(no subject)
Who: Arthur Weasley
Where: A small, maltreated graveyard near Dover.
When: 14th August 2001
Status: Complete.
It was now so many years since Arthur had lost Molly that his despair had kindled into desperation to see her one last time. The passing of another of his children's birthdays made it hurt all the more, and Arthur couldn't help but wonder whether Ginny was alive to celebrate it. Whether she could celebrate at all.
Making the trek on his bike was an arduous one, but it made it feel all the more worthwile. Each mile was a beat of the ache in his heart that could ebb away, and when he finally got there Arthur felt like a weight was gone from his shoulders. The graveyard was just as old and decrepit as he remembered, from the day he had come here all those years ago. He had chosen it because it looked so abandoned that no one would think to notice that a new grave had appeared without their approval. It would also, he hoped, save his Molly's body from being ransaked by thieves, or Death Eaters that wished to have more revenge.
He pushed his way through the battered gate and weaved his way through the scattered stones, breathing in the air as if it were the very same air he had taken in the first time. Arthur stumbled on a discarded root, and fell to his knees just before one particularly cracked granite slab. Looking up, he saw his own distorted handwriting carved into the gravestone.
Here lie Molly and Arthur Weasley,
their lives taken from them in battle.
The words resonated with him, but fell into silence as Arthur began to take in his surroundings. The grave was pefectly tended, a stark contrast from its surroundings, with no sign of weed or carelessly cast stone in sight. It was fresh - stepping to his feet, Arthur could see a small pile of wilting leaves, dandelions and nettles and cow parsley, resting not too far away. He picked them up in his hands, not even wincing at the sting of the nettle leaves. Someone had been here. Someone had cared for his grave, and for Molly's grave, someone had cared.
The thought hit him with the weight of a ton of bricks. Arthur fell down to the ground again, the weeds still clutched in his fist, and placed his other hand over his mouth. One of his children, at least one of his dear children...they were alive. Arthur was seized with the desire to know where, or how, or which they were - to throw his arms around them and hold them. Was it Bill? Had he and his wife survived, did they trek here to care for this grave? Or Charlie, had he turned his anger to the care of the ground...perhaps Fred or George had come here - so like their Mother...or brave, brave Ron, had he come here with Hermione and Harry, and perhaps his darling Ginny. Arthur thought of Percy the last, and as he did so he crushed the weeds in his fist. Percy would not have come here.
Placing the crushed weeds on the cleared grave as reverently as if they were a bunch of flowers, Arthur fled from the graveyard, and his desperation fuelled him as he cycled back across the coast.
Where: A small, maltreated graveyard near Dover.
When: 14th August 2001
Status: Complete.
It was now so many years since Arthur had lost Molly that his despair had kindled into desperation to see her one last time. The passing of another of his children's birthdays made it hurt all the more, and Arthur couldn't help but wonder whether Ginny was alive to celebrate it. Whether she could celebrate at all.
Making the trek on his bike was an arduous one, but it made it feel all the more worthwile. Each mile was a beat of the ache in his heart that could ebb away, and when he finally got there Arthur felt like a weight was gone from his shoulders. The graveyard was just as old and decrepit as he remembered, from the day he had come here all those years ago. He had chosen it because it looked so abandoned that no one would think to notice that a new grave had appeared without their approval. It would also, he hoped, save his Molly's body from being ransaked by thieves, or Death Eaters that wished to have more revenge.
He pushed his way through the battered gate and weaved his way through the scattered stones, breathing in the air as if it were the very same air he had taken in the first time. Arthur stumbled on a discarded root, and fell to his knees just before one particularly cracked granite slab. Looking up, he saw his own distorted handwriting carved into the gravestone.
Here lie Molly and Arthur Weasley,
their lives taken from them in battle.
The words resonated with him, but fell into silence as Arthur began to take in his surroundings. The grave was pefectly tended, a stark contrast from its surroundings, with no sign of weed or carelessly cast stone in sight. It was fresh - stepping to his feet, Arthur could see a small pile of wilting leaves, dandelions and nettles and cow parsley, resting not too far away. He picked them up in his hands, not even wincing at the sting of the nettle leaves. Someone had been here. Someone had cared for his grave, and for Molly's grave, someone had cared.
The thought hit him with the weight of a ton of bricks. Arthur fell down to the ground again, the weeds still clutched in his fist, and placed his other hand over his mouth. One of his children, at least one of his dear children...they were alive. Arthur was seized with the desire to know where, or how, or which they were - to throw his arms around them and hold them. Was it Bill? Had he and his wife survived, did they trek here to care for this grave? Or Charlie, had he turned his anger to the care of the ground...perhaps Fred or George had come here - so like their Mother...or brave, brave Ron, had he come here with Hermione and Harry, and perhaps his darling Ginny. Arthur thought of Percy the last, and as he did so he crushed the weeds in his fist. Percy would not have come here.
Placing the crushed weeds on the cleared grave as reverently as if they were a bunch of flowers, Arthur fled from the graveyard, and his desperation fuelled him as he cycled back across the coast.