The terrible sensation that came with disapparation was worse than ever this time. Along with the horrible feeling of compression that came from being sucked through a wormhole in space was the miserable weight of guilt and defeat inside Arthur's soul. He closed his eyes against the discomfort, and wished he could truly disappear from the face of the earth.
He cursed his overabundance of morals and sense of righteousness- without it, without his respect for the non-magical world, he could have been promoted a dozen times over. If he had not been born into the damned blood-traitor family that had bred in him these sympathies and this interest in Muggles, maybe he would have a better job. The world these days, it seemed, did not give a damn for merit- a Muggle-Born wizard was worth nothing compared to a Pureblood one, no matter how good or well-versed in magic he was, and it was Arthur's sense that this was wrong that kept him from securing a promotion. He was sneered at, spat upon, berated, for his viewpoint, and right now, he felt the weight of being alone more than ever.
It was Christmas Eve.
Christmas Eve, and his family would get nothing. He had no money to buy them anything worthwhile- he'd managed to pick up a few pointless odds and ends for the children, cheap, meaningless things that he knew they would pointedly throw aside as useless and uninteresting. It was all his scant pay could buy. And he had nothing for his wife. Nothing. They would all be disappointed in him, his inability to secure them anything for the biggest holiday of the year, in his inability to set aside his own views so that he might actually make money. Percy had said it best- his foolish Muggle sympathies got in the way of everything important. Little did Percy know, estranged from his family, as he was, that his father had never believed him more.
The sensation of compression disappeared as Arthur Weasley apparated onto the snowy back doorstep of the Burrow, but the guilt did not. He stared down at his own dirty, torn and peeling shoes, at the dingy Wellingtons scattered around the dirty porch, at the scrawny chickens scratching in the snowy yard, at the filthy little gnomes that snickered at him from the tangled safety of the bushes. He gazed miserably up at the crooked, rickety, weather-beaten, snow-covered thing they called their house. He saw cracked stones, broken shutters, missing shingles, peeling paint. His family deserved better than this. The lump in his throat solidified.
Just then, the door flew open, and he was bathed in a shower of flickering candlelight. There in the doorway, stood Molly, the most beautiful and perfect thing in his world. He didn't deserve her. And she didn't deserve to be stuck with a washed-up, dirt-poor, stubborn, pathetic fool like him.
She beamed at him, and kissed him happily on the cheek, glad to see him home at last. Normally, he would have felt a joyful shock run through him at her touch- now, there was nothing but an even greater disappointment.
"Arthur dear, I was beginning to worry- it's nearly two in the morning," she said, hugging him tightly before bringing him inside. She helped him tenderly out of his threadbare jacket, evaporating the snow from its patched shoulders with a wave of her wand before hanging it on the nail by the door. Arthur tiredly kicked off his shoes, letting his holey-socked feet breathe. Molly pulled him down by the crook of his elbow to brush the snow from his red hair, and to again kiss him warmly on the cheek. "Sit down now, Honey, while I get you something to eat," she said, easing him into a chair at the table. He collapsed gratefully, guiltily, into the chair, relieved to be able to sit down for the first time that day. Molly started bustling around the kitchen, magicking a pot onto the stove and numerous items from cabinets, setting to make him a meal. She treated him like a war hero just returned from the fight, welcoming him and feeding him as such, but he was no war hero. He wasn't even close. He was a filthy, poor blood-traitor fool who let his own opinions screw up his and his family's life- Molly interrupted his self-degrading thoughts as she hugged him briefly in passing.
"Almost done, dear- you look so hungry, poor thing!" She tittered and fretted as she worked, stirring the soup with her wand, oblivious to her husband's wretched state. A delicious aroma had filled the kitchen, but all Arthur could smell was his own misery. Molly set a steaming bowl in front of him, and poured him a shot of Firewhisky before kissing him again on the cheek. "Eat up," she said cheerfully, her voice musical in its apparent happiness. Arthur couldn't understand, as he ate, why she was happy- she was getting nothing for Christmas, their kids were getting close to the same, because her husband was a stupid, miserable, penniless idiot. He ate without tasting the excellent soup, throwing down the burning firewhisky without feeling the pleasurable burning. He just wanted to go to bed, to hide for a few hours from the ruins he had created-
"Tired, food was excellent- going to bed," he said in a flat voice that whined with misery, and for the first time that night, he saw a flicker of worry on Molly's face.
"Good night, Arthur," she said, starting forward to kiss him good night before she cleaned up for the night, but he was already gone, heading up the stairs. Arthur felt the lump in his throat grow as he passed the doors that led to his childrens' rooms- they would wake up to nothing from their failure father tomorrow. He could imagine the disappointment on their faces as they opened the pathetic gifts that lay under the ragged tree downstairs. His wife's expression when she received nothing, because he had no money to get her anything. He was a poor fool, and nothing more. He didn't deserve Molly, he didn't deserve his children- tears stabbing the corners of his eyes and threatening to spill over, he stumbled into the bedroom. He staggered as if drunk, towards the bed, wrenching off his battered tie as if it were choking him, fumbling with the buttons of his threadbare shirt as he tried not to sob aloud, letting his pants crumple against the floor as he stepped out of them- he saw his reflection in the dingy mirror on the wall and nearly choked. He was a revolting, wasted skeleton of a man, miserable, ragged, bone-thin, nothing. How could this pathetic body, if indeed, it qualified to be called a body, support a family? He was a wretched, thin mess, nothing, and he started to feel sick as he gazed at himself. The bony face leered at him, the terrified, sick blue eyes behind the crooked spectacles screaming at him, begging to be released from this misery. Trembling, Arthur forced himself to look away, bile rising in his throat at his self-disgust.
He collapsed onto the bed, trying not to sob aloud at the damnedness of it all. He pulled the covers uncertainly around him, squeezing his eyes shut and willing himself to be no longer.
The bedroom door opened soundlessly, Molly gazing at the pitiful form on the bed that was immersed in its own pathetic misery. At her husband, at Arthur, the man she loved with all her heart. She knew what was going on. She had been waiting for this for a long time, ever since Percy had left after screaming at his father, telling him that his stupid obsession with muggles and his association with Muggle-borns was impeding his promotion in the ministry, and making it hell for everyone in the family. And she knew what to do. He didn't see her as she approached the bed, didn't feel the change in pressure on the worn mattress as she climbed into bed behind him. She gingerly took the glasses from his face and placed them on the bedside table before burying her face against his back. One little arm wrapped around to his chest, the tiny hand holding him tight. The other gently stroked his red hair, pushing it lovingly from his forehead. She felt him shaking in her arms, felt the sobs wrack his body, felt the cold, salty tears rolling down his cheeks. She wiped them away.
"You're not useless." she said firmly, drying his face with her hand. Her fingers traced the rough, haggard lines of his face, the face that she loved so much. She listened to the sound of his choked breathing.
"...And you're absolutely not worthless." She felt him seize up, felt his body stiffen in her hands, felt him shudder with self-revulsion. And she felt herself fill with a relentless determination.
"There's nothing wrong with you, Arthur-" He wrenched suddenly around to stare her wildly in the eye, his expression pained. Something broke inside Molly, who had never seen her husband like this before. She had never seen his eyes so filled with shame, with self-disgust, with desperation and misery. She had never thought him capable of it.
"I can't even buy my family anything for Christmas. I'm pathetic, I'm poor, I'm stupid and stubborn," he croaked. His voice was somehow pleading, as if begging her to agree with him. She wouldn't. "I'm a pathetic freak who cant even keep his own emotions and opinions in check, even if it means giving his family a life, Christmas presents, even-"
"Arthur, you're all I want for Christmas. Nothing means more to me than you, nothing. Not jewelry, clothes, magic, anything you could possibly buy for Christmas- you're all that matters."
She held him through the night, stroking his hair, wiping his tears, resting her face against his back, a comfort in the lonely dark.