Everyone at the Burrow is sick at the moment. Everyone but me. That means I get to play nursemaid. It also means that the Burrow is under strict quarantine from the Healers that arrived three days ago from Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. It also means it sounds like the Burrow itself is snoring like a Hippogriff mated with an Erumpent and somehow formed a house-like structure.
The kitchen table is laden down with potions instead of plates of food for each member of the house and three times a day I am left to levitate them to their individual rooms. The slower members of the house - those whose sickness has now disabled any mental facilities that they would normally possess - have their potions numbered. The reasoning behind this is one a certain youngest boy of the family who took his sleeping draft first and passed out before finishing the rest of the regimine, ultimately setting him back two days.
At one point during the Healer's visit, it was suggested that the whole family be moved to the quarantine division of the magical hospital. That idea was quickly dismissed once about half the members of the house fell asleep and the building began vibrating with their snores. The Healers looked at each other with shock blazen across their faces and immediately a quarantine was issued for the Burrow.
The good news is that most of the bodily excretions has been eliminated, so the only time I hear a moaning cry for help is when someone wakes. Considering the Burrow and the haphazard design of the house, once one person starts calling for me, it usually means the rest of the house is soon to follow.
On the positive side, I get a great deal of alone time. Time that I would usually enjoy reading, writing, or some other pursuit. With the house literally vibrating from the sleep induced inspiration of the members it could nearly lull someone to sleep, but its low rumble keeps me awake all day and night. Muggles call it The Hum, but I think it really is just a magical family under quarantine and sleeping draughts.
The first day was probably the worst. The house's cumulative snores tipped over three vases and one charmed grandfather clock. I spent my day running between the excrements that oozed and were expelled by the family, forcing down potions on unwilling patients, and fixing or securing anything of family value throughout the house. When Charlie Weasley came stumbling down the stairs, bringing half the uppermost bannister with him, I resigned myself to a day of rescue and repair.
Today though, I am relaxing outside with a strong silencing charm placed over the house, under a tree writing and reflecting on the last five days. I also am grateful that none of my previous extended holiday visits included any sickness that ravaged the members of the dwelling. You can still see the home's movements that is in time with the cumulative congested breathing.
One would think, just by witnessing this phenomena, that it is the house that is actually ill, not the persons residing in.
With my head cocked I ponder if it is the house who is sick and making the people inside sick or if the family's sickness that is causing the house to reciprocate the feelings. Has this magical house taken on the properties of the wizards and witches that reside within?
I would not even know who to discuss this magi-philosophical debate with. Bill would recommend Professor Dumbledore, but I only knew him from my time at Hogwarts during the Triwizard Tournament. From everything my husband and his siblings say of him, he would be a wizard that would enjoy a discussion of topics like this.
My alarm registers that someone is awake and that it is time to hand out another round of their potion-meals. My dear husband, Merlin bless him, has the most vigorous regime due to his werewolf nature; the potions don't react the same with him as they do with the rest of the family. Ginny, who is expecting her first child, has the least amount.
Today is also another visit from the Healers. Hopefully, there will be some good news out of this.
Because today is the first day that I feel under the weather. The last thing I need right now is to fall ill to whatever has the members of this house under such constant vigilant monitoring by these healers. They never told me exactly what has the Burrow under such close scrutiny, I can only assume it is highly contagious.
I rise from my position under the tree, trudging my way back to the humming home. The rumble from the cumulative snores is lessened, but not completely eliminated even when the house is awake.
Yes, the house wakes. Like the house sleeps. Like the house snores. Like the house lives.
The Burrow is no longer a house - a physical place - rather a house as in a persona. A living, breathing, or in this case snoring, being. It may not be like the castle at Hogwarts, being sentient, but rather this one reacts to the persons within. When Fred passed away at the Battle of Hogwarts, the Burrow seemed to slump both physically and emotionally. There was a constant grey-ness that hung over the Burrow, as if the home was in mourning. Now that it is sick, it too resembles the inhabitants, complete with its own snore induced hum.
By the time I reach the front door of the Burrow I have come to the conclusion of my internal debate. Yes, this home is a reflection of the people within but the Burrow is also an individual member of the Weasley family.
Author's Notes
House: Slytherin
Year: Head
Prompt: Snoring
Word Count: 965