I can't believe this! We're almost done! AHHH!

Okay, in the grand tradition of the depressing sadness that precedes the overwhelmingly joyful finales of both Honestly, Ronald and Oh, Harry...I present the penultimate chapter of Really, Arthur.

31 December 2054 – Last

They were much too old to go out to a New Year's Eve party, they decided, though all of the children had invited them to something or another, promising a quiet evening. Molly had turned them down, politely, of course, saying that she didn't want to stay up all that late, and that she'd had a bit of a cold she wanted to look after before Ron and Hermione's anniversary party on New Year's Day.

But in reality, Arthur was the reason they declined.

He was slowing down, bit by bit; they both knew it. Well, so was she, if she was honest, but they were both well past one hundred years old. It could hardly be helped, at their age. And yet in the last few months, Molly had particularly noticed that, in dozens of small ways, her Arthur was getting tired. He didn't go out to his shed very much—no comfortable chairs out there, he said. He slept earlier and woke later, with naps in the afternoon—he insisted that he was catching up on all those sleepless nights with the babies. He preferred to sit in his armchair by the fire and chat rather than go on walks with her, even just out in the garden—he didn't want Molly to catch cold on his account.

Getting old was a delicate activity, Molly thought, as she and Arthur sat together on New Year's Eve, a few hours after they'd had their dinner. She tipped slowly back and forth in her rocking chair, her knitting needles clacking and clicking in midair before her as she balled some lovely, soft yellow yarn. She also kept a watchful eye over Arthur as he dozed in his armchair, a book open in his lap. There was as much happiness in getting older as there was sadness.

The happiness—well, that was easy. Their family and friends brought them more joy every single day than Molly could have hoped for in a lifetime. Weddings, babies, birthdays, engagements, anniversaries—anything and everything they brought her set her heart aglow. But there were smaller things, too, that she treasured. She loved those rare, quiet days when none of the children came calling, seeking advice about baby bottles and Hogwarts worries and job offers, and they were just Molly and Arthur. On those days, they were just the sweet elderly couple up the road, and not Mum and Dad or Gran and Granddad, but just themselves. And then there were things like making tea for one another, and holding onto each other's hands for balance when they walked, and long mornings in bed, when they just didn't think about why Arthur was too tired to get up right away, and turned it into something happy.

Arthur stirred suddenly, waking up. He opened his eyes and immediately found Molly. He smiled. "Hi there, Mollywobbles."

She smiled back; how could she not, when he looked at her that way? "Did you have a nice nap?" she asked. He nodded, sitting up slightly, but groaned. "Oh, sweetheart," she said, "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have let you fall asleep there again."

He chuckled, massaging his lower back gently. "I deserved it," he said. He picked up the book that he'd had in his lap. "Albus has been trying to get me to read this book for ages, and what do I do? Fall asleep." He shook his head, thumbing through to find his page and adjusting his glasses.

"Do you want some of that calming tea? You said it makes you feel better," Molly offered. "I'll go put some on, shall I?" She flicked her wand and her knitting floated aside so that she could push herself up out of her chair.

"Don't trouble yourself, Molly," Arthur insisted. "No, no—sit down—"

"I'm already up," she replied, rubbing her hip. She was going to have to remember to ask Hermione for some more of that potion that had helped her so much the last time. She took Arthur's hand. "Back in a minute."

"I'm timing you," he called, as she made her way to the kitchen.

Delicate, Molly thought, flicking her wand so that the kettle filled with water and began to bubble over the fire. Delicate was the word. For all the happiness that she and Arthur enjoyed so much, getting older meant saying goodbye to little parts of themselves and each other. Molly's knees hardly allowed her to climb the stairs anymore. Arthur had spent more than one full day in bed in the last month, not that Molly had told anyone in the family about it. Their eyesight, their strength, Arthur's hair, Molly's hearing—it was all going away.

It wasn't as though she was unprepared for it. After all, that was what life was all about, happy and sad mingling together in the strangest ways. But in moments like this, when she could look at the person she had loved for nearly all of her life and see that he was a very tired old man, barely able to stay awake in his armchair, it just felt sad. Was it selfish, to want to keep Arthur with her even longer than she'd already had him?

She finished arranging the tea service and flicked her wand. It floated a foot or so before her as she came back to the sitting room. "Here we are," she sang, directing the tea tray to settle itself on the table and bending over it for a moment to pour. She brought Arthur his cup and smiled, kissing the top of his head.

"You're wonderful," he told her, beaming.

She blushed and picked up her own cup, moving to settle back in her rocking chair again. They drank their tea in comfortable silence. Ah, here was a happy moment. Molly could feel her spirits lift slightly, with the fire burning and the house creaking and settling all around them. How she loved the Burrow! It was a vessel for absolutely everything—anger, happiness, sorrow—anything and everything that had been said and done in the last hundred years or so, the Burrow had imbibed and made into something new and beautiful and deeply meaningful to Molly and, she knew, to Arthur. The Burrow was their home, and it would be their home long after they were both gone; they had seen to that.

Unexpectedly, quite out of nowhere, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed a quarter to midnight. Molly startled out of her reverie and looked over at Arthur, who was frowning in concentration at his book. "It's late, darling," she said. "Almost midnight."

He looked up, yawning widely. "Almost the new year," he said, grinning at her. "Again."

Molly gave a short laugh. "We've had a few, haven't we?"

"A few," he agreed, frowning thoughtfully. He sat up slightly and stretched his back out. "Ah, I think it's time to head to bed," he told her.

Molly nodded. "We've got an anniversary dinner here tomorrow."

"Oh, that's right," Arthur said, shaking his head. "I forgot—Merlin's beard, it's been a long time since that wedding."

"I can plan it for a bit earlier, if you think you'll want to get to bed?" she asked anxiously.

He looked at her as though she'd gone mad. "I should say not!"

"All right, then," she laughed. She flicked her wand, and her knitting wrapped itself up neatly and tucked itself into her basket. Then she got to her feet again and moved to stand before Arthur's chair. "Shall we, Mr. Weasley?"

"Can you help me up? I think I've been sitting here too long," he chuckled. Molly stared at him for a moment, frozen; he almost never asked for help.

"Of course," she said, hoping her voice sounded much more natural than it did to her own ears. She bent and put her arm around him. "Can you lean on me, darling—oh! Arthur—mm…"

When he finally broke the kiss, Molly felt slightly dazed, and her heart was skipping beats. "What was that for?" she asked weakly.

"Oh, I just wanted to kiss you," he replied, already getting himself out of his chair and grinning cheekily at her. "Can you pass me my—thanks," he said as Molly picked up his cane from where it had been propped by the hearth.

"Very slick, Arthur," she said, coming close and wrapping her arms around his waist.

"I do what I can," he replied, smiling down at her. He glanced up at the clock and reached into his pocket. "Only a couple of minutes to go," he said, flicking his wand. The wireless in the corner crackled to life—by some magic of the universe, "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love" was playing on a replay of an old Celestina Warbeck special. Arthur hugged her. "You know, I've always hated this song," he said.

Molly snorted, resting her head against his chest. Gently, stiffly, Arthur began to sway on the spot. Leaning on his cane, he guided her in a circle, dancing in half time to the music. Molly smiled; she couldn't help it.

"Except this bit," he said, as Celestina reached the long, loud finale. "This bit always reminds me of you." She hugged him tighter still as the song's final notes coiled through the air and dissolved. Arthur pointed at the clock. "Here we go," he said, as it began its little song and chimed out the hour. "Nine…ten…eleven…twelve."

"Happy New Year," Molly murmured, closing her eyes and holding so tightly to Arthur that her arms hurt. She felt his hand gently brush against her cheek, and looked up, hoping the tears in her eyes weren't too noticeable. He gave her a faint smile that told her that he knew exactly everything she had been thinking of; but of course he did. He was her Arthur.

They helped each other up the stairs to their bedroom, limping and aching and creaking and chuckling quietly to each other about actually having stayed up all the way until midnight, if only accidentally. Molly helped Arthur into bed first, then climbed in beside him and nestled into his arms, as usual. He kissed the top of her head. "You know, Mollywobbles," he said gently, sounding completely exhausted as he combed his fingers through her hair, "I think that's the last one I have in me."

Molly closed her eyes. "I know," she whispered, trying to hold back her tears.

"One of my wonderful wife's many wonderful qualities," he replied with a faint laugh, touching her cheek again softly. "But I don't want you worrying about it right now. I'm not. And I'm not going anywhere yet."

Molly pushed herself up, gazing down at him for a moment. Then she turned to her bedside table, feeling around in the drawer. She held up their Knut. "Promise?"

"I swear it," he replied, taking it from her.

"Then I believe you," she said softly. He smiled at her, and it was like a ray of sun, right in her heart. "I've always believed you." And she lay down close to him again, closing her eyes. No time with Arthur would ever be enough, but whether it was one more day, one more week, or one more month—he was hers to grow old with, and hers alone.