Continuum

Chapter One: Molly’s Misery

Molly sat alone in the Great Hall and stared listlessly at the back of her right hand.  On another day in another life Molly might have been helping the injured, but she simply didn’t have the strength to pull herself out of the chair where she was sitting.  The things she had witnessed in the past few hours had changed her; she no longer felt like the woman who was the bright, positive force who led her boisterous family.  She wasn’t sure she would ever smile again.

She turned her attention to her other hand. ‘These are the hands that have raised seven children…and took the life...’ she moaned to herself, collapsing again into a torrent of grief for her son Fred.  Her amazing, ingenious baby was gone, leaving behind a twin ready to lie alongside his brother and die from his own heartbreak.  The grief was simply more than Molly thought she could bear.  Losing one child was horrible; seeing another child suffer so cruelly was unspeakable.

Molly secretly wished for a bottle of Firewhisky and a dark room.  ‘Fred would know where to find some,’ she thought, cringing at the tragic irony of the situation.  Her body was desperate for rest but Molly knew there’d be no respite in the coming hours.  There was simply too much to be done.

“Mum?” Bill took in the sight of his mother, not sure if he’d ever seen her in such a state.  As the oldest of the Weasley children, he knew the leadership of his family over the following days and weeks was likely to fall squarely on his shoulders.  A tear fell from his eye as he dropped to his knees and took his mother’s hands into his own.  “What can I do for you?  Please tell me…”

“Nothing, Bill.  There’s nothing that can be done.” Molly whispered.  “My worst fear has come true and now I must learn how to go on.”

* * *

Molly was desperate for Arthur.  She caught only glimpses of him over the past hours…the sleeve of his jacket or the back of his head as he weaved his way through the Great Hall tending to Order business.  She had waited long enough; she simply could not take another moment of the pressing sadness without her husband.  She knew activity was his mechanism for coping but she also knew he was avoiding her.  Molly guessed if Arthur looked into her eyes he would his resolve would break and crumple along with the rest of the family.  But it was time…she needed him.

Molly made her way along the staircase to the Gryffindor common room in the hope that she might locate her missing husband.  The common room had become a sort of rallying point for the remaining members of the Order.  After looking for Arthur downstairs among the Ministry officials and Order members, as well as in the Headmistress’s office, Gryffindor Tower was the final place to check.  As she stepped from the landing of the Great Staircase onto the seventh floor she was startled by a wizard tucked into a fetal position crying noisily on the floor.

“Percy?”

The figure did not move or show any sign he heard her approach.  Molly looked at her third son, his arms wrapped over his head and chest heaving with sobs.  “Percy, dear…” she breathed as she slid down the wall and drew her son into her embrace.  He buried his head in her chest.  His robes were soaked with tears.

“Mum…” rasped Percy.  “I’m so sorry Mum.  I didn’t stop it.  I could have stopped it.  Why didn’t I come to my senses earlier?  What did I prove by staying at the Ministry?  His face…he was laughing…we were laughing…we were, we were, we…” Percy couldn’t finish.  He wailed again, “Why not me?  Why not take me?  I was the prat, the selfish one…Oh Fred, not Fred.  He had so much going…”

“Shush, now” Molly whispered into Percy’s ear.  “We’re going to get through this, all right?  We have to get through this—Georgie needs us.”  How she was going to manage this she wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t about to let Percy know she was ready to lie beside him on the floor…

At the sound of George’s name Percy lost whatever composure he had regained with Molly’s reassurances.  “George will never forgive me.  I can’t blame him.  Look what I’ve done to our family!” cried Percy, breaking down into another fit of despair.  “I wasted so much time.”

Molly struggled to her feet, pulling Percy along with her.  She led him along the corridor to the portrait of the Fat Lady, realizing for the first time she had no idea how to gain entrance to her old common room.  Before she could say anything, the Fat Lady sniffed into her handkerchief and blew her nose noisily while opening to allow Molly and Percy into the portrait hole.  “My babies…” the Fat Lady wailed, “My brave babies!”

Molly understood exactly how she felt.

* * *

Molly and Percy collapsed into the sofa in front of the fire.  As if from nowhere, a voice inquired, “Mrs. Weasley, please take tea,” Kreacher bowed as he placed a silver tea service in front of her and Percy along with some scones and crumpets.  “Master Harry asked me to see to the family and make sure everyone is cared for.”

“Bless you, Kreacher.  Thank you for bringing us tea,” as she reached out and patted Kreacher on the arm.  “This is just what we needed.”  Startled at Molly’s show of affection, Kreacher hung his head and dropped into a low bow.  He turned on his heel and apparated back to the kitchens with a soft ‘Pop!’ 

‘Master Harry,’ she thought to herself, flabbergasted,  ‘I wonder what brought about such a change in that elf?’  As she sipped her tea and watched the fire flicker and crackle in front of her, Percy dozed off into a fitful sleep.  Molly brushed the hair from her son’s brow, rose from the couch and conjured a blanket to cover him, gently coaxing his legs up onto the sofa where she had risen.  She leaned in and brushed his forehead with a kiss, praising the gods that this son had finally made his way back to her.

The common room was empty.  She knew Arthur wouldn’t have gone to bed without her, so she slipped into the armchair allowing the fire to entrance her.  She took another sip of her tea as her thoughts turned to Harry.

Molly had given birth to seven children, but over the past six years she had started to claim eight.  Harry Potter was one of her children as much as any of her biological ones…she simply considered the dark hair and green eyes a happenstance of being born of Lily and James Potter.  All of her boys looked at Harry as a brother—and Ginny…

Molly stopped and relived that awful moment earlier in the evening as she saw Hagrid walk out of the forest, carrying what she believed to be the body of her youngest son.  If she thought she was walking though the Gates of Hell earlier seeing Fred’s body, she nearly lost all her faculties at the sight of Harry lying limply in Hagrid’s arms.  Years ago she had promised Lily she would do whatever it took, whatever she could to keep their precious boy safe; and there he was, gone forever.  She had failed.

For a fleeting moment she envied Alice Longbottom.  Surely that life must be better than this…

Then she heard it: the sound coming from her daughter as Ginny dropped to her knees, “No, no, no, no…” the primal wail of a woman who’d lost her soul mate.  As Molly thought this night could get no worse, her fears were realized once again.  She watched her daughter scream Harry’s name over and over again and held her from rushing into the clearing where Hagrid stood; she stopped her daughter from running to her own death.

Harry was not simply a son or a brother in her family; he was much more than that.  How she missed this she couldn’t fathom, but holding her withered daughter in her arms she saw the pain she’d have felt if Arthur had been the one in Harry’s place, and she cried for everything they had lost.  “Oh Ginny,” she moaned, “why didn’t you ever tell me?”

* * *

Minerva McGonagall was efficient.  She strode purposefully through the Great Hall tending to the needs of the wounded, performing a kind of triage so that Poppy Pomfrey could concentrate her efforts on those most critically wounded.  She moved quickly from one task to the next as if gliding along a path with a clear destination.

She knew her students considered her harsh and unyielding, but she was far from the stoic who normally patrolled the halls or taught classes.  No, Minerva wasn’t sure she could keep a straight face much longer.  The grief and despair in the school was almost more than she could bear.  She muttered a curse under her breath at Albus Dumbledore.  How dare he leave her—how dare he sit there day after day, snoring in his portrait while she struggled through this war?  How dare he sully his own name by consorting with Grindelwald?  Oh, that awful Rita Skeeter.  Leave it to that foul witch to, to, to…

Minerva stopped what she was doing.  Cursing Albus would not bring him back to help her with the bad things that had transpired since his death and it was certainly not going to solve her problems.  She was simply going to have to deal with the aftermath of the final battle the only way she knew how: instinct.