To accompany this picture: http: / / 42isthemeaningoflife. deviantart .com /art/Halfway-Out-of-the-Dark-295926924, which I coloured in paint (remove the spaces). The original drawing isn't mine.

…

Molly Weasley descended the steep steps into the grim basement kitchen of number 12 Grimmauld Place, stifling a yawn as she drew her dressing gown in around her to fend off the chill. It was nearing 2 o'clock in the morning. Everyone else was in bed, warm and safe and dreaming. Everyone, of course, except one.

Jaime sat hunched in a chair at the long kitchen table, her head looking about ready to droop down onto her arm and stay there for several hours. A small tea light candle was flickering in front of her, and she was looking at it with a burning concentration, one of her delicate little hands reaching out as if to touch it. A few more inches and she would burn herself.

"Jamie?" Molly called softly, and the 15 year old girl stirred, drawing her hand back as if she was suddenly aware of what she was doing. Tired green eyes that belonged on a much older person surveyed the mother of seven.

"Mrs Weasley?"

"Are you all right, dear?" Molly asked kindly, moving closer to the table. She already knew what the answer was going to be.

"I'm fine," Jamie mumbled as she rubbed at her tired eyes, but she looked everything but fine. There were deep lines under her eyes and her posture was that of slumped desolation. Mrs Weasley frowned in disapproval, but held her tongue.

"Couldn't sleep? I was just coming down for some warm milk myself," she said in a would-be cheerful voice. The truth was that she'd had a nightmare, but she wasn't about to tell Jamie that. The poor girl had enough on her plate already, and hardly deserved to have Molly's troubles dumped on her as well. "Tell you what, I'll make some hot chocolate, and then we can both head up to bed," she suggested.

Jamie nodded in response, as though it was an automatic action. "Thank you," she said somewhat robotically.

Molly walked over to the kitchen counter and began pulling out the necessary ingredients. While doing this, she threw a concerned look over her shoulder at the girl she considered to be her eighth child. Jamie had once again resumed her study of the candle, her face half-bathed in its light while her bottle green jumper was set in darkening shades. At that moment, the illumination seemed to represent the child's entire existence; half way out of the dark, and the weight of the world on her shoulders.

And there was nothing Molly could do about it.