clouds over the sun
Arthur's study was much like him, a little drab, a little grey, but tidy and spare.
Spare.
Now, that was a good word.
Of course, that had been the unspoken agreement, Arthur would work, and the children were Molly's. All Molly's. Arthur was the spare parent, and somehow it had never felt wrong until today.
Until today.
Of all of them, he had been the easiest to handle, the least troublesome. No pranks, no fights, Prefect, Head Boy – Had he lain awake at night, something in him longing to make a mark, to scream just once, to make them remember they'd forgotten him? Once upon a time, Arthur had (I don't care if I'm too young, Father, I'm going to marry her-)
It was easier to remember that time, before his third child had been conceived, before Bill, before Charlie, when Molly was still just a dream. A time when Arthur's study had been filled with the laughter of young men, with curtains and roses and suggestive allusions over half-filled glasses of brandy. Something back then had promised him every joy in the world.
But it had been a long time since Arthur's son had come home.