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Molly Weasley had not been as heavily involved in the fall of Voldemort as her sons had been, but she most certainly played her part and most certainly suffered similar consequences. The Burrow had become a home to many wizards who were not related to Molly by blood, but who were regarded in much the same manner and treated as such. Ever since she took in the Potter’s child, it had become harder to turn away other such children whose parents had been lost to the Death Eaters.
Her children had all but moved on with their lives; Ronald and Hermione lived in the heart of London, and of course were the neighbors of Harry and Ginny. Percy, Charlie, and Bill had lives of their own long since before she had sent Ron off to Hogwarts. Which left George. He had suffered much, and only Molly was privy to the way his heart was hurting.
He had taken Fred’s loss the hardest, of course, and he had confided one evening to Molly that he believed Fred to have been the better of them. She had tucked him to her chest and held him until his crying put him to sleep, then in the morning she made up his favourite meal for breakfast and told him that there was no way that Fred would have agreed with that.
Even though Molly and Arthur Weasley’s children had mostly flown the coop, the Burrow remained just as lively. She had George to thank for that. It had become a sort of home for lost children in the aftermath of the war. For some, it was simply a rest stop until their guardians were found. For others, it was a strange limbo where they could simply mourn in a safe environment.
Either way, the Burrow was filled with children of all ages; the youngest, Macy, had taken to hiding in the hall closet on the second floor just before bedtime. Molly had never been able to coax her out and neither could Arthur. It was always George. He would sit with his back against the door and he would talk in the softest voice Molly had ever heard from her mischievous boy. He would tell her about Ginny and Harry Potter, or about Peeves from Hogwarts, and after the second story he would have a drowsy Macy curled up in his lap. Molly would always fuss over the two of them, but George would give her a tiny smile that looked like he was barely keeping himself together and so she would let him be. Macy always slept better when George tucked her in, she had told Molly so herself.
Sometimes though, George would need time to himself. Molly always knew when the day was going to be a quiet one because George would shuffle into the dining room still in his pajamas and deep bruising under his eyes. He would sit in his place and Molly could see the exact moment his insomnia-raddled brain remembered where his missing piece was. He would stare at the clock for the longest time, and this haunted glaze would come to his eyes- like he carried the weight of the world on his back. Then Arthur would settle a firm, but gentle hand on his shoulder and George’s gaze would flick to his right wrist where the hand of a clock had been bent so it could be worn as a bracelet. George was never without it.
It was on these days that Macy would find her hiding spot occupied. To be fair, Molly may have stopped using it as a closet not long after Macy had come to the Burrow, and instead lined the floor with pillows that would magically fluff themselves and stocked the shelves with the fluffiest blankets that always smelled of fresh washing. Molly also used some enchanted fireflies to keep the space gently lit.
This day was the quietest one in a while. It made her feel uneasy, and there was a tension in the air that she could almost taste. Molly had yet to catch a glimpse of George and it was nearly noon; she could see Macy outside through the window in the kitchen. The young girl had taken over Molly’s garden and every clear day they got, the child was out there, up to her elbows in the soil. Pomona Sprout would certainly have fun with that one.
Lunch was nearly done- all that was left was to bake the shepherd's pie- so Molly decided she would go up and check on George. It was likely he was taking the day to himself; Molly didn’t really know what he got up to in that closet, but she didn’t think it was her place to ask. She wasn’t sure George would tell her, either. She made her way up the steps to the second floor and navigated to the closet that wasn’t a closet anymore. The door was closed, though it was rarely open anymore, so she knocked softly.
“George?” She called softly, “sweetheart, are you in there?”
Molly was unsurprised to be answered with silence, so she twisted the handle and carefully pulled open the door. George slumped from inside and landed in a heap at her feet, like he had fallen asleep leaning against the door- she remembered when he used to do that as a young child, hoping to snag some extra sweets and instead falling asleep against the kitchen door. The sight of George looking so peaceful in slumber warmed her heart and she let out a little sigh.
“What are we going to do with you?” She murmured, kneeling to rouse him.
Molly paused though, her hand hovering just inches from George’s shoulder. The sensation of her stomach rolling told her something was not quite right, and her attention was caught by a sudden oddity that she couldn’t help but lean in to inspect it. She frowned, then tilted her head one way and then to the other, lifted her hand and almost grazed the lobe of George’s ear with her finger. She gasped sharply and yanked her hand away as if she had been burned. George’s ear!
George’s form twitched and jerked something violent, and Molly recoiled from him so sharply that she hit the opposing wall with a loud bang! Her ears were ringing as rigid limbs worked to gather the body beneath him and she could hear someone’s muffled screaming, but the sheer terror clawing through her chest kept her frozen to the spot. Later, Arthur would tell her that the screaming had been hers and that he had never heard her make a sound like that before, and when they had gone to bed that evening she could feel that he was shaking just as much as she was.
The heavy steps of someone rushing up the old stairs pushed through the thick fog of panic weighing her down, then suddenly Arthur was standing in front of her and pointing his wand.
“ Riddikulus!”