Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Harry Potter.

A/N: This was done for the Never Challenge over at the Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenge forum. It was difficult to write, as I never (ha!) write Molly Weasley, but I'm pleased with the result.

As usual, read and review!

"I will never bury one of my children again."

Such was Molly Weasley's tearful declaration as the funeral party entered the Burrow.

She dabbed at her eyes with a worn handkerchief, and managed to both glare and sob at the same time, surveying her remaining children with a fierce expression.

Unnatural silence settled thickly over the house that had once been so full of laughter, as eight people tried to adjust to living in a space that was accustomed to fit nine. Only true family was left; non-Weasleys by birth had left to give space to grieve. Harry and Hermione had departed to attend Colin Creevy's funeral, Fleur to meet her family's arrival in England.

They arranged themselves in the kitchen, the urge to stay together unable to resist. No one wanted to be alone now; grief was somehow easier to manage when there was someone to share it with.

Molly sat at the head of the table, Arthur at her side as she looked over her children with a possessive, loving eye. Percy caught her eye by chance and quickly looked away, stiffly removing his glasses and mechanically wiping away his tears. Charlie slumped over the table in abject misery as Bill gave him a bracing pat on the shoulder that passed as a hug between the two. Ginny sat cross-legged on the counter, hunching around herself, her scarlet hair muffling her tears. Ron leaned sat next to her, his long legs reaching the ground as he gnawed off a fingernail.

And George sat on the other side of his mother, the empty chair across from him looking more vacant than ever.

No one said anything.

Time ticked by loudly.

And Molly was compelled to speak.

"You are not dying before me, do you hear that?" she said sharply, her shoulders shaking with tears.

The Weasley brood exchanged blank glances.

How were they supposed to respond to that?

"Promise me!" Molly snapped thickly.

Bill eyed her with concern. "Mum…"

"Promise your mother," snapped Arthur, in tones so forceful that five heads had no choice but to nod in unison, murmuring various promises.

Only George did not promise.

Molly eyed her son with teary red eyes and said sharply, "George, you didn't say anything."

He avoided her eyes and roughly pushed his chair back from the kitchen table.

"I'm going to bed," he said hollowly.

Molly clutched at her husband for support, hands clenching the thin black fabric of his secondhand funeral robes.

"I can't lose another child, Arthur," she said, weeping.

"We won't," he replied. "I promise you."

And Molly would have to be satisfied with that.