Dereliction of Duty
Chapter 5 – Arthur Weasley

I feel like a failure.

Oh, I know – no one would expect it. Dear old Arthur, always so cheerful, so inquisitive – bumbling old Arthur, with his foolish obsessions…

Oh no, there's no depth here…

But there's pain. There's pain and hopelessness and worthlessness, so much worthlessness. Every time I look at those emerald eyes, I feel worthless.

I feel like a fool.

I feel like a failure.

I let him leave.

Oh, I know, there are those who would say there was nothing I could do. There are those who would say that he wasn't my responsibility – that taking him in every summer for as long as we did was all we could have done.

Those are the same people who sit down, stare at the headlines every morning and say, "What a shame."

And do nothing.

Those are the people I used to be.

I feel like a failure.

I remember hearing the news that Voldemort had died. I remember that I barely even acknowledged the Potters' death.

I remember the shame I felt when I opened the first letter from Ron about his new friend, Harry.

I remember the day I first met Harry Potter.

He was sitting at my kitchen table when I walked in from an all-night raid. His clothes were gigantic on his thin frame – don't get me wrong, my kids don't wear designer clothes, but at least we try to find them things that fit – and I swear if I had been able to see the boy's torso, I would have been able to count every one of his ribs. His face was gaunt and his eyes –

His eyes sparkled with a fire like I had never seen.

But they also drowned with pain.

I looked at Harry, looked at his eyes, and hated myself.

And I let him leave. I let him go back. I let Dumbledore send him back, year after year after –

–I celebrated the night his parents died. I celebrated the night the weight of the world came crashing down on his bony shoulders.

I didn't celebrate his loss; I know that – I celebrated only the world's gain. But I never truly mourned Lily and James Potter.

And I never mourned Harry.

No one wants to say it, no one wants to see it, but I know it. A part of him died that night. And a part of him has been dying ever since.

And so have I.

It kills me to watch a part of one of my sons die.

But there are times for self-pity, and this is not one of them. Harry has been connecting with Remus – I'm glad for it. I'm glad for both of them. They each need someone so desperately –

It'll never be me. But that's all right. I can be content with being "Mr. Weasley." As Lucius would say, I have more sons than I can handle, and no need for another.

But he'll always be mine, even though he doesn't know it.

Even though I can't tell him how I feel.

I feel like a failure.

Rising from the table, I cap the bottle of Ogden's with a steady hand – not a drop missing from the bottle I opened an hour before, with every intention of drowning my sorrows – and go in search of my seventh son.

A failure is what I was.

And a failure is what I refuse to be.

Review if you have something to say.

Cheers,
LIZ