In honor of the first half of the seventh movie being released this week, I bring you...this incredibly depressing piece. Sorry, this is all I could wring out of my miserable Muse. Please review and revive her! -Flo

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.

This story could be a sequel to Birth of a Legend, but it's not really necessary to read them in order.

I became a Healer so that I could deliver children. And yes, I have delivered hundreds upon hundreds of them. Some living, some not. The numbers always seemed to balance themselves out in the end. And there are so many joys to be had in guiding a family through the creation of a new life.

Of course, I haven't delivered a child in over a year now. Every able Healer has been enlisted to deal with the…aftereffects of the War.

I can see lines around my eyes and a few grey hairs that weren't there this time last year. The tiny mirror above the sink is silent: no compliments or disparaging comments to give. Even our furniture has become too exhausted to maintain the routine. I feel a pang in my chest looking at those brown eyes surrounded by spiderlike cracks.

I can pretend all I want that the weary, plump woman in the reflective surface is someone else. But I am starting to feel less and less like the curvy and charismatic young woman wearing beautiful white robes winking at the camera in my wedding photos. She has no idea the hardships of the years ahead; she is in love with a fine-looking young man and has a bright future as a Midwife and mother sparkling in her eyes.

When did I become this tired? Was it the first pregnancy? The second? Third? Was it when I had my little trouble-makers? At four years old, they are already so much like their uncles! Was it when Arthur missed the last promotion, or the one before? When I closed the eyes of my two beloved brothers for the last time?

Or have I been slowly drained of my charm over the years, sucked dry of that brilliant twinkle that used to live in my eyes? I used to love mirrors! I was never a shy girl and I have always had a healthy appreciation for my appearance. Now, all I see reflected in my gaze are the painful deaths of my friends, coworkers, allies—even my enemies.

I sat with a thirteen-year-old boy today. His Death Eater father lay dead beside him, and he cried for his mother for the five hours it took him to let go. No pain relieving charms or anxiolytic spells would silence his defeated wails. Never before have I seen such existential suffering in a boy so young.

I have delivered children for over ten years, and there have been difficult times in those years. Miscarriages that were unexpected, stillbirths I could not revive. But, I have seen the other end of the spectrum too. I have had the pleasure to deliver people peacefully into death. So much like birth is a natural death, gently transitioning into the next part of the journey. I have such respect for the Healers who specialize in caring for the dying. It can be a wonderfully enlightening experience, for the Healer as well as the family and the dying person.

This War has warped everything I thought knew. I have seen such suffering! Arthur doesn't understand what I have done this past year. He still believes that the Order is immune to the disgusting repulsions of the battlefield. He turns a blind eye to the pain that the Aurors—our allies!—inflict on the opposing side. I have seen cruelties he could hardly imagine, condoned by our own Minister.

Working under the red cloak, the lines blurred between their side and ours. I still fight that horrible man—if you can still call him a man, after all that he has done—and his inner circle with all my heart. But, I find myself moved more and more by the sight of his young followers scattered across the ground, left by the grown men and women we have trained to fight.

I am afraid of the eyes I see staring back at me from the mirror. How many more deaths can those eyes hold within their depths before the sadness and the desperation spills over? I hold myself together for my children, but I fear what will happen to us all if this War lasts for much longer. Will I become a hollow, deadened crone—wearing my sorrows on my face like a mask? I already barely recognize the woman I have become. Arthur will lose his optimism some day, and what family needs two broken parents?

We are no longer the youthful couple who eloped after seventh year. The romance of our first years is gone, and my poor sons will suffer for it. I never would have brought six little boys into this world had I known the destruction that was coming.

The cold splash of water on my face is relief from the thoughts swirling through my mind.

I am so exhausted, but I fear the things I will see when I close my eyes tonight. Sighing deeply, I turn from the sink towards the darkness of my room. Arthur is murmuring in his sleep, something unintelligible and light-hearted. I long for his uninterrupted rest, his gentle and pleasant dreams. As I slide my legs under the threadbare quilt my mother made for our wedding day, I hear an explosion of noise below.

"MOLLY! ARTHUR! AWAKE!"

I hear Arthur's confused waking mutter as I am flying from the room, my bare feet slapping against the bare wooden floors. My dressing gown is half-open when I turn the corner behind the stairs, but I have a wand in my right hand and my Battlefield satchel in the other. The entire Order is standing in my foyer, everyone speaking over the other. There are tears on every face, and even Albus holds a hint of shock in his expression.

"Who was it?" Arthur asks from the bottom stair. His voice is soft, but it carries across the room and silences the chatter.

Before anyone can respond, I am searching the crowd with my sharp Healer's gaze. And there are four faces missing. It hits like a fist in my chest, stealing my breath and aching fiercely.

Albus nods to my desperate glance. "Lord Voldemort's mark was seen above the Potter's home at 12:00 midnight. There was only one survivor."

Rubeus Hagrid—hunched over near the fireplace in the adjoining room—lifts his face and beneath his beard I notice a familiar chubby fist. Without thinking, I cross the room and lift the infant from his arms. My preliminary scans reveal that he had received no injuries, until I gently move aside a tuft of black-brown hair from his forehead. Shocked, I nearly drop little Harry.

"The only sign of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named left in the world." Dedalus Diggle tells me half-joyfully, half in sorrow. "Harry Potter has defeated him!"

"Defeated?" Arthur is absolutely astonished: I can hear it in his voice. "Tonight?"

"At the cost of two great lives," Albus steps up beside me, his piercing gaze fixed on the child in my arms. The child I myself had delivered nearly one year ago!

"If Lily and James are gone, where are Sirius and Peter?" Arthur looks to Remus Lupin, standing near Hagrid. He is almost unrecognizable, his face gaunt with the horror of losing his friends. Tear tracks are clearly visible in the dim light.

"Pete is nowhere to be found," Remus rasps, his voice carrying across the sudden silence. All of the Order seems to be anticipating his next words. What could he have to say about Sirius that is so fascinating? "Sirius…"

"A traitor." Albus finishes for him, and I can barely contain my shock. "The only way the Death Eaters could have known of the Potters' residence was for him to tell."

"A Filius charm?" Arthur sighs deeply at the slight nod from our leader.

"Oh Sirius," the exhaustion from earlier sets in once more. My fingers run gently over little Harry's brow, and he opens his vibrant green eyes to smile sleepily at me. "What drove you to this madness?"

"What indeed." Albus seems to understand my solemn thoughts.

The rest of the Order is getting rowdier by the moment; Arthur has to remind them twice to hush for my youngest is asleep. Bill, Charlie, Percy, and the twins are thumping down the stairs within ten minutes. They are quickly caught up in the joyous atmosphere, jumping to greet all of their favorite guests.

"Let me care for him, Albus." I cannot allow myself to celebrate when this little man has just lost his entire family. "I will raise him like my own son."

"He must go to his family, Molly," he gently tells me. "You know Lily has a sister. As long as he resides in her home, he will be protected."

"I remember Lily's sister." I remind him; I had long been a close confidant of Lily. "I remember how abominably she treated Lily and James. How will he be protected in that awful woman's house?"

"Her blood will protect him." He says no further, but I know the old magics. The Prewetts are an old family—older than the Malfoys, the Weasleys, the Blacks and the Potters.

"You do not think He is gone, then." Our fearless leader does not respond, just tenderly takes the infant from my arms. Which is enough of an answer for me.

When he has gone with Hagrid, I find myself standing in Ronald's nursery alone while a celebration continues beneath me. I am remembering the wailing cries of my child patient today, the desperate crackling breaths of a nineteen-year-old Death Eater last week, the sobbing of a new bride become widow this January. I am remembering Alice Longbottom's day and a half of difficult labor in her underground stronghold while threats of death to her and her unborn child spread through the Order's spies like wildfire. I am remembering a promise between friends spoken softly over a newborn that Lily reported to me over lunch one morning a year ago. A promise that was shattered tonight.

The war may be over, but the heartbreak over those we lost remains.

And I will never Heal again.