"Let others draw from smiling skies their theme,
And tell of climes that boast unfading light,
I draw a darker scene, replete with gloom,
I sing the horrors of the House of Night."
-Philip Freneau
The House of Night
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It was cold. It was cold and there was something wrong. Molly Weasley had been lying in bed, afraid to spell herself asleep, afraid to be awake, afraid of leaving her room. She wrangled with irrational fears until she wrenched herself out of bed at three in the morning. Her bedroom, like all the rooms in the Burrow, was cluttered.
Wrinkled and tea-stained copies of Witches Weekly Digest carpeted the floor, some dating back over ten years. Empty tea cups sprouted from every level surface, like a strange porcelain mold. Arthur was patient with family and with work, with everything but teacups. When he wanted a hot tea, he'd charge into the kitchen and stop suddenly, dismayed by the mountain of dirty teacups that towered in the washtub. He'd stand gaping for a few seconds before Disapparating and Reapparating five minutes later with a new set. Arthur would always smile and charm her saying, "After all, Molly, you can never have too many teacups!" She had found this endearing for the first several years of their marriage, but when the number of teacups exceeded the number of socks (a near impossible feat in their house,) she had stopped seeing the humor in this little quirk. They used to have meaningless squabbles about it but she had recently given in. If a new teacup gave him a tiny bit of happiness during these times, then she could live with it.
Molly gathered as many of the cold cups as she could carry and magicked the rest to follow her in an eerie airborne procession, reminiscent of Sunday brunch with Gran. Molly was never one afraid of hard work, so she plunged bravely into the depths of the washtub. She rinsed off her first cup and was reaching to place it on the rack when it was snatched from her hand. She whirled around to face the thief, one soaking fist brandishing a teacup, the other frantically groping for her wand.
"Who's there?!" She managed to screech out.
"Mum, its me!"
Molly peered up at her youngest son who stood before her clad in his pajamas, he held the purloined cup defensively to his chest.
"Oh, I'm sorry Ronnie, I thought you were-"
"-Its okay, I know."
He waited until she had lost her fright before he picked up a dish towel and began drying for her. The work went quickly and silently until Ron started chuckling to himself. Molly glanced at him and asked,
"What are you laughing at?"
"Nothing."
She gave him a look normally reserved for Ginny or the twins and he hastily continued.
"Its just, you looked a sight is all. You turned around and were all covered in suds and water. It was funny."
"Oh," she replied lamely, "Why are you up so late?"
"Couldn't sleep. No sense lying in bed doing nothing."
"What were you coming down here for?"
A rather sheepish smile appeared on Ron's face.
"I was going to make some marmalade sandwiches."
Mother and son continued their work until all the cups were washed, dried and put away. Ron turned to go upstairs but Molly caught hold of his arm and led him to the table. The silence had returned but wasn't uncomfortable, this was natural and remained unbroken until Molly came in with a plateful of sandwiches and two mugs of hot milk. Ron devoured his first and was on his second when he asked her a question.
"What was keeping you up?"
Mrs. Weasley was caught off guard; she didn't know what to say, or if she should say anything at all. Before she had worked up a reply, he spoke again and answered for her.
"Thinking about Dad?"
Molly nodded, and looked up at him. He was so different, so old. Her children were growing up and she had never noticed. There was so much of Arthur mirrored in him now. It wasn't just in the shape of his face or blue eyes, but in his easygoing, friendly nature and ferocious loyalty. She felt as if she were the child, hiding in her milk to avoid the truth. Straightening herself, she put the mug down.
"Not so much thinking about him as worrying, I suppose."
Ron's face tightened a little and Molly appreciated that he wasn't trying to make her feel better, to take away her fear. Fred and George and her other boys would try to tell her that Dad would be all right and would come back. She loved them all the more for it, but their words could not change the facts.
The facts were plain and dark; they were worrying. The facts were that You-Know-Who had returned and was creating an army. That the greatest wizard England had had in ages was dead, and with him much of their hope. That Arthur was gone every night to work for the Order and was constantly risking his life. The facts were that the world was spinning madly out of control and Molly was helpless to stop it.
"What time is he due home?"
"Between seven-thirty and eight."
Ron stood up and walked to the den. He came back carrying the old chess set.
"Seeing as we've a while to wait, fancy a match, Mum?"
She smiled up at him and said,
"Alright then, I'll play you a few games, but I warn you I used to be very good at this."
Molly lost spectacularly three times in a row. After the last game, she was surprised that her fears, while still present, were no longer stabbing her awake. She stifled a yawn and patted Ron's hand.
"You're a good boy, Ronnie. That was fun, and I've just learned three ways not to win a chess match."
"You wait, I'll make you a chess master yet."
"One more time?"
"You look dead tired, and its quarter till five. Why don't you have a nap in the den and I'll wake you when Dad comes home, yeah?"
A silky, cynical voice whispered to her, '…if he comes home.' She was about to protest when Ron continued,
"Mum, I'm wide awake. I promise I'll wake you up."
Her drowsiness came at her in waves. That coupled with her relief of not having to keep watch convinced her. She went and lay down on the sofa. Five minutes later she was fast asleep.
Ron set up the chessboard and waited for morning.
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