She wakes up each morning, just as the sun crests the hillside, sending rays of golden light through her window. She dresses quietly--sound carries so easily through the thin walls of her home--only remembering once she has already crept downstairs to the kitchen that she is alone in the house.
She sighs softly at this realization, pauses with her pale, freckled hands on the countertop, listening for any sound, any sign of life in the empty house. But no noise reaches her ears, except for the birds singing delightedly outside, swooping past the kitchen window and preening their feathers on the windowsill.
Arthur, she knows, left before dawn to make it to London at a decent hour. She remembers now, half-dreaming, opening her eyes a little to watch him button his shirt, feeling the mattress of their bed sink a bit under his weight while he bent to tie his shoes. She remembers drifting back into sleep listening to the whoosh of the fireplace as he left.
She puts on her apron; ties back her bright hair, makes her way outside to the chicken coop. She enjoys the sun on her skin, pauses a moment with eyes closed and face upturned toward the warmth and light. A day like today, warm and balmy, is a rare gift lately. It has been so cold, the winter a long and dreary one. But summer is obviously on its way.
Today, as with any day, her thoughts are filled with the children as she goes about her chores. Feeding the chickens, she worries about Ginny's marks for her first year at school, wonders if her older brothers are looking out for her. Scrubbing the dishes, she frets about the twins; when the mail arrives she holds her breath, praying silently that there will be no more news of their mischief. Hanging out the linens to dry, bright white and billowing in the breeze, she thinks of Percy, sullen and studious and always so lonely, and her heart hurts for him, a little.
But her thoughts linger longest on her youngest son. Too many nights she has woken up sweating from nightmares, could right now almost work herself into hysteria if she lets herself think too much about little Ron. About Harry.
She has heard the stories of what has been happening at school, has heard about the poor Granger girl being petrified as she wandered the corridors, and cannot help but fear, but know, that the extraordinary events this year (and last) are inextricably, inarguably, tied to Harry.
Tied to Harry, much like her youngest son has found himself. So she worries, worries day and night, sends Ron too many owls checking up on him, lies awake in the early hours while Arthur snores softly next to her.
She cares for Harry, feels deeply sorry for him. But she fears him, too, fears deep down that he will cost her a son, perhaps more of her family.
She knows, as she balances on her hands and knees this afternoon, digging in the garden, what the world is coming to, she knows that now Harry is at school it can't be much longer until things begin to fall apart. She turns her face to the sun once more, drinks in its heat. She knows, as she hesitates, then returns to digging, that too soon there will not be much sunlight to be had.
She makes meat pie for Arthur when he returns, gaunt and exhausted, from work. Puts her arms around him as he comes through the door, holds him like she longs to hold each of her children. She lingers in front of the grandfather clock in the evening, when everything is clean and in order, just before she retreats upstairs to join Arthur in bed. The house is quiet, and five golden hands point to "school", the rest to "home". Bill's points to "work", but then, he is so far away. She brushes the hands with her fingertips, says a silent goodnight as she climbs the creaking stairs.
Soon, she tells herself, it will be summer. Soon, soon, soon, they will be safe at home.
She falls asleep dreaming of the last day of school.