MollyWobbles

Unforgiveable (iii)

Think of something happy.

Playlist:
1. "The Culling" by Secession Studios (continued from last chapter)
2. "The Beast Within" by Secession Studios (when you see Arthur's arms limp at his sides)
3. "Hoppipolla" by Vitamin String Quartet (May 31, when Molly casts through the end of the chapter)

(CW: Themes surrounding Imperius, danger, and a slight bit around pregnancy.)

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Part V: Unforgiveable (iii)

Molly

April 14, 1981

She hunched over the sink, gasping.

Gideon and Fabian stormed around the dining table, yelling instructions, and Molly—Molly was sobbing into the—

Arty.

Arty.

Her insides felt pulled taunt to the snapping point, and it had to be him because she was here, and so were the others, and the clock even said—but every part of her cried, "Not Arty, no—Not—"

The floo whooshed.

Gideon stopped. "Weasley?"

Molly tore towards the hearth.

Arthur stood in front of the grate. Pale, drawn, but alive.

"Oh—" she choked. "Oh, Arthur, I was certain you'd—" She stepped close and wrapped her arms around his middle.

He was solid and real, and Molly cried into his worn, green cloak.

"Whatever happened?" she asked.

Silence.

Arthur wasn't holding her back. His arms were limp at his sides.

Oh. Oh, it must've been bad. Hesitating, Molly stepped back.

"Arty?" she whispered.

Arthur's eyes were flat and dull, and he stared at her like she'd asked him something impossible.

Slowly, Arthur settled his briefcase beside the hearth, then strode to the armchair.

He sat.

Gideon's face was white. "Molls," he whispered. "Molly, get the children."

Arthur's hands were trembling on the chair arms.

"Arthur," she breathed, then she stooped to kneel, reaching to place her hand over his. "Arty—it's—"

His hand was cold. Well, not cold. But not like it usually was.

There was only the faintest trace of sparks.

And when she tried to push some through, she met with a frigid, unyielding wall.

Arthur stared over her shoulder, at the fireplace.

Like she wasn't even there.

#

May 9, 1981

Arthur did the same thing, day after day.

He drank a cuppa at the breakfast table, fixed himself a single slice of toast without anything on it, then departed for the Ministry. Some time after dark, he'd return, sit into the arm chair, and stare at the fire until he fell asleep.

And even then, he did not move to the bed.

From time to time, he'd give a sharp jolt, then his arms would clench, fingers digging into the chair arms. But he never got up.