Chapter 2
Prompt No. 97 – Writer's Choice – Children
Molly Weasley sat back into her armchair. From the kitchen, the sound of the radio drifted through lazily, updating the Wizarding world on recent developments the Ministry had uncovered. The last rouge Death Eater had been caught, there'd been a disturbance in London when a particularly exuberant party had resulted in several Muggles having to be hospitalised due to some nasty broken bones, and recent Quidditch results were announced.
Molly however, wasn't particularly listening to the radio. Her mind was drifting. It tended to do that these days, Molly knew that she was getting old now but she welcomed the times when she could just lay back and think about anything that crossed her mind. She certainly had the time and opportunity these days. Although at least one of her children visited once a day there were still endless hours of quiet that echoed through The Burrow. It was very different to what it had been when there were seven kids charging about the place.
Molly had often pondered but still couldn't decide which she preferred. When the kids were younger they had been perfect. Her children. Her perfect children. True, looking back she had wanted to throttle them half the time, but they were children. Something that Molly realised was truly precious. Because now they were grown up, with children of their own, and something that Molly was just as proud of were her twelve grandchildren.
It was one of the strangest feelings in the world, she had discovered, gaining a grandchild. When Victoire had been born Molly had gone to visit in the hospital and seeing the tiny bundle wrapped in her mother's arms, and her own son sat proudly next to the pair she had felt a rush of feelings that she had never experienced before.
It was a combination of the indescribable feeling she had gotten when she had each of her own children and a sense of pride, joy and a feeling that the future could only be brilliant with her grandchildren in it. And then it had happened eleven more times. Molly knew she was blessed to have so many grandchildren, and such wonderful ones too, but she knew that every parent and grandparent thought that. Their children were the best.
Molly knew hers were.
When Bill had been born she'd thought it was the best thing in the world. Nothing could beat her very own son. Nothing and no one. She'd doted over him, shown him off to everyone. The perfect child and the perfect feeling that had come with it. She smiled wanly. He was perfect as a child too, always good, always willing. He still was. Bill was wonderful. He took care of everything and everyone and never complained. He looked after her and Molly knew how hard it was on him sometimes, but he looked through it. It was quite remarkable. Bill was her first, her eldest, her everything.
When Charlie arrived she had been a little more used to things. A little more accustomed to changing nappies and feeding properly. Charlie was a very different child to what Bill had been like. He always wanted to get around. Wriggling if you held him for too long, always wanting to crawl, walk, roll around in the mud Molly though with a smile. Charlie's love for the garden and all things wild was one thing that definitely hadn't faded with time. Although Charlie hadn't ever married, he was a great uncle. Molly loved him for it. Independent and unyielding. Charlie was her second, her active boy, her rock.
Percy was different from the others. Always cutting himself off from the others, always on his own. Molly had tried and tried again to get him to play with the others, but to no avail. As a baby she often thought he had been the easiest, quiet and placid, but looking back she could see that he had probably been the hardest… difficult to please, she'd never really known how to deal with Percy. Now he was still the same, different, but he tried to connect himself with the rest of the family more than ever, Molly smiled, she knew he was trying to make up for lost time. He'd even named his first daughter after her, but she didn't mind, Percy was Percy, he always was and always would be. Percy was her third, her quiet boy, her mind.
The twins were like nothing Molly had ever experienced before. Fred and George were…just that…Fred and George and nothing could change that. As much trouble they'd been as children, they'd been so much fun. Molly knew there hadn't been a day gone past when she hadn't smiled at them for something or the other. They had always been confident. Never swayed by anything. But the thing that Molly always remembered is that they were always there when it had mattered. When it had really mattered they'd be there. With a joke or two on the side. Then it had all gone wrong. Fred had died, and it had all gone wrong. Losing Fred had broken Molly. No parent should have to see their child die and it had killed a part of her. Fred was her boy, the leader of the two, and then…he wasn't. He was gone. Molly knew that, whatever had happened, wherever he was, it would be ok. She had come to terms with it over the years, but it would never really heal, ever. George was different now. She knew he always would be. He had always been the quieter of the two, the follower but now he was withdrawn, and distant somewhat. Out of all her children, the war had had the greatest effect on George. Molly hated to see him like that. Broken. Hurt. Mainly because she knew there was nothing she could do. Only time could've helped. And it had really. George was better now, a lot better for what had happened. But Molly knew he'd never be really ok, never properly be the same. But he had gotten better. He'd become kinder though, and softer in a way. He loved his kids in such a way that Molly knew they'd always be truly thankful for their dad, and their Uncle Fred. Because George could pass that onto his kids. Not just his love, but Fred's too. George was different, but still George. Fred was her fourth. George was her fifth. They were her twins, her troublemakers, her smile.
Ron had been different too. Perhaps the only one of her children Molly looked back on with a strange feeling in her stomach that she couldn't quite pinpoint. As a child he'd always been the baby, the youngest really, Ginny was her girl and Ron the baby. He'd clung onto being young when Ginny was born, reluctant to join in with his older brothers, wanting to play with Ginny, keep hold of Molly. Molly had to admit he'd probably been the most overlooked of all her children. Somehow always being pushed into the background. He'd been a good baby, and Molly missed Ron's childhood most of all, it had been lost all too quickly… with everything that had happened. When he'd gone off to Hogwarts he caused her more worry than she could fathom. He'd ended up in trouble or in the hospital wing more time than all of his siblings put together. But he'd made friends with Harry, something Molly was eternally grateful for. She was eternally proud of Ron's loyalty to his friend. It was unwavering. All her children were brave, but Ron had it in his nature. Molly suspected Ron was the biggest Gryffindor of all her children. And of course with Harry came Hermione. That girl had changed Ron's world. Molly knew she had been amongst the majority cheering when the pair finally got married. Hermione was a blessing. Ron was still Ron now. He'd made it as an Auror and still had his beautiful wife and best friend, but he'd brought from the war a fierce passion for everything he did, and most importantly for his family. Ron was her sixth, her baby boy, her heart.
Then came her girl. Her beautiful, brilliant girl. Ginny. She was perfect. From the moment she had been born, till now with her three just as brilliant children. Through the years Molly had longed for a girl. To have a daughter was something she had thought only existed in her dreams. Until it had happened. It had been the most magical day of her life. Ginny had been just that, her little girl. Letting her hair be brushed, and dolls be bought. Molly suspected that Ginny had never really been one for it all, but had used it as an escape from her brothers. As much as Molly knew she'd hated them, she knew that Ginny had loved her brothers just as much. She'd cared. She'd cried when one of them was upset. She cared so much. She still did, in her own family and her extended family. Molly had always known that Ginny was going to be special. Number seven, and she was pretty powerful. Power she'd used to fight with such intensity and promise Molly knew she'd always be there. Good and there. She'd married Harry of course, the Boy Who Lived. No one else for Ginny. It had been perfect, and it still was. Ginny was her seventh, her girl, her love.
Molly had seven – still had and always would she reminded herself quietly, glancing at the clock on the wall. But now they had children of their own. Molly adored watching her children be parents, because they were brilliant at it. Each to their own they'd raised twelve amazing human beings. Twelve children she knew would be some of the best Witches and Wizards on the planet. Just their parents. Just like her children.
Because they were really, Molly thought, laying further back into her cushions. They were one third her, one third Arthur, and one third them. They were all Weasleys. All her children. And they always would be. Because that was the most important thing in the world. Her children.