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MuggleNet Fan Fiction
Harry Potter stories written by fans!

The Solitary Prewett by hestiajones

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Story Notes:

This is a present for the lovely Lisa/hogwartsbookworm, my fellow Molly/Arthur shipper. Early birthday present if you see this now. :D
***


The day was done; the night was quiet.

She lay on her bed, curled into a ball and wondering how time had flown so fast. One moment, she was brushing her teeth; the next, preparing a lone breakfast. Then, she was watering the plants in her garden. Minutes later, making lunch. And then preparing for St. Mungo’s interview. And then cleaning up an already clean house. And then dinner. And then books again. And then tea. And then sleep.

Solitude was something that didn’t cheer her up. When she was a child, her parents had been around, and she had had her brothers to play with and care for. None of them were there any longer. Her parents lay in a grave, while her brothers were off working during the day and fighting in the night, trying to curb the war that was surely coming, even though they were young. So young. But the time to try and stop them from doing something dangerous had long gone, and she didn’t want to begrudge them their right to fight for a cause they believed in.

My parents lie in a grave.

The words seemed to swirl in front of her eyes.

She was surprised at how the phrasing had changed. Whenever people brought the subject up, she often told them her parents were resting, never “lie in a grave”. Perhaps, she should sleep it off. Perhaps, she needed rest.

But when she slept, her dreams were sepulchral and wreathed and bloody. She woke up crying, and hugged herself back to sleep.

At St. Mungo’s the next day, humanity bustled. She watched the comings and goings of Healers and patients, her eyes darting back and forth between the green-robed wizards and witches and the ailing, nose taking in the smell of magical disinfectants, and lips getting drier as she anticipated the interview. She had wanted this so long, hadn’t she?

Hadn’t she?

While the Healer was reviewing her curriculum vitae, his eyes scanning the qualifications and achievements, an expression of satisfaction forming on his face “ that was when she heard the scream.

“What was that?” she asked him.

“That’s a patient’s sister,” he told her. “Her older brother must have died. They found him last night behind a shop in Diagon Alley. He was bleeding out. Probably hexed.”

“By whom?” she asked.

“The Aurors don’t know yet.”

They didn’t know yet, but that wasn’t important. She didn’t know the patient’s sister, but that wasn’t important either. She would never forget that scream; it would haunt her for years. To her, it meant more than just the death of the brother, or his sister’s anguish over it. It signified the irreversible loss of life and the task of trying to prevent that from happening.

There was no blocking it. Her brain went into overdrive, and it was her she saw in lime green robes, and it was Gideon and Fabian, “bleeding out”, “probably hexed” by assailants “the Aurors didn’t know yet”. They were calling them “patients”, and what scared her was that she did not have the liberty of the “patient’s sister” to cry out in despair and grief; she was the Healer, forced to focus on the skin that was split open, forced to think that they weren’t her brother but casualties of a duel or an ambush or an unprovoked attack or an accident.

A tiny, barely audible dry sob escaped her, signalling not only the death of a career, but sealing her future as well.

She returned home with her curriculum vitae, leaving a Healer at St. Mungo’s shaking his head in disappointment. He said they’d lost a good Healer, yet she knew that wasn’t true. She did not have the strength to be that uncaring, to treat people like statistics. There was no way she could have forced herself to concentrate on wounds and forget there was a breathing human body underneath them; there was no way she could have looked at blood and see it as mere body fluid and not a sign of life. All those years of preparation, she hadn’t thought deeper about this: healing not only saved human lives but required you to be inhuman yourself.

Steam rose from the cup of tea that was waiting for her on the table, however she ignored it. She was wondering about bravery and cold feet, about choices and compulsions. When she looked around, she found herself in her kitchen, comforted not by humans but pots and pans and kettles and tea. She knew she could no longer continue like that, having understood something finally .

It wasn’t being home she resented; it was being home alone. There existed a void in the absence of people she could love and touch and care for, of the company of those who breathed and talked and loved back, and in that void, her heart threatened to shrivel up.

Soon, she was in the Ministry, but it wasn’t her brothers she sought. She was alone among people again, alone until he came out, glasses glinting in the light, a nervous smile on his face.

“How did the interview go?”

“When do you get off work?”

“I can leave now if you want.”

And then, she was in his arms, no longer alone, no longer judged by rooms too clean and cold and dead.

“Are you okay?”

Three simple words that no one asked; three simple words she needed to be asked.

“I can’t do this any longer.”

“You wanted to wait until you were settled with a job.”

“I don’t want a job. I want you.”

“Are you sure?”

“More than ever.”

“I want you to be absolutely sure, Molly. I can’t bear living with you if you’re going to regret it.”

“Jobs can wait. It’s love and company I need.”

“Those I can give as much as you want.”

They ran away, even if they didn’t have to, and returned to start over.
Chapter Endnotes: It got a bit angsty, but I hope the ending fixed that. :)