A\N: This is a semi-songfic to Empty Chairs at Empty Tables from Les
Miserables. I say semi-songfic because, while it was inspired by the song and
originally intended as a songfic, you really don't think the lyrics of the song
are needed to understand the story. They are, however, a nice touch and the
story seems to have a deeper meaning if you hear the song… *sigh* Please enjoy,
and R\R if you have a chance! Thanks, ~Nikki
Disclaimer: RUG & JKR own everything - I just made the sandwich.
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Empty "Tomorrows"
There's a grief that can't be spoken.
There's a pain goes on and on.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Now my friends are dead and gone.
Surrounded by a heavy silence, Molly Weasley sat
at the far end of the long, ancient table in the basement kitchen of number 12,
Grimmauld Place. She didn't know how long she had been sitting there, breathing
in that thick, cold air, and she didn't really worry herself about it. After
all, she had nowhere to be, no one to take care of… Nothing. The only thing she
had to go back to was her equally empty home, and somehow she dreaded that even
more then the idea of staying in this stale house any longer. No matter where
she went, she would never be able to escape the icy loneliness and the sound of
silence constantly haunting her. Even in her sleep she could see the emptiness
that surrounded her.
Here they talked of revolution.
Here it was they lit the flame.
Here they sang about `tomorrow'
And tomorrow never came.
Molly swallowed a lump that was beginning to
form in her throat and removed her gaze from the well-worn grain of the table.
Her hazel eyes slowly roved about the room as the echoes of so many
conversations seemed to meet her ears again. Half-whispered discussions over
maps so the children wouldn't hear, heated debates over the smallest of issues,
and even a few full-blown fights between some of the oldest members of the
Order.
"Aye, whatever it takes!" "We
have to be more careful this time, even if he is becoming weaker."
"Back by breakfast, Mrs. Weasley." The phrases were seeping up
through the floors and out of every crack in the walls. So many times the members
of the Order had wished the unspoken rule of "no goodbyes before leaving
Grimmauld" had been broken. As time marched on, though, even if they
wasn't said, goodbyes were somehow heard every time a group set out on a
mission in silence, Molly locking up behind them while the others watched. In
the beginning, she had waited up for them.
From the table in the corner
They could see a world reborn
And they rose with voices ringing
I can hear them now!
The very words that they had sung
Became their last communion
On the lonely barricade at dawn.
It had taken a great deal of time and effort,
but Molly was finally beginning to convince herself that this was meant to be.
After all, this is what the Order had been all about, hadn't it? Voldemort had
been defeated; the reign of the Dark Lord was over once and for all because of
the bravery and sacrifices of the Order of the Phoenix. They had promised to
restore peace, and they did. They had made plans for days ahead when they
wouldn't have to look over their shoulders to be sure no one was following them
or keep a constant vigil to protect what they treasured. At the end of one
late-night planning session, the young Tonks had proclaimed that all she wanted
was "peace and a normal way of life," which gained a hardy round of cheering
from some of the Order's more tipsy members; no matter how serious things got,
they would always remember to take a break and have a spot of fun when they
could afford it. Only a few hours later, when the call of duty came
unexpectedly, they paid for their fun...
Images of all those who had been taken from her
flooded into Molly's mind at the sudden memory of the morning that had followed
that joyous night. That was the morning Molly didn't need the brass key in her
pocket to unlock the door of number 12 Grimmauld Place for all those returning
from another mission, because none of them returned.
Oh my friends, my friends forgive me
That I live and you are gone.
There's a grief that can't be spoken.
There's a pain goes on and on.
A tingling sensation was in Molly's nose, and
seconds later everything became blurry as her large, hazel eyes filled with
tears. Tonks, Moody, Mundungus, Shacklebolt, and even the elegant Emmeline
Vance, who Molly had befriended, had been lost that night. Many more deaths quickly
followed; Remus lost a long fight with Wormtail and his silver hand, which
resulted in both their deaths on the scene, and in the final battle with
Voldemort, the great Albus Dumbledore had perished in order to save others.
Since then Minerva had taken the position of Headmistress of Hogwarts, but
inside, part of the stern, bespeckled witch had died with Dumbledore. So many
had suffered…
Molly blinked, sending streams of warm, painful
tears down her cold cheeks. They had forced her to stay behind so many times,
and when she was able to go with them, the others would insist that she not
take the same risks; they needed someone to be the mother of them all, someone
to wait up for them. It was Arthur who had saved her life in what at first appeared
to be a small skirmish. Again, Molly had to swallow that lump in her throat as
she covered her face with her small hands. Her poor, brave, darling Arthur, who
had died to save his foolish wife. She hadn't been paying close enough
attention and before she knew it she was pushed to the ground and covered by
her husband, who had absorbed the Killing Cure meant for her. There wasn't a
night that passed in Molly's life since then that she hadn't seen the flash of
green light and a look of pure terror on Arthur's frozen features in her mind's
eye, for the nightmares came even when she was awake. Arthur's death haunted
her most, but the deaths of their sons and the loss of young Ginny's mind
inflicted the same undying pain on her heart.
Phantom faces at the window.
Phantom shadows on the floor.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will meet no more.
Wiping her eyes and nose with her handkerchief,
Mrs. Weasley looked around the kitchen once more, and everywhere her eyes dared
rest she could see the ghosts of her lost companions in her mind. And if she
was still enough, Molly was convinced she could hear the whispered plans over
by the fire or the footsteps of the twins coming down the stairs. It wasn't
possible, though, and she was aware of that; very much aware. Never again would
she feed enough people to occupy the entire table, and the only clothing left
to mend was her own. She was one of the last members of the Order of the
Phoenix, and the others who still lived had become shells just as empty as she
had.
Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me
What your sacrifice was for
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will sing no more.
Rising to her feet, Molly kept one of her cold,
pale hands on the table to steady herself as she pictured the kitchen full of
life once more. Tears pooled in her eyes as she made her way up the stairs and
to the front door, it's edge still lined in locks. Reaching into her pocket,
she pulled out the brass key for the last time, turning it over in her hand a
few times; somehow she felt bonded to that cold, lifeless key that had locked
out so many loved ones heading out on their last mission. With a deep breath
she lifted her face to gaze at the interior of number 12, Grimmauld Place once
more, then turned back to the door, key in hand, and undid the locks slowly,
one after the other. Stepping out into the glow of the full moon, her fair skin
was bathed in it's pale blue light as she shut the heavy door to the house that
had seen so much of her life for the past years. She had seen sacrifices made
that the Order thought necessary for the fall of the Dark Lord, and even though
she knew the rest of the world could live in peace because of it, the redhead
had to ask herself what the cost had truly been. As the click of the latch
reverberated in her mind, she knew that she had just turned the last page on
another chapter of her life, and as she breathed in the fresh night air, Molly
Weasley realized that she had become just as cold and spiritless as the old
brass key still clutched in the palm of her hand.