aresto momentum
"oh it's the little things you miss, when you're underneath it all."
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Molly Weasley's fingers are going rampant on the dining table, and her fingertips are beginning to numb. Her eyes stay planted to the table she's drumming so subconsciously, to avoid any prickling of tears. She waits. That's all life really is now, anyways. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Waiting for something to come, waiting for something to change. Waiting for it to rain, waiting for it to snow, waiting for time to finally pass by.
Waiting for a day that won't come.
There's nothing but that constant, steady stream of minutes – hours, really – that tells her that her little boy isn't going to come back home. Black and white is what everything was now, there wasn't an in-between, there wasn't any color. She doesn't quite know how to handle it, but neither does her family. Occasionally, there were normal mornings. Mornings where Ginny would come down first to help fix breakfast, followed by Bill, Charlie, Percy and Ron, because it was always Fred and George who would wake up last. It would be like time had reversed itself.
But then there's only one set of footsteps rumbling down the stairs, and there's only one face. For the few, sweet seconds after Ron had woken up, she would think that her baby boy is still there, hair mused with sleep and face lined in a smile. Then she would blink a few times after George arrived in the kitchen, and everything would fall silent again.
The family clock sits on the table in front of her, and a slight ticking emanates from the timer in the kitchen. Her fingers drum to the beat.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
It's at least four in the morning, and she hasn't slept a wink. She fears deep down that if she were to crawl in bed, she would miss it when Fred's hand flies from 'Lost' to 'Home', and he would leave again before anyone could wake up. Five months passed, then six. She writes dates down on a little pad of paper, making sure she didn't lose track of time while she waited. Days and weeks were meaningless.
But as a mother, she plastered smiles onto her face and hid worry and denial – waiting – behind cheerful words of encouragement and a great deal of cooking. She's there for her children when they need her most – that's what mothers do, even when they can't be there for themselves.
Sunlight begins to peek through sheer curtains, speckling her face with light, reflecting off fresh tears.
Waiting, waiting, waiting, and waiting – all night, she had to. Her eyes glaze over, still staring at Fred's hand of the clock. He's smiling and laughing and waving, though imprinted over 'Lost'. Her eyes follow to the identical son, where George's hand sits over 'Mortal Peril', as it has for months. She hears footsteps in the kitchen, following over to her, but she doesn't look up.
A warm hand rests on her shoulder.
"Mum, you need some sleep." says George quietly, and she gets up to hug her son. "He's not coming home. I've waited too."
A/N: So sad! :( Seeing the Weasley's on DH2 broke me, man. Serious. Anyways, this was written for Rosa Clearwater's Staying Up All Night Competition. R&R pwease, it would make me ohsohappy. :)