It was an old careworn clock, Harry thought, he remembered the first time he had seen it. It did not tell the time this clock, no, it was infinitely more useful than that. In fact for the past few years Molly Weasley had cast glances to this clock every chance she could, going as far as to carry it with her as she went from room to room. It was an unusual clock with its nine hands, and no numbers. Instead of numbers the face of the clock had words written around it, words such as, home, school, work, hospital, travelling. They were words that represented the living, movement and activity, comfort and contentment, life but not death.
Yet Harry had noticed that no one looked at this clock anymore, the Weasley all children all averted their gaze as they walked past, as if the clock was someone they did not want to talk too, Arthur would glance at it, but would catch himself, shake his head and wander out to his shed. Molly had seen that the Burrow was cleaned not just from top to bottom, but to the ghoul in the attic to the gnomes in the vegetable patch, no living thing dared to show even a speck of dirt with Molly on the job. The clock however was perched in the corner of the kitchen, covered in a fine layer of dust, with cobwebs showing here and there as the spiders made their homes. Scraps of paper and forgotten items lay around its base, in a stark comparison to the rest of the room. The Weasleys seemed to take no notice of the clock and its state of untidiness, and their guests were to wary to question this, or even acknowledge it.
Harry however, from his spot at the kitchen table, stared at the clock pensively, as if somehow it could change things, somehow it could give answers.