Molly was downstairs in her kitchen making breakfast for the people in her household who went in and out, banging doors behind them and talking too loudly at this hour of the morning. She was going through the motions, not really looking at what she was doing as she scrambled eggs and made toast. Her mind was still in the spell damage ward at St. Mungo's, where one of her children lay pale and quiet.

"Mum?" Ron's voice, much too loud. "Mum, where's my Chudley Cannons jumper?"

Molly gritted her teeth. "It's with the rest of the laundry."

"Right. And where's the laundry?"

Molly set down the knife she was using to butter the toast. "The laundry's in the scullery, Ron, honestly, how long have you lived here?"

"Ok, ok, geez." Ron shuffled through the scullery into the kitchen. No sooner had he gone than Fleur's parents came through the kitchen on their way to the breakfast nook, talking loudly in rapid French. Molly gritted her teeth again and resisted the urge to scream. She didn't need the whole world to recognize that she was in pain, but it sure would be nice if the people her house would recognize it.

After the Delacours came Hermione and Ginny, both having clearly just woken up. Hermione's hair was a tangled rat's nest and Ginny looked less than fully awake. Ginny had been rather quiet since the hospital visit yesterday, and Molly believed that seeing Percy so close to death had subdued her daughter's wild spirit. If she had to guess, she would say Ginny and the twins were now feeling quite guilty about the mashed parsnips incident at Christmas.

Molly glanced at the clock—not the big one with their faces but the little one by the stove that actually told time—and swore under her breath. Visiting hours at the hospital started soon and she was still wearing a dressing gown with her hair uncombed. She felt she had to be there as much as she could; if Percy woke up, she didn't want him to think his family had abandoned him.

"Mrs. Weasley?" Hermione asked.

"What?! What is it?" Molly had finally reached her limit. "Why does everyone have to ask me for everything?"

"Er—I was just wondering if you'd be all right with Ginny and I finishing the eggs and toast? I know visiting hours are starting soon and was thinking you should go and get ready."

"Oh." Molly shook her head. Hermione must have noticed what time they all left the house yesterday and remembered it. "Clever girl. Yes, that would be wonderful. I'm sorry for snapping at you just now."

"It's all right." Hermione said, deftly stepping up to the stove and taking the spoon. Molly gratefully slipped away and up the stairs to get ready. She came down a quarter of an hour later to see Hermione and Ginny dishing up scrambled eggs, Harry and Ron stuffing their faces, and Bill and Fleur chatting with the Delacours. She'd heard Charlie snoring upstairs and knew the twins were still upstairs too. One person was conspicuously missing in this scene, but Molly knew where to find him.

Arthur was in his shed, surrounded by boxes of his muggle nonsense. The remains of Sirius Black's motorbike were here too, which she had tactfully pretended not to know about. "Arthur?"

"Mollywobbles." Arthur was fiddling with several pieces of paper, which Molly realized were pictures from a roll of film he'd developed the summer he was really into muggle photography. They were all pictures of Bill, Charlie, and Percy, and judging by Percy's age in the photos, this had to have been before the twins were born. Molly sat down next to Arthur and took one of the photos. Bill and Charlie were seated in the grass outside the house, looking much more alike then than they did now. Percy was standing in front of them, slightly blurry as he walked towards the camera. Molly flipped the photo over and saw the words written on the back—August 8, 1977, almost exactly twenty years ago. Bill, age 6, Charlie, age 4, Percy, almost 1.

"Visiting hours just started." she said softly. "Are you ready to go?"

"Oh." His voice was hoarse. "Molly, would you be all right if I came a little later today? I just—I need a break. Sitting there in that chair, watching him in a coma, it just keeps reminding of how I failed to protect him."

"Arthur—"

"Please, Molly. I just can't do it right now."

"All right."

Seeing the expression on her face he added, "I'll see if I can get Harry or Ron to tell me their plans while you're gone."

"All right." Her voice was softer this time and she almost smiled. "You'll update me if you get anything out of those two, and I'll update you if anything changes with Percy." She gave him a peck on the cheek and hurried back inside to the fireplace to floo to the hospital.

She'd come just in time to catch Healer Perkins, who had come to change the dressings on Percy's wound.

"Ah, Mrs. Weasley." Healer Perkins smiled. "This is the first time we've changed the dressings since he was admitted. If you help me just pull him up a little bit—there."

Molly grabbed Percy under the arms and slid him up a little bit so it looked like he was reclining on his pillows. He was lighter than he should have been, considering his height, but then again he'd always been skinny. Healer Perkins gently unwrapped the dressings and Molly gasped at the sight of the wound. It was larger than she'd expected, green-tinged around the edges. But it also showed clear signs of healing.

"That's good." Healer Perkins said. "It probably means the potion is taking effect."

"Probably?"

"We won't know for sure unless he either wakes up or takes a very obvious turn for the worst. Still, this is a good sign." Healer Perkins wrapped fresh bandages around him. "There." She checked her clipboard. "And we're good on pain relief and dreamless sleep. All right, I'll be back later. Let me know if you need anything."

As Healer Perkins moved away to check on other patients, Molly founded herself thinking through all possible scenarios. As a mother of seven, she'd often needed to think through possible scenarios. One that had frequently plagued her mind was a scenario in which Fred and George were expelled from Hogwarts and she would run through the different things she and Arthur might say, the different ways the twins might react, the different ways the family would react. Then there were all the possible ways in which her family might die, and all the possible outcomes of Arthur's snake attack.

Now she had a new scenario on her mind—Percy's health and subsequent events that may unfold. In the best-case scenario, he would wake up and they would have a polite conversation. Percy would apologize for insulting Arthur and they would bring him home. He would apologize to his siblings too, and in an ideal world they would all thank him for saving their father. But Percy was proud and temperamental. He might not apologize immediately, or he might start preening and puffing himself up again. Then she and Arthur would have to fight to stay calm and talk to him. She had no idea what had been running through Percy's mind when he'd taken that curse; this was one part her brain could not fill in. Her third son was mysterious and often kept to himself, even before the estrangement. Had he been remorseful and wanted to atone for his actions? Had it been a spur of the moment thing, something he did without thinking? Or what if it was something more sinister? What if Percy wanted Arthur to owe him?

Then, of course, was the other sinister scenario in which Percy didn't wake up at all and they would plan his funeral. They would never know what had been going through his mind, and any chance at reconciliation would be gone forever. Who would come to the funeral? Would her other children come? Would she have to force them? Would anyone grieve Percy, anyone other than her?

Molly began weeping, not caring who heard her. It was too much. As a mother she'd always had to be strong, but this was all too much. In less than two years Arthur had been attacked by a snake, Ron had been poisoned, Bill had been attacked by a werewolf, George had lost an ear, and now this. It was all too much.

Perhaps Arthur had been right to stay home and take some time alone. One could scream, cry, and throw things in the privacy of one's shed with no one to judge them. Molly took her handkerchief from her bag and wiped her face, wondering if she ought to go home. No. She was strong, strong enough to care for her whole family, and she would pick herself up and carry on. She could stick it out a few more hours here in the hospital.

Itching for something to keep her occupied, Molly dove into her handbag and pulled out Charlie's half-finished Christmas sweater. She'd been knitting for so long that she no longer had to think about what she was doing. Percy turned his head and muttered something about dungbombs in his sleep and Molly smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "There there, dear. Rest up. Mummy's here. You'll be fine."