6 November 2056 – Cold

"Are you cold, Molly?"

"I can manage, dear, thank you."

"Are you sure? Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No…well, would you bring me another blanket? That'll do nicely."

"Of course."

"Oh, thank you, dear." Molly settled against her pillows and sighed as Hermione draped the quilt over her. "That's much better."

"It's chilly out, isn't it?" Hermione asked, pointing her wand at the fire so that the flames jumped a bit higher. She sat down again in the rocker opposite Molly, who lay on cushions on the sofa.

"A bit," Molly agreed. She smiled at her daughter-in-law over her spectacles. "It's always the first week of November, that's when you can feel winter coming on around here." She chuckled. "Once, on my birthday, Arthur insisted that the whole family go to the beach in Tinworth—we visited Shell Cottage for the weekend, and I don't think any of us left the house once."

Hermione laughed as she counted stitches in her knitting; she was working on her portion of the Weasley sweaters this year. She, Fleur, Angelina, and Audrey had all shared the duty since Arthur had died, early last year. "I think I remember him telling me that story."

"He was utterly mad, he insisted that it would be just like the last weekend of summer," Molly murmured fondly. She rolled a single bronze Knut between her fingers as she looked over at the little table nearby that bore Arthur's framed picture, and a vast number of other family photographs. There was a similar set in her bedroom, but Molly preferred not to remain in bed all day when she could manage it, instead enjoying Hermione's and Ron's company elsewhere in the house. They had been staying with her in the Burrow for nearly a month, after she had had a few problems with her health. "When will Ron be home, dear?"

"Mm, he was stopping to look in on the house and to pick up dinner," Hermione said absently, narrowing her eyes at a knot in the yarn. "Should be very soon. He's bringing Harry and Ginny, as well."

"Of course," Molly replied; she had forgotten. It was Thursday, and Thursday meant dinner with the family. This week, nearly everyone happened to be busy, so it was just going to be Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione. In fact, Molly couldn't remember a time when at least the four of them weren't at a weekly dinner—perhaps the week that both Hermione and Ginny had given birth, but that was just about it.

"Apparently Ginny's had another eye examination today," Hermione was saying, "So they may be running a bit late."

"Why on earth—?" Molly asked, looking around at her in shock. "Haven't they put her through enough? It's been three years!"

Hermione sighed heavily and nodded. "I know. But you know what they're like at St. Mungo's. The way she—lost her sight—it's most similar to a Muggle condition, and they won't take that as an answer."

Molly felt a faint flare of heat in the pit of her stomach, the flicker of the old flame that always made her want to protect one of her own. She crossed her arms. "I don't like it."

"Nor do I," Hermione nodded, "But I wouldn't mention that to her or Harry. I don't think they like going every few months, but I think part of it makes them feel a tiny bit better about it all."

Molly rubbed her eyes gently, shaking her head. She felt another chill down her back and hugged her shawl around her thin shoulders a bit more. She noticed Hermione looking at her with concern, and smiled. "You know, dear, I think I will take that tea, if you think we've got time before everyone arrives."

"Of course," Hermione said at once, getting up and hurrying to the kitchen. "I'll only be a moment."

"I'll try and behave myself," Molly said wryly as she disappeared through the doorway. When she was sure that she was alone, she wrapped her arms around herself, trying hard to warm up. She didn't know why, but it seemed that from the time she had lost Arthur last year, she had been persistently cold. Not simply chilled, but a kind of cold that couldn't be remedied by a sweater or a blanket.

She had overheard Hermione and Ron on several occasions discussing with Harry and Ginny the many possible explanations for why Molly might always seem to be shivering. They assumed it had to do with her age, but she knew they didn't really have an answer. Actually, she herself was only certain of an answer during those few moments right before sleep and right before waking up, and it was rather a simple one.

Arthur was there. He was just waiting for her, patiently, keeping an eye on her and the family. Molly even thought she had glimpsed him, once or twice, a silhouette against her bedroom window. It was silly, perhaps, but every now and then, she caught herself saying good night to him. It wasn't at all a bad thing, and she knew that she was not out of her mind, but she did keep it private. She never told anyone how strongly she felt that he was almost always in the Burrow with her.

At first, after he'd died, it was only a shiver or two when she was cooking, or laughing with her family, or holding one of the babies. Then, it would happen in the night, when she was by herself and thinking of him. And then she found herself shivering for an hour or more during the day, whenever she visited his grave in the garden beside Fred's. But lately, the cold had been getting worse, and more frequent. When Molly had fallen so ill last month, and Ron and Hermione had moved in to take care of her, she had noticed that every day, she felt cold for longer and longer periods. Now it was almost all the time, and apart from making her rather sad, because she knew what it meant, it was tiresome. She shivered again and closed her eyes, settling back into the couch. "Please stop that, darling," she whispered, tugging her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. "I know, I know…"

Molly knew that there was a rational explanation; she was very old now and her health was deteriorating, there was no denying that, so naturally she would feel unwell. But a much louder, and more firmly resolved part of her, was convinced that Arthur was behind it, if only because he knew he could still tease her like that. Poking fun at her would, of course, be his way of communicating from the hereafter. She closed her fingers tightly around the Knut in her hand. "Barmy old man," she muttered through her teeth.

"Well, I know Harry fixed my hair today, but it can't look that bad," Ginny's voice laughed, and Molly started, opening her eyes. Harry was helping her into the sitting room, and Molly could just see the top of Ron's head over Harry's shoulder, talking to Hermione in the kitchen.

"Oh, Ginny, dear—Harry, how are you?" she asked, reaching out a hand to touch her daughter's. Ginny smiled, lacing their fingers together.

"We're fine," Harry replied, while Ginny seated herself in the chair closest to Molly. "How are you?"

"I am absolutely wonderful, thank you, dear," she assured him, as he bent over and kissed her cheek. Then he turned to Ginny, making sure she got settled. Molly picked up the end of her long, rather haphazard braid, laughing, and whispered loudly, "I wouldn't let him do it again, if I were you."

"I always knew I should've let him practice on Lily when she was younger," Ginny snorted, rolling her eyes. She frowned, squeezing Molly's fingers gently and rubbing them with her other hand. "Your hands are so cold, Mum—aren't you warm enough? You've got a blanket, haven't you?"

"It's just a bit chilly," Molly said casually. "Hermione is bringing some tea."

"Isn't the fire burning?" Ginny asked, turning her head slightly and touching her husband, who was removing her cloak. "Harry?"

"I'll see if I can get it a little higher," he said, leaving her side at last.

Molly smiled gratefully and linked her fingers with Ginny's again, keeping the Knut in her other hand. "How was your day, darling?" she asked, as another little chill—a gentler one, this time—chased down her spine.

Aww, Mollywobbles...