WRITTEN FOR QLFC SEASON 9, ROUND 6

TEAM: Holyhead Harpies, Chaser 2

PROMPT: Link 'Em Up, Pairing: Molly Weasley/Arthur Weasley

4. (trait) Angry

11. (trait) Cheerful

12. (word) Memories

WORD COUNT: 2227

Title source: Pompeii by Bastille

AN: Fair warning, dear readers, but this is going to be a story that is way angstier than the 'cheerful' prompt would imply. Takes place directly after the war.

But if You Close Your Eyes

"Ginny! Harry, dear!" Molly exclaimed happily. "How lovely of you to stop by! It's so nice to see you two again."

Arthur, from his spot several paces behind his wife, caught the bewildered look exchanged between the young couple as they hesitantly returned Molly's enthusiastic hug.

"Erm, it's good to see you too, Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Weasley," Harry said, shifting unsurely. "Sorry that we haven't been by more often. We've been… dealing with some things, since… you know."

"Oh, of course dear. It's been a difficult time for all of us," Molly nodded consolingly. "And how many times will I have to remind you before you finally start calling me Molly?"

"Just once more, Mrs. Weasley," Harry joked feebly, smiling rather uncomfortably.

Arthur could understand the confusion that Ginny and Harry were visibly displaying. Molly's cheerfulness had been something that had confused him as well for at first, until he realized what was going on.

"Mum," Ginny called softly, "How are you? With… everything?"

Very conspicuously absent was the use of Fred's name, but the weight of his loss pressed down on the atmosphere of the room almost palpably. The only one seemingly unaffected was Molly herself.

"Just peachy, love," Molly replied dismissively. "Now, how about something to eat?"

Without waiting for a reply, she bustled off to the kitchen, followed by Ginny and Harry's concerned gazes and Arthur's resigned sigh.

The small gathering at the dining table was a subdued affair. Harry and Ginny were both picking at their plates of treacle tart, though Arthur sensed that even their minimal effort was merely for a lack of anything better to do.

They occasionally shared shy smiles, and Arthur was heartened to know that they at least had each other in those troubling times. It was clear that they depended heavily on one another, yet both felt completely comfortable putting their well-beings in the others' hands. As a father, Arthur couldn't have hoped for better for Ginny than a good boy like Harry.

Molly obviously agreed with his assessment, as she had been talking to them – though it was more at than to – and dropping not-so-subtle hints toward marriage. Arthur could feel the second-hand discomfort, both at Molly's out-of-place exuberance in the somber and quiet atmosphere, as well as the subject matter she was persistently attempting to raise.

Eventually, after several minutes of failing to engage them in conversation, Molly mumbled a few incomprehensible words to herself and shuffled out of the room, leaving Arthur with only his daughter and his pseudo-son. Soon, the echoes of Molly's footsteps on the stairs reached their ears, suggesting that she had gone to their bedroom to rest.

Harry and Ginny locked gazes, seeming to have an entire conversation with only subtle eye movements and minute facial expressions. Arthur missed the times when he and Molly could do the same, but he found that these days, he could no longer read her like an open book, nor did she seem to have any interest in communicating her deeper thoughts to him. Not since…

"Dad," Ginny's soft voice broke him out of his contemplation, and he turned to face her, noticing that she was biting her lip and picking at her fingernails. Beside her, Harry was fiddling with the hair at the nape of his neck.

On anyone else, Arthur might have taken their actions as tells for nervousness, but he knew Harry and Ginny well enough to know that they both only got nervous broaching a topic when it would be far more uncomfortable for the person they were talking to than it was for them.

In a way, it was comforting, as Arthur could pretend that he wasn't the only one that was apprehensive about what would inevitably be a very difficult conversation on his end. On the other hand, it wasn't exactly pleasant knowing that a difficult conversation was imminent yet at the same time knowing that he was unable to do anything to avoid it.

"What's going on with Mum?"

Arthur sighed and closed his eyes, knowing that there would be no weaseling his way out of this talk. "She…" he faltered, taking a deep breath. "She hasn't been well since Fred passed."

A shadow passed over Ginny's face and Harry tensed, seeming to find his feet exceedingly captivating. "None of us have been exactly dandy, Dad," Ginny replied harshly.

Harry cringed at her tone and rested his hand on her forearm. He opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur cut him off with a small shake of his head. Ginny was frustrated, worried, and stressed, and sarcasm was just one of her defense mechanisms.

"I know, love, and we've all been dealing with it in our own ways, but your mother… I don't know. It's been confusing. During the day, it's almost as if nothing's changed. She's cheerful and happy, and Fred's alive, and," Arthur choked on his words, "And our family is whole."

Harry's jaw was clenched and he still refused to raise his head, and Ginny's eyes were filling with unshed tears.

"It's strange," Arthur admitted. "I don't know how to act around her, but I know that I can't bring myself to pretend to be all right. It's left me constantly walking on eggshells."

Arthur knew that they understood what he meant. He'd seen how uneasy they too were when greeted by Molly's joyful demeanor.

"It's worse at night," Arthur continued solemnly. "There's something about the cover of darkness that allows the mind to run free, but with that freedom comes remembrance. Remembrance calls forth memories that are impossible to push aside, to ignore, and to forget. It's only then, when we retire for the night, that she screams, cries, laughs, and mourns. It's only then that she allows herself to feel the pain of loss."

Ginny let out a sob, burying her face in Harry's shoulder. Harry finally looked up to meet his eyes; his face was grim but determined. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

Arthur shook his head, chuckling humorlessly. "I'm afraid not. Even I barely know how to help her, though I'm doing my best. Besides, we all have our own demons to fight through. Losing our child is just one that Molly and I have to face alone."

Outside of the bedroom that he shared with his wife, Arthur took a deep breath and braced himself. He did not know which pained him more – seeing Molly in public, faking a brave face for the others, or seeing her in private, teetering on the brink of sanity in her grief and fury.

He knew what to expect when he pushed open the door, but the sight still made his heart ache. The candles and torches were already put out, leaving the room lit only by the slivers of pale moonlight that slipped through the drawn curtains of the windows. Arthur's eyes adjusted quickly and focused on the quivering lump underneath the blankets on the bed.

"Mollywobbles," he called softly as he slid into bed next to his wife. As expected, he got no response, so he simply wrapped his arms around her as she shook with silent sobs.

For several minutes, they lay quietly; the only sounds that interrupted the pall of silence were occasional hiccups that escaped Molly when she could not keep her sobs in.

"Why?" Molly eventually whimpered. Her voice was so quiet that had Arthur not been expecting it, he might have missed it entirely.

"I don't know, Molls," he answered. The first few times she'd asked that one-word question, he hadn't known what to say. Eventually, he realized that it really didn't matter what he said, only that he said something. Molly just needed to hear his voice, to feel his embrace, and to know he was there.

"I forget he's gone sometimes, Arthur," Molly admitted weakly.

"I know, dear. So do I." He didn't, not really, at least not for some time now. At first, he'd taken to drinking quite heavily in an attempt to force himself to forget. He'd spent the few weeks following his son's death in a drunken stupor with no one to snap him out of it. Molly was just as wrecked as he was, and the rest of the family were off dealing with their own problems.

One day, during a brief bout of lucidity, he'd seen how thin Molly had gotten, and suddenly noticed that he had lost a considerable amount of weight as well. Neither of them were eating, they both barely slept, and they were wasting away. It had to stop.

So, he threw out all of the alcohol and forced himself and his wife into a schedule. Wake up in the morning, eat, spend the day doing anything except mope, eat, and go to sleep at night. Molly had put up as much resistance as she could muster, and Arthur realized that she had been much worse off than he was. So, he spent all his time and energy on caring for her and trying to make her better.

Miraculously, it seemed to work. After two weeks, it was like a switch was flipped; Molly woke before he did, no longer requiring him to drag her out of bed. She began cooking like she used to, back when the whole family was still here to share the large meals she prepared. She smiled and laughed, and Arthur had hoped that she was finally beginning to heal.

Yet, something was still wrong. She woke up too early; he'd once caught her staring at the horizon outside their bedroom window, her face was blank as she waited for the sun to rise, looking almost like she wished it wouldn't. She cooked too much as well – always more than the two of them could possibly eat – and often set places for the absent family, including a plate for Fred. Her smiles and laughs seemed genuine at first glance, but there was always a hidden pain within her eyes that belied her happiness.

At nights, she would curl up in bed and cry, and in the beginning, Arthur hadn't noticed, because he was crying as well. Until one night she'd asked him 'why?'

It always started with 'why.'

Some nights, they talked about Fred. They reminisced fondly, basking in happy memories and unforgettable tales of mischief. These nights were the most pleasant, even if they more often than not ended up with them holding each other as they shed bittersweet tears.

Other nights, they spoke of futures lost, of a wedding they would never attend and grandchildren borne by a son who would never father them. These nights usually left them feeling more hollow than ever, and Arthur often wondered why they put themselves through that kind of pain. He could come up with no rational explanation.

Most nights, though, Molly dwelled on regret. Arthur was never the type to fixate on the past and wish for something different, and Molly wasn't either, but he supposed it was different when it came to her children.

Regret, it seemed, went hand in hand with guilt, both of which did one of two things. The first: they ate you up from the inside out until there was nothing left of you but an empty shell. This was what awaited Arthur and Molly had they continued on their original path. The second: it came out in the form of directionless anger. That wasn't to say that the anger did not have a target, but rather that it simply could not be righteously pointed in any one specific direction, and instead lashed out at anyone and everyone.

Molly yelled through most of these nights. Sometimes, she yelled at Arthur, blaming him for allowing her son to die. It stung at first, but Arthur knew that she was just venting her grief in an irrational way. More often, she yelled at herself, berating herself for not taking care of her children, for allowing them to run headfirst into danger, and for not protecting them like a mother should. Arthur just held her as she yelled and cried and screamed aimlessly into the night, until they both fell into troubled sleep, only to repeat the cycle the next day.

It seemed that the pattern would finally be broken tonight.

"Why?" Molly asked again, this time softer still than her previous whisper.

Then, without another word, she rolled over and closed her eyes. Before long, her breathing evened out, and Arhtur knew that she had fallen asleep.

Perhaps this was progress. Perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps it was a one-off occurrence, but he truly hoped not. Arthur hated seeing his wife in pain, especially when he couldn't do anything to ease it.

For a long while, he stared up with unseeing eyes, gazing helplessly at the ceiling above him. It seemed that the only thing he could do was try to be strong and hope that time would allow Molly's wounds to heal. He'd picked up a Muggle saying from Harry a long time ago that seemed to stick with him. 'You can lead a horse to water, but you can't force it to drink.' The problem was, Arthur was a thirsty horse too, and he had no bloody clue where the water was.

AN: I hate this story and I hated this round. This is the first story I've ever written that I really haven't liked but don't know what to do about it. Mais c'est la vie, I guess.

BTW, there's a point where I wrote "they lay quietly" which sounds wrong, but is actually grammatically correct. I looked it up and everything; the past tense of 'lie,' as in 'lie down,' is 'lay.' If it were present tense, it would be "they lie quietly." judges, pls don't dock points for that.