And Let You Go

It's Christmas, and the Burrow is full. Molly stands at the stove with her back to the laughter, stirring a pot of stew, watching the white of a single potato rise to the top. Its skin is red, and a lump rises in her throat as she tries to push it to the bottom, but a moment later it pops to the surface again. She puts the stirring spoon into its holder and thumps the lid down on the pot.

Not now. Not now. Please.

The whole family is waiting in the sitting room when she returns. She pauses in the doorway, and their faces turn toward her expectantly. "Not yet," she manages, and Ron groans. He's been hungry for hours. She knows, because he's been whinging about it for nearly as long.

George cuffs Ron lightly on the shoulder, and he turns his attention back to the chessboard. Percy, drawn back to the family by tragedy, is here now by choice, and he and Arthur are arguing with Bill about... something. It's always something, and she never knows exactly what. It bothers her that she can't find it in herself to care, and bothers her even more that they can find it in themselves to care about anything else. She perches on the arm of the couch and wipes her hands on the hem of her apron. Ginny glances at her with a worried expression, but Molly doesn't look up.

The chair in the corner is empty. The rest of the room goes out of focus, and the voices fade as Molly stares at it. Arthur tried to move it into the shed that morning, but Molly had Charlie drag it back in. It hurts to look at it, but it rips holes in her heart not to, to know it's there but she can't see it. She cleans around it when the family's not there, the one item in the small, cluttered house that always has a thin layer of dust on it.

"Mrs Weasley?" Harry's hand on her shoulder makes her jump. "I think something's burning."

"Thank you, dear," she says, getting wearily to her feet. He's right, something *is* burning. A curl of smoke trickles through the oven door; the rolls are ruined. Molly tosses them out the back door into the garden, gulping down great lungsful of cold air, the tears freezing on her face in the harsh wind. She hates it back here now, but she's drawn, as always, to the huge oak tree by the fence. In the moonlight, she can still make out his name on the tiny stone, and she kneels and presses a kiss to the tip of her finger. "I miss you," she whispers, tracing the F, kissing her son in the only way open to her now.

"Molly?" Arthur stands in the doorway, a shadow backlit by the warm light of the kitchen. "Dinner's ready. Come back inside."

The children have set the table. The room is warm, and their faces are somber, and she tries to smile for their sakes. "Thank you, everyone. Let's tuck in, shall we?"

But she eats very little, her mind on the empty chair and the glowing stone, and she can't help but glance up at George whenever her attention wanders.

"Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can't you tell I'm George?"

Molly's heart shreds into tatters. She'll never have trouble telling her twins apart again.