A Funeral for Molly Weasley


Sad, Molly. You're supposed to be sad.

But she couldn't be, no matter how hard she tried, because to be perfectly honest she had no idea what "death" was.

"It's like falling asleep," her mummy had said when she'd asked. "Forever."

(But that didn't sound all that bad, not to Molly, not to the girl who had bright yellow dreams about sunshine when she went to bed.)

"I wanna do death," she'd said. "I wanna be just like Grandmum."

"You're named after Grandmum, sweetheart. You're already just like her."

Molly shook her three-year-old head. "I wanna do death."

Her mummy had started to cry then, and Molly knew she had said the wrong thing.


"Mummy?" Molly whispered at the funeral. "Why is Daddy crying?"

"He's sad," her mummy whispered. "Grandmum was his mummy."

Sad, Molly. Daddy's sad. Why aren't you sad?

"And now she's sleeping forever?"

"Yes, love."

Molly sighed. "I hope she's having good dreams."

Her mummy kissed her forehead. "I'll bet she's dreaming of you," she said.

"That would be happy," she said, and then she clenched his jaw.

This isn't happy, Molly. This is sad.

(Outside, the sunshine was bright and yellow, like a dream.)


[O.W.L. Challenge: Troll - Next-Gen; Yellow]

[Fiddler on the Roof Character Challenge: Grandma Tzeitel - write about a deceased family member; write about a namesake]

[Monthly Drabble-A-Thon: Molly Weasley, II]