HP fic: Twilight Falls
Rating: PG
Category: genfic
Era: post DH, at the end of the second war
Main Characters: Molly Weasley
Keywords: character death, mourning
Summary: She’d always thought that she’d go before him.
Author's notes: This was inspired by a talk with a friend about how differently people cope when confronted with death. Thanks a lot to jaelle_n_gilla, nohwrah and cruentum for their careful beta-reading. Any remaining mistakes are mine. Comments are love and concrit is always welcome!
Word count: 1.051
Twilight Falls
She always thought she’d go before him. It was never meant to be the other way round.
She wrings the washcloth semi-dry again and moves it once more over his still form, taking away the last remnants of dirt and blood. But she cannot take away the bruises. Her mind is as numb as her hands holding the cloth and she briefly wonders why her heart hasn’t long stopped beating from the cold that has settled into it.
Bill never brought her so much sorrow, nor did Charlie.
Percy… Percy is an entirely different story. But in the end, he made her not only proud, but happy as well.
Her son’s eyes are watching her in his death. While he was alive, she watched him and his brother all the time. Well, at least she tried. Her lips curl in quick reminiscence. They were the mischief-makers, the ones to invent and explore. Always covered in some kind of soot. When they were young, she was always busy healing a scratch here or a bruise there.
His body is clean now, a few drops of water still lingering in the red strands that frame his face.
Ron and Ginny will be all right. Ron has Hermione, god bless her. As for Ginny… Harry has been a part of the family ever since he first stepped into her kitchen on that morning after the- after Ron and his brothers had ridden their father’s car into the night to rescue Harry from his Muggle relatives.
Ron and his brothers. She lets her mind draw nearer. The twins. Fr- No. George and, and- No.
Even though she is longing for it, she must not allow herself to think his name. If she lets it slip just once, she will never be able to think another word. And she can’t let that happen. She has six of them left, and a husband, grieving all together with Harry and Hermione. She can’t let them down. She has a family to uphold.
A sob strangles her throat and she drops the cloth into the waterbowl. A good son, she thinks, a good son would have known how to make his mother happy.
A hand suddenly touches her shoulder and she spins around and stares right up into his eyes. For a moment she is willing to believe that he’s come back as a ghost until she realises her mistake.
She lifts her hand. Her fingers stroke George’s face, softly, carefully, lest they might slip through him.
But his skin is solid and warm to her touch. “Mum,” he says, “Mum, are you all right?” His eyes are wide with fear and she doesn’t comprehend. What is left to fear, now that the monster has been vanquished? What does he want from her that she hasn’t provided for already? But she shouldn’t let him see, shouldn’t let him know. She has to be strong, she has to go on, even with a hand fallen from her clock.
“Mum,” he repeats, lost for words but still standing in front of her, frozen. Looking at her with these fearful eyes, so very much like his brother’s eyes and yet not like his brother’s. She has never seen them so full of fear and pain.
His pain stretches between them and she can almost taste it in the air.
He gathers his courage. “Is he- are you… ready?” And after another moment, “I’ve brought the clothes you wanted. And he… he would have liked this. With him.” He holds up a box of Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, special celebration brand, prepared in secret to lift everybody’s spirit during the war.
She drops her hand, nods and takes the bundle out of his grip. Her mouth is too dry to speak. He gives her a shy smile. George, his name is George. His name is… safe.
“D’you need my help?” he asks in a raw voice.
She manages a ‘no’ and shakes her head in confirmation.
Alone again, she turns back to the bier. Back to her other son. Her dead son. Her dead son, Fr… She lets out an angry sob and hurls the bundle to the floor, knocking over the bowl in the process. Water spills everywhere. The dam breaks.
Her fists are beating at the floor, even though she cannot remember how she came to tumble down. She is tearing at the clothes; they make wet ripping noises when they come undone. She can’t breathe properly because her nose is all clogged up and she gasps for air with loud sobbing noises coming from the depth of her chest. Her face is all wet and the skin on her hands is stinging with pain, but she continues her beating and tearing and the pain is all there, between her hands, inside her body, tearing her apart from inside and she cannot kill it fast enough, for it wells up and up again, covering her in new waves with every breath she takes.
Her sight is blurred, but she knows that this time, it’s Arthur who is crouching beside her. He doesn’t touch her, he doesn’t say a single word. He simply continues to sit with her through the pain. He sat with her through every single of her babies being born. He will not leave her alone now, either. When she’s done crying, he holds out his handkerchief for her to take. She wipes her eyes, blows her nose.
“His name,” she whispers, “his name is Fred. Fred died in the battle against Voldemort.” This is her painful truth.
Arthur nods and waits for her to continue.
“His name is Fred and he is my son. And I miss him. I miss him so much that I don’t know how to stop missing him.”
Arthur’s arm sneaks around her back, holding her in the lightest of embraces.
“Fred,” she says, her voice a little stronger. “Fred. Our son. Fred.”
“Yes,” Arthur says, “his name is Fred. And we will never forget.”
“Fred,” she whispers, “Fred, Fred… Fred.”
Together they sit, holding each other. The pain is still raw and sharp, dulled only due to her exhaustion. And twilight falls, softening the harsh lines on her husband’s face, the mess around them and the outline of the body of her fallen son.
Category: genfic
Era: post DH, at the end of the second war
Main Characters: Molly Weasley
Keywords: character death, mourning
Summary: She’d always thought that she’d go before him.
Author's notes: This was inspired by a talk with a friend about how differently people cope when confronted with death. Thanks a lot to jaelle_n_gilla, nohwrah and cruentum for their careful beta-reading. Any remaining mistakes are mine. Comments are love and concrit is always welcome!
Word count: 1.051
Twilight Falls
She always thought she’d go before him. It was never meant to be the other way round.
She wrings the washcloth semi-dry again and moves it once more over his still form, taking away the last remnants of dirt and blood. But she cannot take away the bruises. Her mind is as numb as her hands holding the cloth and she briefly wonders why her heart hasn’t long stopped beating from the cold that has settled into it.
Bill never brought her so much sorrow, nor did Charlie.
Percy… Percy is an entirely different story. But in the end, he made her not only proud, but happy as well.
Her son’s eyes are watching her in his death. While he was alive, she watched him and his brother all the time. Well, at least she tried. Her lips curl in quick reminiscence. They were the mischief-makers, the ones to invent and explore. Always covered in some kind of soot. When they were young, she was always busy healing a scratch here or a bruise there.
His body is clean now, a few drops of water still lingering in the red strands that frame his face.
Ron and Ginny will be all right. Ron has Hermione, god bless her. As for Ginny… Harry has been a part of the family ever since he first stepped into her kitchen on that morning after the- after Ron and his brothers had ridden their father’s car into the night to rescue Harry from his Muggle relatives.
Ron and his brothers. She lets her mind draw nearer. The twins. Fr- No. George and, and- No.
Even though she is longing for it, she must not allow herself to think his name. If she lets it slip just once, she will never be able to think another word. And she can’t let that happen. She has six of them left, and a husband, grieving all together with Harry and Hermione. She can’t let them down. She has a family to uphold.
A sob strangles her throat and she drops the cloth into the waterbowl. A good son, she thinks, a good son would have known how to make his mother happy.
A hand suddenly touches her shoulder and she spins around and stares right up into his eyes. For a moment she is willing to believe that he’s come back as a ghost until she realises her mistake.
She lifts her hand. Her fingers stroke George’s face, softly, carefully, lest they might slip through him.
But his skin is solid and warm to her touch. “Mum,” he says, “Mum, are you all right?” His eyes are wide with fear and she doesn’t comprehend. What is left to fear, now that the monster has been vanquished? What does he want from her that she hasn’t provided for already? But she shouldn’t let him see, shouldn’t let him know. She has to be strong, she has to go on, even with a hand fallen from her clock.
“Mum,” he repeats, lost for words but still standing in front of her, frozen. Looking at her with these fearful eyes, so very much like his brother’s eyes and yet not like his brother’s. She has never seen them so full of fear and pain.
His pain stretches between them and she can almost taste it in the air.
He gathers his courage. “Is he- are you… ready?” And after another moment, “I’ve brought the clothes you wanted. And he… he would have liked this. With him.” He holds up a box of Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, special celebration brand, prepared in secret to lift everybody’s spirit during the war.
She drops her hand, nods and takes the bundle out of his grip. Her mouth is too dry to speak. He gives her a shy smile. George, his name is George. His name is… safe.
“D’you need my help?” he asks in a raw voice.
She manages a ‘no’ and shakes her head in confirmation.
Alone again, she turns back to the bier. Back to her other son. Her dead son. Her dead son, Fr… She lets out an angry sob and hurls the bundle to the floor, knocking over the bowl in the process. Water spills everywhere. The dam breaks.
Her fists are beating at the floor, even though she cannot remember how she came to tumble down. She is tearing at the clothes; they make wet ripping noises when they come undone. She can’t breathe properly because her nose is all clogged up and she gasps for air with loud sobbing noises coming from the depth of her chest. Her face is all wet and the skin on her hands is stinging with pain, but she continues her beating and tearing and the pain is all there, between her hands, inside her body, tearing her apart from inside and she cannot kill it fast enough, for it wells up and up again, covering her in new waves with every breath she takes.
Her sight is blurred, but she knows that this time, it’s Arthur who is crouching beside her. He doesn’t touch her, he doesn’t say a single word. He simply continues to sit with her through the pain. He sat with her through every single of her babies being born. He will not leave her alone now, either. When she’s done crying, he holds out his handkerchief for her to take. She wipes her eyes, blows her nose.
“His name,” she whispers, “his name is Fred. Fred died in the battle against Voldemort.” This is her painful truth.
Arthur nods and waits for her to continue.
“His name is Fred and he is my son. And I miss him. I miss him so much that I don’t know how to stop missing him.”
Arthur’s arm sneaks around her back, holding her in the lightest of embraces.
“Fred,” she says, her voice a little stronger. “Fred. Our son. Fred.”
“Yes,” Arthur says, “his name is Fred. And we will never forget.”
“Fred,” she whispers, “Fred, Fred… Fred.”
Together they sit, holding each other. The pain is still raw and sharp, dulled only due to her exhaustion. And twilight falls, softening the harsh lines on her husband’s face, the mess around them and the outline of the body of her fallen son.