Chapter Text
Fred had said that his new daughters were not identical, but as Arthur stood looking down into the two cribs by the side of Alicia’s bed in the postnatal ward at St Mungo’s, he rather thought that his son had understated matters. In fact, he couldn’t help but wonder if there might have been a bit of a muddle, for this pair looked like no twins he’d ever seen.
Fred laughed, and though Arthur hadn’t said a word, he cheerfully said, “yeah, I know. If I hadn’t seen them come out, I might have thought there’d been a mistake too.”
“They’re beautiful,” said Arthur, and that was very true, for they were very beautiful indeed with that squashy, soft newborn look that never failed to make his heart feel like it might just explode with the loveliness of it all. Their beauty wasn’t in question.
Very gently, Fred eased his hands beneath one tiny, swaddled mite and lifted her from her cradle to lay her into Arthur’s eager arms, though she was so little he almost could have held her in his cupped palms. “Well, hello there, little love,” murmured Arthur as his new granddaughter looked up at him with the trust that only a baby could manage. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
She looked a great deal like little Lee had when he was born, with huge dark eyes and a dusky tint to her skin that he now knew would darken into something like Alicia’s lovely complexion. His eye drifted to her sister, sleeping peacefully in the next crib over - and did he ever remember a time when George had slept and Fred had been alert? He didn’t think so - even as babies, they did everything together.
The second baby was quite unlike the one in his arms. In fact, she looked like nothing so much as a doll Ginny had had in her childhood, her skin so porcelain-pale that he could see the tracery of her lifeblood in her tiny blue veins. From beneath her small green hat poked a tuft of auburn hair, but he was almost certain that, when washed, it would be as bright as a newly-minted knut.
“They’re so tiny,” whispered Hermione, curling her hand around the baby in Arthur’s arms. “I can’t believe Alfie was ever that little.”
“He wasn’t,” Arthur pointed out, for Alfie had been almost eight pounds, and these two little loves were barely over five apiece. “What’s your name, then, precious?” he asked the baby in his arms, brushing one fingertip across her petal-soft cheek.
“That’s Katherine,” said Alicia from her bed. She beamed as wide as if she’d just won a million galleons. “Katherine Isabel.”
Katherine Isabel gave a wide yawn, as if she were content with this situation. “What a lovely name for a lovely little girl,” murmured Arthur.
Beside him, Hermione gave a little gasp of recognition. “Oh! For Katie Bell!”
The name was familiar, but it took Arthur a moment to remember that she had been a close friend of Fred and George. Her name was on the list of those fallen in the battle: she’d been so young. “Lee’s named after a friend too, is he not?” asked Arthur.
Alicia’s cheeks darkened a shade. “I wanted to remember the people we lost,” she said, reaching for Fred’s hand. He took it, giving her a smile.
“Lee - the big Lee - would have been chuffed to have a kid named after him,” he said. “Katie, too. She’d have been here with a million babygrows and blankets and enough flowers to fill a whole florist. Katie was like that.”
Hermione leaned over the other cradle, looking down at the redheaded baby. “What about this one?” she asked. “Who’s she named after?”
For an awful, awful moment, Arthur was quite certain that they were about to say that this was a Molly. She could have been Molly’s baby, with her pale skin and her red hair, and if they were naming their children after those who died in the war - or the aftermath, as Lee Jordan had - Molly was a fair choice, if only it wasn’t already taken within the family. Would they really insult Percy so, to take the name he had chosen for his daughter?
He needn’t have worried. “That’s Willow Dorothy,” said Fred, and Arthur let out what he thought was a silent sigh of relief.
Hermione tipped her head to one side as she looked at the baby, and Arthur could all but see her mentally sifting through the names etched on that monument. Fred helped her out. “Remember Dot, the house elf in charge of the laundry at Hogwarts?” he asked.
Hermione’s face cleared. “Oh! Yes! Of course!”
“Well, she strangled a Death Eater with a pair of tights during the battle, and, you know, that kind of bravery shouldn’t go unremembered.”
“It shouldn’t,” agreed Hermione. And then, “thank you.”
“Whatever for?”
It took a moment for her to work the words out, and when she did, her voice was strangely thick. Shifting Katherine (Katie?) into a better position, Arthur laid a comforting hand on her back. “For remembering the elves,” she mumbled. “No one ever remembers the elves.”
Fred tucked an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in for a quick hug. “Dot helped up out of a few sticky spots,” he said. “She used to hide stuff from Filch for us, and if we needed something, she was our go-to girl. A Hufflepuff tie, a couple of cherry turnovers, an unusually large broomstick, it didn’t matter. She found it. She was a friend.”
Hermione sniffled, nodding. “And Willow?” she asked. “I don’t remember an elf called Willow?”
A slow grin spread across Fred’s face, the kind of grin that had always preceded a recitation of a particularly ingenious trick or practical joke. Alicia groaned. “They were joking,” she explained. “But it sort of grew on us anyway.”
Fred pressed a hand to his chest as though mortally wounded. “Would we joke?” he gasped. “No! We would never tease about something as precious as our child’s name, the name they shall carry proudly for the rest of their life!!”
Alica rolled her eyes. “The Whomping Willow,” she explained. “And yes, George did suggest ‘Whomping’ as a name, until Angelina threatened to insert a whomping willow branch into a certain orifice.”
“You named her after a tree?” Hermione stared down at the baby in disbelief. Arthur had never had the dubious pleasure of getting to know the whomping willow, as it had been planted after his time at Hogwarts, but he’d heard enough tales from his children to know that this sleeping darling could not be further from her namesake. “We spent loads of time with that tree,” sighed Alicia. “And then it got burnt by spellfire in the battle, and died. It’s really sad to think of Hogwarts without it.”
“If you can avoid those branches, you can avoid a bludger,” added Fred.
“Well, you weren’t any good at keeping the bludgers away, so we had to learn to fly around them,” sniped Alicia, a little smile betraying her sharp tone.
“Hey!”
The mediwitch at the desk looked up sharply. “Well,” said Arthur, determined to calm the gathering, “I hope you shan’t be as violence-prone as your namesake, little Willow.”
“Oh, I hope she is,” said Fred cheerfully, looking down at his sleeping daughter. “These two are going to carry on the legacy of Weasley twins and play beater for Gryffindor, aren’t you, my little loves?”
Alicia was having none of it. “Or they might play chaser, like their mothers,” she pointed out. “At this rate, the entire Gryffindor quidditch team is going to be nothing but Weasleys in about twelve years.”
Arthur laughed. “I fancy James as a keeper,” he said. “He loves to catch things.”
“Yeah,” said Fred, “but he’s not so great at letting them go, is he?” and Arthur couldn’t deny that sharing was not a skill Jamie had yet mastered.
Leaving the new babies wasn’t easy: Arthur knew, of course, that some babies were born in hospital, that there were reasons for them to be there - little Willow needed potions to help her lungs along, and Alicia said Katherine had a touch of jaundice - but Molly had always felt that the best place for a baby was at home. She’d put much of Ron’s early ill health down to his stay in St Mungo’s as a newborn, and even after Ginny had been born by caesarean section, she’d been home the very next day. Leaving her and their baby, even overnight, had been all but torture for Arthur. He didn’t know how Fred and George could stand it, let alone Angelina. But visiting hours were over, and the ward matron brooked no disagreement, so Hermione and Arthur took their leave.
They’d left Alfie and James in George’s care whilst they visited: a rambunctious toddler and a curious baby did not seem best suited to a ward full of newborns. “Do you think they’re alright?” asked Hermione as they approached the garish Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes frontage. “He won’t have fed them canary creams, or let them play with trick wands, will he?”
“Well, he hasn’t maimed little Lee yet,” pointed out Arthur, though, really, that was something of a wonder. He gave Verity, their shopgirl, a wave - she’d been with the lads for four years now, and she knew him well.
She waved back. “They’re in the workshop,” she called. “Go on up.”
“Oh no,” gasped Hermione, the colour draining from her cheeks. She turned and lunged for the stairs, taking them two at a time in her haste to see what George was doing to the children. Arthur followed at a more sedate pace, taking a moment to admire her rather delectable bottom in her figure-hugging jeans. Without so much as a knock, she flung open the workroom door, almost smacking into a pile of crates just inside.
“Steady,” murmured Arthur, flinging his arm out to stop her toppling. He cast an eye around the room, spotting Lee and James on a blanket on the floor, playing with the blocks he’d given Lee for his first birthday, the ones with numbers and shapes. And Alfie - Alfie perched on George’s knee at the workbench, George bent over what looked like the accounts whilst Alfie flicked through a book, one of the cardboard ones designed to withstand unco-ordinated baby hands, the kind with patches of soft fur and crinkly spots for them to explore. The commotion made him look up, and Arthur’s heart warmed as he dropped his book to hold out his chubby little arms towards them, gabbling.
George grinned. “This little man’s his mother’s son,” he informed them. “All he’s wanted the whole time is a book - any book. It took a bit to get him to give me back the paying-in book for the bank.”
“Oh, yes, he’s a little bookworm.” Stepping around Hermione, Arthur took Alfie from George's knee, and nothing could compare to this feeling. No joy in all the world could be greater than lifting one’s own child into your arms, feeling their soft warmth as they snuggled close. Was there a more pure thing in all the world than a baby’s trust? He glanced up at George, and the love was tinged with pride: he’d done well, he decided. He’d done well, to make this lovely family. “Your little girls are a delight,” he said, and had the pleasure of watching George swell with the same pride Arthur felt.
“Aren’t they?” said George. “And we never thought we’d get one who… well, looked like us, you know? With the red hair and everything! No one’s even going to believe they’re twins - I was almost certain they’d be identical, because of, well, us. Like that strings thing you were talking about, maybe the strings are for twins.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” Cautiously, Hermione stepped further into the room, her eyes darting as if she expected to be turned into a caterpillar by some trap or jinx. “There can be a genetic predisposition to fraternal twins on the mother’s line, but not on the father’s. And identical twins are just a random fluke. A freak of nature.”
That made George snort out a laugh. “Thanks, step-mama!”
Pink flushed Hermione’s cheeks, almost the exact shade of the climbing rose on the west side of the garden at home, the one his grandfather had planted. Arthur did so love it when Hermione blushed: like most redheads, Molly had flared a deep crimson, but Hermione’s colour was something different. When he gave her pleasure, that rosy pink would spread down her neck and onto her full breasts, and there was little he loved more than her flush, even if it was currently borne of embarrassment and not delight. “I didn’t mean-”
George took pity. “I know,” he reassured, grinning as he slipped down from his stool. “I’m only teasing. Come on, then Jamie. Time for you to go and terrorise someone else.”
“Oh dear.” Arthur shifted Alfie onto his hip. “Has he misbehaved?”
“Let’s just say Alfie’s easier and leave it at that. Though I’d better get used to having more than one kid around in any case.”
Arthur cast his eye over the room. Fred and George had never been the neatest workers, but now that he looked, there was more chaos than usual. A few broken phials, a recently-scrubbed patch of floor. Half-finished product hastily shoved aside, a mountain of scrap parchment daubed with scrawls of wax crayon. “How about we take Lee for a few hours?” he suggested. “That’ll give you a bit of time to catch up with work, and then all three of you can visit Alicia and the twins for evening visiting hours, all together.”
“Are you sure?”
Reaching down into the playpen, Arthur scooped up Lee, block and all. “Of course I’m sure. Come and get him from Deerholme after visiting hours tonight.”
“Have I ever told you you’re the best?”
Arthur laughed. “Not lately,” he said, “though I’m sure I shouldn’t mind if you wanted to tell me now and again. Come on then, lads. Let’s go and leave your Daddy and your Uncle George in peace.”
“Well, that just sounds like I’m two people.”
Arthur grinned at his son as he put Lee down on the floor to get Alfie’s baby bag from the high workbench. “You should be used to that one, lad. You’ve pretended to be Fred as well enough times.”
***
They went to Burrow to fill the hour before Harry would be due home. Arthur didn’t like to admit it, but he missed the Burrow something terrible. His whole life had been within these walls: even when he’d been away with his parents in his childhood, the Burrow had been a constant, a base to return to. When he was at school, he’d returned each holiday - in fact, the first Christmas he’d ever spent away from this house had been the one when he’d been bitten by that awful snake. Each of his children had come home to this house, had taken their first unsteady steps somewhere within its bounds - he had no doubt that Alfie would follow suit very shortly. His eldest son had been married here; his daughter had left from this house for her own wedding.
After the war, he’d been determined to return the Burrow to what it had once been. It had been his tribute to the home Molly had made: each mending spell, each repaired step or ornament or roof tile a memorial to her. Leaving the Burrow, those months spent with Muriel - he could only have stood it with Molly by his side. Now, though: this self-imposed exile to Deerholme grew harder with every day. He knew it was the right thing to do, for James and for Harry, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t miss his own home keenly.
And the Burrow, he suspected, rather missed being lived in. It wasn’t just Boris, who had started to ignore them, or Chattox, who screamed like she’d been abandoned for a year when they dropped by each day to feed her. The ghoul banged like mad every time he heard them, but there was something more. Something lonely in the very fibres of the house. Even the photographs seemed to glare at him with annoyance rather than smiles.
Hermione had already begun sorting through the post left for them by post owls with no one to greet them with an owl treat or a scrap of bacon. The day’s Prophet , a circular from the Ministry regarding the recent spike in counterfeit floo powder. The Gringotts statements had arrived - she put the one for their shared account aside, for no matter how much he told her that it was as much her money as it was his, she always made sure he had it first. She opened her own, wrinkling her nose and setting it aside, already reaching for the next piece of post - a muggle brown envelope with her name scrawled on the front in spidery cursive. Arthur knew those envelopes: they contained Hermione’s monthly reports from the charity. “Come on, lads,” he said to Lee and James. “Let’s pop out to the greenhouse and you can help me see if the tomatoes are ripe yet.” Dropping Alfie's bag, he bent to give Hermione a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll leave you in peace, my love.”
Hermione only hummed in distracted agreement, but by now, Arthur had learnt not to be too upset by her preoccupation with work. His Hermione was a woman of passions - most people might not see it, but he knew. Her determination was beautiful - it might be frustrating when all she could think of was her work, but it was impressive nonetheless. And when that passion was turned to him… well. Those were not appropriate thoughts to be having around three small children.
She was still preoccupied when he came back in with three little boys and a basket full of salad vegetables. Lee had apparently forgotten his walking skills and had insisted on crawling, his knees and hands absolutely caked with muck, and both lads were sticky with tomato juice from the fruits that had suffered the consequences of clumsy toddler hands. A cucumber was snapped in two, victim to a squabble, but the lettuce was unharmed. “Everything alright, love?” he asked as he put the basket down, finding Hermione sitting at the kitchen table, her chin resting in her hands as she stared out of the window. “Hermione?” he repeated when she didn’t even seem to hear him, much less James and Lee babbling in some language known only to themselves.
“Hmm?” She looked up, her eyes glazed and unfocused.
“Is everything alright?”
“Yes, of course.”
She certainly didn’t sound like everything was alright. She didn’t look like everything was alright. “Something the matter at work?” Arthur tried to remember when the full moon was: he’d never been wonderful at astronomy, though he thought these reports usually came just after the full moon.
“No. Everything’s fine.”
The report, written in a close-crabbed hand, lay by her elbow. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the report as he popped Alfie into his little cushioned seat with the string of bright toys hanging above it.
“Erm… if you want?”
Arthur had no idea what he was looking for, really. He would love to say that he understood Hermione’s work - he’d spent a good chunk of his working life dealing with legislation, but he’d been writing it, and she spent her working days trying to pick it apart. And he’d dealt with such a limited amount, whereas Hermione’s knowledge spanned almost all areas of the law. On the welfare and needs of vampires and werewolves - well, they hadn’t been covered in his Care of Magical Creatures OWL, and Defence against the Dark Arts had only mentioned how one could kill them, not care for them. Even so, he couldn’t see anything that looked untoward in this packet. A budget, in the black. A note that someone called Benji had been rehoused to Northampton. An overview of potions stocks and a count of clients. And then, there, in the bottom, in a personal little note, Hermione’s colleague Eunice asked if they needed to make any preparations for Hermione’s return to work. “Oh,” he began, before an almighty crash and clatter behind him quite interrupted his thoughts. Whirling, he found the pan cupboard open, the contents spilling out across the flagstoned floor and two small boys at the epicentre, James’ hands over his ears and a sob already bubbling up, and little Lee’s eyes lit with delight as he shoved the pans about to create even more noise.
Alfie added his own started cry to the mix.
“Oh, lads,” sighed Arthur. “Goodness me, what a racket!” Dropping the letter and sinking to his knees, he gathered James up. “Lee, stop that, please!” He yanked an old saucepan out of reach of Lee’s little arms.
From behind him came another noise: a glance over his shoulder told him that Hermione had whisked Alfie away somewhere quieter. Arthur set to comforting James and trying to make a game of getting the pots and pans back into the cupboard.
Molly would have told them off for making a mess. She’d always said Arthur was too soft.
Too soft, and also a coward, it turned out, for he couldn’t even bring himself to mention Hermione returning to work. By the time he had Lee and James sorted and the pans put away, it was time to return to Deerholme for the end of Harry’s workday. Perhaps he should have taken her aside when Harry began a raucous game of tig in the garden before tea, but instead, he found himself saying, “I think I might visit Percy, if you don’t mind? To tell him about Katherine and Willow.”
Hermione, feeding Alfie whilst she read her book, only nodded, accepting Arthur’s kiss before he apparated to Godric’s Hollow.
It was, he mused, a perfect summer afternoon, the kind where even after the workday, the hours stretched out, filled with sunshine and possibility. On the green a cricket game was in full swing, and a gaggle of children swarmed over a climbing frame. Stopping at the fence, Arthur leaned his elbows on the weathered wood to watch them, letting the laughter of the children and the thud of leather on willow from the cricket wash over him as surely as the warmth of the sun washed over his face and warmed his neck. He should build a climbing frame at the Burrow, he decided, watching as a little boy in dungarees scampered across a rope bridge. In his mind’s eye, he altered the image: little Lee laughing as he climbed to the highest turret. Jamie sliding down that metal pole, and Sorcha picking her way delicately across a rope bridge. Alfie showing every ounce of the determination Arthur already saw in him as he learned to hang from the monkey bars or swing as high as he could on the old tyre. Willow and Katherine might be toddling around in the grass at the base, along with Angelina’s baby, whoever they would be.
And Molly? Would Percy’s little Molly be there too? Closing his eyes, Arthur tried to imagine that. She was just as determined as Alfie, but so very desperate to please - she hung on Percy’s every word. Would she be showing off her feats of strength and bravery, or kept back by Percy’s side lest she fall and hurt herself? Percy was so very cautious.
Arthur worried about little Molly.
She might grow out of it, he supposed. Experience had taught him that children who were two tended to have very fixed ideas of what they liked or did not; Percy more than most. Perhaps, in time, she’d stop looking to Percy for approval after every move and assert a little more independence of thought. But then again, he saw the same need for approval in Audrey, who treated Percy like the centre of the universe and the absolute arbiter of right and wrong. And if there was one thing Arthur firmly believed a person did not need, Percy least of all, it was being treated as a God. But he’d also long ago resolved not to meddle in the lives of others, and Percy might just reward any such meddling by preventing Arthur from seeing his grandchild, a prospect so awful it did not even bear contemplating.
Turning, Arthur wandered along the grass-verged road, his shoulder brushing against the thick green hedgerow until he came to the neat little gate to Percy and Audrey’s cottage.
It took a long time for his knock at the front door to be answered: he’d just decided that there was no one home when the door swung open to show Percy, still in his formal work robes and with his hair neatly combed. “Oh. Father. Hello. I wasn’t expecting you.”
He should have sent an owl. Or floo-called. Percy was a stickler for such things, but in his excitement at the new babies, Arthur had quite forgotten. He’d never have to make an appointment to visit Fred and George, or Ginny, or even Ron. Ron and Astoria had been gifted their home on their marriage, an old property with old wards, but on the very day they’d moved in, Astoria had taken Arthur aside and told him, in her quiet and gracious way, that their wards would always allow him, and that he would always be welcome, at any time, for any reason.
“I’m sorry,” said Arthur. “Is it a bad time?”
Percy considered this a moment. “No,” he said eventually, stepping back. “Come in. Molly is just about to have her dinner, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t.” Following Percy through the hall and living room, he found Molly at the small kitchen table, perched up on her special high seat. “Hello, there, poppet,” he said, rewarded with a beaming smile.
“G’da!”
Percy took a sausage from a baking tray, cutting it into bite sized pieces on a small plate already filled with a scoop of mashed potato and a little mound of peas. “Here you are, Molly. What do you say?”
“Thank you, Papa,” she lisped in her endearing childish way. She had a tiny knife and fork, perfectly sized for her childish hands. Sometimes, Arthur struggled to remember that she was mere months older than Lee and James: she seemed so advanced. Someone had once told him that magical children often developed a little faster than their muggle counterparts, but little Molly must be at least six months ahead of herself.
She was watching him with curiosity, as if wondering what he were thinking. He took a seat at the table and grinned at her. “Goodness me,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows in that way that usually entertained children. “Sausages! What a lucky girl you are - I do love sausages!
Molly carefully speared a chunk of sausage on her tiny fork and held it out. “G’da want it?” she asked, her sweet little lisping voice swelling Arthur’s heart. Oh, how his Molly would have loved this one!
“Stop playing with your dinner and eat it, please, Molly,” said Percy, but as he turned away to put a freshly cleaned pan into a cupboard, Arthur leaned forward to take a tiny nibble from the end of Molly’’s sausage. Molly giggled as he smacked his lips and Percy turned sharply, but by that time, Arthur had straightened and there was no evidence of his sausage-nibbling antics. He winked at Molly, out of Percy’s sight.
“No Audrey tonight?” Arthur asked.
“No.” Percy finished putting away the washing up and turned, one hand braced against the sink. “She is attending a concert - one of the children she taught before Molly was born has been accepted into a prestigious summer orchestra. He invited her to attend a concert in which he is performing.
“Oh, that’s lovely!”
Percy inclined his head. “She was quite touched, and we thought it appropriate for her to attend. He was one of her better students and is destined for a university course in music in the autumn.”
Arthur stole a pea from Molly’s plate, pinching it between forefinger and thumb, leaning back to drop it into his mouth from height, smacking his lips and licking his fingers as she giggled at him. “Oh, that’s lovely. Will he go to the same music university as Audrey did?”
“Please don’t eat with your fingers around Molly,” said Percy, pursing his lips in disapproval. “Or take from someone else’s plate. We’re trying to teach her that it’s not proper.”
“It’s perfectly normal for little ones to eat with their fingers, Percy. It’s how they learn about food - picking it up and sniffing it and mashing it up before they put it in their mouths. Food, and everything else.”
“We prefer not to encourage behaviour like that.”
There were, Arthur decided, some battles that may not be worth fighting. Percy had been such an exacting child: the only one not to stuff everything he could find in his mouth. Percy had hated touching food - he’d picked up the use of a spoon by his first birthday. He’d been fastidious in so many ways - hating it when there was porridge or mashed swede on his hands or his face, refusing to play in the mud like the others. He and Molly had liked to joke that Percy had potty trained himself, but it was really hardly a joke - Percy had learnt very early on to make it clearly known when he needed the loo. Perhaps little Molly was just the same - it hurt Arthur’s heart to admit that he didn’t spend nearly enough time with her to know.
But then again, maybe she wasn’t. As he watched, she picked up a pea in a pincer grip and offered it to him with an endearing smile. “No, Molly,” chided Percy. “We don’t play with our food.”
Molly dropped the pea onto her plate, looking crestfallen. Guilt coiled in Arthur’s stomach: he’d never meant to get the poor mite in trouble! “They’re only little once, Percy,” murmured Arthur. “She’s just a baby. Let her be a child - there’s plenty of time to be a grown up later. Enjoy the time you have with her now, because it’s never going to come around again.”
Poor Percy was growing progressively redder and redder, an angry flush creeping up from the stiff collar of his robes. “Did you come here merely to criticise my parenting?” he asked through clenched teeth. “Because, if so, I’m sure I can think of a few instances from my own childhood which were less than perfect-”
“Of course not!” Arthur sucked in a horrified breath. “Goodness me, Percy, love, no.” If Percy began on the injustices of his early years, they’d be there all day, and Arthur didn’t want little Molly to see that. Besides, Percy was a good father: attentive and loving. He wasn’t perfect, but then, what parent was? Arthur had no interest in pointing out the splinter in anyone’s eye. “You’re doing a wonderful job - she’s a lovely little girl, aren’t you, poppet? It’s just that I don’t want you to be too hard on yourself, too hard on her.”
“I am precisely as hard on her - and on myself - as necessary.”
This had not been what Arthur had intended from this visit. Just where had he gone so dramatically wrong with Percy? How did he meet resentment and finger-pointing at every turn? He knew his children hadn’t had a perfect upbringing - what child had? There had never been enough money after Bilius went and got himself blown up, but what was there to do about that? There had been enough to feed and clothe everyone, and there had been so much love. They’d given all the children as much love and affection as they could cram into the day. Percy had received no less than anyone else - or if he had, it had only been because he preferred to be in his room, and they hadn’t wanted to make him uncomfortable by forcing him to be around his more raucous siblings. Taking a deep breath, Arthur reminded himself of the purpose of his visit. “I only came to tell you that Alicia has had her babies,” he said. “Two little girls, absolutely lovely. They came a few weeks early, so they’ve got to stay in St Mungos for a few more days to have some potions and so the healers can keep an eye on them, but they’re doing well. So is Alicia.”
Percy gave a tight little nod. “My congratulations to them.”
His voice was so very flat, so very disinterested. These were his nieces, and yet he didn’t so much as bat an eye, let alone ask to meet them! It hurt to think of anyone not loving little Willow and Katherine, especially their own uncle! More than anything, he and Molly had dreamed of the day their family would expand, being surrounded by the joy of grandchildren. Molly might not be here to enjoy it, but Arthur was determined to build that future they’d dreamed of together - their family, whole and united. “Percy, love…” Arthur trailed off. What to say? He looked at his middle son, remembering his sweet childhood nature. How eager he had been for a word of praise. How careful, how precise and trustworthy. That child had not been cold and distant. That child had not turned away from affection. “Percy, love, how are you?”
“Well, thank you.”
Arthur had said those words often enough in just that way to know that they were a lie. “No. How are you really?”
But Percy brushed him off. “I’m fine. Molly, are you finished? If you’re not hungry, you don’t need to eat any more.”
Molly regarded her half-finished plate. “Done, Papa,” she decided, and Percy nodded, taking her plate over to the sink before lifting her out of her special seat.
“Time to wash your hands. You’ve got food on them.”
Arthur watched as Percy conjured up a stepstool at the sink for little Molly to stand on, helping her thoroughly soap her little fingers, rinse them, patting them dry with a towel. Percy really was an excellent father - Molly was clean, fed, well-behaved and clearly very loved. She adored Percy, and Arthur had never seen anything less than quiet patience in Percy’s parenting. He was free with praise and Molly seemed to love nothing more than his admiration. Even now, she turned to him, putting up her arms and he picked her up without the slightest hesitation, settling her on his hip.
In some things, at least, he was willing to allow her to be a child.
“How about Audrey?” Arthur pressed. “How’s she holding up?”
“She is well.” Percy cuddled Molly a little closer, kissing the top of her head. “Please, would you excuse us? We always spend some time reading before bathtime, and it is getting on a little.”
What else could he say? Standing, Arthur gave a curt nod. “Of course. It was lovely to see you.” He chucked Molly beneath the chin. “And you, precious girl. Granda always likes to visit you.”
Percy was already reaching for the handle of the front door when Arthur decided he could not let it lie. He reached out, taking Percy’s shoulder and feeling his son stiffen beneath the fatherly touch. “Percy,” he said, low and urgent, “I’m sorry. I can’t not say anything. I’ve … I’ve lost two babies before they were born, and I feel their loss every day. I know you’re not fine, because thirty years on from the first little one I never got to meet, I’m not fine.”
At first, he thought Percy would rebuff him. That he’d just open the door and bid Arthur a pleasant evening. But then, he said, very quietly, “We’re… coping.” For the first time, his voice wavered - just slightly, but the emotion leaked through.
How Arthur longed to take his son and his granddaughter in his arms, squeeze them up and tell them it would all be alright, that they didn’t need to worry, for he would solve everything. But this was not something that could be solved, not by anyone. He couldn’t pretend to know God’s will in these things, but he also knew that no mere mortal could act against the Almighty. Comfort, though - comfort was in his power as a human. “I know. I can see that, love. You’re doing so well. But you don’t have to cope alone. I’m here - we’re here, all of us. Talking can be a great help, you know. And I do understand, really, I do. I’ll always listen, Percy.”
Percy turned away, ducking as if to hide his face. “There’s nothing to be done about it. These things happen.” In his arms, Molly babbled, reaching for Percy’s cheek and patting it. Such a sweet girl!
“They do,” agreed Arthur quietly. “But that doesn’t make them any easier. And if I were a gambling man, I’d happily lay a bet that you’ve been doing everything you can to make sure Audrey has everything she needs and pushing all your own feelings down to be strong for her.”
“She needs me.”
“She does,” Arthur agreed, wishing that Percy would face him, would talk to him properly! “You need each other. Goodness knows, I couldn’t have done it alone, and no one should be alone in this. The two of you are the only ones who can understand each other’s grief. But there’s no shame in needing more, Percy. There’s no shame at all in needing help, or time, or comfort.” He hesitated, wary of sharing something that felt so very personal, or very precious. But if he could not share this with his own family, what did that say about him? “There are two flowering bushes in the garden at the Burrow,” he murmured. “I call them Isabella and Persephone. They’re there to remind me of the little ones I never got to meet.”
Percy was silent, nothing but the tight set of his shoulders to give away how he felt. “Papa?” said Molly again, her little hand against Percy’s clean-shaven cheek. “Papa sad?”
Percy took a heaving breath. “A little sad,” he agreed, and he finally turned towards Arthur. His eyes were suspiciously bright. “I gave Audrey a necklace,” he said quietly. “With a star pendant, to mark the loss. She hasn’t taken it off since. I wasn’t sure if… if it was the right thing to do. If, perhaps, it wouldn’t be best to just put it from our minds.”
“I think you did just right. The necklace is a lovely idea.”
Giving one decisive nod, Percy looked down at Molly. “How would you like it if Grandad read with us this evening?” he asked, and Arthur’s heart melted as Molly lit up. Even if he’d wanted to, he could not have denied that face anything at all!
“Goldilocks?” lisped Molly.
“Oh, I don’t think I’ve read that one,” said Arthur. “I would like that a great deal.”
It might not have seemed like much - he’d read to all the others a hundred times - but from Percy, it felt like an olive branch, and Arthur couldn’t help but grin as he followed Percy and little Molly back through the house to fetch her book.