A/N: I'm not JK Rowling, and the characters belong to her. Written for the "One Day" competition with the prompt "pictures," and for "The Middle of the Night Challenge."

May 2, 1971

Molly only paid enough attention to the chiming of the hallway clock to note that it was midnight. She half-wondered if Arthur would notice that she hadn't gone to bed. It was doubtful; Molly hadn't slept properly since the birth of her son at the end of October. Tonight in her insomnia, she had photo albums spread out across the floor of their shabby living room, staring at picture after picture of a red-headed baby in blue blankets.

Of course she'd have a boy; everyone had told her that a natural-born Weasley girl was impossible. Her problem, of course, was that she hadn't lost hope. Right until she saw her baby with her own eyes, she believed she might be carrying a daughter inside of her. In the happy shouts of "It's a boy!" and her family gathered all around, she tried to pretend her tears were all from the pain of childbirth.

William was six months old now, and developing a personality. He was sitting up, interested in crawling, and often he would make her smile, but it felt like such a sad, almost reluctant, smile. Nights like tonight, she would nearly admit that she would gladly trade him for a daughter.

She set aside the albums full of pictures of her son, looked instead at the Weasley relatives waving to her in black and white. There was Arthur as a child and his brothers, another with all the Weasley cousins- boys and boys and boys. His father, his uncles and aunts-by-marriage, his grandfather and great-uncles and more and more boys all looked up at her with smiles on their faces, waving like everything was perfect. Arthur was right; her hope had only made things worse.

Molly wanted to take back so much of the last year or two- maybe not even try for children yet, or at least have kept her job in London. Someone was sure to have helped her with childcare; she hadn't asked around because she had truly wanted to stay home and raise a baby. She could've kept working at St. Mungo's, sent her boy-child off to be cared for by someone else while she looked after the sick and hurting at the hospital; they could have had money to spare and kept their trendy flat in London, or hired help building the Burrow in the countryside. Maybe the walls would have been straighter, the floor plan more logical. Maybe the second floor wouldn't tip precariously off the back, and the staircase would lead effortlessly from one floor to the next. Maybe she would've actually liked it there. Every inch of their Burrow was held precariously together by the magic of two 21-year-olds and on nights like this one, she wasn't sure it would be enough.

The pounding rain on the roof nearly kept her from hearing the crying of her child, and she sighed, picked herself up off the floor, and climbed the stairs to his nursery. As she entered the room, his screams turned to whimpers, and he calmed as she picked him up from the crib. "Shh, William. It's just a storm. I'm right here and everything will be fine." Taking a deep breath, she calmed herself, walked back down the stairs with her child in her hands. Was it really such a burden to have him?

As he held tightly to her, cooing as she sang him a nursery song, her heart began to melt. Certainly she was being harsh, earlier. Maybe it wasn't so much that she hadn't wanted a boy; maybe it was more that she desperately wanted a girl. After all, she now had a child of her very own, with Arthur's hair and her nose and Arthur's mouth and her eyes, combining to make a face she loved. She sang and rocked, rocked and sang, the pictures lying forgotten on the floor in front of her. Caught up in the heavy eyelids and long eyelashes of her son, Molly didn't notice her husband walking in.

"He's beautiful," Arthur said, coming up behind Molly and wrapping his arms around her. "And you are a wonderful mother."

She sighed. "That's not true, Arthur. I mean, I try to take care of him the best I can, and I love him, but sometimes... sometimes I find myself wondering if I'd love him more if he were a girl." She felt ashamed, admitting that, and although she was sure he already knew, she feared his response just a little bit.

He waited, pulled up an armchair across from his wife, leaned forward, brushed a stray hair from her face. "There are two tragedies in life, love. One is not to get your heart's desire, but the other- the other is to get it. Maybe, if William had been a girl, you would love her exactly the same as you love him, and you'd still find yourself wide awake in the middle of the night and crying, wondering why you weren't happier with the daughter you'd always wanted."

"You're wise, Arthur. I sometimes forget that; I'm sorry."

"Well as long as you admit it now and then, love."

Molly found herself laughing, really laughing, for the first time in weeks, and William seemed to find it relaxing. He yawned, squirmed slightly in her arms, and his eyelids drooped into a restful sleep.

"Maybe we should put him back to bed; it's probably time I slept, myself," Molly said. "I don't think I've gotten enough sleep in more than six months."

A few minutes later, as they lay down in their small bed, curled up under the shabby quilt, Arthur rolled over to face Molly in the dark. "Mollywobbles, there's just one more thing."

"What's that?" she said, yawning.

"No one ever said we had to have just one child."

"That is a very good point," Molly said through a yawn, and with her husband's arms around her, she drifted off into a deep and comfortable sleep.