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The moon hangs high and bright in the night sky, illuminating the wisps of mist laying like a soft blanket across the grassy fields. Inside, its soft glow paints shadows on the walls. Molly Weasley is alone in the kitchen, her house quiet in a way it only ever gets at night, even during times like these. She has her hands in the sink – has had them in there for so long that her fingertips look like pale raisins – and is washing the plates thoroughly by hand.
Not that they were dirty in the first place.
This is the only way that she has found to deal with what has happened; solid work in her hands, a heavy silencing spell so she won’t disturb anyone else. Arthur’s eyes always follow her as she leaves their bed, but he understands her impatient and irrational need to start putting things right. Not that anything will ever be quite alright in Molly Weasley’s life ever again; her son should be alive and he is not.
She scrubs at a spot on the china that might be imagined and ignores the tears on her face.
It is when she holds up the plate to the light of a moonbeam that she hears it, a sound any mother would recognize immediately: sobbing.
It’s the sort that wrecks the body, rips at the throat, makes the heart ache.
Despite her hurry, she has only put the plate down and got her wand out of her apron to lift the silencing spell when:
“Harry…?” her youngest son asks quietly.
There is no immediate reply and for a moment she just stands there, wand in hand, indecisive. A part of her is – painfully – aware that her boys are grown up now and that they deserve their privacy. Another… will not let her forget that, while he certainly possesses many other admirable qualities, dear Ronald has never been particularly surefooted in emotional matters. And they all need as much support as they can get right now; young Harry in particular.
This is ultimately the thought that makes her decision, and she moves to the far end of the kitchen where the shadows are deep and she can keep an eye on what is going on in her living room.
She will intervene when necessary.
Ron is sitting on the couch in there, wrapped up in a nest of blankets. Her nightly cleaning had apparently not been quite as solitary as she had imagined.
Suddenly the living room is lit by the light of a lumos and Molly has to squint against it, too used to the soft moonlight. When her eyes have finally adapted, the sight that meets her is not unexpected. But that does not mean that it doesn’t send a stab through her chest.
Harry stands on the steps of the stairs, his glasses forgotten and his face wet with tears. His shoulders are bare and hunched and shaking with silent sobs. He looks like the twelve-year-old that had been so plainly uncertain about his welcome, marveling at such things as being fed and cared for.
“I’m sorry, Ron,” Harry says, his voice rough and unexpectedly deep to Molly and her old memories. “I’m sorry.”
It’s all Molly can do to stay where she is, to remind herself that it is important that they get the chance to deal with this without her there to bother them.
“Harry, don’t be stupid,” Ron says softly, wand still only barely sticking out from his blanket cocoon. “Stop apologizing.”
Harry opens his mouth, but whatever he meant to say is interrupted by a gasping sob. And he looks so ashamed.
Perhaps her son notices, too, because suddenly he stands and says: “Come here.”
Harry’s legs look barely strong enough to keep him upright as he stumbles down the stairs and… collides with Ron’s body, hiding his face in his neck. The surprise and panic that flashes across Ron’s face almost propels her into intervening. But then they are gone and Ron is wrapping his arms around Harry’s still shaking shoulders.
“It’s fine,” Ron mumbles into Harry’s hair. “We’re good, we’re not going anywhere.”
The calm assurance in his voice is surprising to her, for all that she is always willing to believe the best (and more) of any of her children. Her little boy just sounds so… grown.
She clenches the wand in her hand and doesn’t dare move to wipe the tears from her own face, lest the movement disturbs her boys. What she is watching is somehow made worse by that she doesn’t know what has upset Harry so much; that there are so many horrors to choose from.
Slowly Harry’s sobs are stilling into something even, into something that almost sounds like quiet, pleading whispers of Ron, Ron. Her youngest son is responding with soothing mumbles and has moved his hand to Harry’s black hair, carding his fingers through it softly.
It surprises her, somewhat, to see them sharing intimacy so readily. They have always seemed the type to show their affection roughly, with slaps on the shoulders and soft punches. It pales in comparison, though, to the bewildering sight of someone so obviously needing, relying on, her little boy. And Harry so obviously does; his hand gripping Ron’s nightshirt so tightly that she doubts that she will ever get the wrinkles out, clinging to him like he is the last hope this world has to offer. Ron – her little Ronald – is not just a shoulder to cry on; Ron is what holds him up.
“I didn’t mean to-“ Harry says suddenly, voice hoarse and muffled by Ron’s shoulder. “I just- I didn’t know what- I-… I needed you.”
The blanket slips entirely off Ron’s shoulders when he draws Harry in closer.
“For Merlin’s sake, Harry,” Ron says, sounding frustrated and pained all at once. “It’s fine, it’s always fine. Always.”
Harry nods against Ron’s shoulder, and Ron maneuver them so they’re sitting on the couch he only just got up from. Whether by accident or design, they end up half in each other’s lap. Neither makes a move to change the arrangement though, and with a twitch of his wand Ron fetches the blanket from the floor and drapes it over them both.
They are grown men now, as evident by how the blanket is not quite enough to cover them both. At this moment, though, they don’t look it; just her little boys. Except that they have fought a war, been more instrumental in winning it than any child should ever be.
She had met Lily Potter a few times before she had been taken from Harry. Not often, or intimately, but she had liked the woman well enough. A young mother, with a fierceness in her eyes. When she passed, Molly had not given her much more thought than anyone else in wizarding Britain had done.
And then the boys had brought little Harry home, his eyes large behind those glasses of his.
After that, Molly had thought of Lily often. Every child ought to have a mother, she firmly believed. A mother to appreciate the little things, to nag about eating enough, to be proud of all they did. Molly felt that it was her duty – her privilege – to experience with Harry what Lily couldn’t. And so Molly would watch, and smile, and think Lily, look what our boy is doing. And he had done so much, turned out so good. Both of them had, and though she was well aware that it was far from solely her doing, she thought that she could rightly claim some credit.
And dear little Ron, who had always been so worried that he would forever be last among his brothers. No matter what she or Arthur had said, he had always felt that he had to compare himself – felt the need to measure up. There has never been any sort of tally kept between her children, least of all in her eyes, but she hopes that Ronald realizes just how much he has achieved. How proud they all are of him.
Harry is finally starting to calm, and soon only the occasional sob disrupts his breathing. She watches them just sit there for a minute longer, then Harry lifts his head from Ron’s shoulder and rubs his face with his hands.
“Sorry about that,” Harry says, voice still gravelly, “I… didn’t mean to-“
“Bloody hell, Harry,” Ron interrupts, “apologize one more time and I will hex your arse ‘til you-mmfh”
Molly freezes slightly as she watches Harry grab the hair at the nape of Ron’s neck and press their lips together.
Ron is plainly surprised. Then his eyes close and his hands come up to Harry’s face, and the kiss turns into something deep and slow.
Molly decides that this is something she does not need to watch.
She moves carefully from her place in the darkness and goes back to the sink and stove, and starts working. As she does, she tries not to listen to the soft sound of lips parting, of whispered words.
When she is done, there is no sound coming from the living room. It makes her hesitate for a moment but, in the end, she sets the two steaming cups on a tray. If there is one thing she learned from Remus Lupin, it is that some good chocolate helps almost any situation. The plate of sandwiches she places between is there because she knows from personal experience that crying is hungry work. Besides, her boys never seem to put quite enough meat on their bones.
She picks the tray up and goes to the door.
She’s as surprised to see Ron awake as he is to see her, it seems. His blue eyes go wide, and for a moment he wears that face he always has when she’s caught him doing something he shouldn’t have been. Then it hardens into stubborn resolve and his arm tightens slightly around the boy sleeping on his shoulder.
The sight stabs at her chest, with pride that he is willing to stand up for this and with pain because he seems to think that he needs to.
Molly blinks away persistent tears and goes to set down her tray in front of them. Ron looks surprised at this, as though he hasn’t noticed her holding it until just now. He stares at the mugs of hot chocolate, at the sliced bread.
Then he looks up at her, and he looks… hopeful.
She smiles slightly at him. His ears go red and he looks down at the floor. At Harry.
When he looks up again he looks somewhere between scared and determined, always the Gryffindor at heart.
“I love him,” he whispers.
Molly looks at him and can’t keep the tears back anymore. Her son, so grown. Something so wonderful sprouting in the middle of these dreadful, dreadful times.
She smiles at him, and finds nothing within her that is surprised.
“I know,” she whispers back. “I know.”
Ron’s ears go even redder, but a small and pleased smile tuggs at his lips.