A/N: So I'm setting this story to "completed". Not because I'm done; oh, far from it! But because I actually want people to READ THIS. And it's not getting read in the "work-in-progress" section. Of course, that could also be due to the lack of updates on my part. ANYHOO. Enjoy this new chapter. Also, if you want me to write from the point of view of a certain Black family member, please let me know and I'll do my best to accomodate your request!
Where does it hurt?
Even if you fail every other part of motherhood, you can't fail this one. It's the question that leads to the tearful revelation of skinned knees, black eyes, and tummy aches. It's the discerning woman's guide as to which remedy to break out of the family vault. It's the sentence that fixes everything. Because once you know where you hurt, you can work to erase that hurt.
So I would like to believe.
I'm not a Black by name, but by blood. The Prewetts are cousins of the Blacks. Of course, we're "blood traitors", and so our names have been burnt off of the family tree. But it doesn't matter. We're still related. Sometimes I used to forget that. Sometimes I only pretended to forget it. Like when Sirius was being moody. Or when he was being immature. Or when he was... just being himself, I suppose. Oh, I know I was being too hard on him. I see that now. But back then it was just so easy to be angry with him. Because when I was angry with him, I wasn't frightened.
And then he died. And suddenly, the world seemed darker. And was it any wonder? The brightest star in the night sky went dark. Sirius had burnt out. And now all I had was fear, because there was no anger. Fear and guilt. Because we were family. Cousins. And I had relied on him. But I had never once told him exactly how much he had meant to me. And somewhere in the region of my heart, it hurt.
Well, it wasn't as if that hurt was new. It had just grown. It was there before. It was there since I found out that six of my children were all pitted against the one remainder. Since the remainder, the odd one out, began detesting, no, hating his brothers and sister. Since my darling Percy turned his back on us, on his family, on me. And all I could think, as I listened to Fred and George shout at him and watched Arthur's face grow darker and darker, was that I had failed him. If only I had seen it sooner. If only I had stopped the fighting when it was just as simple as who rubbed dirt in whose nose. But I hadn't. And now I could never fix it.
And it hurt. More than anything.
It hurts right now, as I watch my youngest son and his two best friends, the children that might as well be my own. They sit off on their own, plotting their escape, their mission that no one except for everyone knows about. I don't let on that I see the hollowness in Harry's eyes, or the sheer terror on Hermione's face. I pretend not to notice that Ronny wants nothing more than to leave, leave his family behind and enter a hostile and evil world. I make sure that none of them see how much it kills me that they're going to leave me behind again. When they're all asleep, I go into the kitchen and cry over them, appeal to whatever gods there are for their safety. Just let them live, I beg. Let them survive this hell. Kill me, if you have to. I'd welcome it. Anything to stop the hurt. But let them live.
Where does it hurt? It hurts in my heart. In my soul. In my very being. But even if I could show you, you couldn't begin to stop the hurt. Nothing can.
Such is the lie of motherhood.