Molly Weasley was not a woman that was easily phased. She had survived two wars, birthed and raised seven children, and seen the world go crazy a dozen times over
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She had grown sick that afternoon before lunch. Her sense of smell completely in overdrive, whatever it was they had decided to serve for lunch had made her nauseous before she even looked down at the plate. She had passed out, the odd sensation mixed with her empty stomach dropping her right down to the ground
( ... )
Molly wasn't entirely sure what she had been expecting. The image she had gathered up of Cecilia Jacobs, pureblood princess and Selwyn descendant and Slytherin queen, had her picturing a slightly indistinct version of Rosalyn, the tough-as-nails, sharp-tongued and class-obsessed girl with whom she had shared a classroom but split a cause back when they were children themselves
( ... )
From the moment George walked into her life, the one intimidating thing about him, the one thought that lingered in the back of her mind was the idea of one day meeting his family, of maybe being lucky enough to be able to. They had always been a representation of exactly what Cecilia never had. Even when they were younger, and the Weasley name was scoffed among Pureblood loyalists, Cecilia wondered what it would be like to have a mum that fussed over you while you were waiting for the Hogwarts Express instead of waiting there alone or with Toffee, the house elf holding her hand while Cecilia tried her hardest not to cry
( ... )
Molly clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth, a reactionary snap with which (along with, admittedly, liberal use of a much more piercing range of vocals and the occasional assistance of a threatening wooden spoon) she had, over the years, wrangled small armies and shushed table-side feuds and stopped entirely households in their tracks.
It was an equal-parts warm and cold, harsh and coddling, direct and vague sort of sound that always just managed to make it clear that whatever impressions you might have about being able to get away with whatever you were trying to get away with were entirely hopeless and wrong.
"Darling, I think you're in a position where you ought to be spared every hardship you can manage to avoid. I have seven children. And I've gathered that this is your profession. So let's not pretend you and I don't know
( ... )
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It was an equal-parts warm and cold, harsh and coddling, direct and vague sort of sound that always just managed to make it clear that whatever impressions you might have about being able to get away with whatever you were trying to get away with were entirely hopeless and wrong.
"Darling, I think you're in a position where you ought to be spared every hardship you can manage to avoid. I have seven children. And I've gathered that this is your profession. So let's not pretend you and I don't know ( ... )
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