tea in the kitchen
“I don’t think he knew he was allowed to ask for help,” Molly said softly, fingers curled around a chipped teacup. The Burrow’s kitchen was still, lit only by candlelight and the faint flicker of dying embers in the grate.
Arthur stirred honey into her tea without being asked. “You said he apologized for sweating through his pyjamas?”
She nodded, eyes wet. “And when I asked if he felt nauseous, he looked afraid to answer. Like being sick was something shameful.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened.
“I just—he’s twelve, Arthur. Just a boy. And no one ever taught him he could be one.”
Arthur reached across the table, covering her hand with his. “He’s learning now.”
She sniffed. “He is. Slowly. But I wish—we should have had him sooner. He could’ve grown up here, with toast and hand-knitted jumpers and someone to put a cloth on his forehead when he was ill.”
“You’re giving him that now,” Arthur said gently. “Maybe it’s not the childhood he should’ve had. But it’s the one he’s got now.”
Molly didn’t answer, but she squeezed his hand.