Anduin, as he had done every day since Molly's hospitalization, was focused entirely on the small, grounding ritual of preparing lunch. It was a domestic task, yet here at The Burrow, it required the precision of a military operation.
Today's centerpiece was a large, aromatic joint of roast pork, slow-cooked and glazed with a sweet apple-cider reduction, complemented by mounds of roasted potatoes and garden greens.
He used a silent Levitation Charm to hover the steaming platters above the massive wooden table, ensuring each dish was aligned perfectly over the waiting places. Bill, the eldest Weasley, who was only a year Anduin's junior, was helping him set the cutlery, moving with unusual deference.
All the Weasley children were remarkably obedient to Anduin. To them, he wasn't just a houseguest; he was the solemn, capable figure who had stepped into the breach when their mother had been taken by sorrow. Bill might still call him "Big Brother" out of habit, but in moments of quiet work, he was as compliant and focused as any young apprentice.
"Brother Anduin, you've completely outdone yourself this time! What glorious mountain of flavor are we conquering today?" Charlie, ever the most gluttonous and least restrained of the younger boys, was already sliding into his usual seat, his eyes fixed on the kitchen counter.
"You'll see soon enough, Charlie," Anduin replied, not looking up as he performed a complex, multi-target charm to ensure the gravy boat reached the center of the table smoothly. "Go call your brothers and Neville. And remember: no hands on the serving dishes, or we'll all wait an extra ten minutes before starting."
The children filed in quickly, a silent, subdued parliament of redheads. Augusta sat at the head of the table, offering a comforting presence. When the main platter finally descended, George, the naughtier half of the terrible twins, let out a tiny, involuntary gasp.
He stared at the huge, glistening pork ribs that were arranged in a bright, inviting red arc. Unable to resist the sensory pull, his hand slowly, almost unconsciously, began to creep toward the nearest rib.
"Ahem."
Anduin delivered a single, soft, but piercing cough. It was a sound that had been carefully cultivated over the last week—a quiet command that required no spell-work.
George's outstretched hand froze mid-air as if bound by an invisible cord. He swallowed hard, awkwardly retracting his hand, his eyes wide. He picked up his knife and fork instead, cutting a small, almost ridiculously polite slice of meat.
The twins, masters of controlled chaos in normal times, were now perfectly well-behaved in Anduin's presence. His rule was simple and unwavering: any infraction by one twin meant both sat silently in the corner for punishment, regardless of the true culprit. The strategy had proven terrifyingly effective.
The quiet atmosphere of controlled domesticity, however, was shattered mid-meal.
With a sudden, distinct click of the latch, the front door of the modest house swung open. The sudden, unfamiliar sound made the whole group of children—who had been eating with the unnerving stillness of well-disciplined automatons—look up in unison.
They exchanged swift, knowing glances, sensing something profound had shifted. Simultaneously, they scrambled down from the table, chairs scraping loudly across the wooden floor, and charged toward the entrance hall.
Anduin followed, wiping his hands on a nearby cloth. He reached the doorway just as the children enveloped the incoming group.
Molly Weasley stood in the doorway. She looked significantly paler and thinner than when she had left, and her eyes, though still red-rimmed with unshed grief, held a new, fierce light of relief and determination. In her arms, wrapped securely in a thick, woolen blanket, was a tiny, fragile bundle.
Her husband, Arthur, stood protectively by her side, his expression a mixture of profound exhaustion and quiet elation. Behind them were Frank and Alice Longbottom, wearing the satisfied, weary look of guardians who had successfully overseen a complex and perilous mission. After nearly a week of medical care and agonizing worry, Molly had finally returned home.
The scene that erupted was one of pure, unrestrained emotion. The children, those little devils who had been so unnervingly quiet, descended into a chaos of love. Some cried out, "Mummy! Mummy!" their voices thick with the trauma of separation; others clung silently to Molly's legs, burying their faces in her robes.
Molly, balancing her newborn daughter with the practiced ease of a mother, smiled a deep, comforting smile, her sadness momentarily eclipsed by the sheer, vibrant reality of her children.
Once the initial surge of reunion subsided, Molly looked directly at the Longbottom family and Anduin, her eyes glistening. "I don't know how I would have coped," she whispered, her voice still a little weak.
"Without your help—without your steady hands, Augusta, Frank, Alice, and most especially, you, Anduin—I would have broken completely. The grief for my brothers, the worry for my babies... it would have drowned me. You saved my sanity, and you guarded my children. We owe you a debt we can never repay."
With the children happily, noisily finishing their abandoned lunches—now with the added distraction of their tiny sister—the adults retreated to the sitting room for a moment of necessary quiet and somber planning.
"We've decided on a name," Arthur announced, gazing down at the sleeping infant in Molly's arms, his hand gently resting on his wife's shoulder. "We want her to be a symbol of everything we've managed to hold onto. We will call her Ginevra Molly Weasley."
"Ginny, for short," Molly added, her voice stronger now. "She is named, in part, for me, but her full name—Ginevra, the pure or true one—is our statement. She represents the pure, unvarnished hope that we must never let the darkness extinguish. She is the light that came right when the shadow was the longest."
Anduin nodded, deeply moved by their resilience. "A beautiful name, Molly. One that carries the weight of history but looks forward."
Molly then addressed the difficult logistics ahead. "Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall came to visit me at St. Mungo's. They were extraordinarily kind and helpful. They handled all the necessary arrangements for the funerals of my two brothers and the McKinnon family. The funeral is scheduled for a few days from now, and I want you all to be there, not just as friends, but as family. I promise, I will stand strong. I must—not just for Arthur, but for Ginny, and for all my boys who need to see strength in their mother now."
Augusta, Frank, and Alice assured her of their attendance.
The sense of a mission completed hung in the air. The Weasley family unit was physically whole again, a beacon of life in the face of insurmountable loss. They needed time now—time and space to let the relief and the grief settle into their new, difficult rhythm.
After exchanging final, heartfelt embraces, Anduin and the Longbottoms made their goodbyes. Anduin left The Burrow amidst the reluctant, mournful shouts of the boys, who were already missing his firm, comforting presence.
A few days later, the painful necessity arrived. Anduin donned a set of dark, unadorned wizard robes, the deep black fabric absorbing the harsh morning light. He quietly escorted the Longbottom family—Augusta, Frank, and Alice—to a quiet, well-maintained cemetery in the rolling countryside of southern England.
The decision had been made to hold a joint service. Because the Prewett brothers and the entire McKinnon family had fallen on the same day, in the same conflict, their surviving loved ones agreed that a single, powerful funeral was appropriate, though they would be buried in separate, private plots afterward.
As they arrived, a large crowd of wizards and witches was already present, their dark robes making them look like a congress of shadows against the green landscape.
The Weasley family, now numbering nine, stood solemnly off to one side—Arthur, Molly, and the seven boys, all impeccably dressed in dark, ill-fitting hand-me-down robes, their faces pale and drawn. Molly, holding baby Ginny securely, was an image of defiant, grieving strength.
Near them were the somber, unfamiliar faces of the McKinnon relatives. Anduin recognized Charlie Weasley's quiet demeanor even from a distance; he was gazing blankly at the caskets, his red eyes wide and vacant. When he caught Anduin's eye, the two exchanged a silent nod—a simple, heavy acknowledgement of their shared sorrow.
The gathering was a virtual roll call of the Order of the Phoenix. Anduin spotted the familiar, intimidating figure of Mad-Eye Moody, his blue eye perpetually swiveling, watching the periphery with paranoia even in this sacred place.
There was Edgar Bones, looking thin and haunted, and the imposing, bald presence of Kingsley Shacklebolt. Barty Crouch Sr. stood formally apart, his grief cold and official.
Anduin also noted two others he hadn't seen in a long time: Remus Lupin, looking worn and older than his years, and Peter Pettigrew, small and nervous, standing slightly behind Lupin, fiddling anxiously with the cuff of his robe.
Also present were Professor McGonagall and Rubeus Hagrid, who typically maintained a necessary distance from the war's violence to look after the younger students at Hogwarts.
The arrival of the Longbottoms caused a ripple of quiet acknowledgment through the mourners. They were all comrades-in-arms, bound by the terrible price paid that day.
Anduin immediately gravitated toward the comforting, familiar figures of the Hogwarts faculty. Hagrid, utterly devastated by the deaths of the good-natured and brave Prewett brothers, was hunched over, silently using a handkerchief the size of a tea towel to repeatedly wipe his tear-filled eyes.
"Anduin," Professor McGonagall said, her voice unusually soft, though her posture remained rigidly disciplined. She nodded gravely as Anduin approached. "Arthur told me everything you did for Molly and the children. Your concern, your simple, daily help—it was the foundation that kept her from shattering entirely. Thank you."
Anduin shook his head gently, the formality of the thanks feeling too thin for the gravity of the situation. "Mrs. Weasley is an extraordinary woman, Professor, and a remarkable mother. I am grateful I could be there for them. The speed with which she returned home and named the baby... it's a testament to her strength. I only wonder how long it will take them to truly recover from this double burden of grief and joy."
Hagrid let out a broken, shuddering sob when he heard Anduin's words, tears streaming freely down his enormous, kindly face. His voice was hoarse and thick with emotion.
"Oh, Marlene… and the Prewett lads! Such good, kind souls, always ready with a laugh or a fight. Why, why is the world so cruel to the best of us? Why is God so unfair?"
Anduin placed a comforting hand on Hagrid's massive arm. "Perhaps, Hagrid," Anduin sighed, his gaze drifting toward the newly dug earth where the caskets would soon rest, "death is only the beginning of another, different adventure, as the great thinkers of old believed. But for us, the living, our duty is simpler and more immediate. We must honor their sacrifice by ensuring that we do not cause any more suffering. We must fight with their memory in our hearts, so that their loss was not in vain."
"That is the true wisdom, Anduin."
The voice, deep and resonant, came from directly behind Anduin. He immediately turned, but the space where the speaker should have stood was empty. He frowned, scanning the surrounding mourners, wondering if one of the Aurors had spoken and quickly stepped away.
But then, as if the veil of the morning fog had suddenly lifted, the atmosphere around him cleared with a strange, magical shiver, and two familiar, incredibly loved faces suddenly materialized before Anduin.
They were standing there, completely solid and real, having shed the Invisibility Cloak just feet away. It was James and Lily Potter.
Anduin's serious, somber expression broke into a rare, genuine smile—the first he had managed since the tragedy began. "Lily! James! It's been too long since I've had any word from you. I was beginning to worry you'd vanished entirely."
Lily smiled back, though her eyes were raw with the strain of their secret life and the grief of the funeral. "We're staying as far under the radar as Dumbledore can make us," she explained, her voice low and careful, echoing the paranoia of their hidden existence.
"He gave us strict, non-negotiable orders to avoid all unnecessary communication with the outside world. This funeral… this was an exception we felt we had to make, a risk we had to take to say goodbye to Gideon and Fabian. It's so good, and so important, to see you, Anduin. We needed a reminder of what we're fighting for, and that someone familiar is still out here."
James, his eyes sweeping the crowd one last time before focusing solely on Anduin, placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "We broke our orders just for this moment. How is Neville? How is the Order coping after such a catastrophic day?"