When Mummy's Gone the Same Way as Freddie
The usual loud chatter that usually resided inside the walls of the house at Ottery St. Catchpole was not present that evening, though it was expected to return in a few short hours. Only the bumbling and bustling of one Molly Weasley kept the house at Ottery St. Catchpole fairly awake, alive and busy.
Walking past the infamous Weasley family clock, the elderly, kind woman did not notice a singular hand twitch from its usual position. It slid, almost in slow motion, and the autumn winds picked up outside the house, whistling past cracks. Subconsciously, Mrs. Weasley shivered, as if the wind was a sweep of magic. She hurriedly returned to her cooking, yelping before smiling sadly at the fake wand that had turned into a rubber chicken.
The Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes was prospering, even after Fred had died. Ron had joined the remaining twin at the shop. Molly blinked away her tears, and grabbed her real wand, beginning to cook dinner. The skies outside were darkening to a gloomy grey.
She felt a brief tingle as someone passed through the wards. It had always been like that: she was only partially connected to the wards, as she had married into the Weasley brood. She kept on busying herself in the kitchen – she expected it was George, who had told her earlier that morning he would come home for dinner, early too. She heard the front door open and close, and was washing some carrots when she saw the reflection at the kitchen window.
Molly Weasley was dead before she got the chance to scream.
The red-haired man sighed, exhausted, and limped into the house, the injury from the War irritating him. He slipped out of his coat and hung it up, and sat down on a bench to take off his boots. He refused to look into the mirror across from him. He never did anymore.
It was too quiet in the house. Wasn't his mother preparing dinner? He even heard the crickets outside in the silent evening. Something was wrong.
Hurriedly removing his laced-up boots, he lumbered towards the kitchen, past the family clock, where he didn't see the hand that still rested on "Mortal Peril", but two portraits were faded grey. He only saw the blank face of shock on his elderly mother, lying on her back by the sink, staring listlessly and lifelessly at the ceiling.
"MUM!" The cry reverberated through the empty house, and he collapsed forward, sobbing into his mother's bosom. How? Why? They didn't deserve this; he didn't deserve this, not after Fred. He thought he had had no more tears to shed, but this–!
He lay there as still as stone; his sobs subsided, a chill taking over him like the cold of his mother's dead body. No more. No more, no more no more.
One by one, the remainder of the Weasley family would return home to tragedy and a lone George Weasley muttering to himself with crazed eyes, "No more, no more…"
A/N: Short, and well, not sweet. The ending was so hard... Anyways, this story is a few years old, just fixed the ending a bit this time. Merlin bless you Fred-and-George.
(Obviously, this wasn't for the twins' birthday; I had something else in mind, but decided to clean out my stories first.)