Ghosts
Written something for both Day 1 of #Weasley Week by @thethreebroomsticksfic and @harrypocter Colours of Autumn.
When The Burrow is empty, Molly feels all the catches and spasms of an overworked back. It's the age catching up to her, she thinks. It's the age that makes her feel the bone chill during Christmas, huddling under the protection of her own Weasley jumper. She clutches at her own jumper, the living tissue that connects her to her children. She imagines them wearing it, she imagines the slices of life they have built outside the Burrow, she imagines the conversations around their dinner table.
Fred is the only one she doesn't have to imagine. He is here, within her reach. I wish they were here, she tells him as she climbs up the stairs. She feels him behind her, helping her tired body up.
I thought George would come, he complains to her. Angelina's monopolising him.
She smiles.
She settles into her own bed and lies under her blankets, her spine curving into a mouth of longing. She feels him above her, watching her from the ceiling. The world goes on, she tells him. Even when it seems impossible.
Isn't that what Bill said? Fred asks.
That is what he said, Molly's eyes flutter close. Of course, her wisest son would have all the answers. She wishes she could grasp at her eldest son's unshakeable heart and swallow it back into herself. But if she did that...
She opens her eyes. Still here, Freddie?
Still here Mum. Go back to sleep. Dad will be late today, remember?
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