No Means to Use the Stove

The Stove

Anna Richardson stared at the stove with an expression of utmost dislike on her face. Never mind it being an old-fashioned-looking piece of kitchenware; she could have coped with carrying wood and getting smoke in her eyes, but that thing just....refused to work at all. Not for her, that is. Nothing she could do would change it. Only people with special talents could use that stove. Literally.

Anna was used to being confident in everything she did, especially in the kitchen - she had, after all, started to cook for her family as a nine-year-old when her mother had died. She could do all the household work marvelously: she knitted and cleaned and baked and sewed like a little efficient machine.That was her talent; that determined who she was. She was an accomplisher, a provider, one who took care of everybody and everything.

But now, here, in her fiance's family's house, she was useless, unable to do anything at all.

Here all her skills were nonexistent. They had no importance whatsoever. And during the few weeks she had spent here, Anna had come to think that neither had she herself.

The stove stood in its place, unmoved by the silent tears of the tall, usually self-confident woman in front of it.

* * *

When he had told her his big secret, she hadn't believed him; of course not. When he had shown her, she had been delighted. She was an astoundingly sensible and practical woman herself, yes, but she could appreciate the excitement of learning that not everything made sense and that there was more in the world than what met one's eyes. For a while the revelation had made her feel carefree and happy in childlike way. The fairytales were true! Anything was possible! And she, plain old Anna Richardson, had been let in to this exhilarating secret, had been given this thrilling opportunity.

But it had all been a hoax. In this world, like in this kitchen, she was merely an observer - no, a voyeur - one with absolutely no means to participate in the actual action. They all treated her nicely enough, that was true. His mother had been warm and welcoming, his father keen and friendly, and their other children and their spouses enthusiastic and helpful. Helpful being the operative word.

She needed help all the time. She couldn't use the public transport systems, she couldn't do the gardening, the postal services didn't acknowledge her, she couldn't even get the lights on, for Heaven's sake! And she couldn't use the stove.

She just hadn't it in her. The magic.

His mother, Molly, had smiled when she had offered to help her in the kitchen. "Oh, dear, you don't have to. It's just so much work in your way." Then she had flicked her wrist and murmured a few Latin words and pots and pans had started to cook by themselves and she had smiled again. "I simply can't understand how you folks manage without magic. It must be so hard, my dear."

They all did that. Treated her like a child who couldn't do the simplest of tasks and should be overly praised when occasionally succeeding in something. Or like some fragile, rare specimen that couldn't be burdened with mundane work. When Molly finally had given in and let her help in the kitchen, she had found herself doing simple things, ones that a mother would give a toddler to do, so that the child would be happy and feel needed. Anna had seen she wasn't needed at all; actually she probably just slowed Molly down. She hadn't offered her help since.

They didn't mean it in an offensive way, no. She had been told, apologetically, that some wizards did view Muggles - people without magic, that is - as an inferior species, but his family, the Weasleys, weren't like them. Actually, their opposite opinions were so well-known they had been offensively labeled as "Muggle-lovers."

"And that we are, especially me!" he had laughed, and kissed her soundly. She had just giggled then and loved him so much. There had been no worries in the world. It had happened only two weeks ago. Now that time seemed like an eternity away.

She had thought he knew her; she had thought that to love her, he simply had to know her. Apparently she had been wrong. He seemed to believe they would settle down in his world, that she would settle down being helpless and useless and emotionally and physically handicapped.

Wiping her tearstained face with her sleeve, Anna Richardson (who would never be called Anna Weasley) went upstairs, gathered her suitcase from under the bed they shared (Molly had let them sleep in the same room, "As you are to be married, dears"), and packed her clothes and other possessions.

She moved around silently, so that she wouldn't wake him up, but she really shouldn't have bothered. He had been used to sleeping through anything, probably because of his youth spent in the dormitories at a boarding school or sharing a room with his brother. He hadn't stirred when she got up before six am, and he didn't stir now.

She knew she was being a coward. She knew he would deserve an explanation. She knew she should speak to him in person. But she couldn't. Not when it hurt so much to leave. He could convince her to stay. He would only have to look at her. She could imagine the wounded, confused expression that would rise on his face. She wouldn't bear it and she wouldn't be able to face him when hurting him. Leaving a note was selfish; with a note she could only concentrate on her own anguish and hopefully forget about causing him pain. She couldn't endure the idea of hurting him. Not when she loved him so much.

She had never really loved any man before and maybe she never would again. She was almost thirty years old and he had been an unexpected miracle in her life. But she couldn't live as an observer in her own life and she couldn't be just an ornament in his. She needed to be needed, needed to be self-sufficient. She needed to be herself again. Even if it meant being alone.

He probably didn't even really love her, she was just something new and exiting. He would find a better match. Someone from his own world. He would have done so eventually, anyhow. This way she only speeded up the process.

"Dear Charlie," she wrote with a pencil she found in the bottom of her handbag. "I'm sorry. This just won't work. Please don't hate me, but don't come after me. I'm sorry. I really am.

The stove stood in its corner, unmoved, as the tall woman with a suitcase left the Burrow.