01. paradise (sort of)

As Molly stretches herself out on the green, warm grass of the Prewett backgarden, she reckons that Saturday afternoons are what lemon bars would be like, if lemon bars could be a feeling. The yellow sun is warm and light, and the gentle kiss of the golden afternoon is just the balance of sweet and delightful and tart. This is what heaven feels like. This is what she'd feel like if she could get a drop of bliss and swallow it whole.

That is, until something cold and wriggly and slimy drops onto her chest. She sits up with a rather undignified scream as a frog croaks in horror right back at her.

"You little gits!" Molly shrieks, already scrambling to her feet after her two younger brothers. She wishes she wasn't underage as she chases after the sound of their madcap laughter, echoing down the hallway along with the thunder of feet. She could hex them right then and there, if she weren't, and boy would they deserve it. They snicker as she threatens them, cheeks as red as her hair. "I'm going to-"

They never find out what she's going to do, because before they know it Mrs. Prewett has yelled at all three of them, and now one fourteen-year-old and two thirteen-year-olds are stuck in the backgarden with various gardening tools unceremoniously shoved in their hands. Gideon grins at Fabian. Fabian grins at Gideon. Both of them grin at Molly, and Molly glares back.

"I can't wait until I get back to school and I won't have to deal with you daily anymore," she grumbles, still slightly traumatized by her encounter with a frog.

"Well you're never getting rid of us," Gideon says. "We're your brothers."

Fabian grins. "That's a promise."

02. a memoir

"Twins?" they chorus.

"Twins," Molly replies. She's beaming, heart so full she feels like she could explode, here in the Burrow with a wonderful husband, three lovely boys and two more children on the way. If she clings on to the feeling, perhaps she can drown in it long enough that the worry of the war will fade away. Perhaps she can pretend that none of this is happening, that Fabian and Gideon aren't risking their lives daily for a slim chance at hope.

Percy tugs at Fabian's trouser leg, so he picks him up and presses a light kiss to his temple. "Got any names yet, Carrots?"

"We haven't decided quite yet, but I'd rather like to call them Fred and George," she says. Good, simple names; no pretentious, flashy constellations or grandiloquent, stuffy-sounding names. Fred and George: good names for good boys. (And well-behaved boys, she hopes, since the other three are relatively good-natured and still manage to drive her insane half the time.)

"Fred and George?" Gideon repeats. "G and F. Why, Molly, I can't help but think that you've named them after us."

When Molly rolls her eyes and a light flush stains her cheeks, that's all the confirmation they need, even though she answers with an ambiguous "perhaps."

The smile that twists Fabian's lips is half-wistful, half-genuine. Molly can tell that despite their outward pretenses, they really are touched by her decision. "Think about it," he says, "one of these little squishy things named after us. Proof that Arthur and Molly still-"

"Hush, you two," Molly orders, embarrassment sinking into her pale, freckled skin. "Ten years and you two still haven't changed."

"And we'll still be here for ten more," Gideon adds, now on crouching near the floor as he makes a goofy face at Bill and Charlie. Their light, innocent laugh fills the room, and Molly swells again with that same full feeling of rightness, of knowing that this is how things are supposed to be, that this is how it could have been, if the world around them was different. Gideon ruffles Charlie's hair. "You're never getting rid of us. We're your brothers."

Fabian laughs. "That's a promise. We'll be here to fill the role of cool uncles and tell them embarrassing stories about you and Arthur when they're older."

"Oh, joy."

03. things fall apart

Her shoulders are taut, pulled every which way by the thousands of thoughts whirling around in the maelstrom of her head, and Molly has to muster every drop of strength in her body to not snap at the two men sitting across the table from her. Her eyes glint furiously instead, burning disapproval clear as dawn in her eyes.

"Don't," she says, clipped and short.

Fabian looks uneasily towards his brother, sharing a knowing glance. "Molly, we don't really have a ch-"

"Damn it, Fabian!" Her tongue is loosed, a curse word spilling from her usually proper lips. "Of course you've got a choice! You're not slaves."

"Exactly, and we're fighting so the Muggles don't have to be!" Gideon retorts hotly.

"But, but there must be some other way for you two-" Molly stutters, desperation seeping into her voice. She knows she is fighting a losing battle - she has for the last half hour - but she can't help but try to save her brothers from what she intuitively feels is a death wish. She knows, somehow, and yet they remain stubborn (a very Prewett trait) and stalwartly refuse to budge. Fabian and Gideon don't meet her eyes, and at that second Molly realizes that they know.

They can see the trap. They realize what they're walking into, and her stupid, brave brothers want to do it anyway.

"Just promise me," she whispers, blinking back hot tears. "Promise me you'll come back. Merlin knows the twins will need their uncles to spoil them."

She feels a warm, calloused hand on hers - Gideon's. "C'mon, Molls. You're never getting rid of us. We're your brothers."

A soft laugh - Fabian. He always laughs when he's lying. "That's a promise."

04. east of eden

She wishes it was cold or raining.

It seems so silly, so inconsequential, so wrong that the sun is bright and warm and comforting, bathing rich grass and starched black robes and moss-covered gravestones with lemonade sunlight. Molly Weasley hates it - or at least she would if she could feel anything. She cried, wept, poured out her soul in a torrent of anguish for days until her throat was hoarse from the grief that continually scratched against it, but what is an ocean that is drained of its waves? Now she feels drained, a barren, alien landscape once filled with water, left with nothing but shells and sand and a rotting stench. Not a tear left her eyes at the funeral; her body had no more to shed.

Bill had thrown a fit this morning, tiny fists gripping to the bed. "I don't want to go," he'd sobbed, anger in his young eyes. "I don't want to go. They're not dead. They're not."

Molly had sighed quietly, emptiness in her eyes as she tried to press a kiss to his cheek. Bill had turned away. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. We have to go."

She hadn't the strength to say the words "they're gone," and even here, standing in front of two stones with two mounds of fresh earth, she hasn't truly come to terms with the fact that they're not coming back. Arthur had taken the children to play with their cousins, leaving Molly to have some last words alone. It's now - slowly then all at once - that she wells up with inexplicable anger.

"You promised," she whispers, deliriously furious. Her fingers clench around the bouquet of flowers in her hands, the sound of a small snap indicating that she's broken a few of the stems. "You promised me you'd come back. You promised, you promised, you promised-"

A dry sob heaves her chest, shoulders trembling as Molly claps a hand over her mouth. She shakes with grief, not even realizing as she falls to her knees in the cool, soft earth, broken flowers falling from her hands as white petals against the black ground.

This is what hell on earth feels like; not the sharp stab of pain, but the overwhelming roar of emptiness.