Death, it seemed, clung to everything. It dripped from the curtains and left foot prints in the carpet. It left everyone feeling unclean; they'd scrub their fingers, toes, legs, arms, stomachs, backs and hands until they were raw and red, yet death could still be felt there.
On bad days you could smell it. The smell of his soap that his brother had started using as a way to hold onto who was lost, you wish he wouldn't use it, but your cries fell on a deaf ear. The way the smell would envelope you and leave you feeling empty was a reminder of what was lost.
Some days you could also taste it. The bitterness of it. It left your tongue curling and your mouth set in a deep frown. Sometimes it was sour, not lemon sour, but sour like his favorite candies (that you still kept laying around the house even though he was gone).
And then there was the silence. There was no more laughter. No more suspicious explosions coming from the bedroom they had shared. The silence would creep into the kitchen where you were trying to make dinner for what was left of your family and it'd stop you dead in your tracks. It'd paralyze you. The first time it happened you nearly chopped your index finger off with the knife you were using to cut carrots.
Worst of all was seeing it. The empty chair on the left side of the table. The lifeless eyes of his brother, his other half. His jumper. His socks with an F stitched into the side of them. It was watching his twin slowly die with him that hurt the most.
Death, Molly Weasley realized with a sigh as she turned back the dinner she was preparing, would always cling to everything it touched when it was still alive.