Chapter Text
Ginny sat opposite her mother. It had never been the same. After the battle, a light had disappeared from Molly Weasley’s eyes. It did that to you: losing a child.
“Are you going to be alright here, Mum?” She asked. Ginny was going back to school for her final year. She had debated sacking it off completely. But she needed her education if she wanted to have a career and make her mother and father proud, and now, they needed all the joy they could get.
The Burrow had been reconstructed after the fire and almost everything was as it was. Except for the boys’ room. Where there had been two twin beds, there was now a solitary double. Molly never went in there. It was a painful reminder of everything that had been snatched away from her.
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry too much about me.” She insisted. But Ginny still worried.
Ron had stayed for the Summer, with Hermione and that had livened up the spirit of the house, but now he had to start his training with the Chudley Cannons and Hermione was taking an apprenticeship at the Ministry, leaving the house rather empty.
Bill and Fleur had set up a home near the dragon yard that he had taken a position at and suddenly, all of Molly’s children were gone. A house that had been bustling with chaotic energy, frozen in silence.
George had fled after the battle was over. Nobody had seen him for months. Ron had received a letter, detailing that he was working on a cattle farm deep in the countryside somewhere and he had reported the news to the family, who was simply happy that he was alive.
It was life-shattering, losing a twin, as if half of your limbs had been ripped from their sockets. Molly wished she could have helped, could have comforted George at this time. But, if he wanted to disappear to heal, then there was nothing she could do about that.
—
George couldn’t remember much after the battle. He could recall the light drifting from his brother’s eyes and then everything faded to black. He had told his family he would be home for supper, but he had started walking and hadn’t stopped for days.
At the time, he had no concept of where he was going, or what he was seeking. He just wanted to walk away, to flee from everything that had happened, as if he could run away from the grief that was chasing him down.
He had finally stopped when he had seen the rickety old sign of a dairy farm. He was unsure why, but he was called to take a rest and sought out the owner of the farm.
“I have nothing to offer you. But I have the head on my shoulders and my body to work.” He had offered and the man had looked upon him with pitiful eyes.
George had planned to stay a week, maybe two. But the farmer was rather grateful to have him around and the longer he stayed away, the more impossible it felt to go back. He knew they had all lost someone, but he had lost his person, the other half of himself. There was no way they could fully understand, no matter how they tried.
So, he had stayed indefinitely and he got as close to enjoyment as he was able when he tended to the cows and carried pails of milk. In the trials of labour, his mind fell blank and he entered a blissful state of ignorance, as if all that existed was the mud beneath his boots and the frigid sun on his back.
—
Fiona had been shocked when she had received a commission from a man in England. She had shown her paintings in one show in London, but apart from that, she was unsure where he would have seen her work.
She had travelled around after she had graduated from Beauxbaton. She had been nurtured to be a fine artist, training with some of the finest scholars in the world. Since finishing school, she had lived in Germany and Spain, spent some time in Egypt and painted many beautiful views of fine gardens and dunes aplenty.
She had returned home for a while, to her small village in Finland. No one there knew she was a witch, they were still a traditional people and the fear of burning at the stake made her family keep her secret and blame her boarding school antics on a ballet institution in France.
Her father poured her tea, he was a muggle, as was her mother. When a witch had arrived, pointed hat and all, to announce that Fiona had been invited to Beauxbaton, her family had been rather shocked. Their daughter, a witch? It seemed unfathomable. But, the witch, who later turned out to be Madame Malonde, the Head Mistress of Beauxbaton, performed the test on Fiona, she made unimaginable things happen and before they could insight fear in their village, they had sent her with the woman.
She had returned every break, but it had never truly been the same. Her younger sister was also a muggle and there was a whispering question of why she had been so very different.
“So, where will you be off to next time?” He asked her and she smiled down at the peppermint brew.
“England.” She stated firmly, before stirring the tea with a glance of her eye.
“Please Fiona, not in the house.” He pleaded and she sighed, nodding.
They wanted her to leave. She had been back at home for two weeks, but every time she stayed for longer they became restless. Their reputation was on the line and her staying in the house was enough to put them on edge.
She understood their concern, that was why she rarely came home anymore.
“I will be leaving in a few days. I’ll be gone for a year.” She told him and he looked up from his cup.
“A year?” He asked and she too had been surprised when Mr Broome had asked her to stay for so long. Usually her commissions lasted a month or two, until she finished a single painting. But, Mr Broome wanted a collection and his fee was good, better than most.
“Well, you look after yourself.” He reminded her and she nodded into her cup.
“I always do.” She muttered and their conversation was over.