Fandom: Harry Potter
Character: Molly Weasley
Rating: PG
The sky held a post-dawn glow, but the sun had not fully risen above the horizon. She could hear noises from one or two of the nearby tents that indicated that their occupants would be stirring soon, but no one else had yet made an appearance. She appreciated these quiet moments and was accustomed to waking early, and enjoying the solitude of this time of day.
She fussed with the ends of her homemade scarf, and secured it around her head, steeling herself for the walk up the hill to the ruins of her former home. Bits of the structure still stood – the bottom half of her kitchen door hung askew in its frame; half of the turret that had held the boys’ rooms, balanced precariously over mostly empty air; the stairs to the second story still stood, but seemed to lead to nowhere. It was a strange relic of a different time, and she both longed for and dreaded the time it would be torn down to make room for something new.
Several times she had returned to walk through these ruins, though Bill, Percy, and Ron had recovered most of their salvageable belongings and had cajoled her to stay away from the ramshackle structure, or to let one of them accompany her, if she must go. However, this had been her home – hers, and Arthur’s – and she hadn’t reached her age, or raised a family like hers, without being able to take care of herself. She was determined that nothing that could be saved would be left behind.
That need was rewarded, nearly an hour later, as she picked her way through the area that had been Arthur’s study. Her attention was caught by the morning light reflecting off a bit of brass that looked like the fastenings on an old trunk. She carefully cleared what she could, levitating large pieces of rubble away with her wand, and pushing away the smaller bits of debris. The sight of a small piece of lime green material caught her eye, and bolstered her flagging energy.
Finally, she uncovered an old patchwork quilt. It was dirty and torn, and almost unrecognizable, except for the raised embroidery, under her fingers, that spelled out the names of her children and the dates of their births. She had made it when she was pregnant with Bill, intending it to be his baby blanket. Arthur had teased her awfully, when her enthusiasm had resulted in a quilt almost large enough to cover their own bed. In a pique of pregnancy hormones she had informed him that it was because it was for all of their children, and now she only had to do it once.
It had been a good idea, and each of her children had slept under this quilt for a time, from Bill in his first big boy bed, to Ginny’s last year before Hogwarts. Then it was packed away, with vague hopes for grandchildren to fill this house and sleep beneath it. The Burrow was gone, but Molly still had hope, and she still had her quilt. The rest would come with time.