A/N: Written for the Big/Lil Sister Competition on HPFC, using the prompts Fred Weasley, red and cold.

Go check out this fic's sister on DobbyLovesSocks' page!

"My baby," she murmurs, and the words are clunky and painful, catching in her throat and tearing their way out of her mouth, falling heavy into the dusty, empty space that shouldn't be empty at all. "My baby, my little boy."

She cries and cries until her weak knees crumple beneath her and her husband's warm hands take her home and tuck her into bed.

She wonders if she should feel guilty for hoping she doesn't wake up.

Arthur makes her too many cups of tea.

She keeps letting them go cold, finding half-empty mugs dotted around the house and weeping, because half cuts a little too deeply.

"Tea, love?" he asks, flicking his wand towards the kettle. He stands in the kitchen alone, the dull morning light casting shadows across his face.

"When did we get so old, Arthur?" she asks quietly. "I don't remember growing up."

The kettle bubbles soothingly, and Arthur folds and unfolds the tea towel in his hands as he tries to think of an answer. There isn't a right one. They both know this.

"We could – we could never be old enough to handle this," he chokes out finally. "You know that, don't you?"

"I just wonder if – when did he – ," she stutters, feeling her throat tighten.

Arthur stares at her, waiting. His face is creased as the robes of orphaned children, the whites of his eyes as pink as dying sunsets. Molly chokes back another sob.

"He'll never have wrinkles," she manages, and it's silly and childish but she feels the weight of it hang between them.

"At least he'll never go bald," Arthur says with a shaky smile, and Molly's watery chuckle echoes around them as the kettle screeches.

"Tea, love?" he asks again, and this time she nods.

She leaves it by the window, completely full, and watches until the steam stops rising.

It is never easy to see his name etched into stone, to stand before the freshly tuned earth that covers him.

"I should've stayed with him," George whispers hoarsely. "I should never have left."

He has the look of a haunted man, the shadow of death lingering beneath his too-dark eyes, and she reaches for his hand. His fingers are cold in hers.

She glances to the empty space to his left.

"This isn't your fault," she says sternly, her voice almost as rough as his. "You can't blame yourself for this."

It's my fault, she thinks, for putting my family in the middle of a warzone.

"If I had stayed – " he croaks.

"Shhh, now." She pulls him down, buries his face into her shoulder and lets him cry.

(Tonight, she knows, Arthur will do the same for her.)

The days bleed into each other and her children are far too quiet.

"Tea, love?" Arthur asks her again.

"No," she whispers, hands shaking.

"Sorry?"

"No," she says, louder this time, voice growing shrill. "No, no, I don't want any bloody tea, Arthur! I want my – I just want – I want my son. I just want my boy."

The room has gone silent. Ron and Ginny stare at her hesitantly, hands poised over a game of Exploding Snap. Percy blushes in the corner, his eyes just visible over the top of his book.

"Molly," Arthur says quietly, and steps towards her slowly.

"It's m – my fault," she says, her face falling into her hands, her body heaving with the sobs she can no longer hold back. "I should have – should have saved him, should have k – kept him safe."

"Molly, please," Arthur begs, folding her into his arms. "Please."

One breakdown and three cups of tea later, she is sitting on their bed and staring at nothing. The third cup of tea is still in her hands, its heat bleeding through her fingers and its steam fading against her chin.

"You can't go around blaming yourself, you know," he says from the doorway. "We can't all blame ourselves. It was nobody's fault."

"I know," she whispers, and feels the bed shift as Arthur sits down beside her.

"I know how – how easy it is to think this is our fault, Mols," he says, resting his hand on knee. She hadn't realised she was shaking so badly. "All the – the bloody what ifs and whys, they'll be the death of us. He died bravely. He died fighting for something he believed in. He died because he did something.

Because he's a hero. Our son's a hero, Molly. And he would never want to see you like this, see you blaming yourself for a spell someone else cast. A hero's mother doesn't blame herself for failing her son. She prides herself in the fact that she was strong enough to raise someone even stronger."

He presses his lips to her temple and she can feel the tear stains on his skin, the shakiness of his breath against her cheek.

"He was a hero," she says. "But he didn't have to be."

"No, no, he didn't," Arthur says softly. "But he wanted to be."

He takes the mug from her hands gently and stands up.

"Tea, love?" he asks, and she doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

She holds a piping hot mug in her hands, relishing in the burn.

"I'm sorry," she says to no one. "I didn't mean it."

She can almost, almost hear his deep chuckle. His Mum, you know it's not your fault. His the birds will flock to a war hero. His I love you.

She leaves the empty mug on the kitchen counter.

Tomorrow, she thinks, will be easier.

Today, she watches the hands of the clock on the kitchen wall and wonders what to do with the one that has fallen off. It shines silver in the low light, and she sees his name glint in the darkness.

Her fingers close around it, squeezing hard enough to cut.

She slips it into her pocket and promises him silently that she will always keep him close.

Arthur wanders in, still in his pyjamas, eyes sleep-heavy and thinning red hair sticking up haphazardly. He smiles, a lazy grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Tea, love?" she asks, and he can't help but pull her close and kiss her.