JK Rowling owns all these characters and is filthy, filthy rich. I own only this particular plot and any characters I may have invented, and I am not any kind of rich. No copyright infringement is intended. -JM
My younger daughter, Mattie, squints into the firelight on this summer night, a small smile on her face, and I watch her.
Mattie is trying to sketch her pet kitten, the first pet she has ever had that wasn't first someone else's. She's named her kitten "Han;" he was a present for her birthday in May, from her father. Ron never has any problem thinking of presents for Mattie, though he's hopeless at shopping for anyone else. It's been like that between them since Mattie was a wee thing: Ron just understands her, and she understands him. Sometimes I wish I had the same talent.
Han is a gray tabby, three months old, and he is chasing a ball of green yarn back and forth across the hearth rug. I had been using the yarn to knit a scarf for Ron--magically, of course, I'm way too slow a knitter otherwise--but the clicking knitting needles and the green yarn dangling in midair proved too much of a temptation for Han, and it wasn't long before he had turned away from the store-bought toy Mattie got for him, and started chasing the yarn instead. Just like a cat. It makes me think of Crookshanks--who has been gone for many years now--and how he'd chase the gnomes in the Weasleys' garden when we'd visit them in the summertime.
Mattie couldn't resist drawing the kitten, of course; she fished her sketchbook out of her satchel as soon as he started wrestling with the yarn. She can't resist drawing anything she sees, come to that: I believe every member of the family, every friend, every corner of the house and of Hogwarts and of many other, only-imagined places, have been drawn by my daughter at one time or another.
Her full name is Matilda Jane Weasley, 'Mattie Jane' to her foolish mum and just plain 'Mattie' to everyone else. She hates 'Mattie Jane' but I won't give it up. She's my third child and my youngest girl, and I'll call her what I like, even if it's only in my own mind.
I am sitting on the couch across the room, tonight, and getting thoroughly tired of looking over case reports while I knit. I welcomed Han's antics as a pleasant diversion. I decided, in fact, that this was a perfect opportunity to study my youngest daughter...take stock of her, if you will. I like to do this, periodically, with each of my children--I have five, now--because it is actually frightening how fast they grow, and if you don't take stock every once in a while, you'll lose track of them entirely. Call it my own version of marking their heights on a doorway.
Mattie Jane is lying on her stomach on the hearth-rug, her long legs curled up behind her, feet entwined in the air and slowly rocking back and forth. She has her sketchbook on the rug in front of her and is frowning down at it and up at the kitten, in turn, her lips drawn into her mouth the way they always are when she's drawing. Mattie Jane and her sister Tori both managed to get their father's long legs without being gangly, the way he was. Mattie is more slightly built, but still has none of the awkwardness of a teenager, although she has only just turned fifteen.
Aside from the height, I must say she looks very much as her foolish mother must have looked at the same age: bright, intelligent hazel eyes. Curly dark blonde hair, which is both blessing and curse; tonight she has pulled it back into a long tail, save for one curly strand; Mattie twirls that one strand around and around one finger as she sketches. Also like her mother, she has teeth slightly too large for her face, and a slow, sly smile.
I turn back to my reports with a small sigh, beginning to feel the old familiar ache pressing beneath my ribs, the ache that will only get worse if I don't get to bed soon. But, I have to finish the reports.
I have to finish them, but I find myself looking back at my daughter, watching her work. She's inherited my concentration, thank Merlin. You could watch her for hours and she'd never know, lucky for me.
Mattie will sketch Han with pencils first, and then try him in watercolors later; just now, I fancy she is working out a color. That line has come into her brow, the one that cuts straight down between her eyes, the one which only appears on her face when she is trying to figure something out.
It's the color-line, as her dad says. Nearly every time Mattie Jane gets that line down the middle of her forehead, she's trying to work out a color. Last time I saw it, she was painting her dad's portrait, and trying to figure out the exact shade of copper-silver in his hair. In the end, she worked it out brilliantly; that portrait of Ron is one of my favorite. It hangs in the front hall.
Tonight, I think, she might be trying to work out how to blend the grey-gold glow of Han's fur with the bright leap of the flames behind him, the way the gray fur blended into the green of the yarn tangled in his paws, the red-brown of the carpet. The green, the gold, the red-brown...I close my eyes, trying to picture what Mattie Jane's final painting will look like. Instead, I see nothing but stars behind my eyelids, feel nothing but fatigue and that familiar pain in my chest. I press my fingertips to my eyelids, willing myself to last just a few more hours, at least till the boys are in bed.
Think of the devils, and they shall appear (to trample a cliche, as Ron says).
My two youngest boys come crashing into the room as unexpectedly as a tornado in January, yelling with all their might and completely destroying the peace before them. I open my reddened eyes in time to see the two five-year-olds jump on their sister, who tries to protect her drawing beneath her body as her brothers trample her into the carpet.
"Ow ow look out!" bellows Fred, the older twin.
"Mattie Mattie look out! It's gonna come in here any second-," chimes Bill, the younger.
"Oof," says Mattie, heaving herself off the carpet and toppling both twins to the floor. I see her look frantically around for her drawing, then, with a dark look at her brothers, extricate it from under one of the twins' shoes. They have crumpled her sketch and, I see with a sinking heart, caused her hand to slip and leave a thick red pencil-mark across the face of the paper.
Mattie turns to her brothers with fire in her eyes, and they leap to their feet.
"Look what you two have done," she says. Her voice is quiet, but her tone is hard, and her eyes are almost shooting sparks. Her nostrils flare and her ears go red.
"Sowwy, Mattie," says Fred, kicking at the rug and stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"Yeah, sowwy," echoes Bill, absently sticking a finger in his nose.
"Don't be sorry. Just go away," mumbles Mattie, turning back to her sketchbook. "I have to redo this now."
"But Mattie, we gotta tell you...um..." says Bill. The boy glances behind him; a low whine seems to be coming from the hallway, getting louder by the second.
"Boys," I say, in my best Mommy-voice. They both jump as though a drill sergeant has called them to attention. I never find it necessary to yell, as long as I can sound vaguely menacing. "What, exactly, is all that racket coming from the hallway?"
"It's um..."
"Well Mummy, what it is, is..."
They are interrupted by the high-pitched whistle of exactly what I feared: a noisy, twisting, screaming Weasleys' firework, which catapults into the room as though fired from a slingshot and whizzes its way toward the twins and their older sister. Pencils, papers and assorted limbs fly in every direction as the three of them leap out of its way; Mattie grabs each twin by a wrist and pulls them to the floor as the firework whistles over their heads.
I, not about to be unseated by a measly firework, ask, "Are you two into Daddy's tool shed again?"
"Well-" Fred jumps up and starts to answer, but is grabbed by an ankle and pulled out of the way of the careening firework just in time.
Han, forgotten in the commotion, hisses and jumps up onto a nearby chair, from which he watches proceedings with not a little bit of humor in his yellow eyes. I do the same. The spinning yellow firework skirts the room, seeming to scout for a good location from which to commence attack; five pairs of eyes follow it closely. It glows like a roman candle flame, leaving a bluish streak across the vision as it cartwheels over itself through the air, giving off an unbearable squealing.
And then, without warning, it is streaking across the room toward my face. I can't help letting out a little shriek as I flatten myself on the sofa, the pain in my chest returning with the sudden movement. I lie there huffing and clutching at my ribs; the firework whizzes over my head, just singing the ends of my hair, and begins banging at the window behind me.
"You leave my mother alone, nasty firework!" screams Bill, charging toward the couch and leaping up onto the cushion beside me. Fred is right on his heels, shaking his fists at the firework. I catch them both around the waist and fling them toward the door to the kitchen, ignoring the pain beneath my ribs for the moment.
"Go, go, it'll follow you," I tell them. And it does: someone has bewitched the firework to follow the boys wherever they go and make random swipes at their heads. When I find out who that someone is, they are in for it: I have my suspicions already, come to think of it. I must get on the Floo network to "Uncle George" first thing tomorrow morning.
The twins rush out of the room as one, wailing loudly all the way. The firework abandons its pounding of the window and screams after the two boys; their shrieks can be heard echoing through the kitchen and out into the garden.
"Boys," I call halfheartedly, raising a limp hand in their direction, and then turning the gesture into a wave. "Oh, your father will catch them, I suppose." I lean back into the sofa cushions, silently begging Ron to do just that.
"Owwww!" one of the boys screams, from just outside in the yard.
I roll my eyes and started to get up; my husband's voice stops me. "I've got them, it's all under control--oh bloody hell!" he yells from out in the yard. His exclamation is followed by a small scuffle and the continued whine of the firework.
Mattie and I grin at one another and exchange another eye-roll; I drop back onto the sofa and cover my face with my hands, groaning. "Between those two and your father," I say, "I'll be lucky to make it to forty-seven."
Mattie just nods and surveys the situation: she is kneeling on the hearth-rug, surrounded by broken pencils and tattered, crumpled sketches. "It was perfectly peaceful just a few minutes ago," she says, in her quiet way. "And then: enter Bill and Fred." She shakes her head again. "Sometimes I wonder if we're really related. They were adopted, right Mum? Right?"
"You were there the night they were born; you know better," I tell her.
Another loud squeal from outside--it could be either twin, or possibly even their dad, who has been known to scream like a girl on occasion--followed by the distinctive whine of the still-active firework, makes Mattie smile as she bends to pick up her scattered artwork. "Was that a Filibuster, do you think?" she asks.
"No," I say, my voice squeaky and faint despite my best efforts to sound normal. My breath comes in small gasps. "That was a Weasley's. Definitely a Weasley's."
Mattie looks up sharply; I sit up straight as best I can and try to force a smile, resting one hand on my ribs and bracing the other on the couch cushions behind me. I am trying to take deep breaths. I close my eyes, but my breath keeps hitching on me, not allowing me enough oxygen, so that it sounds like I'm panting. From the look on Mattie's face when I open up my eyes again, I can tell my face is screwed up in pain. It's not as easy to recover from these attacks as it was when I was younger.
"Mum, are you all right?"
I sit up straighter, despite the pain, and give a rather pinched smile. "Yes," I say, standing up and stretching my arms above my head, breathing slowly and evenly, as Madame Pomfrey taught me to do all those years ago when the injury was new. When I was just Mattie's age. "It's just the old pain. That's all."
"D'you want me to get your medicine?"
"No, I'll be fine. Just let me stretch." I walk around the coffee table and kneel next to my daughter, moving gingerly but relieved to find that the pain is receding, as it always does. "What have we got here, then?" I asked, pointing to her sketch of Han.
"Oh," Mattie says, and blushes. Her ears go red again. "Just some sketches I've been working on. I wanted to get them down in pencil first, and then I'm going to try them in watercolor." She rises to her feet and picks up Han from the chair, where he has been crouched wide-eyed, back arched. She cuddles the kitten under her chin; I can hear the creature purring.
"They're wonderful, darling." I am holding the half-finished sketch of Han. Although the paper is now crumpled and marred with the pencil-slash, I can see that Mattie captured the cat's rakish expression perfectly, and it's interesting how the flames behind him blend into the fur, which blends into the rug beneath...I can see how it will all come together in the end, even from this half-finished sketch. It will be an incredible finished painting. I look up at my daughter, again awed by her talent. Children never stop surprising you.
Mattie is blushing furiously, looking like her Aunt Ginny as she digs one toe into the rug. She picks up another packet of sketches from the floor, and holds them out to me. "Want to see more?"
I nod, and reach to take the precious papers. Mattie very rarely lets anyone see her work before it is "finished," so I am aware of what an honor this is.
The very first sketch I see is of myself. In it, I am bent over my desk, staring at case reports (I marvel at the detail; Mattie has copied the Ministry seal heading each page exactly, in miniature), my head in my hand. There is something in my own face, in this drawing, which I don't exactly like. Not to say that it isn't accurate: I'm sure that, when deep into my work, my face becomes that stony, my fingers that clenched. But to see it set down on paper, in stark detail...I look up at Mattie, who is biting her lip and staring at the carpet.
"Been laying into it pretty strong lately, have I?"
"Well..." Mattie shrugs quickly and tosses her curly head to one side, a mannerism borrowed directly from her dad. "I draw what I see, Mum."
"You certainly do," I say. I flip that sheet over and study the next one: Ron in the foreground, wrestling with Bill and Fred and about to be brought to the ground by them, by the looks of it; Ginny laughing at the three of them in the background. Ginny laughing is a rare sight, these days.
The next sketch is of my eldest son, Mattie's elder brother, Harry. He's eighteen now, just out on his own and fiercely protective of his independence. Mattie's sketch shows him looking dead-on at the artist; even in a pencil sketch, his eyes are intense and piercing. His arms are folded and he's scowling in that stubborn way he has; he looks just like Ron when he does that. Behind Harry, his elder sister Tori stands stifling a laugh behind one slender-fingered hand, mischief in her eyes, holding up the other hand behind Harry's head to give him rabbit ears. I burst out laughing. "Oh, Mattie," I say.
"Yeah, I know," she says, untangling Han's paw from the front of her blouse. "Let go, Han. Yeah, Harry's going to kill me when he sees that one. I just couldn't resist."
I look back down at the last sketch in the packet, still chuckling. The last sketch is of Ron and me. We are sitting on the bench in the garden, just smiling at each other. Mattie has "gotten" us perfectly. I don't know how else to describe this sketch: it's so simple, and so touching, the way we're looking at each other with perfect trust and love. I stare at it for a long time.
Mattie finally clears her throat and says, "Uh, Mum? Don't you like that one?" I don't answer. "I saw you and Dad out in the garden one day this spring, just sitting there and talking, and you looked so...I don't know. Happy. I just felt like I had to draw it. I hope you don't mind."
I shake myself and hand the sketchbook back to Mattie. "Certainly I like it. Of course I don't mind. You're very talented, sweetheart; I love it when you turn your talent on me." I study her for a moment more as she kneels back onto the rug, straightening her papers and collecting all her pencils, tucking her stray hair back behind her ears. I close my eyes. "It reminds me of another picture, that's all."
Mattie looks up; I open my eyes and meet hers.
"Another picture like that one?" she asks. "Where?"
"I'll show you. Just give me a moment." I turn away and walk down the hall and into my bedroom, trying to keep my breathing even. The pain is coming back.
I find the picture buried under a crumpled pile of Ron's shirts; his drawers are always a mess, but once you've learned his "organizational" habits, it's actually quite easy to find things. He still keeps this picture in its original heart-shaped frame, though he's destroyed most other reminders of those times. This photo was probably only spared because it doesn't actually feature Harry Potter, just me and Ron.
I gave the picture to him one Christmas, when we were still children: in it, Ron is sitting at a table in the Gryffindor Common Room and excitedly explaining a save he'd made in the Quidditch Cup game that day; I'm gazing at him with a goofy smile on my face. I've always loved the two of us, this way: just smiling and enjoying ourselves.
There wasn't much enjoying ourselves to be done, for the next two years after this picture was taken. Ron doesn't like to talk about that time. He's purged all the memories into his best-selling book about Harry Potter: all the memories of losing his brothers and his parents and his best friend. And almost losing his future wife.
I don't like to remember it either, come to think of it. Any of it. Especially that last day. But the memory is flooding back, as it always does when I am suddenly, forcibly reminded of it, and the pain is flooding into my chest stronger than ever. And I let it come.
It was Graduation Day at Hogwarts. Ron and I hadn't spoken in weeks; some stupid fight over something so trivial I can't remember it now. I had gone up to the Owlery directly before the Graduation ceremony, to send a letter to some wizards abroad who wanted to give me a job in their Foreign Ministry office. I thought the job was perfect: the best part was, I'd be away from Britain and Ron Weasley and everything that had happened over the last two years. Perfect.
I never sent the letter. I didn't expect to meet Lucius and Draco Malfoy in the Owlery. I didn't expect to be disarmed by them and Portkeyed to the Dark Forest, held immobilized and then forced to duel with the Death Eaters while Voldemort waited for Harry Potter to take his bait. Harry did eventually show up in the Dark Forest, having seen me through Voldemort's psychic connection with him. Ron was with him.
I don't remember a lot about that afternoon and evening...I do remember that it wasn't just dueling, what the Death Eaters made me do. That by the time Ron and Harry found me, I was near exhaustion, mentally and physically. By the time they found me, I was standing half-naked in the middle of a clearing and Lucius Malfoy was trying to convince Draco to throw a Killing Curse at me, that I was no longer important. Draco stood there trembling and nearly wet his pants; he couldn't do it. As much as I'm sure he hated me, he couldn't kill me. Lucius stepped in front of his son and raised his wand to me. That's when I saw Ron and Harry.
I only remember fragmented images, in those last few seconds. I remember hearing Malfoy say the words: "Avada Kedavra." I remember the flash of green light, and Ron's blue eyes as he watched me go down, and in the distance, far back, a clear note of Phoenix song. And then all the colors ran together.
When I woke up, I was crying. Or at least I thought I was crying; it turned out to be the Phoenix, Fawkes', tears in my eyes. Fawkes had woken me. Fawkes was dead, but I wouldn't find that out until much later.
I felt Ron's hand in mine when I woke; I can't say how I knew it was Ron's, because my eyes seemed glued shut. I was too weak to open them, too weak to move. I heard voices all around me, safe voices, Ministry voices. I felt someone lift me off the ground as easily as though I was a toothpick. The strong warm arms carried me for a long time, carried me out of the forest and back to the castle, and only when we had almost reached the Hospital wing was I able to open my eyes and see a flash of red hair above, see the stony, pale face and hollow blue eyes of the boy who had carried me so many miles.
When I woke up again, days later, Ron was still holding my hand. The moment I opened my eyes he told me the whole story. He told me Harry was dead, and so was Dumbledore, that Voldemort was gone and we were safe. "Safe:" he said the word as if it had no meaning any more. That day and ever after, he said the word "safe" with a wry little curl of his mouth. As if he knew better.
Madame Pomfrey told me later that no one could get Ron to leave me; when even my parents were forced to respect her request for "no visitors in the Hospital wing," she could not get Ron to leave. The look in his eyes made her leave him alone with me. He never left me the whole time I was there in that bed, clinging to life as stubbornly as I had clung to my foolish ideas during my seven years at Hogwarts. And he never left me again.
I can't remember in any more detail than that. Not that day. That is how it always comes back to me: fragmented images, strange colors, echoing voices. Vague pain. And curse me if I ever, ever tell my children about it. I will spare them that.
The twins and Ron are laughing outside. They must have brought the chaos under control, for now.
I square my shoulders and walk out of the bedroom carrying the picture of Ron and I when we were still innocent. I hand it to Mattie and she smiles immediately, her eyes crinkling on the sides just like Ron's, when he smiles. She looks back at me, frowning. "How come I've never seen this picture before, Mum?"
I smile back at her, recognizing the Color Line on her forehead again. It only appears when she is trying to work out something especially difficult; in this case, she is probably trying to do what many people in the past have tried to do: decipher the mystery of me and Ron. How we ended up together when we seem so different.
Not a chance, I could tell her. Smarter witches than you have failed. Voldemort failed. They have a whole section at the Department of Mysteries devoted to the human heart, but they'll never crack it. Mattie lives to work out problems, to interpret the solutions for others through her beautiful paintings. But she'll never work this one out.
Instead I say, "Your father and I have our little secrets, don't we?"
Mattie nods, handing the picture back to me after a final glance. The line still creases her forehead; she has another question. "Mum," she says. She's whispering. "Can I ask you something else?"
"Yes."
"Are you happy you married Dad?"
I smile and answer without hesitation, "Yes, I am."