Disclaimer:I don't own anything connected to J.K. Rowling.
I should be grateful. I had seven healthy, robust children — what more could a mother ask for?
I married Arthur in dark days. Life — and love — were in short supply. My best friend died the night he purposed to me. I will never forget her funeral: the man I would spend the rest of my life exchanging places with the woman that shared it for nineteen years.
My wedding was small. The ringbearer turned Death Eater three months later. When we could finally joke about it, Arthur blamed his turn of colors on our cake. Admittedly, the desert was a bit . . . dry.
We didn't have a honeymoon. Arthur never had much money, but I loved him so we made do. All you need is love, right?
I thought so.
Resistance against You-Know-Who pulled together in a secret society called the Order of the Phoenix. The coalition was a paltry excuse for an "army": a handful of wizards trying to stay the torrent of evil. Of course, the newlywed Weasley's joined right away. I sat home, night after night, praying for two things: that my children would grow up safe from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and that they would see their father.
The day I knew I was pregnant with Bill, everything changed. The idea of Molly plus one increased the fervor and frequency of my prayers. Just let me have a family. Let this baby know love. Let him know his parents. A pleading mantra burned itself into my every thought, the silent yet intense backdrop of my marriage, my preparations in the Order, and my ever- increasing fear of the one man — thing — whatever he was — that could tear it apart.
Pregnancy gave me unbearable vulnerability, but with it came strength I didn't know I possessed. The lump in my belly kept Arthur and I fighting.
Family.
Children.
New words entered my vocabulary — my life. Violence and death slashed through Britain, but my home became one of cradles, and Quidditch mobiles, and . . .
Hope.
I gave birth in our root cellar. The maternity ward of St. Mungo's had been attacked an hour before I went into labor. The tears I wept then were mixed — relief because fate dealt me survival, and guilt because it had. I saw myself in the faces of each dead mother and infant pulled through the rubble. How I could be spared when better women than I lie in cold graves, I'll never know.
Bill Weasley was my miracle. We hadn't much, but I made a vow — that no matter what — no matter what it cost — my son would never suffer at the hand of the wicked, crazed, homicidal, filth that had destroyed my adulthood.
Somewhere along the way, You-Know-Who had gathered so many supporters Arthur and I couldn't turn 'round without news of a close friend lost to the Death Eaters.
Just how thoroughly Voldemort had infiltrated the Wizarding World became horrifyingly apparent. He had been gathering forces and spreading his poison for decades before we had clue one that our world was on the brink of destruction. His allies and strength were unbelievable. Our Order could boast of a handful of members, sketchy resources, and roughly 20 years of time He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had his holocaust in the making.
Impossible.
Charlie was born under the Dark Mark. His first baby screams echoed the dying sounds of a muggle woman. Percy, my third son, was born staring into my watery eyes and the ruin of his grandmother's house.
Fred and George — twin miracles. Bill asked why he hadn't "come with a friend." I smiled — the first in days — and asked him just what Charlie qualified as. The six year old in question replied staunchly: "he's not my friend; he tore the stuffing out of my dragon."
Percy — sweet, academic Percy — rolled his eyes over the top of his Reading for Wizards book and announced that "quarreling" over a stupid toy was "juvenile."
We had our own house: rickety, magically enhanced with each addition since Charlie, and unfortunately off balance, but safe. Arthur got permission to make it unplottable. For the first time in years, I allowed myself sleep.
Some nights, at least.
I wanted a big family. Big enough to find shelter in each other, since no where else could offer security. I raised my boys to fight the horror that crept in under the door if we weren't watching. They knew of terror, they knew of death. But knowing and actually witnessing are two different experiences. Experiences I intended to keep separated.
Ron was born in the middle of the night, while Arthur was away on Order business. He forbid me to follow, pregnant as I was. Four year old Percy held me hand through the pain of my contractions while his brothers slept on. Until my last breath, I will never forget his trembling fingers against my forehead, nor the first "can I hold him?" he whispered after my sixth healthy baby came into the world.
Ron spit up on his shirt, Percy threatened to drop him, I considered myself lucky.
Our home became my refuge. While the growing boys needed me, I could quell the aching fear that had taken root in my heart. Philosophical discussions of which professional Quidditch team would fare best at the World Cup crowded out memories of the Dark Mark, arguments over who got his own bedroom distracted me from dwelling on the ever- present reality that I may never see Arthur, even a murmur about how poor we were stayed the hand of despair.
Sometimes, when lulling Ron to sleep, I let myself believe in days without Voldemort. Sometimes, I even saw my children with friends — real friends— at Hogwarts, their biggest worry McGonagall's exam.
Shortly after Ron was born, Arthur introduced me to Lily Potter, who was pregnant with her first. I had a friend. She and I knit clothes for her son and pretended our husbands had desk jobs.
Arthur was attacked the night Ginevra Molly was born. He survived. My first daughter survived. Out family was bursting at the seams, big and healthy and safe.
Two months later, Lily and her husband, James Potter were murdered. Their son — Harry — miraculously and impossibly lived. The Boy-Who-Lived, the papers called him. One month after Bill left for Hogwarts, Britain sighed in relief. My children — all seven — lived. Arthur and I lived.
I don't know why.
Eighteen years. That's how long I've loved Percy. Ever since his first shuddered breath, I've poured my soul into raising him.
And now he's gone.
My child. Gone.
He's not dead. Just — lost. That ache burns worse than any failure of mine.
What could I have done more? How could I have loved him deeper? He was bright, academic, mature — I've always been so proud of my Percy. When Fred and George misbehaved, his was the example I beseeched them to follow. His girl friend was so sensible, I was sure they'd have a lovely family someday. He never questioned, never doubted, my silent strength. I wish I could have given him all the things he wanted. I thought I had.
Obviously not.
I raised seven healthy, robust children. I should be grateful. But sometimes . . . it feels like motherhood is a lie. I let myself believe he'll come back to us, I pray for his return, but I can't hope much longer.
Foolish hope is destroying my heart. I never knew anything could hurt so much. Mind, when he returned his sweater . . .
No more of that talk. I will not let my family crumble before me. We came together in dark times, and I vow we will yet live. Just please, if there is any mercy left for the Weasleys at all, protect my baby. Keep Percy safe, wherever he is.
I'm waiting for him. And the day when we're reunited, maybe I'll fall asleep without tears.
Maybe.
A.N.: So I should be working on SLiH. Oh well, this came to me. Please review? I really need it. You guys are my muse.
Cheers
WQ