Molly is not one to sit idle.

It isn't in her nature. She likes being busy, and maybe by this stage, it's habit more than anything – two decades of parenting have given her hands little opportunity to twiddle with inactivity. And it is true that there is always work to do around the home – chickens and pigs to feed, dinners to cook, jumpers to knit. But as she watches the last of her children eagerly bid her farewell from the window of the Hogwarts Express, Molly never even entertains the idea of staying at home with no company but her own.

Afterall, Molly is someone who needs a purpose. She needs a role.

She needs a job.

But while Molly has always told her children they can do anything they want in life, it seems life doesn't see fit to extend the same truth to Molly. Because while Molly wants a new role, no one wants her.

"Any customer service experience?" The man keeps his head down as he speaks, eyes scanning the parchment sitting on his desk.

"Well, no, not directly," Molly says, a forced upbeat tone to her voice. "I do consider myself a very social person though. I like talking to people."

He gives a faint grunt of acknowledgement and continues to read in silence. Molly can't read his expression, the way he has his head bowed over the desk. She shifts in her chair, the seat's aging leather groaning loudly.

This part of the interview always makes her uncomfortable, when they just sit there in silence. In fact, she almost hates it as much as the part where they talk to her. It isn't that she hates chatting to people, she was being honest when she said she likes talking to people. But she likes it a lot less when she never seems able to give them the answer they are looking for.

Mr Hastings lifts his gaze from the resume in front of him, and leans back in his chair, splaying his palms out on the desk as he looks at her.

"Mrs Weasley."

"Call me Molly."

"Molly." He pauses. "I'm sure that you'd have plenty to offer our growing agency here. But…" And there it is. She almost checks out at this point. "We're really looking for someone with experience. Either in real estate, or in a customer-facing role." He doesn't need to point out that she has neither. "The business of selling houses is one that requires building a certain rapport with our clients, and that rapport starts at the reception desk of our office. We need someone with exceptional people skills, and organisational skills, to make sure our clients feel they can trust us with their home and their money."

Molly manages to keep her smile in place. "I can assure you, Mr Hastings, that I do have those skills." She gives a gentle laugh. "You don't run a house with seven children without being organised and knowing how to deal with people."

"And I don't doubt that, Mrs Weasley. But our clients aren't children, they're adults with high expectations."

Molly is quickly learning that she never meets their expectations. Or perhaps she does, and that's the problem. She is a 41-year-old witch with no real work experience, save for a short stint working at a bakery in between leaving Hogwarts and becoming pregnant with Bill. Whatever employers are looking for, it's certainly nothing she has to offer them.

She doesn't head straight home after her meeting with Mr Hastings. Instead, she wanders around Diagon Alley, taking her time, outstaying the sun.

She is dusting the kitchen bench with flour when Arthur comes home that evening.

"So," he says, giving her a quick peck in greeting before pulling away. "How'd your interview go today?"

"It was… well, it was fine. They seemed nice enough." She begins kneading the large ball of dough. "They wanted someone with experience, though. I wasn't quite what they were after."

"Oh, Molly love," Arthur whispers, leaning in towards her.

Molly tries to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "It's all well and fair though. They need the right person. Minding children for the past two decades hasn't afforded me many skills."

"These people don't know what they're missing. If they only knew how capable and brilliant you are, they'd jump at the chance to have you," Arthur assures her, his hand rubbing her back.

Molly continues to work the dough, pressing her palms into it as she lets her practised hands get lost in the rhythm of it.

"Molly, it's all right." He tries to catch her gaze but she keeps her focus on the dough as she keeps working it. "Really. There's no rush. We've made it work so far, just the one income."

Molly doesn't say anything. What can she say?

"Mollywobbles," Arthur presses, his hand roaming up to give her neck a comforting squeeze.

"I know. I know, of course I do." Then before Arthur can respond, she turns to grab the tray from the cupboard and calls over her shoulder. "The chickens will need to be brought in soon. Would you mind?"

And that's the end of that.

It's a couple of weeks later, while whittling away an afternoon browsing through Apricity Lane, that she spots an employment consultancy tucked away on the corner.

The sign on the front window says they can help anyone land their dream job. Based on her recent experience though, Molly finds the promise somewhat naive. But nevertheless, she makes an appointment for the following week.

The consultant, Renata, is a svelte woman just a few years younger than Molly. She gives Molly a tight smile and an appraising glance that she doesn't even bother trying to hide.

She seems polite enough though, or at a minimum, professional, until she reads through Molly's resume. Which, Molly can admit, doesn't take long, because there's not much there to read.

"You don't appear to have much experience, Mrs Weasley." Her tone is clipped, her expression unamused.

"Well, not quite. Not in paid employment, at least." Molly hastily adds, "I do have plenty of experience in other areas though – running a household of nine people has equipped me with my fair share of skills."

"Transferable skills do count for something, but they can only get you so far in the employment game." Renata turns over the sheet of parchment, and frowns when she sees the other side is blank. "You also have no qualifications listed. Many of the women we see who have taken time out of their careers to start a family often complete one or more shorter courses to keep their skills current and their job prospects open. You've done no short courses since having your children?"

"There didn't seem to be the time for studying with the children."

Renata places the parchment back onto the desk.

"It's a tricky thing," she says, "for women like you who have been out of the workforce for several years to raise their children. And in your case, it has been quite an extended period of time without work. Decades, to be precise. I'll be honest with you Mrs Weasley, most of the employers we deal with are looking for candidates with experience and, in many cases, qualifications. But that's not to say there aren't avenues we can consider."

She refers back to Molly's resume in front of her for a moment. "You mention here that as well as looking after your children, you also help care for your aging relative. I do have connections at a couple of the care homes for aging witches and wizards. I could put your name forward for any caring roles that they may have available. We would just need to rework your resume a little more, give greater emphasis to your caring experience. Is your relative…"

"My aunt."

"Is your aunt in general good health? She has her wits about her?"

Molly nods.

"Good," Renata says. "That will definitely help. You'll need to provide a reference from your relative, a testament of sorts to your caring abilities. If we can make a time next week, we'll fine-tune your resume and owl it over, along with the reference from your aunt, to a couple of the employers."

So they make a time for the following week, Renata making note of the appointment in fancy cursive on a slip of parchment, and Molly walks out the door with the reminder clutched in her hand, and hopelessness in her heart.

That evening, when Arthur asks her how her day has been, she gives him a small smile and says, "Oh, you know. Quiet. Just pottering around the yard."

She never does return to see Renata. Molly has sacrificed her fair share for Aunt Muriel, but she draws the line at her pride.

Molly receives no shortage of feedback and let downs over the subsequent weeks. Of course, she is inexperienced and unqualified. She also isn't a right fit. She is told to consider retraining and applying again for future vacancies. Her education is outdated. And they are just the reasons they see fit to give her.

She isn't naive. She doesn't miss the way some of them look at her. She doesn't miss how dull her robes look compared with the expensive fabric the other workers are wearing. She also doesn't miss the young woman sitting at the reception desk of the same real estate agency just a couple of weeks later – the new woman with tidy brown curls, who looks like she's fresh out of Hogwarts. Experience, hmm?

Twenty-two years. That's how long she has spent at home looking after their children. It wasn't a decision Molly made, to stay at home. It's just what she did. Likewise, it wasn't a decision she had to make about finding a job once Ginny was at Hogwarts. She had always just assumed.

Scraping together every knut to make ends meet was acceptable when she was needed at home. But things are different now. They don't need to survive on one income anymore. And Molly is used to a life of servitude, of purpose, of constant company. And her need for all of those things hasn't changed. She hasn't changed.

Those twenty-two years had meant everything – they'd been about her children, and giving them a home where they could be safe, happy and nourished. But to the rest of the world, that counts for naught. Those years are nothing but a gap in a timeline that is judged with scorn by people who expect her to have done more with her years.

And it's getting harder and harder to remember that they're wrong.

But then, something changes.

Molly and Arthur have only been back for a few days after spending Christmas with Bill, when Molly's luck finally turns. Maybe they are able to see what she can offer. Maybe they think she'd fit in with the team. Or maybe it's a simple case of no one else wanting the job. She honestly doesn't know. But whatever it is, Molly has a job.

A job.

An actual, paying job.

Four or five days a week, Molly reports to the kitchens of St Mungos, where she dons a fresh black apron, loads up a trolley, and wheels it around the wards, delivering meals and refreshments to the patients.

It's… fine.

The work isn't complicated, and she certainly appreciates the opportunity to get out of the house and contribute to the family's coffers. It gives her day structure, and even on the afternoon shift, she's still home by 8pm, allowing her time to spend with Arthur of an evening. And she likes the people, for the most part. Not as much the medistaff, who she has little contact with other than the occasional nod of acknowledgement whenever she enters a room while they are checking in on a patient. But there are others she enjoys seeing each day.

She has a soft spot in particular for Alexander, a boy just a few months older than her Ron, who has spent two weeks in the Hesper Starkey Ward after a nasty encounter with an Angel's Trumpet plant. She brings in one of Ron's Martin Miggs comics for Alexander one day, who is growing increasingly bored, confined to a bed in a windowless room. The mediwitch on duty scowls disapprovingly at her, not saying a word but making her thoughts on the gesture no less clear. She's only been employed for a matter of weeks by this point, and Molly knows better than to risk the only job that's been available to her. But she'll be damned if she'll let that uncompassionate witch deny the poor boy a little entertainment. She is far more subtle the following days, sliding the thin comic underneath the tray with his stew or roast, and giving him a wink which he always returns in kind, little notes left on the cover of each magazine when he returns them the following day with his empty tray, telling her what his favourite part was.

Then there is Mrs Barrington, a 93-year-old widow spending a lengthy stay in the Gunhilda de Gorsemoor Ward while she recovers from complications from Dragon Pox. She is awfully frail, and only ever picks at the food served to her each day, admitting that it's so bland to her aging tastebuds, that it isn't worth the energy to chew. Molly certainly can't begrudge her that, and she begins to bring in extra food from home, a slice of rhubarb and ginger pie that she had baked for Arthur, a serve of beef wellington, whatever she has available. And she never has to worry about getting caught out – Mrs Barrington polishes off every last bite of her offerings, leaving behind not a trace on her plate.

They aren't all as congenial as Alexander and Mrs Barrington, however.

"Is it edible this time?" Henry Reeves barks one morning.

"The kitchen staff prepared a special meal today, Mr Reeves, I'm sure you'll enjoy it," Molly says, sliding the tray with sausage pie and apple custard onto the small table next to him.

He glares at the plate by his side. "I bloody well think not." He takes a tentative bite and scoffs. "Dry as crisp parchment, I tell you"

Molly doesn't respond, but pours him a weak cup of tea, mumbling a rapidly cooling charm before placing it beside the tray with a falsely sweet smile.

The kitchen allows the staff to bring any leftovers home at the end of the day, but Molly never does.

Day after day, week after week, Molly works. Her feet ache when she arrives home, her shoulders stiff, but she doesn't mind it. It's a good feeling in a way, the feeling of activity, of productivity. Of purpose. And each night when she comes home, Arthur will tell her about his day, about the tip-off they'd received regarding some Muggle exercise mats that emitted odious smells at regular intervals, and how the Ministry has reduced their department budget for another year. And Molly will tell him about her day at work, about the new patients she has met, how Alexander is finally being sent back to Hogwarts.

Often she will arrive home to find one or two letters waiting for her, occasionally from Aunt Muriel or a friend, but more often from one of her children. Ginny had written to her and Arthur every couple of days to begin with, but her letters had begun to trail off by the new year.

Molly hasn't been surprised, the same had happened with all of her children their first year at school, the homesickness giving way to the distraction of school work and friends and Quidditch. She rarely hears from Ginny now, and when she does her letters are short. It's a good sign, she thinks. Ginny has always had an easy time making friends, and she has no doubt her daughter has been filling her evenings and weekends with games of exploding snap and exploring forbidden corners of the castle and the grounds that she knows all of her kids have frequented. And with four older brothers at school with her, there would be little chance of Ginny getting caught up in trouble without Molly knowing about it.

Easter approaches, and the children opt to stay at Hogwarts for the break, like they usually do. So Molly picks up a shift on Easter day, earning additional pay for the holiday. She beams at the little extra deposited in their vault, and at the feeling of finally making a decent contribution.

And time carries on just as it has every other year. The chill of winter eases, the daylight stretches out, colour returns to the garden beds by the Burrow. And Molly fills her day serving others, adjusting to a new life order where her children no longer need her.

Until they do.

As a mother, Molly knows the guilt of failing your children, and the pain of watching them hurting. But she has never known pain nor guilt like this.

The evidence of Ginny's withdrawal from them all was there, but Molly had dismissed it. Ginny was writing to them less, but Molly had excused it away. Ginny was hurting, was terrified, was alone, was in danger. But Molly hadn't noticed. Now, it's all she can see.

Ginny's first week home since the incident in the Chamber, Molly calls in sick to work. It isn't even a question of whether or not she will go into St Mungo's for her shifts. Molly is needed at home, and it's as simple as that.

What isn't simple though, is what she can do next.

After that first week, Molly arrives for her first shift at St Mungo's since their world imploded. She doesn't want to be here. Not at all. But she's reached the point where she has little choice, and Arthur is staying home with GInny today. She is returning the trolley to the kitchens at the end of her shift when the voice of Mr Hendricks, the Food Services Manager, calls out from the doorway of the back room.

"Molly, I saw your application for time off during the summer break."

Molly turns around and attempts a friendly smile. "Yes, I'd really appreciate–"

"I'm sorry," he interrupts, "but it's just not possible." Her already shattered heart sinks even further. "Summer is always a popular time of year for staff to request leave," he goes on. "But we just can't let everyone take the time off at once. As much as I wish I could grant you this leave, our patient numbers don't just drop off because it's summer."

She tries desperately to keep her voice even, but there's a shakiness to it all the same. "Oh, of course. I understand, I do. But there are personal circumstances this year, and I really need to be home with my daughter."

"I'm sorry, Molly. I really am. Perhaps we can negotiate something, perhaps some more evening shifts so that you're home with your family during the day. Would that work?"

When Molly walks out of the kitchens three minutes later, she's no longer employed. Molly has many regrets, but quitting her job to be with Ginny isn't one of them.

Ginny has grown up in so many ways this past year. It's evident in the way she talks, in the extra inch of height, and in her eyes – the pain, the anxiety, the uncertainty. Her daughter has always fought so hard to prove her independence, and to show how capable she is of doing things on her own. And she still is very much those things – independent and capable. But while she hasn't said as much, it's clear that for now at least, she doesn't want to do it all on her own. So for the time being, this is Molly's job – ensuring Ginny isn't alone.

Last year, when it was just her and Ginny while the younger boys were at school, they spent time together in the kitchen most days, baking or preparing dinner. And it might not be just the two of them anymore these days, but they revert back to this old habit, to these old days when things were simpler. They bake scones and tarts, pasties and steak pies. They roast vegetables from the garden and preserve fruits from the local market.

There's something especially comforting in cooking, Molly has always found. It's in the methodical steps, the way there's a process to it all, a purpose. It's the transformation into something greater than the individual ingredients. It's in the smells, and the way her kitchen has always felt like her own space. But mostly, it's how she best likes to serve and provide for others. Food is comfort and nourishment and kindness, and she has long believed that it is an offering that soothes many aches and bridges most divides.

Molly and Ginny bake and cook, and when the kitchen is overflowing with more food than the Burrow's inhabitants can reasonably eat, they keep going. Like Molly, Ginny seems to appreciate the way it gives her a purpose to her afternoon, and an avenue to focus her thoughts that Molly knows all too well can wander when left to their own devices.

No longer able to offer her leftovers to Mrs Barrington, Molly instead recruits Ginny, and sometimes Ron when he's in an agreeable mood, to help her deliver the food to some of their neighbours who Molly knows aren't always able to provide a proper meal for themselves. They take berry crumble to Xenophilius Lovegood, and shepherd's pie to Betty and Jim Connors. They hand-deliver apple tart to Mrs Spence, and a beef and onion casserole to Joyce Pugh. And they do it all again the following week, and the week after, only giving it up when a stroke of good fortune sees them packing their bags for a temporary escape to Egypt, to spend time with Bill.

The trip to Egypt could not have come at a better time. Molly sees it for what it is: a brilliant distraction. Ginny seems a little lighter with each week that they are away, and it soothes Molly's heart to see Ginny laughing with her brothers and hanging on Bill's arm as they walk among the tombs. Egypt is what they need. Molly is convinced that the universe has taken it upon itself to help heal her broken family. It finally allows her children to be just that – children. They laugh and tease and carry on like they had when they were younger. Even Charlie manages to make it for a few days so the entire family is whole once again, and the mending process begins.

They return just a week before the children are due to begin the new year at Hogwarts, and Molly would be lying if she said the thought of sending her daughter back to that school didn't make her anxious. In truth, it terrifies her sometimes. But she sees the way her sons are towards their sister now, understands the guilt they feel at not being able to protect her that first year, and knows they are determined to do better from now on. Ginny will hate it, of that she has no doubt, but Molly doesn't mind it. Not one bit.

As the first of September draws ever nearer, they make a last minute trip to Diagon Alley for supplies. It's here that they see Harry again for the first time since the summer break. Molly is curious to see how things will play out. Harry is awkward as he approaches Ginny, a brief moment of hesitation as he greets her. But within minutes they are chatting easily, about Quidditch, of course, and Egypt. But not, she notes, of the Chamber. She has suspected that Ginny has been nervous about seeing Harry again once she was back at school, and Molly feels utter relief that Ginny no longer needs to worry about this. It doesn't miss her attention either, the way Harry lightly touches Ginny's arm at one point, and while she can't be sure, Molly suspects Harry has needed this even more than Ginny has – to see that she is indeed here. That she's ok.

Ginny writes to Molly and Arthur, that first night she's away. The letter arrives by owl the following morning, and while she shares little beyond reports of her journey on the train and the Welcoming Feast, there is a lightness in her tone and an honesty in her words, and it's nothing like the letters they received from her last year.

And with her house quiet once more, Molly yet again ponders what to do with her days. She isn't left to consider this for long though, as just a few days after farewelling the children at the train station, she receives a visitor. She doesn't recognise the woman standing on the front porch, but she introduces herself as Rachel, the daughter of Mrs Spence.

Molly has known for some time that Mrs Spence hasn't been in the best of health. But Rachel explains that her mother's condition has deteriorated in recent months, and she is no longer able to regularly cook for herself.

"Mum has spoken so keenly of the food that you have brought around for her," Rachel explains, "and with her appetite no longer what it used to be, it's such a rarity to find food that mum is interested in eating."

Molly feels her cheeks warming at the praise, and she's not quite sure how to respond to that. But there's no need to, as Rachel goes on.

"I'm not sure if you'd have the time, or if you'd be interested, for that matter," she says. "But I wanted to ask if it's something you might do, to provide mum with meals a few times a week. We'd pay you, of course," she rushes to add. "We could make a proper arrangement, determine a set price and usual days for delivery. It's just… I just can't be there to care for mum as much as I'd like, as much as she needs me to. And it would be such a relief for both of us if we knew she at least had some decent meals to keep her going when I can't be there."

Molly is truly at a loss for words at this request. Her initial instinct is to refuse the offer of payment. It was never her intent to ask for money in exchange for the meals and dishes she provided. But before she can say anything of the sort, she stops herself. She takes a moment to consider the offer before responding.

"I would love to."

And so, it begins. Just with Mrs Spence, to start with. But word spreads, and it's not long before she is helping to feed half a dozen elderly witches and wizards across Ottery St Catchpole. The money she makes is modest – she is determined to ask for a fair price, and not a knut more – but she enjoys it. She likes seeing her customers every few days, and more than anything, she relishes the purpose it provides her.

She never considers what she does as 'a job', and she's not quite sure how to define it. But she thinks back sometimes, to her earlier failed attempts to source work, and how she had always just assumed that one day, when her children were no longer at home, she would find a job. She had never really considered an alternative plan.

Molly is someone who needs a purpose. She needs a role. She needs to contribute and be of service. And as the months pass, and then the years, and she continues to provide for those who need her – her neighbours, her children – she comes to appreciate that the role she has to play, and the purpose she has to fulfil, will always change and evolve. But some things remain constant. She will always be needed. She will always contribute. She will always be of service to others.