A Nice Cup of Tea

The kettle whistled on the stove.

Never one to be tardy to its summons, Mrs Weasley levitated it over to the suspended teapot and poured the scalding water inside, her magic, honed by years or practice, not allowing one drop to be spilled. Simultaneously, the kettle refilled itself from the tap and placed itself back on the hob.

Unseen by her, Hermione watched from the kitchen doorway.

'That's Mum for you.' Ron's voice was amused. 'No matter what the situation it can always be fixed with a cup of tea.'

'Ahhh!' she exhaled, smacking her lips appreciatively. 'Just what I needed! A nice cup of tea.'

Every bit of surface, every scrap of available space was occupied. Cups teetered precariously on edges, inside pots, balanced on books – even hanging on hooks by their handles. All full of brown liquid. Some of their contents still lightly steamed; some were crusted with blue mould.

Suddenly, Mr Weasley was behind her. There was no lapse in time between his appearance and his action. As if the idea had been percolating for days, brewing until it stewed.

He flicked his wand once with brutal accuracy. The large red teapot fell like a marionette whose strings are suddenly cut. It hit the flagstones and shattered, pieces flying in every direction and a tide of hot tea gently rolling across the floor. The liquid reached Molly's feet, and she screamed as if her skin were on fire. But Hermione knew she was wearing her usual stout shoes and the tea could not have hurt her.

Yet she continued to scream, her voice a dreadful echo of the kettle's falsetto wail.

Arthur Weasley, his face constrained by the effort of not shattering himself, enveloped her in his arms, dragging her into his embrace.

'Enough, Molly. Enough.'

Mrs Weasley stopped screaming, but only to make room for the scalding tears.

'That's Mum for you.' In her memory Ron's voice was amused. 'No matter what the situation, it can always be fixed with a cup of tea.'

Hermione watched from the doorway as her own eyes filled with tears. A state of being so frequent it felt odd on the few occasions they were not stinging her eyes.

Watched as a mother near-crazed with grief finally stopped and acknowledged that there were some things a cup of tea could not fix.

The death of her youngest son was one of them.