbling, upstairs to her old bedroom. Molly heard the door slam, and knew her daughter had collapsed onto her bed for some much needed sleep.
A little boy with brown skin and curly hair toddled unsteadily into the room. “James!” He cried exuberantly.
James wriggled free of Molly’s grasp and wobbled over to his cousin. “Fweddie!”
The two boys gleefully snuck into the yard, followed by their sighing grandmother. Molly rubbed her hip gingerly. Once upon a time, holding a toddler on her hip had felt only natural.
Now, it was one more reminder of her age.
“Boys!” she called as she limped toward them. “Stay away from the gnomes! They bite!”
James and Fred froze, then whirled to look at her in wide-eyed shock. Neither of them had noticed her presence.
Neither was as sneaky as his namesake… yet. But she imagined it was only a matter of time.
By the time Angelina and Ginny collected their sons, there had been approximately five gnome bites, one scraped knee, and a splinter.
“It isn’t your fault, mum,” Ginny reassured her overwhelmed mother with a yawn. No amount of sleep was restful for her in this stage of her pregnancy. “James is like that. As long as you keep him alive, you’ve succeeded…”
She realized a split-second too late her mistake.
Molly’s eyes misted over.
“Mum, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” Ginny said plaintively, struggling to keep hold of her squirming, resistant offspring.
“I know you didn’t,” Molly whispered, voice hoarse. "He’s a daredevil of a little boy. I wouldn’t expect anything else from you and Harry’s child.”
Ginny pinned James’s arms behind his back. “Keep still. We’re going to see daddy, now. Bye, mum!”
Molly remained pale and morose the remainder of the day.
As long as you keep him alive, you’ve succeeded.
She rarely blamed herself for Fred’s death these days. In fact, compared to the early days after the war, she hardly thought about it at all. It was always present, but no longer all consuming, a background grief that only occasionally flared up.
But when it returned, it was a tidal wave as powerful as it had been in the aftermath. It was grief undiluted by time; only the frequency had changed.
In these moments, when grief spilled from her in violent, soul-shaking sobs, she wondered how she had ever allowed herself to be happy. It was a betrayal of Fred’s sacrifice, to smile or laugh.
(It wasn’t. She knew that. Time hadn’t healed the wound of Fabian or Gideon, but it had taught her that happiness was allowed.
But Fabian and Gideon weren’t her children.
It was different, mourning your brother versus mourning your son.)
When Arthur returned home, he took in the tear tracks marking her cheeks and her swollen, puffy eyelids. He didn’t need to ask.
He never needed to ask.
He embraced her, and she rested her head against his chest, rocking her gently as if she were a baby, not a grandmother, despite the silver that sparkled in her once bright orange hair.
She no longer told him the fears that lurked inside. Not because he wouldn’t listen. But because she didn’t need to. When he held her like this, that was answer enough.
Fred was gone. Fred would always be gone.
She couldn’t save him. She would always have to live with that knowledge.
She couldn’t save him.
But Arthur didn’t think she had failed.