It was one of those white, snapping cold mornings that sometimes occur in January. In a small, cottage-ish house, outside of a small village ninety-nine percent of the worlds population does not know the name of, two people were waking up to the smell of pancakes cooked by a woman with long, bushy brown hair. She was, of course, using magic to cook the pancakes -- otherwise those same two people would have woken up to the small of the house burning down. The two people still in their beds were aged three and twenty-three, had the same fiery red hair, and thousands upon thousands of freckled. The only difference between them was that one was a man and one was a young girl.

The woman came into the her and the man’s bedroom, to persuade him to get out of bed.

“Ron! Pancakes! And the Ministry has already sent you two owls!”

After promising to get up within fifteen minuets, he was left alone. She next came to get the toddler up, much to the girl’s protests and kicking.

They were on their second helpings of pancakes when there was a tap at the window. For the third time in the past hour, an owl was perched on the sill, patiently trying to get the family’s attention. The woman jumped up from her chair to let the bird in. The woman detached the scroll from the owl's leg, while absentmindedly feeding it some pancake. Seeing the parchment was addressed to Mr. Ronald Weasely (which really wasn’t all that surprising), she handed it to the man. He opened it, scanned the contents quickly and set it down. He then turned to the woman.

“Hermione, the Ministry needs me to leave for a week or two. It’s urgent. They’ve heard that some Death Eaters have a hideout in Peru, and have already devastated the nearest towns. I’m going there with Smith and Hawkins, remember those two aurors that trained with Harry?”

The women bit her lip.

“Yes, I remember.”

Though this kind of thing happened rather often, she didn’t like any more then she used to. Ever since Ron had gotten into the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, he was almost never at home for more then three days straight. She never said any of this out loud, though.

“Do send an owl if you need anything.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

After much packing, unpacking, and re-packing, the man was finally ready.

As he stepped out the door, no one knew it would be the last time anyone saw him for ten years.
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Molly Weasley was frantic. She had not heard from her youngest son and his wife for nearly four years, despite her best efforts. She felt as if she had searched the whole planet three times over since they had gone on their honeymoon four years ago. And never come back.


It was if they had fallen off the face of the earth.

It was a warm, October morning, fresh and crisp. Mrs. Weasley was already in the kitchen, flipping pumpkin pancakes and getting ready to bake pies that afternoon.



The Burrow was awfully quiet. What with Bill and Fleur in Egypt, Charlie and his wife Emmy in Romania, Percy still not talking to them �“ Mrs. Weasley wiped a tear from her eye. It hurt her that her third son had still not made up with the family.



And then Fred and George were in their shop, Ron and Hermione were missing, and Harry and Ginny were in Brazil, so the Burrow hadn’t seen much activity lately. Now, Arthur had rushed off to the Ministry (“You are retired, you know,” she had argued) and she was alone in the house.



As she sat down to her breakfast, a barn owl came soaring through the window.



“Why, you’re a post office owl!” She exclaimed. All her children owned owls, so they wouldn’t have to use the post office ones. Curious, she slit open the parchment and read:



Dear Molly,



I hope this gets through to you, but I don’t have much hope. I’ve been trying for years and haven’t gotten an answer. For some reason, every time I go outside our village, I get disoriented and can’t remember what I was going for. More if I see you.



I need your help. I can’t say anymore, in case this gets intercepted. Please reply as soon as possible.



Hermione



“Hermione?” gasped Mrs. Wesley. “Hermione Weasley?”



She needs help. And I don’t care what she says. I’m going to her.



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Using the return address on the note, Mrs. Weasley Apparated to a village ninety-nine percent of the worlds population does not know the name of. Walking up to a small, cottage-ish house, she knocked twice. On the second knock, a very thin, but still recognizable women cracked open the door. When she saw who it was, Hermione nearly screamed.



It was not, as she had expected, a muggle tax collector, or some solicitor advertising who knows what. Standing on her doorstep, of all people, was Molly Weasley.



But no, this couldn’t be. After Ron had disappeared, she hadn’t heard from any of the Weasleys or Potters. She had still sent out notes, to the Burrow, to Grimmald place, any- and everywhere someone might receive one. None, before now, had been answered. Yet, here her mother-in-law was, sanding plain as day on her doorstep.



Molly seemed to be harboring similar thoughts, even though she was the one who had knocked on the door in the first place.



“Hermione, is that really you?”



“Yes, Molly. Yes it is.”



And before either one knew what they were doing, they were locked in a tight embrace, which held in it the anxiety, sorrow, and finally joy, of the past four years. Tears were running thick and fast off of each of their faces, though no attempt was made to stop them. And at the same time, they were laughing, partially from the joy of the occasion and partially because they knew how funny they must look, standing on a cold doorstep in the middle of October, Hermione without a coat on.



And indeed, they were attracting quite a few stares from the neighbors, until good sense (and cold) prevailed, and Hermione invited the older woman in.



“Oh here, Molly, have a cup of tea, you must be freezing, I �“ ouch!”



“Let me do it, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley kindly. Hermione had never been very good in the kitchen.



After the tea was made, and Hermione had unearthed a tin of biscuits, Molly said:



“Now that we are comfortable, tell me the whole story. From the second Ron disappeared (she had been able to gather this from Hermione’s otherwise incoherent mumbling whilst she was digging in the cupboards for the biscuit tin). And don’t stop until you get to this very second. Please, of corse.”



So Hermione told her the whole story, from them buying the house to Ron disappearing to her surprise that one of her notes had finally been answered.



“Mum?”



A small face poked out from one of the doors leading off the kitchen.



“How do you spell �“? ”



Just then she caught sight of Mrs. Weasley and stopped short.



“Oh, Anna dear, come here. Molly, this is my daughter, Andromeda.”



The girl scrambled up onto Hermione’s lap, staring avidly at Mrs. Weasley.



“Hello, Andromeda. I’m Molly Weasley, your grandmother.”



Anna still was staring at Mrs. Weasley.



“Anna, be polite.”



“Hi,” said Anna in a small voice. “Grandma,” she added.



But Mrs. Weasley wasn’t really listening. A plan was forming in her mind.



“You know, Hermione, why couldn’t you come live at the Burrow? It’s probably safer then this house �“ we know that Death Eaters have been sighted not far from here. ”



“Oh, that’s very kind of you, but what if �“ what if Ron comes back, and no one is here?”



“Well, most likely the second place he’d look is the Burrow, and if you’re there then it’s only a bit of time lost. Nothing compared to four years, anyway.”



“Yes, I suppose you’re right. It does make sense.”



“What is the Burrow?” Anna asked



“It’s where Molly �“ your Grandma lives.”



Her next question was rather unexpected.



“Do I have any aunts or uncles?”



“Six uncles and three aunts, at last count,” answered Mrs. Weasley.



“Speaking of which, have you heard from Harry or Ginny lately? I’ve been really out of it, as far as family goes.” Hermione had been dying to ask this question.



“They’re in Brazil �“ Auror mission,” she added.



“Good for them. Well, I suppose that if we are moving to the Burrow, we should get a move on. I had a man offer to buy this house not to long ago for a vacation home. I’ll phone him back and get that settled, so we can move in about a month.”



Mrs. Weasley looked slightly perplexed about how you could ‘phone’ someone, but decided not to ask.



“Good, good. Arthur should be getting home right about now, so I’d better get back. Good rediscovering you! Bye, Anna!”



And with a crack, she Disapparated back to the Burrow.



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“But Mum, I like this house!”



“I know, Anna dear. But it is for the best. And it will only be for a little while.”



Actually, it would most likely be until Ron showed up, and since he hadn’t in the past four years, Hermione didn’t have too much hope for the next four, either. But it was possible.



Unlikely, but possible.

Hello. I’m Anna Weasley. You’ve heard of me, I‘m sure. I’m the one with famous parents, Ron and Hermione Weasley, and even more famous aunt and uncle, Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley.

I’m the one whose father left one day, and never returned.

I can’t remember Dad at all, really, but I like to think I can, using the stories I’ve grown up with. The one about the knocking out the mountain troll, drinking Polyjuice Potion, and The Complete and Utter Fiasco (know also as The Yule Ball). Plus my favourite--Mum and Dad's first kiss.

But no one tells those stories anymore. Or, not around Mum, anyway. She‘s turning into a complete nervous wreck, to be honest. Often, I’ll find her crying quietly. The first time it happened, I was shocked �“ my mother was usually so strong.


Ever since we moved to the Burrow, I’ve noticed that Mum‘s not as strong as she used to be, she‘s falling apart. Some days, she locks herself in our flat with a bottle of firewhiskey and doesn’t talk to anyone or come out or do anything. Grandmum Floos me to Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny’s when this happens.

(I don’t call either of them ‘Aunt’ or ‘Uncle,’ actually, just ‘Harry’ and ‘Ginny.’ They told me to when I was little, because they said that they thought it was peculiar for me to call someone my uncle when he wasn’t even related to me�“ Harry isn’t technically my uncle since he’s not married to Ginny. But they live in the same house�“they have for seven years�“ so we think of him as a relative.)

It’s as though Mum had only been strong in those five years we were on our own for me. Now that I’ve had other people to help me grow up, other people to be there for me, she doesn’t have to.

Mind you, sometimes Mum would still be Mum. We might go to Florean Fortescue’s, or to a fancy dress shop, or, more often, we would just hang out at the Muggle public library for hours on end. Even though I look like my dad (or, everyone says so), I inherited Mum’s love of reading and studying. I was always dying to go to Hogwarts.

I receive my letter right in the middle of my eleventh birthday celebration. Aunt Ginny is the first to notice.

"Anna! ANNA!" She is staring at a large-ish, square envelope, with writing in green ink on it's surface.

"What?" I have no idea what the heck this is about.

"It’s your Hogwarts letter!" A grin is slowly spreading across my aunt's face.

Instantly, people are crowding around me. Everyone except Mum.

*

It’s only after all my relatives�“to some extent �“ stop squeezing me to death, after Uncle Fred and Uncle George stop instructing me on a variety of different pranks (I assured them I know too many already) and Grandmum stops smothering me in kisses, that I notice who's missing. I don’t think anyone besides Ginny and I do. My aunt has this knack for noticing things like that. I excuse myself on the pretense of going to the bathroom and instead trek up the long expanse of stairs to our flat, a million different thoughts flying through my head. I knock once hastily before flying in.

"Mum?" I ask tentitivly. Sometimes she will blow up at me for coming in.

She’s sprawled on the bed, her face half-buried in the pillows. She had looked up when I came through the door.

"Oh, Anna." she says softly, but I can feel her pain. All too well.

She looks so tired, so defeated. "Congratulations," she says in the same quietly painful voice, with a watery smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

"What’s the matter, Mum?"

"You don’t want to know."

"Oh, yes I do," I assure her, sitting next to her on the bed.

Mutely, she hands me today’s Daily Prophet. Wondering what it has to do with anything, I take it and look. It’s open to the “obituaries” page. There, about halfway down, I see it:

‘Mr. Ronald Weasley, to this day having been missing for five and one half years, is proclaimed legally dead.’

I know no one has seen him for five years, and I know most people would say, ‘Well, of course he’s dead, isn’t that obvious?’ But somehow reading those words all solid and final in front of me, makes it undeniably true. My father is dead, and I can’t pretend otherwise.

I stand up my legs shaking, and throw the whole paper into the grate. There the flames lick greedily at it, destroying it. Mum joins me, both of us just watching the offending piece of parchment curl up and burn. I hear her sniff, and see that she’s crying. Suddenly, my eyes start to sting, too. And that's exactly how Ginny finds us, fifteen minutes later, standing side by side, watching the last remnants of a fire flicker and go out, tears running down our faces.

She joins us.