Molly Weasley loved her children with a ferocity that few could understand. It was assumed in large families that some children were favored over the others. When Bill was born, she had loved him so deeply, so entirely that it seemed incomprehensible that she could love her second child just as much. However, as she held a newborn Charlie against her chest, felt the soft thump of his heart synchronize to her, she realized that love made her heart grow. Her love was not an absolute unit, to be divided up equally or unequally, it was an infinite vessel in which even she struggled to understand the depth of.
Her anger at her children for juvenile hijinks was rooted in a deep love for them; a belief that the world was their oyster if only they believed in their own potential. She had been a mother for nearly twenty-six years, most of her adult life. In that time she had gotten to know the secrets of her children's hearts. Each child held within them a special secret. Bill had been responsible from a young age, happily taking charge of his younger siblings but desired freedom and choice. Charlie had been reckless and adventurous but sought to channel his energy into activism. Fred had been boisterous and carefree but craved stability in his antics. George had been headstrong and obstinate but desired to make others happy. Ron had been flexible and easygoing but wanted to be a priority. Ginny, doted on as the youngest child, desperately craved to be seen as capable and independent.
Yes, she knew that Ginny snuck into the broomshed late at night, or that Fred had begun an accounting course at a muggle university in the midlands. She held this knowledge close to her, believing that if she revealed the depth of her understanding it would spook her children and push them farther, not closer to their dreams.
Her Percy had always been quiet and studious, his nose in a book. When he was a little boy, he would sit on the front steps of the Burrow, the family's clock in his lap, watching his father's hand drift from working to traveling to home. "Dad! What did you do today? Who did you meet with?" Unlike the other children who would politely nod and go back to their play, Percy was enticed by his father's illustrious position.
One night, after Bill and Charlie had gone to Hogwarts and Percy was left as the eldest child, he had snuggled into her side. The house had been quiet, the other children already asleep, and the soft fire crackling. It was a rare moment and at the time Molly didn't know it would be the last time Percy nestled himself into the crook of her arm and whispered his thoughts to his most important confidant.
"When I grow up, I want to be like Dad." He had whispered, staring contentedly into the fire.
"I am sure you'll be just like your father and more."
"No, I want to be just like him," his voice had trailed off for a moment, seeming to imagine all that his father did within the day, "He cares about people. That's what makes him so good at his job I think."
Molly had stared at her son, and not for the first time realized the fathoms that existed within her children: their hearts and minds were like an ocean. She had imagined before that Percy idolized his father because in his small world his father was king. She had thought his secret desire was to be like Bill, a self-confident leader. Instead, within her small boy, wide-eyed in horn rimmed glasses, knobbly wrists sticking out of an older jumper, was a child who wanted to help.
When Molly had watched the door slam behind Percy, when she felt his anger as he stood for what seemed like hours but was truly minutes, on the other side of the door, when she watched Arthur furiously pace the kitchen, muttering under his breath, she wondered how things had gotten so bad. Where was her boy who wanted to help?
When it became clear that Percy's absence would be permanent, she wracked her mind, desperately attempting to understand what she misunderstood about her baby. She had held each article of clothing against her chest, remembering the baby, the child, the son that she so often had held in its stead. When was the last time she held Percy?
At the time it seemed that her pride and adoration for her son would have been obvious. But now she saw him more clearly, standing awkwardly on the edges of a room, his face reddening as others laughed, his quiet awkwardness as he excused himself up to his room after desperately searching for conversation. Why hadn't she gone to him?
Whatever transformation that had halted his desire to be a helper in the world was her fault, she reasoned as she finished packing his trunk. Her love which seemed clear in her heart had blinded her to the needs of her son. Now, her little love was lost and alone, finding his family elsewhere. While others in the family carried anger at Percy, she carried anger at herself.
Never again would a child question the love she carried for them. Never again would she chase away that which was most precious to her. It was her fault that Percy sought ambition over care, her fault that Percy was more concerned with prestige than justice, her fault that Percy desired power over family.
These thoughts remained with her as she began to turn Grimmauld Place into a suitable home for children. When she saw Harry the first time she grasped him against her chest with a ferocity she had previously contained. As she felt his thin frame quiver into her chest, a lone moment in a crowded house she whispered to the boy, "Harry, I love you." He stared at her hard for a moment, his eyes cloaked in disbelief and grief. She knew he was angry and struggled to understand the burden he was to carry. Yet, for those quiet moments as he clung to her, she could feel the thump of his heart begin to synchronize with hers. Lily, I've got him. Thank you.