I originally wrote this for the Word Limit Competition but I missed the deadline. I couldn't get this image of Molly out of my head. Reviews are appreciated!

You stand at the kitchen window, staring blankly out into the yard, a fake wand-turned-rubber- chicken clutched to your chest. You may have been there all night, though you wouldn't be able to say so for sure. All you are really certain of is that you've been breathing.

Inhaling. And exhaling. You have to tell yourself to, because that's how you get through your days now. Sometimes it's all you can do. Because when you let your mind wander, all you can think of is the memory of a boggart imitating your deepest fear come true. And there's nothing Riddikulus about it. Nothing at all.

Because no one should ever have to bury their child.

You can't cry anymore. No amount of tears will bring him back. No spells or wandwork that will make this all go away. There's nothing in his Skiving Snackboxes for grief.

You feel your husband wrap his arms around you from behind. You lean into him for a moment, but that's all the acknowledgement you give. He understands and leaves for work. He knows you'll still be at the window when he comes home.

Breathe in.

You hear the door to the kitchen open and George comes in. It's always startling to see him now. The resemblance was once a nuisance. It was once a cause of confusion and the groundwork for the perfect pranks. It used to be comical. But now all you can see is the child you lost in your son's face. And you feel a little guilty. But you wonder what it must be like for George to look in the mirror.

You reach out for him and he embraces you and you realize you've been holding your breath. You forgot to remind yourself to breathe out. And when you finally do it feels as though you've been holding your breath ever since the twins turned seventeen. Because getting themselves killed always seemed to be their plan all along. If it wasn't this, it'd be something else. You don't find that comforting at all.

George holds you tighter and you sense he's shedding a few silent tears.

"I love you, George, dear. I'm sorry if I never told you enough before."

George laughs weakly and pulls away. "We always knew that, Mum. We'd take a Howler over a mushy 'I love you' any day."

You look down at the rubber chicken you still have in your grip. All the times you'd yelled about the number of O.W.L.S. they could have gotten. It seems so silly now. Fred couldn't take his three or four O.W.L.S. to his grave. Or a rubber chicken for that matter.

You shake the chicken in George's face playfully and said quietly, "You shouldn't leave these lying around, you know." You hold it out to him but he shakes his head.

"Keep it. I have plenty upstairs."

He places a kiss on your cheek and then walks out of the kitchen and you take your place at the kitchen window again, absentmindedly ringing the chicken's neck.

Breathe in…

Breathe out…

Let go.