“Would you please pass me the salt, Albus?”
He did as he was told, handing me the delicate little glass shaker. I up-ended it, firmly tapping the glass bottom and watching the grains fall like hailstones onto my bacon.
“In return, Mother, may I have the orange juice?” I told him that indeed he may, and transmitted the requested item to him. The sound of the pulpy juice as it splashed into his glass was inanely loud in the strained silence.
Albus and I exchanged worried glances. Opposite us on the far side of the table, my husband and younger son sat stony-faced and somber, eyes resolutely avoiding the empty chair at the head of the table. Ariana’s chair.
“Percival, dear, won’t you eat your breakfast?” I appealed desperately, trying to draw from him some sign of life.
I received no reply, although the screaming from upstairs suddenly started again. Percival jumped to his feet, then slowly sat down again, mouth twisting downwards in an expression of blackest rage and sorrow. Wordlessly, Aberforth rose from his seat and disappeared up the staircase that led to Ariana’s room. Of late he had proved the one to calm her best.
Albus averted his eyes, indifferently picking at his fried egg. He waited until the screaming had died down before muttering, “We should take her to St Mungo’s, Father.”
This, at last, extracted some response from Percival. “So they can lock her up in some lunatics’ ward? No, Albus, I would not do that to my daughter… she needs to be here, with her family, with people who love her.”
Violently, he stabbed his fork into the bacon on his plate. I winced as I heard the china crack.
“Pass me the salt, Kendra.”
Helplessly I obeyed, terrified of his anger, but glad at least that he was eating.
Aberforth reappeared, leading his six-year-old sister down the stairs by her hand. I let out a muffled shriek and ran to her; she was bleeding from a large gash on her forehead and her eyes were dulled with pain.
“Darling,” I sobbed, pointing my wand at her wound and watching it scab over, “my poor little girl, oh, Ariana, baby…”
“She hit herself with some kind of curse. Couldn’t control it. Those brutes...” Aberforth muttered behind us, as he stood once more with his father.
“Hush Ab, don’t use language like that in front of Ariana,” Albus remonstrated half-heartedly, his throat constricted with the same pain as we all felt.
There was a knocking at the door. Percival jumped to his feet again, instantly panicked. “Upstairs, everyone!” he hissed. He gathered his two sons into a rough hug, kissing each of them in turn on the tops of their heads. “Kendra “ ” Releasing them, he strode to me and took me in his arms. I could feel the barely-suppressed sobs shuddering through his chest. “My love, keep her safe. Don’t let them take her to a freak house “ keep her safe.” He pressed his lips to mine, and then turned to Ariana.
He simply held her to him, face riddled with grief, as the pounding on the door continued.
“Percival, what “ ?”
“It’s the Ministry, they’re here for me. For pity’s sake Kendra, don’t let them see her! Take her upstairs!”
Sobbing and bewildered, I obeyed my husband, ushering my three children up the stairs and onto the second-floor landing. Below, I could hear Percival answering the door, and the disjointed phrases of those he met there wormed their way through the floor beneath us.
“Regret to have to be here…”
“Earlier this morning…”
“Your attack on three Muggle boys…”
“By Wizarding Law…”
“Escort you… Azkaban.”
I sank to the cold wooden floor, tears dribbling off the edge of my cheek and down my neck. Ariana crawled into my lap and my sons put their arms around us as I wailed brokenly into my little daughter’s hair.
***
My hands shake as I walk into the hospital room, an ugly combination of fear, anger, and old age “ though mostly the first two. I cross over to the hospital bed and sit down in the vacant chair placed beside it, looking hard into the man’s face. I was not going to wake him, but he stirs at the sound of my skirts rustling against the chair legs, and opens his eyes, the whites of his eyeballs nearly matching the pale color of his skin.
My anger is momentarily dissipated by seeing him in such a state, then it rears again, flaming high. “This is why,” I begin shrilly, “this is why I always told you not to meddle with what you are not a part of! Didn’t I say that your interest “ your obsession “ with those Muggles was not going to lead you anywhere good, that it was simply not healthy?”
He seems like he wants to say something to this, but I am not interested in hearing it.
“Really, Arthur!” I exclaim. “A car accident! You fool! What on earth were you even doing in a car? You don’t drive anymore! I told you to stop driving two decades ago, it simply isn’t safe for someone your age! You have no need to drive! Of all the nit-witted activities that you could engage yourself in “ ”
“I received “ a driver’s license “ last month,” says my husband in a small, wheezing voice.
“You did what?”
“Last month. I didn’t tell you “ because... well...” He smiles sheepishly. “This. But it’s how “ I’ve been “ getting to work for “ the past “ few weeks. I guess yesterday night “ something “ happened differently “ or I wasn’t paying enough attention “ but I crashed “ into a tree “ ”
“You fool,” I say again, though this time it is a tormented whisper rather than a furious shout. “Why did you have to do this? It was “ this could have been easily avoided “ you had many years ahead of you, and now “ ”
“I’m not dead yet, Molly,” he says, cracking a feeble grin.
My eyes travel over his tall form: his legs bound and held up in a suspension, his middle wrapped in thick bandages, his glasses slightly crooked due to the odd angle his head was propped against the pillow. His skin pasty and waxy, his lines on his face even more sunken than usual. His eyes only half-focused. His breathing shallow. This is not a man who has much longer to live, and we both know it, though I don’t think either of us want to dare speak the words aloud.
Teardrops begin to run a slow race down my face. “You still had time,” I whisper, “you still had years ahead of you.”
The bedcovers draped over him begin to twitch; I wonder if he is having a fit for a moment, then I notice his left hand attempting to creep out.
“No, don’t, save your strength,” I plead, but he slides his arm out until he can reach me. He takes one of my hands in his, and slowly reaches our entwined grasp up to wipe away my tears with his fingers.
“I am “ an old man.” He wipes the last of my tears and lets his arm fall back limply to his side. “I was “ frail even before “ the accident. This just “ was what pushed me “ over the edge, that’s all. I’ve “ lived happily “ I don’t mind “ passing on now. My life with you “ was “ all that I ever wanted “ and “ ”
His sentence does not finish; a loud ringing noise has started coming from a glowing red globe next to his bedside. He and I barely have time to look at each other before the room is suddenly filled with people. I am thrown back by the crowd of Healers that have appeared by Arthur’s bedside, and stand for a moment near the back, confused and tearful, until one of the Healers notices me. She moves forward and begins to usher me out of the room.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’ve got to move “ ”
“My husband “ ” I blurt feebly.
“You’ve got to clear the room, ma’am, I’m sorry, his heart rate’s just dropped significantly...”
Her hands are at my shoulders now, guiding me out of the room. Blinded by my panic, I try to resist, but am too disheveled to do much to stop her. Perhaps it is because I am in such disarray, but as I am pushed out the door I think that I hear a faint voice speaking to me:
“Good-bye, Molly.”
***
I surveyed my boys’ luggage critically where it stood by our ancient stone fireplace.
“Aberforth, I told you that you may not bring the goat. Untie her immediately, please. I doubt she would take to Floo travel in any case.”
Scowling, he did as I asked. Albus looked on, a faint smile on his lips. His packs, of course, were tidy and orderly, neatly labelled and with an entire trunk devoted to his books. I sighed inwardly. My boys were so different yet each identically precious to me, and it pained me to be sending both of them to school this year.
Presently Aberforth returned, goat-less, and I gestured for each my sons to step into the fireplace. They did so, first Albus and then Aberforth proudly pronouncing, “Platform Nine and Three Quarters, King’s Cross!”
I was stepping over the hearthrug when a small voice behind me made me pause.
“Mama?” Ariana was pale, skin bleached from time spent indoors until it was the same color as her limp blonde locks. She hovered, uncertain, in the doorway. “Mama… when I turn eleven, like Ab, will I be able to go to Hogwarts?”
I smiled gently, feeling sadness settle like snow in my stomach. “No, darling. Hogwarts is for people who use magic. And you don’t like to use magic.”
Her face fell slightly, then hardened. She nodded once, and turned away, dissolving into the shadows. I stood a moment staring at the spot she had been, then shook the gloomy thoughts from my head and followed my boys to King’s Cross.
As I stepped out onto the platform I was greeted by Aberforth’s urgent cry. “Hurry up Ma, ‘else we’ll miss the train!”
Lifting my heavy dress robes clear of my boots, I hastened to their side, ignoring the stares of the witches and wizards around me, some of whom were no doubt my neighbors. Snatching up one of Aberforth’s smaller bags “ “What have you got in this, boy?” “ I shooed my sons onto a relatively uncrowded carriage.
“Albus “ do write to tell me into which House your brother is Sorted. Aberforth “ try to keep out of trouble, I most certainly do not expect to receive any owls about you that I did not about your brother. I expect I shall see both of you in the Christmas holidays.” Letting my expression soften a bit, I murmured to Aberforth, “Do send your sister something. You know how she’ll miss you.” He nodded, and I pulled both he and his brother into a quick embrace before stepping back from the train.
I waved to them as the scarlet Hogwarts Express chugged away and out of sight.
“Excuse me, madam?” I turned, an automatic frown on my face. I met the gaze of a short, plump witch. She continued, small eyes bright in her shiny red face. “Excuse me, but are you young Albus Dumbledore’s mother? I’m Nelly Doge “ my son Elphias is good friends with your son.”
I smiled briefly, shaking her hand. She grinned in response. “Was that other boy yours? I didn’t know you had more’n just Albus… Ah, it is sad to see them leave, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is.” My words were so soft I was surprised she caught them.
“I’ve got three, myself. Two daughters and Elphias. Elphias is the youngest, though. They’re all at school now… You have any others, or just the two?”
“I…” My voice broke off, and I rubbed my face in such a way as I hoped could be construed as having soot in my eye. “Just the two. I won’t be farewelling any others here.”
Briskly, I straightened, nodded once to her and “ I couldn’t bear the wait for the Floo fireplaces “ Disapparated back into my dark house in Godric’s Hollow, where my daughter waited, lifeless and pale as a ghost.
***
“But Dad,” whines Roxanne, tugging at his sleeve, “it isn’t fair! I’m the last one of the whole family to go to Hogwarts! Why can’t I just go this year?”
“You’re too young, Annie,” says George with waning patience, patting her on the head as he helps get Fred’s trunk onto the train. “Your mother and I have both told you that at least a thousand times.”
“All my other cousins are already there!” she continues to wail, and then, upon realizing that begging isn’t going to work, turns accusatory. “If I had just been born in August instead of October, I could be off this year with Hugo! This is all your fault!”
“I didn’t plan what month you were going to be born in, these things just... happen.” Half-amused, half-embarrassed, he chances a look at his wife, but Angelina is determinedly looking the other way as she kisses Fred good-bye.
Roxanne continues to pout. “It’s not fair.”
“Come here, Annie,” I say, sensing George’s need of rescue. Lower lip quivering, arms folded over her chest, she mopes over in my direction. I put a hand on her shoulder, trying to consol her. “I was the last in my family to go to Hogwarts too, you know. Last of my two brothers, and last of my six cousins. I pleaded with my mother to lie about my age, and when she wouldn’t agree to, I sulked around the house for days.”
Roxanne is gazing off resentfully at the Hogwarts Express now beginning to crawl away from the station, clearly uninterested by my tales of the very distant past. I smile fleetingly at the classic picture we make: the overbearing grandmother, blathering about the olden days, and the young granddaughter, forced to stand by and listen.
“Would you like to come to The Burrow for the afternoon, dear?” I offer. “I could make some cookies.”
She brightens marginally. Her mouth is still curved in a sullen frown, but her eyes sparkle as she looks up at me. “It’s lunchtime, Grandma,” she breathes. “Mum doesn’t usually let me have cookies for lunch.”
“We don’t have to tell her,” I return in a conspiratorial whisper. Louder, to George and Angelina, I call, “Do either of you mine if I borrow Roxanne for the afternoon? I’ll feed her lunch.”
“Go right ahead,” says Angelina, waving good-bye to the hiss of steam the train has left behind. “Have fun.”
I smile down at Roxanne. “You see?” I murmur. “No problem.”
She grins up at me widely, unable to believe her good fortune of getting to stuff her face with baked goods for lunch. I take her hand and we stroll away from the platform.
***
I was sitting in the living room when the owl arrived.
Tap, tap, tap.
Groaning, I lifted myself from the chaise lounge and dragged my heavy person over to the window, which I opened to allow the owl in.
The bird looked to be enjoying the summer heat no better than I; a poor lump of half-asleep feathers, it staggered out of the humid, dead air over the windowsill. Prying the scroll of parchment from its leg, I absently Summoned a saucer of water for the thing. I had hardly received a letter since our move from Mould-on-the-Wold, and could not for the life of me think why that would start to change now.
The seal wasn’t one I recognized; I broke it and unfurled the missive, wandering back to my seat as I did so.
What I read froze me where I stood.
Shaking, I read the cold, formal letter again, three times, four “ its meaning would not change. Gasping for breath, I tore my gaze from the parchment, my eyes feverishly scanning the stale room for some type of reassurance that it could not be true, that something was out of place, that I had drifted off in the heat and this was a fantasy, or a cruel joke, or “
I steadied myself, and dropped into the lounge I had deserted mere moments “ only moments? “ earlier. Head in my hands, I tried to convince myself that this news had no import at all.
“It has not changed my world,” I murmured to myself, “only my perception of it. Truthfully, there is no difference... Everything will continue as it has been… I knew that this must one day come to be…”
“Mama?”
Slowly, I lift my head. Ariana has clutched in her hand the parchment I had dropped. “Mama… what is this?”
Helpless, I look on as her gaze drops to the green-ink words scrawled on the heavy paper. Her expression turns from bewilderment to dread, and then to disbelieving grief. When she looks up at me, her face is contorted with rage.
“This cannot be right!” she spat. “Father cannot be dead. He simply can’t!”
“Darling…”
I gathered her into my arms, and she sobbed there like a little child. I kissed the top of her head, trying to find strength. “Ariana… we knew your father wouldn’t survive his time in Azkaban. We’ve always known that. Be glad that now he doesn’t have to endure any longer… every minute spent in there is agony, or so they say.”
“But Mama…” she whispered, “But Mama, if he’s dead then it’s my fault. My fault, because I’m the reason he was put in there to begin with. If it wasn’t for me, you’d all still be in Mould-on-the-Wold, and Father would be with you and Ab and Albus, and you’d all be happy… But you’re not, and he isn’t, and we can never go back and change it “ it can’t be undone “ he’s dead, Mama, and it’s all because of me “ and it’s because of me you’re always sad, and Albus is so cold, and Ab is so grumpy “ I’m to blame “ and now Father’s dead “ I wish I’d never been born “ ”
Alarmed, I took her face in my hands. “Stop this talk at once,” I demanded firmly. “Nothing is your fault, Ariana. No woman could ask for a better daughter than you “ I would love you no matter what trouble you caused us. As a mother, my children are the most important things in my life “ I live for you and nothing else. True, nothing these past eight years have gone as planned… but I will always love you, darling. Nothing is more important to me than your happiness, and I will not rest fulfilled until you have it.”
She nodded once before the held-in tears broke loose. Weeping, she buried her face in my breast and I held her tight, rocking her back and forth.
“Still now, my darling, my dove, my lark,
There’s naught but your fantasies to fear in the dark.
Hush now the morning’s a dream away,
Like your shadow, beside you forever I’ll stay.”
She quieted, and gradually the tattered sobs melted into the deep breath of sleep. I shifted my weight beneath her, and winced as pins and needles shot through my leg. Delicately, so as not to wake her, I transferred my daughter to the space on the lounge beside me. She stirred, but clutched onto the edge of sleep. For a moment I lay my ivory cheek alongside hers, breathing with her.
I did not see her brow crease as she slept, or feel the cry building up inside her until it had burst the dam walls, spilling out of her like blood from a wound.
“FATHER!”
I felt a shock run through her skin into mine, jumping like lightning between us. I gasped, eyes flying open as the liquid pain surged through my veins, locking my muscles in place and causing me to spasm uncontrollably.
“Mama!”
Dimly, I was aware that Ariana had leapt up and clutched my hand, sobbing. “Mama, please, don’t leave me!”
“Ariana…” My mouth could not frame the words; darkness spiraled into my vision, obliterating all thought, all sense, like a blanket of snow, save one… I cannot leave her… I cannot leave my children, the time is not right…
“Mama…”
I could not feel my feet, nor my fingers; Ariana’s grip, so tight, had no meaning… Body-less, I unwillingly surrendered my grip on life, drifting away from all that tethered me to the earth.
Too soon.
***
“Hey, Mum,” says Fred, squeezing in between Hermione and I to sit on the sofa. “Are you having a good time?”
I glance around at the front room of the Burrow. I don’t think there have ever been so many people in this house. The armchairs and couches are stocked full to burst. Some of the grandchildren have seated themselves on the floor. And even more are scattered throughout the house; even despite our best efforts, one room simply couldn’t contain all of us.
“Of course I am,” I say with warm gratitude. “All of my family is here in one place. I couldn’t want anything more. But I don’t understand “ why are you all here?”
“It’s your birthday, remember? I already told you that.”
“Birthday,” I echo in a mumble. “It’s my birthday?”
“Yes, it is,” says Fred with weary patience.
“My birthday...”
Memory and old ages are funny things. They say that your memory goes when you start getting on in your years; they say that it leaves you. This is not true. Your memory is still there. But just like a room that has been around for centuries “ despite your best efforts to use it, and keep it clean “ it ages. The furniture gathers dust. The corners collect cob-webs. The windows become jammed. The floorboards begin to rot. And so every time you decide to venture into the room, it becomes more and more difficult to brush away the dust, or to clear away the cob-webs, because they build to such a point where it simply becomes too much.
“How old am I?” I ask now, unable to lift the rotting floorboard in my mind to find this out for myself.
“Today you turn one hundred and seventeen,” says Fred.
“One-hundred and seventeen? Hmm. A good age for a witch,” I reflect, “a very good age... your grandmother lived to be seventy-three... nasty case of dragon pox... and my own grandmother made it to eighty-seven before she got crushed by a dragon...”
“Yes, Mum, I know,” says Fred.
“I know you do, I’m sorry, Fred, old women just ramble sometimes.”
A slight crease appears between his eyes. “Erm, it’s George, Mum,” he says softly. “I’m George. Not Fred.”
Now my forehead crumples. “I’m sorry, dear, you look so alike... I can’t tell you apart...”
“Mum,” George says gently, “Fred is dead.”
“Oh.” I stare at him, stunned. “Oh...”
George pats my hand, kisses my forehead, and then goes to attend to one of the grandchildren, whom have just upset their glass of milk.
“Are you okay, Molly?” Hermione asks me.
I nod. “Yes, I’m fine... I’m fine.”
Hermione offers to escort me to my room, saying I look very tired, but I decline. I don’t want to miss a minute of being here with them. She continues to insist.
“That would be silly,” I tell her. “You are all here because of me. I don’t want to just...”
“Nobody will mind, Molly. If you need to sleep, then that’s fine. We’re all just here to make you happy, and that won’t work very well if you fall asleep on us.” She grins.
I can’t think how to argue against that one. And, truth be known, the prospect of lying down for a few hours of sleep does sound very appealing. But I don’t want to leave them all here. It’s so rare that all of us are together, it’s so precious to have them all so close: my in-laws, my children, my grandchildren, all spread out before me, happy and well... every mother’s dream.
Hermione takes my hand in hers, drawing my attention back to her. “We’ll still be here waiting when you wake up,” she communicates softly.
Reluctantly, I nod, getting to my feet and taking a teetering step forward.
“Let me help you,” says Hermione, taking my elbows and guiding me forward.
“Thank you, dear.”
We wind up the staircase, the creaking of the steps matching the creakings in my weary limbs. She leads me into my bedroom, sets me down on the bed, and pulls the covers up to my chin, as though I am a child again. She smiles, tells me to sleep well, and exits the room. I close my eyes. Sleep embraces me quickly, holding me tight, and I drift off into its warm fuzz.
‘There’s naught but your fantasies to fear in the dark…’
The singer’s tone is pure and lovely, yet fractured, broken and coarse with pain, but I do not recognize the voice... I frown, trying to delve deeper into the dream, discover where the fragment of song came from...
“Molly.”
A new voice draws me away. My eyes flutter open. The room is exactly as I left it. Except... a man sits at the foot of the left side of the bed. He smiles when our eyes catch.
I reach for him immediately, but then pull back, hesitating. “But you’re...”
“I’m what?” he prompts me, tilting his head, still smiling. “Not supposed to be here?”
I nod slowly, to show my agreement with this statement “ but then understanding pours over me in a sweeping gesture. I know how he is here. I know why he is here.
“Yes,” says Arthur quietly, as though agreeing with my unspoken thoughts, “that’s correct.”
I give him a quizzical look, not comprehending how he has just read my mind. To the best of my knowledge, he has never studied Legilimency.
“Your knowledge is still quite sound,” he voices with a congenial grin. “I don’t know the first thing about Legilimency. Death presents you with some unusual talents.”
“So it’s time?” I whisper. “For me?”
“It’s time,” he whispers back, and leans towards me, holding out his hand.
I am about to stretch out to take it when the door bangs open, and Ginny flies into the room and to the right side of my bed, the opposite side to where her father currently is. She doesn’t seem to see him.
“Mum!” she cries, seizing my hand. “I heard you coughing “ in your sleep I guess “ so I came up “ are you alright?”
I hold my daughter’s hand, already struggling to remain breathing just a little longer. “I’m fine,” I say, but I don’t think she hears; only Arthur seems to be able to hear me in this half-living stage.
‘Mama, please, don’t leave me!’
That cry again, but it is not Ginny, it is not my daughter beside me who speaks it, it is like an echo from a memory long ago, its note of panic so out of place here...
I look towards my husband helplessly. “I am not afraid leave,” I intone truthfully, trying to squeeze Ginny’s hand but unable to do so. “I have done all that I ever wanted here. Our children no longer really need their mother. But I am afraid to leave them.”
“They’ll be fine,” he comforts me. “We’re not going very far, you know.”
“MUM!” Ginny shouts, now starting to cry.
I cannot leave her... I cannot leave my children, the time is not right...
The thought sounds distressed, but it is not mine. The time is right. I am not needed here.
I retain his gaze for a moment longer, gathering the final shards of strength within me, then I reach out to close the immeasurable distance between us.
Our hands touch. His fingers close around mine and lift me with gentle ease up and away. As we float towards the skies, I take one last look at my family “ complete, and beautiful.
Body-less, I unwillingly surrendered my grip on life, drifting away from all that tethered me to the earth.
Too soon.
No. Soon enough.