With her belly against the tall grass on their hill, Molly watched the stars and waited, ticking the time away in her head. Archimedes had come at midnight, as always, making a fuss at the window that had Lucy muttering in her sleep. It was just like Lysander to have an owl that mimicked him -- fast, noisy, and altogether not much worried about whatever was going on around him. By the time she'd wrestled the bit of parchment from the damned bird, he'd gnawed her index finger until it bled and she'd had no time to change out of the silly little nightgown that would no doubt get her laughed at. She'd barely had the time to push her headband over her ears as she crept down the stairs, glad that Big Molly had been partially deaf for a good four years now (thanks for that, Uncle George). But now she was here, alone in the dark and sure to start sweating any minute, with no Scamander in sight.
This was typical for a summer night, really. She still remembered peeking out of the third floor window two weeks before her eighth birthday, squinting hard at the two mops of blond hair reflecting moonlight out on the hill. They'd been there the next night, too, and the next, and finally she plucked up the courage to tiptoe through the house and out the front door into the hot night air.
"What are you doing on my hill?" Her words drowned under the sound of their laughter as they wrestled one another, rolling around in the uncut brush. "OI! My hill, what are you doing on it?" The smaller one looked up at her first, blue eyes wide and almost frightened. His brother, though, pulled a madman's grin and hopped to his feet excitedly.
"This is our hill, thanks. See? Lovegood." He pointed vaguely behind him at a shape in the distance. "Well, we're not Lovegoods, but oh well." His speech was rapid-fire, as if he were never sure he'd be able to get the next word out on time.
Molly rolled her eyes, unimpressed and impatient. "Molly Weasley. That," she explained calmly, turning to point at the clearly visible house, "would be The Burrow. My house, my hill." The fact that she didn't actually live at The Burrow didn't matter, of course; it was the principle of the thing. She smirked self-importantly as he leaned around her to get a good look at the place.
"We're sorry," the other boy said quietly as he stood, dusting the grass from the seat of his trousers. "We thought all the Weasleys were old. Old people don't need hills. We'll just -"
"Share the hill," the taller twin announced, nodding matter-of-factly. "Have a seat, Weasley."
"Sorry I'm late!" Molly pushed herself up on her elbows as Lysander came barrelling up the hill, burlap sack in hand and shirt-tails flying behind him. "I had to get the....what in Merlin's name are you wearing?" He kicked his shoes off and proceeded to tumble down onto the grass next to her. "Is that your nightie? Did you really wear a nightie to our hill?" He dug a hand into the pocket of his denims and produced a familiar Muggle device. "No matter, at least I'm dressed for the event. You're not going to believe what I've done to them this time."
Slightly offended, Molly jammed her elbow into his side, aiming for the kidney. "I'd be dressed if your daft bird hadn't fought with me for fifteen minutes. He nearly woke Lucy up, and I'd never live it down if she knew we still come out here. She's convinced I'm having a passionate love affair with Lorcan. Speaking of..." She sat up, pulling the edge of her nightie down to cover her knees, peering out over their side of the hill. "Where is he?"
"Oh, I don't know, composing love letters to the headmistress? He hasn't pulled his nose out of his books since we got home. I'm beginning to think he's under the impression that having ten NEWTs will get him laid or something." Sander shook his head disapprovingly, rummaging around in his bag until his whole arm had disappeared inside. "Ouch, shit, that one's got teeth....Ah!" He grinned brightly as he pulled a handful of bright red firecrackers from the depths of the sack. "Your favorite, cherrybombs." He winked and tossed them over to her with the lighter, already elbow deep again in his search for more explosives.
"I hate this thing." Molly mashed on the lighter several times before the flame appeared, flickering bright orange as she fumbled for her bomb. Lighting the fuse, she made a wish, as she always did on the first firework of the year.
"This is a bad idea, Lysander." Lorcan folded his arms tightly across his chest as his brother dumped the bag out onto the hill. Four bottle rockets, a cherrybomb, and one giant complicated contraption that looked like it could burn down a village or two. A pretty good haul for having all been snitched from WWW while no one was looking
"Oh, have a little fun, prisspot," Molly snapped, playing with the Muggle fire machine she'd stolen from her Uncle Bill. "If you don't want to stay, you can go keep Lucy company. I'm sure she'd love to throw you a tea party and braid your hair." Lorcan pulled self-consciously at his long, wavy locks, which hadn't been cut since first year. It suited his face, but at fourteen it was starting to look less rebellious and more ridiculous. "Now. Pass me that cherrybomb, Lysander."
The little red sphere felt heavy in the center of her palm and she wrapped her fingers tight around it as she readied the little plastic device in her right hand. She shut her eyes for a moment and thought of the lovely set of solid gold scales she'd seen at the apothecary's. Lucy's things always came first, of course, and there was no way her father would ever see fit to splurge on such a luxury, but in that moment every ounce of her being wanted to be the envy of Potions class. With a determined huff, she set the thing on fire, counted to three, and threw it into the air.
The resulting puff of smoke and light was unimpressive, and Molly's heart fell. So much for her golden scales. Lysander's loud, gleeful laughter roused her from her disappointment, though, as he made a grab at the lighter and sent a bottle rocket into the air with a bang. Even Lorcan was smiling now, and Molly half-heartedly picked up the enormous monster of a firework, turning it over in her hands. "Want to see if we can wake the dead?"
Wish made, she chucked the ceremonial first cherrybomb of the year into the air. She prepared herself for for the enormous crack of sound and light that now accompanied the new and improved version of her uncle's product. Instead, there was a loud, wet raspberry sound as the thing seemed to unfold in the air until, in sprawling, crooked cursive, her name appeared against the night sky. "Nice chickenscratch, Scamander," she said, pointing up at where the loop in her y seemed to trail off.
“You try writing something with a sparkler, alright? It’s not the easiest thing in the world.” He scowled and picked up his bottle rockets, twisting the fuses together until he had a cylinder of flash powder and sticks in his hands. “I’ll just blow these off all at once and go.” He stuck an arm out and waggled his fingers at her. "Lighter."
Molly frowned. "What's got your wand in a knot? I'm not done with the lighter yet, thank you very much." Picking up another of the cherrybombs, she noticed a small number three etched on the bottom in black. "Hm. What's -"
"I said, lighter." Suddenly Sander's long, thin fingers didn't seem half so frail as they looked, wrapped around her wrist in anger. The firework dropped to the ground with a muted plop as he pried the lighter from her hand. He stood and lit the fuse on his one combined bottle rocket, holding onto the ends until the last second, when the flame began to creep under their yellow wrappers. The racket was enormous as they separated and shot off in different directions, crackling and popping into thin air. "Have a good night, Molly. I'll tell Lorcan you were looking for him." The lighter bounced into her lap and in one fluid motion he was picking up his bag and storming off.
"Where's Lorcan tonight?" Molly held tight to the weeds as the hill seemed to spin beneath her. "He's missing the fun." She giggled when she felt Lysander's hand slip into hers as he tipped the firewhiskey bottle back. The fireworks they'd set off earlier were the long-lasting kind, and there were red and gold streaks across the sky above them where Molly'd set off the Gryffindor-themed poppers she'd bought with the money she'd earned for her OWLs.
"E's in London with your cousin. The one with the, you know." He flailed the bottle of firewhiskey in circles around his head. "The hair." He finally sat the liquor down and propped his head with open hand, sighing. "You know the one."
Molly snorted, curling her fingers into Lysander's palm. "All of my cousins have hair. Well, minus Hugo, but that happens sometimes. I bet you mean Dominique, though," she answered, exaggerating a very French accent at the thought of her haughty relative. Between her silvery-blonde hair and veela charm, Molly didn't go a day without hearing about one boy or another trying to get a date with Dom. "Bet he's going to think he's big boy on campus when we go back to school. Only just a sixth year and already had his turn with Frenchie."
"Lorcan always gets the girls. All of the girls. 'Lorc, you're so sensitive, you're so sweet.' The boy can't even bear to get his hands dirty. I don't understand women." He turned to look at Molly. "Except you. You've got the right idea, Mols."
The flame flared on and off as Molly stared into the dark, trying to figure out what exactly had happened. As temperamental as Lysander was, he'd never walked away from her. She'd seen him bloody Lorcan's nose over things as petty as Quidditch bets, yet she couldn't remember fighting with him in the nine years they'd known one another. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard something in the brush, but instead of a predator she found Lancelot. Reaching to pet the charcoal grey cat, she found a bit of twine tied loosely around his paw. "Really, Lorcan? Really?" She unfolded the note carefully.
Light them off. You'll see.
His print was neat and tight as usual, but his words were never this terse. Lorcan's language was florid and scattered with unnecessary additions. Something had him upset, clearly; if setting off a few cherrybombs would keep him from going into one of his moody patches (which were more frequent than even Lysander's), then she'd no problem. Picking up the tiny, dense spheres, she struck the lighter once again to inspect the bottoms. Sure enough they were marked two, three, and four, just as she'd expected earlier. Another one of the twins' projects, likely. It was just her luck to have clever Ravenclaw friends when she'd probably barely scrape five NEWTs.
Lining them up by number, Molly took a page from Sander's book and braided the fuses, twining them together until they formed one. Furrowing her brow in curiosity, she snapped the lighter and held the flame against the fuse until it began to spark, burning quickly towards their bursting point. With a glance upward, she tossed them into the air, breath caught in her throat as she waited for whatever surprise she would find in the sky.
The timing was off, as it usual was when you combined fireworks. Two popped first, the letter I curling alone in the air in bright, cherry red. Milliseconds passed and then three and four fired simultaneously, unfurling with that slow, wet sound until the final message appeared.
I love you.
Satisfied, Molly flipped the lid down on the lighter, the darkness thinner and less substantial around her as the horizon began to lighten. Standing, she squinted hard into the distance for the lantern in the boys' window, but there was only a dull, vague glow. Turning back towards The Burrow, she padded down her side of their hill and smiled to herself.
"I hate this thing." Molly mashed on the lighter several times before the flame appeared, flickering bright orange as she fumbled for her bomb. Lighting the fuse, she made a wish, as she always did on the first firework of the year.
"Let him tell me tonight."
