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When the Death Eaters leave them, the men re-set the wards. The Delacours pack their bags upstairs; Fred and George, better than they should be at cleaning up after explosions, wander the Burrow and put things to rights.
Molly huffs with frustration in front of the sink.
Tea. She’d served pale tea that no one finished as the interrogation went on, pretending not to recognize the voices from last night. Masks before, stamped papers today. Butter-soft daylight instead of zaps of red and green. She’d seen the same seal on the dead Minister’s cufflinks: everything could be something more than what it looked like. Molly shatters a cup as she washes the dishes, and when Ginny comes running, Molly’s heart sinks with guilt.
“Thought it must be Tonks in here,” her daughter says lightly, a weak smile on her face that stops short of her eyes.
“They’ve left.”
“I know.”
Ginny’s voice wavers a little then. “Mum, why aren’t we leaving?”
She can’t answer, but she tries. Ginny shakes her head at the feeble attempt.
If it were up to her, they’d all have gone already—held the wedding, if they had to, in her great-aunt’s sitting room. When it had become obvious that the Order needed new headquarters, Molly had argued and been overruled. She thought of the war as the worst guest that came to them, its things scattered everywhere, horror sleeping in her bed.
It was Arthur’s decision and his promise, to do what they could. Arthur’s belief today that they needed to stay put, even if the others couldn’t risk coming again. “If we run now, Molly, we’ll have to keep running.” He’d said it as though they weren’t running already, as though neither of them—none of them—had been running for years.
The ghoul moans and drools when Molly enters Ron’s room to tidy it back up: the Death Eaters had shifted everything but the bed. She arcs her wand wordlessly and the posters and pennants slap back against the wall. Molly stands by the wardrobe and stifles a sob. It had all happened so quickly; they hadn’t even said goodbye. Three terrified children, still dressed up for a dance. Ron’s things—a child’s things—left here, in this room.
Except they aren’t, not all of them. Molly breathes out just a little as she swings the wardrobe open. No jeans, two missing jumpers, missing underpants and socks. She can’t find his jacket, nor the boots he wears for chores. Harry’s rucksack, the Deluminator. Things aren’t here that the Death Eaters didn’t miss. Everything could be something more than what it looked like.
Ginny speaks from the doorway as though she read her mind. “They’d want us to trust them. That they know what they’re doing.” Her words come out quiet, and broken, and sure. “When they came here, two weeks ago. When George lost his ear. Do you remember how they all did the security questions?” Dully, Molly nods.
“Hermione told me what Kingsley asked Professor Lupin. That the last thing Dumbledore told them was that Harry was the best hope we have. And they should trust him.”
Ginny’s eyes are wet, but her voice has stopped its wobble. “We have to let them go, mum.” Molly looks at her daughter and understanding floods her, the ways that her daughter’s saying that to herself.
It’s almost dusk in the kitchen when Molly comes back downstairs, the light through the latticed windows a blush, or a bruise. She eyes the larder wearily and knows she should cook dinner. Serving and cleaning: her role within this war.
But the knives on the counter are as sharp as any sword could be, and her youngest son is out there somewhere, helping their best hope. She’d seen Lily Potter when Ginny blinked her tears away; James had been on the mission where her brothers had been killed.
And now, she sees them, Gideon and Fabian. Whole, and brave, and sparring with her—the summer before Bill, when they’d just turned 17. She’d almost forgotten; it had been so long ago. They’d said they needed help, but were determined that she learn. “Again, and steady now. Point the wand up like this, and then a bit to your left.” The air around them crackled, like the thrumming of the wards.
Everything could be something more than what it looked like.
She will cook. She will clean. She’ll let Arthur make decisions. But with him, or without him, she’ll do other things as well.
A sack of potatoes waits a moment on the counter. Molly picks up her wand and points a little to the left.