Sometimes Molly Weasley would walk up the hill. At her age it was slow and difficult, the rocks sharp and dangerous on the slippery grass like shards of glass on a smooth path. Never had she missed one appointment and never would she until the day she died. She would climb up the hill and sit at the very peak, watching the trees sway in the evening wind and the sun light up the Burrow only a hill away. Mismatched and tilting like it always had been, it stood out from the vast greenery, glowing radiantly in the light of the setting sun.
She would always go alone. Always an hour after dinner when the sun was slowly shrinking behind the hills, golden and red light seeping over the ground and the sky tainted a blood red colour. She would never go with anybody else as it never felt quite right, so she went in the evening when the world was getting ready for bed and the hills were quiet apart from the wind, the rustling of leaves and her breaths, short and sharp and alone.
She no longer cried. She no longer felt overwhelmed with such emotion that she would not be able to breathe from grief. The loss of something so precious and young would forever haunt her but the memory of him would not always be a sad one. Sitting at the top of the hill, she would always remember her son Fred Weasley and the happiness he had brought to her and the family.