"The bustle in a house,
The morning after death
Is the solemnest of industries
Enacted upon Earth,--"
Emily Dickinson
Story Title: The Mourning After
-- chapter two: FOR THE SON --
Ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning, I used to think.
Ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning, I still think.
I think this as I roll from my spot besides Arthur in our bed at Grimmauld place, slip a shawl over my nightgown and head downstairs in my ripping slippers. Ready for the sun, I think as I stretch my back. Up before the morning's dawning, I remember as I study the gray skies on the other side of the kitchen's glass windows.
The house is silent, of course, and I guess it is only six o'clock, perhaps six-thirty. And I smile as I dig in the cabinets above my head for a proper mixing bowl. Pancakes, I decided, will do for this morning. After finding one (tucked in the drawer beside the sink), I gather the needed ingredients and dump them into a bowl. Muttering a few words, automatic after so many years, a batter begins to form, and a wooden spoon churns the contents freely.
Nodding affirmatively, I begin some of the common chores needed to be done to such a house as Grimmauld place; especially now, after that horrible little house-elf was found dead in his sleeping quarters. Hermione would be terrified, I think as I fold up a pile of laundry, frequently casting a de-wrinkle charm. Satisfied with my family's clothes, stacked neatly in four piles (for Ron, Ginny, Arthur, and myself), I return to the kitchen, finding Remus sniffing the batter carefully.
For a moment, I can only see him and Nymphadora pressed closely, his form trembling, and her eyes red. My own face flushes in remembrance, as I instinctively turn back towards the door. Halfway out of the room, though, I gain my wits once more, and remind myself that they are adults. Both of them. Even Tonks, with her clumsiness and wild hair. Even Remus. Remus, who just lost his best friend. And they surly can make their own decisions. It's not as if they were having sex at my kitchen table. In fact, they may not even have had sex at all. Right, they could have spent the night sleeping. Or crying. Or mourning. Sleeping, and crying, and mourning together, and making decisions together, also.
Sirius was an adult, too, I remind myself. He made his own decisions, also.
It's funny how many of his decisions I disagreed with, especially those regarding Harry. My Harry. Ron's Harry. Ginny's Harry. Our Harry. I suppose he was Sirius's Harry also. . . I suppose. But he was our Harry first. So, yes, Sirius was an adult, who was capable of making decisions.
Perhaps not the best decisions, though.
Perhaps: A very strong uncertainty.
Because, perhaps, he made horrible, horrible, morbid decisions. And perhaps is a very versatile word.
As I begin to stop myself from walking out of the kitchen, I bite my lip, wondering what I really thought of Sirius.
He loved Harry. There is no perhaps in that. He loved Harry so much; more than himself. But did he love Harry more than James? More than the memory of James? To him, was Harry just his father? Because, yes, he loved James also, as I know from the first war against Voldemort. Even in the past months at Grimmauld place, before he died, I could feel his love for James when the past was spoken of. But was there separation between such different people? Perhaps. . . Sometimes, when he spoke of Harry, and how he could not wait for the upcoming summer, that which has arrived without his presence, and when he spoke of teaching him to be an Animagus, and living with him, and pulling all sorts of pranks on Snape and Moody, and even Dumbledore. . . Sometimes, for Sirius, the world stopped when he went to Azkaban, it even may have receded in time. . . Harry was James. . . Time paused, leaving James to freeze in his youth and liveliness. . .
Other times, though, James did die and die and die. . . Time swept by so quickly for Sirius. James died, Harry grew and grew, and was being hunted by Voldemort. Sirius was responsible for his best friend's son. For Harry. Harry was Harry. . . Time had sprinted through existence, leaving James to die, and Harry to grow. . .
Perhaps.
And I didn't like Sirius, really. Because those times when time had frozen for him. When Harry was James. So even when Harry was Harry, I believed Sirius to be irrational and immature and irresponsible and cocky and. . .
And a horrible parent for Harry.
Or. . . Or perhaps. . .
Did I just see that when Harry was Harry, and even when Harry was James, Sirius would do anything for him?
No, no. . . Harry didn't, and doesn't, need another --
No.
And as I try to push all thought of Sirius from my mind, I wonder why I do so, and shift, so that I face Remus.
Remus. Now, what about him? He is responsible. He saved Harry. Oh yes, I know he was the one holding Harry, keeping him from running after Sirius at the Department of Mysteries.
Sirius.
What would Sirius have done if it was Remus falling towards the veil?
Easy. Easy.
Sirius would have lunged towards the veil, towards Remus, falling in, wanting to save, but only falling, falling. . .
And Harry. He would have done the same for Harry.
But what if Harry was running for Remus? Would he have held Harry back? Or would he have ran for Remus as well?
Would he. . .
But that did not happen. Sirius fell through the veil. Sirius is dead.
And Remus lives, standing now, setting the table silently, swiftly, not noticing my presence.
"Would you like pancakes?" I ask.
Then his wand is pointed at my brow, read to cast. Realizing it is only me, though, I hear him let air through his teeth, as he slips his wand back into his holster.
"Good morning, Molly," he begins, walking towards me. "You frightened me."
I'd say so, I think briefly, my heart still racing from the moment's threat. "And good morning to you, Remus. Pancakes, then?" With a nod, he takes a seat, as I quickly bake three lumps of batter. Thinking better of it, and remembering he was not present at dinner the night before, I quickly cast the spell at another blob of the bubbly batter. There: and they're pancakes Slipping the plate in front of him, I take a seat across the table, hoping I might be able to offer a bit of early-morning table conversation.
"Remus," I begin after a moment, just as he says my own name. "Oh, go ahead dear, I say."
He's not one to argue about such mundane topics, so he smiles gracefully and continues. "You walked in on Tonks and I last night."
And I nod.
"Well, you did not walk in on anything inappropriate."
"No, no, of course not, Remus. Sex is a very natu-"
"No, that is not what I meant," continues, cutting me off. Lifting his amber eyes from his pancakes, he looks directly at me. "Molly, Tonks and I did not have sex."
"Oh, of course," and why is it that I feel reprimanded? Perhaps because I was . . Perhaps. "But you slept together? I mean, not slept together, but slept together?"
And he nods once at me, and looks down, looking slightly ashamed. "Remus?" I ask gently. "Remus?" I enquire again, when he does look up. Sighing slightly, I shift in my seat. "It's okay, you know."
Mourning, I mean. He knows this. I know this.
And he nods, but he's just moving his head. "It's not wrong to mourn or feel lonely or cry."
He looks up at me, with a very strange expression on his face, any feeling of inferiority I held previously are lost to the care and worry I feel now. I wonder for a moment what his expression means. He feels guilty, I surmise. For what? Remus is logical, and certainly knows it is okay for a man, even fully grown, to express emotion, to cry.
"I know, Molly," he says, and then looks down again. There is silence, and I want to say something, but don't know, exactly, what needs to be said. So I'm silent, and I'm almost sure he's thinking about something. Perhaps something important. "That's not-" he begins, but then stops talking, takes a breath, and collects himself. "What I mean, is that I understand this. It's just strange. I wasn't lonely last night, but then again, I still was." Then directs his eyes pointedly in my eyes and continues matter-of-factly: "I am not used to being comforted. I am not accustomed to crying. I am not prone to displays of emotions. In fact, I've always been proud of my ability to remain calm and rational. I feel guilt towards myself for breaking this streak. Then I feel guilt towards Tonks." I am startled by his openness and his straightforward approach to the topic; it's as if we are discussing the anatomy of a flobberworm. . .
"Tonks is so much younger than me," he continues, and looks towards to door as he speaks. "Over a decade younger than me. Although last night was strictly an action between friends, I have awoken with a deeper friendship with Nymphadora, one that I would not be upset to see progress. I fear I will find myself liking her in a way a man my age should not like a girl her age. I feel as if I took advantage of her kindness last night, causing her pain and tears, and wasting her time. Tonks is intelligent and surely realized the meaning of her actions. I know I did not take advantage of her, for she would have said or done something. All she did, she did willingly. But yet I feel as if I am asking too much of her. We weren't even very close friends, so I feel as if I have burdened her with my melodramatic emotions and mourning."
He sighs, then, and buries his tired face into his hands. I notice the gray interlaced with his light hair. It's as gray as Arthur's. . . Tonks is as old as Charlie. Then he shifts his face, so that he is able to look me in the eye. "I realize I am being irrational. Tonks is aware of what went on last night, and the consequences. If she felt uncomfortable, she would have cast me away. Consolation is a natural and humanistic action, just as is mourning. I feel as if the particular actions committed are not worthy of guilt, yet the situation as a whole, with all the details included, becomes a shameful doing for me. No, not shameful, I suppose, for I do not regret my actions. Yet, there is a guilt. A guilt I feel is stemming from betrayal and immorality."
And then, there is silence again, and I'm searching for words; I'm even searching for thoughts. The tone in his voice makes me feel uncomfortable, and the words, meanings, formed from those words seem wrong in the context. The separation. . . The analysis. . . The strained look and throaty sighs are not a man pondering his emotions, but that of one unable to solve a text-book problem.
Is that healthy? I wonder briefly.
Focusing, I attempt to gather all he has told me; he feels guilty, but net regretful. . . He feels that he should not have burdened Tonks with his emotional needs, creating a bond between the two that should not exist between such people. . . And slowly, it arises in my head, the situation takes its form, murky first, until the details brush away the clouds.
Right.
I slip out of my chair, as Remus rests his forehead on table. Once I am kneeling by him, I nudge his face towards mine. "Remus," I say, "Remus, if anyone deserves emotional release and support, and even love, if that is what it comes to, it's you. All I can do is reinforce your own knowledge: you aren't wrong in mourning or crying. And you aren't wrong in doing so in Tonk's arms. If she is the one in which you find comfort, then go to her. As you've said, she is intelligent and capable, if she feels at all uncomfortable, I'm sure she'll tell you."
As he nods, he smiles a bit, and then takes my hand in his. "Thank you, Molly," he tells me, with his gentle eyes, the amber around his pupils glossing, wilting. "Thank you so much."
His kindness embarrassing me, his forwardness, his directness shattering my heart, I return to my feet, my own eyes tearing slightly. Allowing him to eat in silence, I return to my cooking, glancing out the window. After setting a mixing spell on another bowl of batter, I watch the rays of the pink sun break through the horizon in the tiny window at the top of the wall. They sky is gray, but cloudless, as the sun peaks above the treeline, winking at me, reminding me, congratulating me: You're a good mother, it tells me.
And I smile as I think. Ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning. . .
"Molly?" I hear Remus ask, breaking me from thought. "Molly?" he says again.
"Yes?"
"Do you like Tonks?"
What? Do I like Tonks? Well. . . "Yes, why do you ask?"
For a moment, he looks skeptical, his eyes prodding my own.
He doesn't fully believe me. "Of course," he says. "Of course you like her. We all like her: she's an asset to the Order. But do you like her?"
"Remus, I don't know why you're-"
"Molly, would you allow one of your sons to date her?"
"I hardly think--"
"Why wouldn't you?"
"Because!" I snap, angrily. He certainly does not have the right to interrogate me! I've always been perfectly civil towards Nymphadora Tonks. Maybe if she were a little more capable in the kitchen, or around the house, I'd be able to do a bit of housework with her. If she weren't so busy listening to her loud music, and making her hair neon green, or seducing men. . .
She doesn't seduce men, does she?
But she does listen to loud music and have green hair! Sometimes.
She's not a Weasley, I want to say to him. She doesn't cook or clean, like I do, like my mother did, like Ginny will. . . Like Ginny would have until she was introduced to Nymphadora Tonks. She doesn't pin hair long hair up, she doesn't wear aprons or nursing robes, but jeans and T-shirts. . . What she feels like wearing. She's out of Hogwarts and has never had a serious boyfriend. . . Flirting with and teasing everyone: all of my sons, Moody, Remus, Kingsley, even Harry! She just doesn't--
"She's got a Weasley heart," Remus says, quietly, seeming to understand what I am thinking. "It's so big, like yours and Arthur's, and Ron's, and all you're children's. Even beneath the blue hair, it beats, red and strong. . ."
But don't look at him, but shuffle back over the my batter, ready to be cooked. Firing baking spells, I still ignore his presence.
Finally, after stacking all the pancakes neatly in piles on ceramic plates, I face him, completely calm, to find him still watching me, with keen, pondering eyes. Straitening my shoulders, and untying my apron from around my waist, I speak to him: "You were up early this morning." Ready for the sun, I think.
"Oh yes, I am."
"Especially for a Sunday."
"Yes."
"What do you plan on doing."
Now, he looks in square in the eys: "I am going to visit with Harry for the day."
My body fills with happiness, and I'm jumpy now, so happy that Harry will have company, and that someone has finally taken initiative. And maybe. . . Maybe Ron could come along. Harry could certainly use a good friend. And Ginny, too! Perhaps, perhaps it could offer something Harry and Ginny could bond over! Distract her from that Dean Thomas. Yes, yes, this is perfect! A chance for Harry to notice my Virginia.
"Wonderful!" I exclaim, rushing towards Remus, and clasping my hands from his upper arm. "Wonderful!" I repeat. "I'll just wake Ron and Ginny, and they can be ready within the half-hour! They'll be so excited."
"Molly, I don't think--"
"Will you reheat the pancakes while I wake them?"
"Don't bother--"
"They may even be ready in ten mintues, they could eat at the Dursley's, and--"
"Molly!"
"What IS it, Remus?"
"I don't want Ron or Ginny to come."
What is he talking about? Of coure Harry's best friend and Ginny should go! What else does he need more? When a Godfather dies, all a growing boy needs is a. . .
Parent.
Oh. Right.
Sometimes rises up my throat, unsettling my stomach and making me dizy. Suddenly, I find myself mad, angry with Remus. I want to tell him he shouldn't go see Harry. That we, the Weasleys, should go visit him, bring him here… Cheer him up.
Not him, me. Us. Our Harry.
Oh. Oh. . .
Is this it? I see Remus and think of Sirius, and the same resentment builds in me. Harry was ours first, I think. Not yours. Not Sirius's. Before there was you, the was us. There was me. He's like a Weasley.
"Molly?" he asks, so gently. So fatherly. So perfectly. "Molly?"
"Yes," I say, dizy, and nauseous, sick with myself, and Remus, and Sirius, and . . .
And. "Yes?" I say. Harry needs Remus, I think, like he needed Sirius. But what about me? Doesn't he need me?
"Well," I say, forcing a smile, forcing happiness. "Well, I'm sure you'll make a wonderful father figure," I say. "I'm sure."
And he looks at me strangely. "I just want to offer Harry some support--"
"Like a father," I say, and laugh nervously. Then I bite my lip. "Well, up with the sun, right? You're sure ready for the morning. Fits my qualifications!" And I force a laugh again. "I always say 'Ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning.'"
"Well, you're certainly ready for more than one sun," he say, and I'm a bit confused about his words. "I'm sure ready for Harry. But I've missed the morning's dawning. I'll be there for it's duration, though. And after, I hope. Either way, I'm ready to support Harry. We're ready for the morning together."
He does not make sense at all. He was up at least an hour before the sun rose: he certainly did not miss the morning's dawning.
"Well," he says, rubbing my shoulder a bit, "I must be off. A new days awaits. And thank you. Thank you for talking to me. I appreciate it."
He's walking out the kitchen door now. His words do not make sense.
He turns around and says, just before he leaves, "And he's yours, too."
And he's gone.
I stand there, wondering. . . My children walk in, and Tonks as well, lowering and lowering the stack of pancakes, and I still stand. Weird, I think. Weird. His words didn't make sense. "You're certainly ready for more than one sun," he said. More than one sun?
Then, then watching my family eat their breakfasts smiling and laughing and happy, I think I get it. Sons. No suns.
He thought I meant sons.
Ready for the son. Heh.
Right.
Oh, and up before the mourning's dawning.
Right. And for all this time, for so many years, I thought I meant ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning.
Funny how that works.
Strange how Remus knew what I meant within seconds, while it took me decades to figure out.
Strange and funny, but I'm not laughing. I'm not even giggling.
Right, but all I'm thinking is that it took me decades to figure out what I meant, with the help of Remus, and that Tonks is only one decade younger than Remus. Only, only. . .
Walking over to her, I see she's sporting brown hair, and gray eyes, and freckles. And is this Nymphadora? I wonder. Somehow, I miss the green and blue and stripes and spikes.
Somehow.
"Later," I begin, "later, would you like to help me with lunch?"
She's startled, I know. But she's flashing white teeth and curved lips.
Yes, a fine little family they would make. Strange, but not that laughing strange. Just strange, the one that makes you feel dizzy and nauseous, but happy and fluttery. . .
Yeah, they'd make a splendid little family, supporting, loving each other. Remus, Harry, and Tonks. Yeah. . .
True Weasleys, with red, swelling hearts, and ready for the son, and the mourning's dawning, just as much as they'll be ready for the sun and the morning's dawning.
Yeah. . .
He was still mine when he was Sirius's, and he'll still be mine now.
And Tonks is nodding slightly at my previous questions. "Perhaps," she says, but from the smile on her face, and the surprised twinkle in her eyes, and that excitement crawling through the sleepiness, I know that this time, perhaps is not such a versatile word, but this time, rather, her "Perhaps," means "Yes, yes, I'd love that, Mrs. Weasley."
Molly, I correct her mentally. Molly.
And "Good morning", I think, as Tonks still nods, "The sun is looking bright," my mind murmurs, as I glace at the table, towards my sons and the mourning of the Weasley family.
A/N: Well, yeah, so I decided to continue it. I'm not sure if I really like this Molly POV chapter, though. . . I feel like there's something missing, and it just doesn't connect. . . Hm, well. . . I just don't like the nonclickiness of it. But I was getting bored with it, and wanted to move on. . .
Sorry it's been so long! And thank you all for such wonderful reviews!
Hopefully a sooner update next time. . .
Scarlet Writer/Scarlet11
The morning after death
Is the solemnest of industries
Enacted upon Earth,--"
Emily Dickinson
Story Title: The Mourning After
-- chapter two: FOR THE SON --
Ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning, I used to think.
Ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning, I still think.
I think this as I roll from my spot besides Arthur in our bed at Grimmauld place, slip a shawl over my nightgown and head downstairs in my ripping slippers. Ready for the sun, I think as I stretch my back. Up before the morning's dawning, I remember as I study the gray skies on the other side of the kitchen's glass windows.
The house is silent, of course, and I guess it is only six o'clock, perhaps six-thirty. And I smile as I dig in the cabinets above my head for a proper mixing bowl. Pancakes, I decided, will do for this morning. After finding one (tucked in the drawer beside the sink), I gather the needed ingredients and dump them into a bowl. Muttering a few words, automatic after so many years, a batter begins to form, and a wooden spoon churns the contents freely.
Nodding affirmatively, I begin some of the common chores needed to be done to such a house as Grimmauld place; especially now, after that horrible little house-elf was found dead in his sleeping quarters. Hermione would be terrified, I think as I fold up a pile of laundry, frequently casting a de-wrinkle charm. Satisfied with my family's clothes, stacked neatly in four piles (for Ron, Ginny, Arthur, and myself), I return to the kitchen, finding Remus sniffing the batter carefully.
For a moment, I can only see him and Nymphadora pressed closely, his form trembling, and her eyes red. My own face flushes in remembrance, as I instinctively turn back towards the door. Halfway out of the room, though, I gain my wits once more, and remind myself that they are adults. Both of them. Even Tonks, with her clumsiness and wild hair. Even Remus. Remus, who just lost his best friend. And they surly can make their own decisions. It's not as if they were having sex at my kitchen table. In fact, they may not even have had sex at all. Right, they could have spent the night sleeping. Or crying. Or mourning. Sleeping, and crying, and mourning together, and making decisions together, also.
Sirius was an adult, too, I remind myself. He made his own decisions, also.
It's funny how many of his decisions I disagreed with, especially those regarding Harry. My Harry. Ron's Harry. Ginny's Harry. Our Harry. I suppose he was Sirius's Harry also. . . I suppose. But he was our Harry first. So, yes, Sirius was an adult, who was capable of making decisions.
Perhaps not the best decisions, though.
Perhaps: A very strong uncertainty.
Because, perhaps, he made horrible, horrible, morbid decisions. And perhaps is a very versatile word.
As I begin to stop myself from walking out of the kitchen, I bite my lip, wondering what I really thought of Sirius.
He loved Harry. There is no perhaps in that. He loved Harry so much; more than himself. But did he love Harry more than James? More than the memory of James? To him, was Harry just his father? Because, yes, he loved James also, as I know from the first war against Voldemort. Even in the past months at Grimmauld place, before he died, I could feel his love for James when the past was spoken of. But was there separation between such different people? Perhaps. . . Sometimes, when he spoke of Harry, and how he could not wait for the upcoming summer, that which has arrived without his presence, and when he spoke of teaching him to be an Animagus, and living with him, and pulling all sorts of pranks on Snape and Moody, and even Dumbledore. . . Sometimes, for Sirius, the world stopped when he went to Azkaban, it even may have receded in time. . . Harry was James. . . Time paused, leaving James to freeze in his youth and liveliness. . .
Other times, though, James did die and die and die. . . Time swept by so quickly for Sirius. James died, Harry grew and grew, and was being hunted by Voldemort. Sirius was responsible for his best friend's son. For Harry. Harry was Harry. . . Time had sprinted through existence, leaving James to die, and Harry to grow. . .
Perhaps.
And I didn't like Sirius, really. Because those times when time had frozen for him. When Harry was James. So even when Harry was Harry, I believed Sirius to be irrational and immature and irresponsible and cocky and. . .
And a horrible parent for Harry.
Or. . . Or perhaps. . .
Did I just see that when Harry was Harry, and even when Harry was James, Sirius would do anything for him?
No, no. . . Harry didn't, and doesn't, need another --
No.
And as I try to push all thought of Sirius from my mind, I wonder why I do so, and shift, so that I face Remus.
Remus. Now, what about him? He is responsible. He saved Harry. Oh yes, I know he was the one holding Harry, keeping him from running after Sirius at the Department of Mysteries.
Sirius.
What would Sirius have done if it was Remus falling towards the veil?
Easy. Easy.
Sirius would have lunged towards the veil, towards Remus, falling in, wanting to save, but only falling, falling. . .
And Harry. He would have done the same for Harry.
But what if Harry was running for Remus? Would he have held Harry back? Or would he have ran for Remus as well?
Would he. . .
But that did not happen. Sirius fell through the veil. Sirius is dead.
And Remus lives, standing now, setting the table silently, swiftly, not noticing my presence.
"Would you like pancakes?" I ask.
Then his wand is pointed at my brow, read to cast. Realizing it is only me, though, I hear him let air through his teeth, as he slips his wand back into his holster.
"Good morning, Molly," he begins, walking towards me. "You frightened me."
I'd say so, I think briefly, my heart still racing from the moment's threat. "And good morning to you, Remus. Pancakes, then?" With a nod, he takes a seat, as I quickly bake three lumps of batter. Thinking better of it, and remembering he was not present at dinner the night before, I quickly cast the spell at another blob of the bubbly batter. There: and they're pancakes Slipping the plate in front of him, I take a seat across the table, hoping I might be able to offer a bit of early-morning table conversation.
"Remus," I begin after a moment, just as he says my own name. "Oh, go ahead dear, I say."
He's not one to argue about such mundane topics, so he smiles gracefully and continues. "You walked in on Tonks and I last night."
And I nod.
"Well, you did not walk in on anything inappropriate."
"No, no, of course not, Remus. Sex is a very natu-"
"No, that is not what I meant," continues, cutting me off. Lifting his amber eyes from his pancakes, he looks directly at me. "Molly, Tonks and I did not have sex."
"Oh, of course," and why is it that I feel reprimanded? Perhaps because I was . . Perhaps. "But you slept together? I mean, not slept together, but slept together?"
And he nods once at me, and looks down, looking slightly ashamed. "Remus?" I ask gently. "Remus?" I enquire again, when he does look up. Sighing slightly, I shift in my seat. "It's okay, you know."
Mourning, I mean. He knows this. I know this.
And he nods, but he's just moving his head. "It's not wrong to mourn or feel lonely or cry."
He looks up at me, with a very strange expression on his face, any feeling of inferiority I held previously are lost to the care and worry I feel now. I wonder for a moment what his expression means. He feels guilty, I surmise. For what? Remus is logical, and certainly knows it is okay for a man, even fully grown, to express emotion, to cry.
"I know, Molly," he says, and then looks down again. There is silence, and I want to say something, but don't know, exactly, what needs to be said. So I'm silent, and I'm almost sure he's thinking about something. Perhaps something important. "That's not-" he begins, but then stops talking, takes a breath, and collects himself. "What I mean, is that I understand this. It's just strange. I wasn't lonely last night, but then again, I still was." Then directs his eyes pointedly in my eyes and continues matter-of-factly: "I am not used to being comforted. I am not accustomed to crying. I am not prone to displays of emotions. In fact, I've always been proud of my ability to remain calm and rational. I feel guilt towards myself for breaking this streak. Then I feel guilt towards Tonks." I am startled by his openness and his straightforward approach to the topic; it's as if we are discussing the anatomy of a flobberworm. . .
"Tonks is so much younger than me," he continues, and looks towards to door as he speaks. "Over a decade younger than me. Although last night was strictly an action between friends, I have awoken with a deeper friendship with Nymphadora, one that I would not be upset to see progress. I fear I will find myself liking her in a way a man my age should not like a girl her age. I feel as if I took advantage of her kindness last night, causing her pain and tears, and wasting her time. Tonks is intelligent and surely realized the meaning of her actions. I know I did not take advantage of her, for she would have said or done something. All she did, she did willingly. But yet I feel as if I am asking too much of her. We weren't even very close friends, so I feel as if I have burdened her with my melodramatic emotions and mourning."
He sighs, then, and buries his tired face into his hands. I notice the gray interlaced with his light hair. It's as gray as Arthur's. . . Tonks is as old as Charlie. Then he shifts his face, so that he is able to look me in the eye. "I realize I am being irrational. Tonks is aware of what went on last night, and the consequences. If she felt uncomfortable, she would have cast me away. Consolation is a natural and humanistic action, just as is mourning. I feel as if the particular actions committed are not worthy of guilt, yet the situation as a whole, with all the details included, becomes a shameful doing for me. No, not shameful, I suppose, for I do not regret my actions. Yet, there is a guilt. A guilt I feel is stemming from betrayal and immorality."
And then, there is silence again, and I'm searching for words; I'm even searching for thoughts. The tone in his voice makes me feel uncomfortable, and the words, meanings, formed from those words seem wrong in the context. The separation. . . The analysis. . . The strained look and throaty sighs are not a man pondering his emotions, but that of one unable to solve a text-book problem.
Is that healthy? I wonder briefly.
Focusing, I attempt to gather all he has told me; he feels guilty, but net regretful. . . He feels that he should not have burdened Tonks with his emotional needs, creating a bond between the two that should not exist between such people. . . And slowly, it arises in my head, the situation takes its form, murky first, until the details brush away the clouds.
Right.
I slip out of my chair, as Remus rests his forehead on table. Once I am kneeling by him, I nudge his face towards mine. "Remus," I say, "Remus, if anyone deserves emotional release and support, and even love, if that is what it comes to, it's you. All I can do is reinforce your own knowledge: you aren't wrong in mourning or crying. And you aren't wrong in doing so in Tonk's arms. If she is the one in which you find comfort, then go to her. As you've said, she is intelligent and capable, if she feels at all uncomfortable, I'm sure she'll tell you."
As he nods, he smiles a bit, and then takes my hand in his. "Thank you, Molly," he tells me, with his gentle eyes, the amber around his pupils glossing, wilting. "Thank you so much."
His kindness embarrassing me, his forwardness, his directness shattering my heart, I return to my feet, my own eyes tearing slightly. Allowing him to eat in silence, I return to my cooking, glancing out the window. After setting a mixing spell on another bowl of batter, I watch the rays of the pink sun break through the horizon in the tiny window at the top of the wall. They sky is gray, but cloudless, as the sun peaks above the treeline, winking at me, reminding me, congratulating me: You're a good mother, it tells me.
And I smile as I think. Ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning. . .
"Molly?" I hear Remus ask, breaking me from thought. "Molly?" he says again.
"Yes?"
"Do you like Tonks?"
What? Do I like Tonks? Well. . . "Yes, why do you ask?"
For a moment, he looks skeptical, his eyes prodding my own.
He doesn't fully believe me. "Of course," he says. "Of course you like her. We all like her: she's an asset to the Order. But do you like her?"
"Remus, I don't know why you're-"
"Molly, would you allow one of your sons to date her?"
"I hardly think--"
"Why wouldn't you?"
"Because!" I snap, angrily. He certainly does not have the right to interrogate me! I've always been perfectly civil towards Nymphadora Tonks. Maybe if she were a little more capable in the kitchen, or around the house, I'd be able to do a bit of housework with her. If she weren't so busy listening to her loud music, and making her hair neon green, or seducing men. . .
She doesn't seduce men, does she?
But she does listen to loud music and have green hair! Sometimes.
She's not a Weasley, I want to say to him. She doesn't cook or clean, like I do, like my mother did, like Ginny will. . . Like Ginny would have until she was introduced to Nymphadora Tonks. She doesn't pin hair long hair up, she doesn't wear aprons or nursing robes, but jeans and T-shirts. . . What she feels like wearing. She's out of Hogwarts and has never had a serious boyfriend. . . Flirting with and teasing everyone: all of my sons, Moody, Remus, Kingsley, even Harry! She just doesn't--
"She's got a Weasley heart," Remus says, quietly, seeming to understand what I am thinking. "It's so big, like yours and Arthur's, and Ron's, and all you're children's. Even beneath the blue hair, it beats, red and strong. . ."
But don't look at him, but shuffle back over the my batter, ready to be cooked. Firing baking spells, I still ignore his presence.
Finally, after stacking all the pancakes neatly in piles on ceramic plates, I face him, completely calm, to find him still watching me, with keen, pondering eyes. Straitening my shoulders, and untying my apron from around my waist, I speak to him: "You were up early this morning." Ready for the sun, I think.
"Oh yes, I am."
"Especially for a Sunday."
"Yes."
"What do you plan on doing."
Now, he looks in square in the eys: "I am going to visit with Harry for the day."
My body fills with happiness, and I'm jumpy now, so happy that Harry will have company, and that someone has finally taken initiative. And maybe. . . Maybe Ron could come along. Harry could certainly use a good friend. And Ginny, too! Perhaps, perhaps it could offer something Harry and Ginny could bond over! Distract her from that Dean Thomas. Yes, yes, this is perfect! A chance for Harry to notice my Virginia.
"Wonderful!" I exclaim, rushing towards Remus, and clasping my hands from his upper arm. "Wonderful!" I repeat. "I'll just wake Ron and Ginny, and they can be ready within the half-hour! They'll be so excited."
"Molly, I don't think--"
"Will you reheat the pancakes while I wake them?"
"Don't bother--"
"They may even be ready in ten mintues, they could eat at the Dursley's, and--"
"Molly!"
"What IS it, Remus?"
"I don't want Ron or Ginny to come."
What is he talking about? Of coure Harry's best friend and Ginny should go! What else does he need more? When a Godfather dies, all a growing boy needs is a. . .
Parent.
Oh. Right.
Sometimes rises up my throat, unsettling my stomach and making me dizy. Suddenly, I find myself mad, angry with Remus. I want to tell him he shouldn't go see Harry. That we, the Weasleys, should go visit him, bring him here… Cheer him up.
Not him, me. Us. Our Harry.
Oh. Oh. . .
Is this it? I see Remus and think of Sirius, and the same resentment builds in me. Harry was ours first, I think. Not yours. Not Sirius's. Before there was you, the was us. There was me. He's like a Weasley.
"Molly?" he asks, so gently. So fatherly. So perfectly. "Molly?"
"Yes," I say, dizy, and nauseous, sick with myself, and Remus, and Sirius, and . . .
And. "Yes?" I say. Harry needs Remus, I think, like he needed Sirius. But what about me? Doesn't he need me?
"Well," I say, forcing a smile, forcing happiness. "Well, I'm sure you'll make a wonderful father figure," I say. "I'm sure."
And he looks at me strangely. "I just want to offer Harry some support--"
"Like a father," I say, and laugh nervously. Then I bite my lip. "Well, up with the sun, right? You're sure ready for the morning. Fits my qualifications!" And I force a laugh again. "I always say 'Ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning.'"
"Well, you're certainly ready for more than one sun," he say, and I'm a bit confused about his words. "I'm sure ready for Harry. But I've missed the morning's dawning. I'll be there for it's duration, though. And after, I hope. Either way, I'm ready to support Harry. We're ready for the morning together."
He does not make sense at all. He was up at least an hour before the sun rose: he certainly did not miss the morning's dawning.
"Well," he says, rubbing my shoulder a bit, "I must be off. A new days awaits. And thank you. Thank you for talking to me. I appreciate it."
He's walking out the kitchen door now. His words do not make sense.
He turns around and says, just before he leaves, "And he's yours, too."
And he's gone.
I stand there, wondering. . . My children walk in, and Tonks as well, lowering and lowering the stack of pancakes, and I still stand. Weird, I think. Weird. His words didn't make sense. "You're certainly ready for more than one sun," he said. More than one sun?
Then, then watching my family eat their breakfasts smiling and laughing and happy, I think I get it. Sons. No suns.
He thought I meant sons.
Ready for the son. Heh.
Right.
Oh, and up before the mourning's dawning.
Right. And for all this time, for so many years, I thought I meant ready for the sun, and up before the morning's dawning.
Funny how that works.
Strange how Remus knew what I meant within seconds, while it took me decades to figure out.
Strange and funny, but I'm not laughing. I'm not even giggling.
Right, but all I'm thinking is that it took me decades to figure out what I meant, with the help of Remus, and that Tonks is only one decade younger than Remus. Only, only. . .
Walking over to her, I see she's sporting brown hair, and gray eyes, and freckles. And is this Nymphadora? I wonder. Somehow, I miss the green and blue and stripes and spikes.
Somehow.
"Later," I begin, "later, would you like to help me with lunch?"
She's startled, I know. But she's flashing white teeth and curved lips.
Yes, a fine little family they would make. Strange, but not that laughing strange. Just strange, the one that makes you feel dizzy and nauseous, but happy and fluttery. . .
Yeah, they'd make a splendid little family, supporting, loving each other. Remus, Harry, and Tonks. Yeah. . .
True Weasleys, with red, swelling hearts, and ready for the son, and the mourning's dawning, just as much as they'll be ready for the sun and the morning's dawning.
Yeah. . .
He was still mine when he was Sirius's, and he'll still be mine now.
And Tonks is nodding slightly at my previous questions. "Perhaps," she says, but from the smile on her face, and the surprised twinkle in her eyes, and that excitement crawling through the sleepiness, I know that this time, perhaps is not such a versatile word, but this time, rather, her "Perhaps," means "Yes, yes, I'd love that, Mrs. Weasley."
Molly, I correct her mentally. Molly.
And "Good morning", I think, as Tonks still nods, "The sun is looking bright," my mind murmurs, as I glace at the table, towards my sons and the mourning of the Weasley family.
A/N: Well, yeah, so I decided to continue it. I'm not sure if I really like this Molly POV chapter, though. . . I feel like there's something missing, and it just doesn't connect. . . Hm, well. . . I just don't like the nonclickiness of it. But I was getting bored with it, and wanted to move on. . .
Sorry it's been so long! And thank you all for such wonderful reviews!
Hopefully a sooner update next time. . .
Scarlet Writer/Scarlet11