A/N: This story was written as an entry for The Houses Competition, Year 3, Round 8 (Bonus Round 2).
House: Gryffindor
Year: Head Girl
Category: Bonus (#1)
Prompts:
Theme 3: Escape - The act of breaking free from confinement or control.
Colour 6: Wenge.
Prompt 3: [Object] Frying Pan
Word count: 2975 words (written on Google docs)
Betas: Thank you to CK (Theoretical-Optimist) for beta'ing, as well as to my teammates for putting up with the numerous meltdowns I've had about colours and other prompts this fortnight! Xx
Additional A/N: Theme: Molly's memories are trapping/ confining him in the house, controlling his movements.
AU in that we don't know what happens to Molly and Arthur. This is based purely on my own family experience, and that of countless others, where the question is often whether to sell or to stay. There is so much scope for this idea with Arthur outlasting Molly, so I hope you enjoy this one take on it using the specific prompts required.
I don't know if wizards use paint or cook with frying pans, but assume they do. Wenge is a specific colour for wood (a medium brown, with the wood itself having black streaks). I've seen that people use stain to bring the colour out, so I've used that instead as a mixture of the furniture being wenge wood and the colour being brought out by the stain. I know some people prefer not to read large blocks of text in italics, but as line breaks are being used to indicate time lapse, flashbacks have been italicised to make it clearer. Editing is not allowed until after judging finishes, so I will change afterwards if you need
Also, please note, words like 'towards' and 'forwards' with an 's' at the end is accepted in UK (and Aussie) English, not just 'toward' and 'forward.' It frustrates me to no end when people say it is incorrect when it's correct. The same applies to a looser use of word order—as long as it makes sense, word placement can be interchangeable (at least according to us people in the country that apparently doesn't exist) :')
Anyways, I really do hope you like this story, and I appreciate you reading it :) Xx
Arthur After Molly
It all starts with a piece of furniture.
"What a day," Arthur says, grunting as he eases himself into his favourite armchair.
He's not sure if it's the chair or his knees that creak. As much as he enjoyed the Muggle museum, all the walking up and down countless stairs was too much.
"Who knew they had to survive by making clothes with those huge machines?" George says.
Arthur's tempted to remind him that he's had a sewing machine in the back shed for years, but he doesn't want to admit that he only now understands what it's for. He'd only pretended he did so that Molly wouldn't—
Sighing, he leans back in his chair. It doesn't matter whether or not he understands now; Molly isn't there to find out.
"Do you want us to stay, Dad? Harry is off tonight so he can look after the kids," Ginny says, peering at him.
He gives her a small smile. "It's alright, you go on home."
"Are you sure?" George asks.
He waves his hand at them. "Go on, I might take a nap."
Ginny kisses his cheek. "Alright, you take care."
She and George shuffle out of the living room, and he hears the familiar pops as they Disapparate. Silence soon fills the house, save for the occasional dripping of the kitchen tap.
Arthur picks up the magazine he's been reading. It's a Muggle magazine, all about cars, and he thinks that he might use it to fix up the new car he's bought. It's not as nice as his old Ford Anglia, but it's the same blue colour that'll allow it to blend in with the sky—not that he'll try to make it fly or anything.
His chair isn't comfortable though; the back is too hard, the cushions too stiff. His legs are becoming restless, and he puts them up on the low coffee table.
"Wenge."
As he glances at the coffee table, a single word pops into his head, and a memory comes flooding back.
xXx
"Steady, steady…"
"You know I hate it when my eyes are covered." Molly's voice wobbles a little.
He smiles as she clings onto him and guides her into the room. When she sees what he's done, it'll be worth it. At least, he hopes she'll like it.
"Okay, on the count of three…"
"Arthur…"
"One, two… three!"
He releases his hands and steps back, allowing his wife to peer around the room. He holds his breath as she gasps, her eyes roaming from the coffee table to the bureau to the bed propped up against the wall.
"Now, it's not completely finished… I wanted to show you before I stained it."
There are tears in her eyes when she turns to him, and he worries that he's gotten it wrong. She'd been so excited when he'd agreed to expand their little home from the two-room barn into a two-story house to make room for their second child. Molly had never expected much, but he knew she was probably hoping for new furniture to go with the expansions. Unfortunately, the Ministry weren't giving him as many shifts as he needed, and he'd had to build it all himself.
"Arthur…"
"I've bought the stain," he says, holding up a tin of varnish. "The shop assistant assured me that 'wenge' was the closest colour to our other pieces, so any guests we have won't notice—"
He's cut off as Molly steps forward and kisses him. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her closer.
"Oh, Arthur, it's perfect; wenge is perfect," she says, pulling back. She giggles at the name and rubs her stomach. "Maybe we should call this one Wenge."
"Or we can stick with Charlie," Arthur says, smiling at the silliness her hormones have brought on.
He has to admit, the name is pretty funny. The brown colour will match the rest of the house, though, and it will bring out the black streaks in the wood to make it at least appear expensive. Their home will look wonderful, just like Molly deserves.
xXx
"Wenge," Arthur whispers to himself.
Time has made its mark on the coffee table, with various dents, nicks, and carvings covering the surface. The colour is slightly faded, too, but it's still a beautiful brown.
He shakes his head and stands up, trying to forget the name of the colour. He knows he should be able to smile at his memories of her now—two months is a long time—but it only brings him pain. In the morning, maybe he'll consider painting over it.
The pain comes back a week later—this time, with a basic kitchen implement.
"I think they'll offer me a promotion by the end of the week..."
Arthur tries to focus on Percy's words, but it's hard. It's not because he finds the conversation boring. It's because his eyes continue to linger on the various pieces of furniture around the house, and his mind screams one word at him: wenge.
The bookcase: wenge. The kitchen table: wenge. The cupboard doors: wenge. Wenge, wenge, wenge. They're not even all the same shade of brown, but his memories won't allow him to escape that word or thoughts of her.
"Dad?"
"Mmm? Sorry, just thinking," he says, turning to his son.
Percy smiles. "Do you want sausages for lunch?"
"Oh, yes, that would be nice."
He means it; he can't remember the last time he had sausages. In fact, he can't remember the last time he had anything other than toast here. Lately, when he's found he's hungry and isn't over at one of the children's places for dinner, he's taken to ordering meals at The Leaky Cauldron.
Percy turns back to the stove and Arthur's eyes wander back to the table. He can hear his son banging pots and opening cupboard doors, and he tries to focus on the constant clanging rather than on the wood's colour.
When he hears Percy groan, he turns back to him.
"Dad, I know you're not, well, used to cleaning, but you really must remember to wash—"
"Don't use that!"
Arthur stands and within two seconds, is grabbing the frying pan out of Percy's hand. His son's mouth pops open, but he's too busy staring at the bottom of the steel object. There's a layer of charred food coating it, and before he can push it away, another memory assaults him.
xXx
"You don't have to do that," he says, putting down the paper and looking at Molly.
Sweat is forming on her brow as she flips the frying pan on the stove. Her bright red hair has escaped from her beret, but it somehow makes her looks even prettier.
"You know how I feel about ordering out," she says, putting the pan down. "We have to set a good example for our children."
It's the delicious smell wafting from the pan that stops him from rolling his eyes. Molly's always nagging him about ordering food out, and not because he still isn't paid nearly as much as his other colleagues. The Healer said his heart would be fine and that he could still have treats from time to time. Still, he supposes Molly's cooking is always a treat.
At that moment, their twins come tearing through the kitchen, chased by their four-year-old brother. Percy is holding a box of broken crayons, and it's only that he's a little slower than Fred and George that Arthur manages to catch him.
"Right, I believe it's time for your bath," he says, ushering Percy out of the kitchen. The twins come racing back in, and he manages to grab one under each arm. "Yours too."
Molly sends him a grateful look as she holds the frying pan to prevent the boys from knocking into it and burning themselves. He knows he'll be in for an even bigger treat later.
xXx
"Dad?"
Arthur blinks, his memories once again taking hold of his mind. He walks over to the cupboard and places the dirty frying pan inside before shutting the doors again.
Even until the end, Molly had insisted she'd cook; before she'd fainted, she'd been preparing his favourite meal. He knows it's silly, but if he sniffs hard enough, he can still smell the remnants of the steak.
"I'm fine with toast tonight," he says.
Percy groans. "You can't exist solely on toast."
"I don't."
"I've told you before, Audrey is more than happy to come around if you want a nice home-cooked meal here. You won't have to leave the house, either; we can all come—"
"Really, toast is fine," he says, and with all his effort, he offers Percy a smile. "I'm not that hungry."
Once it's there, it never goes.
Arthur sucks on his finger in a vain attempt to stop the throbbing pain. He'd been distracted as usual and hadn't been quick enough to move it out of the bonnet's way before it shut.
He'd thought that escaping to the shed would stop the onslaught of memories the house now brought on. Outside, he wouldn't have to think about brown furniture or avoid the kitchen cabinets or hide the pile of knitting. He wouldn't be taunted by the dressing gown hanging over the wardrobe or fear the sight of a pair of shoes. He'd be able to tinker about and concentrate on living the life he should've had with her.
Boy, was he wrong.
As he shakes his finger, he looks back out the shed doors towards the house. He's sure he can hear Molly's voice calling out to him, reminding him to not break any laws or announcing that dinner is ready. He's sure he can see her standing there, her hands on her hips and lips pressed together.
xXx
"Arthur? Merlin so help me, do not tell me you're out in that shed of yours again."
He bites his tongue as he takes the scalpel and gently cuts into the yellow rubber. He doesn't want to ruin the duck completely, but it seems opening it up is the only way he'll find out what makes it squeak.
"Arthur!"
He narrowly misses cutting his finger and sighs. Putting down the scalpel, he quickly hides the duck in the Ford Anglia he's just bought and sprints outside.
Molly's hands are on her hips. As he gets closer, he can see that there's a smidge of cookie dough on her cheek, and he tries to not think about the delicious food she must be making.
"Yes, dear?" he asks.
She runs a hand through her hair. "I'm at my wits end!"
"You still look lovely, Mollywobbles."
His wife blushes but she holds a hand up, preventing him from enveloping her in a hug. He wonders if she's just discovered his collection of rubber ducks that are floating in the children's bathtub, and hastily thinks of explanations that might save him from her wrath.
"I could really use some help," she says. "None of the housework is done. Ginny's always up in her room whilst the cat's litter tray is full, the twins haven't de-gnomed the garden, Ron's pining over the fact that Harry hasn't written him back yet, even though the poor boy is probably busy enjoying his holidays, and Percy feels doing the dishes is too undignified for a prefect."
Her cheeks grow redder as she lists all her worries. Arthur takes the opportunity to rub her shoulders, trying to ease her mind. Now is definitely not the time to confess about his duck collection.
"It's alright, everything will work out."
She sniffs and he realises she's about to cry. "I'm sorry, I'm being silly. I know you're busy with work, but I just can't—"
He pulls her into a hug. "Look, I'll vanish the litter and then talk to Ron; I'm sure the boy's just looking forward to his second year. Percy will help out once he's reminded about responsibility, and the twins, well, I'm sure they'll find more mischief to get into and will do the de-gnoming as their punishment."
Molly sniffs again and smiles at him. "What would I do without you?"
He shakes his head and leads her into the house. "The question is, what would I do without you?"
xXx
Molly wasn't supposed to go first. She wasn't supposed to get terribly ill or make him find out what he'd have to do without her.
He continues to stare at the house, his eyes growing moist. He knows she isn't there calling him. He finds himself putting away his tools, however, and marches back to the house.
He can't escape her voice, and part of him doesn't think he wants to.
It stays until it becomes too much.
Arthur punches the sofa, sick of the way the lumps dig into his back. It's bad enough that the quilt barely covers his body from the biting cold. It's the only thing Molly didn't sew, however, and there's no way he can go back up to their bed.
It's not just the little things that haunt him now.
xXx
"Arthur? Are you awake?"
Turning his head, he can see in the pale moonlight that Molly's eyes are open.
"I'm awake," he says.
"You're not supposed to be; you have work early."
"You should be getting rest, too. It's a big day tomorrow."
Even though she yawns, her rosy lips manage to twitch up into a faint smile. Neither of them have been getting much sleep lately, not with the wedding planning taking up most of their free time. Arthur doesn't mind putting in all the energy he has to help his only daughter enjoy her special day, but he can't help wishing that she was a little less stubborn. Up until last week, he'd been unaware that cummerbunds weren't a thing anymore or that, like furniture stain, there could be so many shades of the same pink nail polish.
There's another reason he's still awake, though, and he's not sure Molly will like it.
"I've been thinking…"
"Mmm?" She stifles another yawn and rolls over.
"Well, after tomorrow, there's only going to be us here. You're still beautiful, mind you, but we're both getting old, and keeping this place afloat will take a lot of energy…"
"I'm only sixty-three," she says, narrowing her eyes.
"I know, I know. But I was thinking, maybe we should consider moving…"
She sits up and all traces of her smile are gone. "Moving? Arthur Septimus Weasley, we are not moving!"
He sighs. It's just an idea he's had, but it's not really because he doesn't think he can cope with maintaining the house.
"What in Merlin's name has gotten into you? You love the Burrow!"
"I know, but…"
"Arthur, I can tell when you're hiding something. Why do you really want to move?" Her gaze is fierce, and he feels like shrinking down under the blankets.
"I know it was hard for you when Fred… left us. He'd already moved out before it happened, but you didn't seem to be able to stay here then. I'm afraid that with the last of our children flying the nest, you, well, might not cope," he says.
He flinches as she whacks him on the forearm. "Silly man, I'll be fine. It'll probably be different with no children here, but they'll always visit."
"Are you sure?"
She whacks him again, and this time, her smile is back. "Of course. The Burrow is our home." She squeezes his hand before rolling onto her back again. "Now get some sleep."
He closes his eyes, smiling as the words 'our home' run through his head.
xXx
He gives up on ever feeling comfortable on the sofa and sits up. Even if he could get comfortable, he'll never get to sleep in this place with the memories holding him captive.
Sighing, he knows what he has to do, even though he doesn't like it.
There's only one thing that will allow him to escape the painful memories.
"Say that again?"
Arthur looks at his children, who are either gaping or wearing faltering smiles as though they hope it's some sort of practical joke. He needs them to understand, though; there's no other way.
"I'm moving. The Burrow will be passed onto all of you, but I can't stay here myself," he says, holding up a finger to stop their protests. "I've made my decision and it's final."
"Don't be stupid. Where will you go?" Percy asks.
"There's a retirement village up north that I'm keen on. It's near Shell Cottage, too, right by the beach, so I'll be able to visit Bill."
"But why?" Ginny asks the most pressing question.
He gestures around the room. "It's wenge, it's the frying pan, it's the knitting in the corner."
"Wenge?"
He nods to the coffee table still stained brown with black streaks. He's found that he couldn't simply paint over it, no matter how hard he tried.
Percy groans, evidently remembering the charred pan in the cupboard. "We'll get you a new frying pan."
Arthur shakes his head. "It's not that simple; everything reminds me of her."
George, who has so far remained quiet, nods. "I get it," he says quietly, perhaps thinking of his lost twin.
None of the others seem to get it, though, and Ron says, "But the Burrow is your home!"
He smiles sadly at his son and closes his suitcase. He doesn't need much where he's going, but now he'll have a choice in what memories he'll take.
"This was our home, your mother's and mine—not just mine. We built it for our life together."
His children, save for George, still don't appear to understand, but he's sure they will. He hopes Molly will too.
Right now, he needs to escape to a place where his heart doesn't break every day and he can remember her in peace.