Author's note: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, obviously enough, and the lyrics to "Fields of Gold" belong to Eva Cassidy.
Gold
Where are the children? he wants to know. It's always the children these days; still, she supposes it's for the best.
She motions vaguely at the door. Outside, she says, except for –
She's interruped by a red-headed girl toddling headlong into her father's robes. Daddy! she squeals, and he picks her up and spins around. She cackles with glee, crimson curls bouncing everywhere.
Go on now, he tells her with a playful pat on the bottom. Go play with your brothers.
Her lip quivers. Ronnie won't pway wif me, she tells her father sadly.
Well, we'll fix that, he tells her jovially as he scoops her up. He returns a few minutes later. I found her toy broom, he says. So she can play Quidditch with the others.
Well, they can't play long, says Molly, peeking through the flowered curtains hanging in the kitchen. It's getting too dark; they won't be able to see where they're flying.
see the children run, as the sun goes down
He doesn't seem to hear her, but fiddles with the radio on the counter, brushing aside the bits of wire he'd been experimenting with. Dance with me? he asks, offering a hand. She pauses, smiles shyly, and takes it.
Remember this song? he asks as they sway.
She laughs. How could I not?
You were sixteen, he continues fondly, and dips her backwards. The prettiest girl in the room. I couldn't possibly ask you to dance.
Until your friends dared you to, she continues for him with a bit of a twinkle in her eye. She remembers the slightly clumsy boy, the boy she can't quite see anymore. How he stammered as he tried to get the words out.
so she took her love, for to gaze a while
I was never exactly smooth, he says ruefully.
I didn't mind.
Your parents did, he points out with a grin. All those owls…
All summer!
We were kids. We were in love, he says wistfully. She stiffens slightly at the tense.
many years have passed since those summer days
Well, we still are, he tries to cover, but now we live in the same house. Makes owl post a bit unnecessary.
I suppose.
What is it? he asks, more gently. The song has ended now. They stand awkwardly in the silence.
I hardly feel like I know you anymore, Arthur, she says finally, looking at the crumb-covered floor. And – and it scares me.
He hears the tremor in her voice. We haven't had much time to talk lately, he says pensively.
The children, she agrees.
He smooths her hair behind her ear. I asked you four years after our first date, he says quietly, and I'd ask you in a heartbeat today.
will you stay with me, will you be my love
She notices that he doesn't look at her.
What a story for our grandchildren, he says, an arm now hesitantly around her shoulders. How we met.
Yes, she says, clinging by her fingertips to this promise of tomorrow.
i never made promises lightly
and there have been some that i've broken
but i swear in the days still left
we'll walk in fields of gold
we'll walk in fields of gold
The next morning, in between distributing bits of toast and negotiating who gets the least charred piece, an owl flutters in and lands on her shoulder, addresses in familiar handwriting. She pulls out the parchment inside.
My dearest –
and we'll walk in fields of gold.
The end.