date: 20th july 1979
time: 7 pm
location:
status: closed for @curioushearted
It’s amazing really, the way the Burrow reminded Gwenog of her own childhood home. Dozens of bits and bobbles , smelling like food and a rare coziness that her fancy flat in London could never attain. Hands smoothen the imaginary hair strands in her already tight ponytail. A feeling of comfort, it was easy for Gwenog to relax here. She’s always tense, overthinking and criticising. Frown lines and furrowed brows. A constant need for improvement. Alas, in the Weasley Manor she’s calmer than ever. “I haven’t had tea in a while.” She mused grabbing the cup with both hands. It was a consistent diet of coffee, water and the rare butterbeer nowadays.
What an interesting man, Arthur Weasley, was. He had remained unapologetic with his obsession with muggles and muggle-things. In truth, Gwenog found it amusing the way he looked all love-struck whenever he mentioned their technology. The quidditch player couldn’t help the way her eyes dulled at the mention of these things -she liked that batterball or was it baseball thing in America though- but she liked him enough to listen. Sometimes.
“You’re looking tired, Arthur. That’s what you get for having all those boys and no girls. ” It’s said in good humour. “How’s Molly ?” Eyes cast quick glance at a family picture. How sad that a family as sweet as this was caught in this war. She knew Arthur’s scars, cleaned up some of his wounds. After all that blood, he had all these children waiting for him. Did they know that every time he left, he could never come back ? Gwenog was an easy soldier. Sure, they’d cry. The Harpies would close her number, maybe a day of grieving in the papers and an annoyingly busy funeral with Daisy’s eulogy causing a couple of tears but at the end of the day everyone will be fine if she died. Gwenog had no one waiting at home. She wasn’t anyone’s home either. “Do you ever just get tired ?”
A loud crash echoes down from the third floor where Charlie and Bill are almost guaranteed to be whipping up some sort of mischief. Arthur doesn’t even wince at the racket. It’s commonplace at this point, and ever since Bilius — well, he’s been hesitant to discipline the boys as thoroughly as he used to. Leaving for a mission with sore feelings for any member of his family is something he tries to avoid if he can. So, he simply shakes his head and flicks his wand to wash up the dishes with a spell that functions, but isn’t nearly as sleek as Molly’s usually is.
“Not for lack of trying — it’s the Weasley curse, remember?” A small smile, then: “She’s doing better, thankfully... The worst is past, and the healer at St Mungo’s says that as long as she applies the salve regularly she shouldn’t have any scarring.” Arthur lowers himself stiffly into the straight-backed chair at the end of the kitchen table and takes a well-deserved sip of tea. He’s gotten little sleep or rest this week, what with Molly recovering from her burns, the number raids for falsely charmed safety amulets growing steadily and two Order stakeouts in the span of three days. Physical and emotional exhaustion cling to his bones.
But Gwenog’s here, and — well, a part of Arthur wants nothing more than to just pass out immediately and never wake up, but the other part of him is content to see a — a friend? He thinks so, but he’s not sure if she does as well. Either way, she’s welcome at the Burrow. Her question tugs a laugh from Arthur, who takes another sip from his mug. “Gwenog, when you’re the father of five boys, you’re always tired,” he reminds mildly, an easy dryness seeping into his voice. Then blue eyes soften slightly, humor dissipating into something more honest. “I think we’re all more tired nowadays. This whole... well, everything. It’s putting us through the wringer, as the muggles would say.”