So I lied. This is not the last chapter. There will be a short epilogue, probably from Arthur's POV.

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Aftermath – Before the Funeral

Molly

She remembers the Boggart in the writing desk. Dead Ron, dead Arthur, dead Harry, dead Bill, dead twins. Dead twins…

Dead twins.

Dead twins.

She wonders if it would have been easier if George had died too, but she shies away from the thought, looks at it sideways in the edge of her mind. Is she really wishing another of her children had died?

Of course not.

Of course not.

But George…

She is his mother, and she cannot help him. She cannot help him.

George…

Fred…

Fred is dead. Her son. Her boy. Her baby.

She keeps seeing him. Not just his body, as it lay in the Great Hall, as it lies now in his coffin. (In his coffin – her son.)

But as he was.

A baby asleep in the cot, wrapped around his twin.

A toddler covered in cake mix after she left him and George alone in the kitchen for one minute – one minute – to deal with Charlie falling off his broom.

A little boy looking guilty after being caught covering Percy with some appalling slime he and George had acquired from goodness-only-knew-where. (The being caught made him look guilty, not the covering Percy in slime).

A school boy on the Hogwarts express for the first time, not admitting how scared he was, but checking every two minutes that Percy was not going to abandon him and George just yet.

Crashing through the barrier to Platform 9 ¾ claiming to be George.

Arguing in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place about being told the Order's secrets.

Falling back into his chair with his hands over his face in that same kitchen after Arthur was hurt and she told the children their father would live.

In the joke shop, in those horrible magenta robes, a successful businessman, and loving what he did.

Trying not to cry at Dumbledore's funeral.

In the Room of Requirement, shaking hands with Percy.

Lying dead in the Great Hall.

Lying dead in his coffin.

He is gone. Dead. Her son. Her boy. Her baby.

Fred…

She keeps seeing him, and when she sees him, he is not alone. George is beside him. Always.

And now George is alone.

She is his mother and she cannot help him. She cannot help him.

Her son. Her boy. Her baby.

She cannot help him.

George…

She is frightened for him. She cannot lose him too, but she cannot help him, does not know how to keep him safe.

George. Her son. Her boy. Her baby.

She scarcely has time for the others, which makes her feel guilty. Bill is coping with far too much. (Thank heavens for Fleur. Thank God Bill knew what was good for him better than she did.) Charlie is so angry she cannot get near to him; he will not let her. Percy is consumed with guilt, and she tries to tell him it is not his fault. She doubts if he even hears her. Ron is trying to be brave, but she can hear him screaming inside. Ginny, her little girl, is hurting more than she can bear for her. Harry needs a mother, and she cannot be a mother to him now. Not now. Hermione and Fleur are keeping the mechanics of the house running, and she is as grateful as she can be when most of her mind is elsewhere. (She should be feeling bad that Hermione cannot yet go and find her own parents, but she cannot summon the energy to feel bad about anything more.)

Arthur is her rock, her anchor, her reason to keep breathing. They hold each other as the grief and pain wash over them. They cannot really help each other, because the pain is too great, but they are there for each other. They go on together. They have to. For each other, and for the children.

For Fred.