Is he coming? He said he’d come. He’s supposed to be here in an hour. Is there any chance I can even possibly last that long? I doubt it, I really do. I was doing quite well when I hadn’t seen him for a month and didn’t expect to see him for another three weeks at least. Now I’m going to see him in an hour and it feels like a year.

I don’t know when I started to feel this way about him. A year ago we were only housemates, barely even friends. But then last year over Christmas break we were the only two students left in Gryffindor. I remember how he was going down to the library when his bag split open and books and papers flew everywhere. He just stood there, looking rather embarrassed about the whole thing, but he looked so handsome and tall. He’s taller than me by about two heads, I think. I rushed over to help him right away, and we got to talking… The next morning he sat down to eat breakfast with me. Ever since then it’s been like floating on a cloud.

He took me on the most wonderful adventures. The first time he ever took me to Hogsmeade was a cold day in January, and he took me into the Hog’s Head. My brothers had never even been in there! It was dark and chilly, but he held me close and everything felt alright, although a few of the wizards seemed to be staring at me. He held me especially close then.

“Molly! Don’t just sit there daydreaming! Come do the dishes!” That’s my mother. I’m not sure if she likes him much. Father approves; I can tell. He likes him. But my mother doesn’t-- with his odd ways, his messy, bright red hair, and the fact that he doesn’t have money. We don’t have much money either, not like some of the pureblood families. But we’re well off. I’ve always had everything I needed, but Mother grew up rich. I think she wants me to be able to do what she was brought up doing-- going to fancy balls and mingling with the rich and famous. But I prefer our kind of family. Father works very hard and he loves us, my brothers and I.

I get up slowly from my spot on the windowsill, adjusting my nicest robes. I’ve had them for years, these robes. Ever since I was invited to a ball at the Bones mansion and Mother decided that, at twelve, I was old enough for a real set of dress robes. I spent the whole time playing with Edgar in the garden, but Mother made sure I was the best-dressed person in that garden. Obviously I’ve grown since then, so it’s been altered, but it’s still the same pair of dark blue dress robes that I’m wearing now.

Mother sighs when I finally enter the kitchen. “It’s about time. Put on that apron and get to work.” I hate it when Mother makes me do chores. What’s the point? With a wave of her wand the entire house could be sparkling clean, but Mother insists I do some work around the house. I’m only sixteen now, but when I’m seventeen I’ll blast away at those dishes and spend all the time making up recipes. I love to cook. Father says my chocolate cake is the best thing he’s ever had. I have one cooling on the windowsill right now.

“He’s coming in half an hour?” she says, and I nod. We both know who ‘he’ is. Arthur Weasley. The boy my entire family has been forced to hear me talk about ever since school let out. I pick up a big white platter, cleaning it without paying attention as I stare off into the distance. Arthur. My Arthur. He’ll be here in fifteen minutes now. I wash absentmindedly, watching the fields. Mother says we live on a farm, but Father calls it an estate. I like it, whatever it is. I’m not sure Mother does, but she loves Father, and he loves it here. So she stays.

“Molly, dear…” She turns her head towards me and I draw my attention away from the window, looking at her. She looks soft, not like Father or the boys. They’re all skin and bones. I’m rounder, like Mother. Not fat. Just not thin. But Mother is soft, worn with age and worry. She’s taller than me, so she’s looking down. Most people do. But she’s nowhere near as tall as my brothers. They’re not even out of school yet and they’re already about twice my size. Mother sighs, placing one hand on my shoulder.

“Molly, what’s this boy like?” I’m confused- hasn’t she been listening to me for the last month? It seems he’s all I can think about, and I can tell it reflects in my language. But Mother still wants to know, and I’m happy to oblige.

“He’s sweet, and kind, and daring-” I begin, but Mother cuts me off. She removes her hand from my shoulder, turning to the window and pointing her wand at the dirty dishes as they begin to clean themselves.

“I don’t mean what you like about him.” I’m not sure what she means. “What’s the boy like? I’ve been hearing only abstract good points that tell me nothing. What’s he like?” I understand now. But he is sweet and kind and daring. That’s who he is-- Arthur Weasley. I rack my brain for the information my mother would want. I know she’s not interested in the sweet nothings he whispers in my ear, or his embrace, or the way he kisses. I smile, remembering, before beginning.

“He likes Quidditch. He’s a wonderful flyer. We went flying a lot on the weekends.” My mother smiles and so do I. Father is a wonderful flyer as well. “He’s fascinated with Muggles. He loves to take apart their little trinkets.” I laugh, surprising myself. I’d almost forgotten about that. Many long evenings were spent in the Gryffindor common room while Arthur played with Muggle things. Muggles don’t interest me, but I always put up with Arthur’s fascination.

Mother smiled. “He must have some bad points, Molly.” I shrug. Five minutes to go until he was here, and Mother wants to know what’s wrong with him? Nothing is wrong with him! Arthur has always been perfect. I find one or two little things, though, as I sift through my mind.

“He cares too much, sometimes.” I remember when Arthur’s owl was hurt, how upset he was. “But what’s wrong with that?” I don’t mind him caring too much about me. “He’s not very sensible.” That’s our biggest difference. Mother says she never met a more sensible person than me. No wonder it shocked her when I fell head over heels for Arthur Weasley. “He’s extravagant.”

“What do you mean, child?” Warning bells are going off in Mother’s head, but I don’t know why.

“He spends his money without thinking about it,” I answer. “He’d rather use the money to make other people happy than to save it himself.” I’m not sure what Mother will think about that. Sure enough she when she turns to me she looks distressed.

“Molly Prewett,” she begins, “people like that are going straight to the poorhouse-” But I’m not listening. I can hear a rumbling noise upstairs, growing louder by the second. I drop the plate I was holding and run out of the kitchen, up the stairs to my bedroom on the third floor. I can hear my mother screaming as the rumbling grows louder.

I stop outside my door, taking a moment to straighten my robes and run my fingers through my dark red hair, pressing it down so it’s not quite so frizzy. I push my door open, running through my small bedroom which I had cleaned this morning and dash to the window.

I throw it open and reveal the source of the rumbling. An automobile is floating outside my window, and a familiar face is watching me out of it. The car window opens to reveal a thick mop of bright red hair, the same red hair I brushed out of those bright blue eyes so many times.

“Hello, Molly,” Arthur Weasley says, and my heart skips a beat.