She looked at herself in the mirror, at the mean crinkles that were appearing too soon on the corners of her eyes, at the withered curls of red hair that framed her round cheeks and pointy nose, and she sighed.
Molly frowned at her thirty-two-years-old self, looking for any hint that might indicate a maturation, a resignation to grow used to these times of panic and defiance, but found it very similar to her thirty-one-years-old self, or all of the preceding ones: wearing too strong hopes, wrapped in the conviction of the universal good.
She blinked furiously, wanting to avoid the apparition of Fabian and Gideon. It often happened in moments like this, when she sought comfort and oblivion in memories of better times. It left her drained and dry.
Yesterday’s mission with the order had been a total-
A knock on the door momentaneously distracted her from her anxiety.
Years and years of being a mother had taught Molly to hide her negative thoughts, and always present her bright smile to the outer world, for the sake of her children. This is why, when Arthur’s thin head popped up from behind the door, he found himself looking at his beaming wife. “Molly? Are you alright, darling?”
She had almost forgotten why she was looking at herself in the mirror.
“Yes, dear. I will come down in a few minutes.”
Arthur could tell that Mrs. Weasley was not alright, that his wife’s smile was not totally stretched, but her stomach probably was. He doubted that it was because her birthday party, as quiet and discreet as the family had wished it to be, had been postponed of one day.
Years and years of being a father had taught him that not bringing his observations forward was the best way of avoiding the creation of new wounds, or the reopening of ancient ones. So he said nothing.
The man was closing the door when Molly’s voice reached him,
“Is this- Is everything okay, Arthur?”
He didn’t need to look at her in the eyes to know that she wasn’t talking about the cake or the balloons. He just heard her shaking voice.
“Everything is fine, Molly... Don’t worry.” His tone was calm, his mind wasn’t. “I am here for you, for the children, and we’ll be just fine.” Her pause was too significant. “Them too, Molly. Them too.”
And the rusted hinges cried, the wooden panel closed, before Arthur decomposed his expression to fit the uncertainty and anguish he felt.
***
There was nothing in the air, not a single droplet of humidity, not a trace of candies nor sweets, not a bit of mystery or tension. It was a plain, boring night, with a thin slice of moon that was of no use to replace the broken bulbs of the light posts.
Halloween was supposed to be fun, according to Muggles.
‘Maybe not in a street where half of the inhabitants have lost their life in the past months,’ thought Kingsley.
This made his stomach drop.
Sitting at a desk, on a luxurious chair, with nothing to do but cross and uncross his fingers, was killing Kingsley Shacklebolt in the inside.
Still, he had no choice.
He looked at the dark street that ran through London, accompanying the line of similar houses that constituted his neighborhood, and inhaled a nervous breath.
No silver light in sight.
For a second, the man almost considered cheating nervousness: he started counting how many times those stupid, nocturnal flies would knock themselves out on the glass of his windows, attracted by the halo of his lamp, and then repeated their impossible try. He resisted until the regular, muffled thuds amounted to thirteen, then his patience implosed.
The wooden floor complained under his heavy steps as he made his way through the piles of books and magical instruments.
Still no silver light in sight.
But maybe he was worrying for nothing, like that time when the patronus came late because they had fallen asleep early, forgetting to send news. He had erupted in the cottage, wand in hand, knowing that it was maybe too late, but had just woken up a disheveled baby and his drowsy parents.
That must be it, he was worrying for nothing. Tomorrow, he would receive a very messy excuse that will make him laugh at his friend and his distraction.
Still, he knew -- he felt -- that tonight he would not sleep well.
Kingsley threw one last look outside, but he could only imagine the silver stag, because it was not there.
***
Her hands were pale and frail, but the sleeping infant that they were holding was even more.
Even after a year and so, Narcissa could not get used to holding this baby -- her baby -- in her arms. She was, as about everything in her life, afraid. Afraid to drop him, to feel him lose his warmness, to witness his lungs go still.
To have him taken away from her.
In what now was her everyday life, Lucius scoffed at her for being so frightened, the healers lost their patience trying to comfort her, her school friends slowly distanced themselves, annoyed by her obsession with her child.
They all blamed her for slowly closing her doors to the world, for leaving nothing of the lively teenager she had been.
Yet, none of them understood.
Draco was the only stable thing she could hold on to, the only thin thread that still attached her to that sense of security that she felt in her golden years.
He was the only blood family she had left, after Andy and Bella decided to desert the Family Manor, already empty because of the death of her parents.
He was the only person she truly loved, her affection for Lucius having disappeared when their wedding was arranged and she was forced her into it.
And, most of all, he was the only living person in this world that depended on her, that made her feel important, useful.
She shivered at the thought of what would happen to her, to her mental health, if this toddler was to die.
The clock struck eleven, a lightning ripped the dark ceiling of the Earth, and a long shadow stretched itself on the rich carpet, tearing a fearful cry from the woman’s throat.
The baby burst in screams and tears.
As she tried to calm him, and her beating heart altogether, Narcissa looked up at the sky.
She was alone in the house tonight, alone with Draco.
And Draco was not about to die. He was not threatened.
But another baby was.
***
The sky had broken open above Hogwarts, earlier in the evening, releasing its waters on the grounds and surroundings of the castle in a deafening cry.
Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, hunched over a stack of ancient parchments that smelled of mould and dust, his crooked nose flirting with the looping words and wavering images impressed on the yellowish paper. The Halloween feast, usually so pleasing, had not captured his attention much this year. Something had flown its way through his thoughts: the memory of a certain boy, whom he had last seen three summers ago, with pitch black curls and expressive eyes. Or rather, the memory of something this boy had mentioned, in a hurry, before disappearing forever, dissolving into vague memoirs and hardly remembered words.
A lightning struck, and Dumbledore felt that this night wasn’t right. Of course, none had been since the rise of the so feared student he once thought he knew so well, but this one was worse than the others.
Under the looks of his predecessors, who had stopped wondering about this singular man’s behavior since long, the headmaster distractedly swallowed another group of skittles. His beard was itching, and his purple cloak seemed too hot. If it hadn’t been raining, he was sure that the school would have been plunged in a troubling silence.
Another bolt illuminated the outside, creating agitated shadows from the dozens of curious objects displayed on the office’s shelves.
Definitely, this night was not right.
***
The teapot shattered on the ground, but the noise was completely covered by the thunder that had caused its collapsing. Grunting, Hagrid raised to clean the mess of brownish liquid and sharp pottery fragments on the floor.
Right as he thought he could go back to his chair, he heard a drop hit the wooden worktop of the kitchen. Placing an empty bowl under the point where he knew the roof was breached, he cursed at the last days’ treacherous weather.
As the water outside kept replacing the air, his thoughts flew to his friends, their hiding, and their chances of making it alive out of this war. Dumbledore’s plan was perfect, they were in security. They would surely hold on until the day when the Order would make the Dark Lord kneel.
Or at least, the Hogwarts groundskeeper wished so.
He opened the shabby curtains to peek outside, as if looking for a trace of hope in the darkness of the night. Even if he couldn't see it through the heavy rain barrier, the half-giant knew that the castle's land was not what it had been a few years ago, when he beamed at the sight of five boys and five girls chasing each other on their last day of school.
Another round of thunder shook the house, and behind him the bowl crushed on the kitchen’s concrete.
Nobody but Fangs heard Hagrid’s muffled prayer.
***
Fawkes, as always, felt it before anyone else.
If he had been a person -- used to think too much, as humans do, about things and logic -- he would certainly have thought that it could not be a coincidence that the sky was wearing the colors of mourning.
But the phoenix was not a person, and he did not think about things and logic when a few silvery drops rolled down its beak.
The first notes came out in a timid, respectful murmur, and, when joined by their louder, angry sisters, weaved a melody of pain through the monotonous rhythm of the night.
Followed by Dumbledore’s blue eyes, which shone with understanding and bitterness when his spectacles reflected a third lightning, Fawkes opened his colorful wings to perch himself on the windowsill.
Despite the thunder and the distance, despite the rain and the time, the inhabitants of Hogsmeade, the wizards from London, the people from all over the Wizarding World, felt in their chest the violence of the sharp, powerful chant.
Soon, too soon for the two souls that had lost their breath this night, but too late for the victims of the past years and fights, they all knew.
He had found them.