Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.

Sometimes, in those first six months after the Final Battle, Molly wakes up crying at night. Arthur looks at her from behind his glasses, with some book of Muggle fairy-tales in his hands, and the light from gas lamp on his side of the bed flickers, and she knows that he hasn't slept all night. He puts down the book and wraps his arms around her, and she sobs into his shoulder. And he stokes her hair, like he did so long ago when her own brothers died.

"What's wrong, dear?" he asks, like it hasn't happened every night that week. Molly sniffs, and then she looks at him, chocolate eyes as sad as anything that has ever been seen.

She pauses, and then tells him, "I had a bad dream." And he simply nods, and she continues to cry and sniffle until she falls asleep on his shoulder.

But the words "bad dream" doesn't even begin to cover it. In those first few months after the Battle, the only thing she dreams about is the faces. She dreams that she's standing there, in the Great Hall, and that she's counting faces. She counts the faces of her children, every one of the Weasley children, plus Harry and Hermione, because they're as good as her kids. Over and over again, she counts the faces, and every time, she knows that someone is missing.

The more she counts, the more panicked she feels. That's only eight, but there's supposed to be nine. She doesn't know whose missing. So, she begins to match the faces with the names. Charlie, Ginny, Harry, George, Hermione, Ron, Percy, Bill. And so, for a moment, she feels relieved. She feels like no one is missing after all. But then she counts again and realizes that she's wrong. There's no Fred in her dream. But that can't be right, because there's George, and who has ever heard of George without Fred?

But this isn't right. There are only eight faces. There are only eight faces where there are supposed to be nine.

There's supposed to be nine.