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Some pureblood families sit their children by the fire and teach them about family trees, about the actions of heroic ancestors and the crimes of filthy Mudbloods.
Molly Prewett's mother tells her about fairies.
"They're real," she says, when her brothers scoff. "They're not around as often, of course. They don't like how modern the world's become. But every once in a while, they get bored or curious enough to step out of the shadows and wreak a little mischief.
"They pay particular attention to girls," she tells Molly when they're alone together, peering directly into her eyes.
"Like unicorns?" Molly asks.
"Perhaps, although they focus more on mothers than maidens" her mother says. "But Molly, they are dangerous. They don't try to be bad, mostly, but they're not always careful with humans, and some of them can be far too cruel. You must not trifle with them." She lectures Molly on the different tips and tricks of fairies, the hard lessons her ancestors have been gathering for centuries.
At Hogwarts, Molly draws laugh for being "one of those crazy Prewetts." People toss flour at her in the walls and mockingly suggest that she hop while she walks, or the fae will get her. "They like the fat ones, Prewett!" they shout, and she smiles at them before firing a hex with all the gravitas and accuracy of a Muggle gunslinger.
She finds herself gravitating towards Arthur Weasley, a boy who's seen as too modern rather than too old-fashioned, a boy who's teased for his undisguised love of Muggle Studies. And one day the boy is a man, proposing to her as the world burns around them.
As much as he loves modern things, though, Arthur understands the value of the old ways. He knows that there is more to this world than can be seen under the surface; the same way that he knows there are all sorts of wonders going on in Muggle washing machines that magic can barely grasp.
So when Molly wakes him up to suggest that something has changed about their fourth child, Arthur does not mock her (well, maybe a little, but he stops when he sees her deathly serious expression). He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and studies the three day-old boy carefully.
He looks almost exactly like he did yesterday, although....do his cries sound a little different? Was he exactly that size before? Has he gotten a little smaller, or a little bigger? Is Arthur just sleep deprived?
"There was something different about him," Molly says firmly, because a mother knows. "And then I checked his head..." She gently digs her fingers into the baby's soft red curls, moving them around until Arthur can see the lavender stain on his soft skin. "That wasn't there yesterday."
Arthur's feet wobble under him and he collapses into a chair. "I..." he whispers. "I..." He can't breathe.
"It's okay," Molly says, grabbing his hand, because she's gone through the stages of panic already and now... "I have a plan," she promises.
They spent almost an hour together, fine-tuning the plan and fighting over the details. Arthur wants to go in her place, but Molly Weasley will not be denied.
"It has to be me," she says firmly. "They're more interested in women, in mothers, and I know the lore better than you." Arthur knows not to pit himself against his wife when she's truly set her mind to something, and eventually he bends.
So he agrees to stay behind with Bill, Charlie, and Percy. He chews his lips anxiously as Molly pulls on her cloak and steps out into the night, supplies slung over her back and changeling strapped firmly to her chest. She hopes he can't hear her pounding heart as he sleeps, lulled by her walk.
Molly makes her way towards the forest near their house, because fairies have always loved the deep dark woods and some things never change. She tosses a jaunty wave over her shoulder for Arthur, knowing he's watching her from the window, and is so glad her hand doesn't shake.
After the forest has swallowed her up, she walks for a while, taking care not to focus on a specific path. She lets the forest swallow her up, melting into a web of moss, flowers, leaves, and thorns. She tells herself not to panic when deer pass by, firmly reassuring herself that there's no way the Death Eaters could find the Burrow.
The baby on her breast stirs, hungry for a feeding. Molly pauses to give him one, and when he's done she collects some breast milk on her fingers, pale and sticky. She rolls up her sleeve with her other hand and plucks a knife from her pocket, pressing it into the curve of her elbow with the soft wince. She cleans the knife off as best as she can and tucks it back in her pocket, before healing herself with a spell and turning back to her bag.
Her mother always sends her roses whenever she has another child, and Molly has never had to courage to ask her if it was part of a contingency plan. She plucked as many petals as she could and gathered them in a small bundle. Now she smears them with a tangle of blood and milk, humming a children's ditty to herself as it works.
Finally, she gathers up the petals before her lips and blows, sending them fluttering through the trees. There's a few heartbeats of anticipation as she wonders: what if I'm just paranoid? What if Mum was crazy? Or, worse, What if this isn't how it's supposed to go? What if they're there, what if they took him, but they keep me out anyway?
But then a brisk wind blows through the still night and the petals shift in midair, flowing into a long, perfect one. They sent down, one after another, forming a path that leads off into the trees.
Molly sucks in a breath and follows it.
She walks and walks, until her feet have gotten tired and she's sure she hadn't brought this many petals with her. And then, just like that, she's approaching a small hill in a clearing. It's green and unassuming, with a few daises and stones scattered at the top. The sight of it makes her heart skip a beat, but her steps do not falter.
Molly kneels before the hill and unstraps the child hanging from her chest. "Can you help me, poppet?" she asks, gently ruffling his hair. The little boy lets out a sleepy snuffle and and his breath ripples across the hill's grass. An answering rumble thrums through Molly's feet and part of the hill slides away, exposing a dark, musty stairway leading under the world.
She straps the baby to her chest and rises to her feet, walking through the door with her head held high. Her wand pops out of her pocket as she steps through, and Molly forces herself not to snatch it up from the grass; the fairy court allows no magic, but its own.
Colorful moss ripples and shifts around her as she spirals down, down, down. There's strange music in the distance, going louder with every step. Then Molly turns a corner and finds herself standing at the entrance to the fairy hall.
It's a place made from living trees, their trunks sighing and swaying to the music as their leaves murmur overhead, brilliant will o' wisps darting among their boughs to fill the room with soft light. A group of magicians stand in the corner, playing on delicate wooden instruments, their scales flashing a wild rainbow as they crack their tails in time.
And the dancers....the dancers. Woman with butterfly wings and snakes for hair, men entwining their elephant trunks or changing the color of their horns to fit their partners' clothes. There are people with fur or shells or blue skin, people in elaborately bejeweled gowns, people with flowers for faces or knives for teeth. They are all strange, all terrifying, and all united in their exquisite beauty.
Music and dancers alike grind to a stop at the sight of dumpy little Molly, weaving through the crowd, clutching the baby like the talisman he is. She hears them whispering behind their hands in strange languages, bursts of laughter stinging her ears and wringing a blush from her cheeks. She ignores them, doing her best to weave gracefully between the dancers.
It's not anything worse than what you've had at school, she reminds herself, as inhuman eyes burn into her skin. But she wasn't alone then; she had her friends, she had Arthur. You're not alone, either, the voice in her head whispers, and she runs a gentle hand over the baby's head.
The fairy queen waits on her throne, a glittering masterwork built from the earth's hidden jewels and covered in the softest moss. Guards in elaborate golden armor stand on either side of her throne, wielding swords carved from meteors. Her gown is woven from still-living flowers, butterflies and bees (who do not dare to sting) fluttering around her.
Diamonds and beetles adorn her muscular limbs, ladybugs glitter on her fingers and ears, and a necklace of rubies and thorns encircles her throat. Hummingbird wings are braided in her long white hair, topped with a crown of wolf's teeth. Her face has the kind of ethereal beauty which needs no makeup.
Standing before her, Molly feels very small and weak, as expected. But she lifts her chin and stares directly into the fairy queen's pupil-less, iris-less violet eyes. "I've come for my son," she announces, voice echoing through the room. It does not falter in the least.
The fairy queen lets the moment draw out for a few minutes, waiting for Molly to crack. When she does not, the fairy queen crooks a languid figure and a blue-skinned servant skitters out of the shadows, clutching a bundle to their chest.
They hold the other child out to Molly, who bows her head in gratitude, knowing that fairies do not like being told thank you. Her knees go weak at the feeling of her son in her arms, and she gives him a quick look over, grateful that there is no sign of damage.
Then takes another harness from her bag and fits the other baby besides his brother, so that their bodies curve snugly together. "Well," she says, pulling on a relaxed tone, "I suppose we'll be off, then."
There's a ripple of gasps through the room, and the fairy queen crooks an exquisite eyebrow. "You...wish to take both children home?" she asks, in a voice like songbirds and boiling storms.
"I should think so!" Molly bursts out, a bit of that legendary rage slipping into her voice. "What with you people being so bloody determined to throw yours away." She rests a tender hand on the fairy baby's head. "Just imagine if I didn't know the way here, or if I was the kind of person who drowned changelings. It's not like you people are the type to do a lick of research, are you?"
The babies squirm at the noise, and Molly lowers her voice a little. "I only brought the other so the hill would let me in," she explains. "And since you don't seem in the mood to keep him around, I'm more than willing to do the job."
The child in her arms may not have come from her body, but he is as fierce and beautiful as her other babies, in as desperate need of love. Aas Harry Potter will learn one day, Molly Weasley always has more love to share.
"And what if we don't let you go?" the fairy queen asks delicately, stepping off her throne, bare feet picking their way down the shining steps. "No one leaves the fairy court without leaving something behind." The trees ripple around her, her guards heft their swords, the fairy folk straighten with dark glimmers of excitement in their eyes. "We are bargainers, Molly Weasley, not givers of charity."
"You know my name," Molly says, her hand slipping into her pocket. "But you don't know what it means." She peels open the bundle of herbs she'd made in order to hide the object she'd brought with her from the court's senses; it's smaller than a wand, easier to conceal. "You don't know what I am."
"Oh?" says the fairy queen, a smirk lighting up her perfect face. "And who are you, little mortal?"
Molly rips the pepper spray out of her pocket, a gift from Arthur, and gives her a good blasts in the face.
The fairy queen falls back with a scream, clawing at her face as her eyes go red. The trees wail in sympathy, hissing and crackling.
"I'm someone who refuses to put up with your duff," Molly growls. The queen's guards charge and she blasts them both, sending them howling. Then she's whirling on the fairy crowd, sending them scattering backward with yelps of terror.
"We've outgrown you," Molly announces over the noise. "We don't need to bargain anymore, and that's where all your power comes from, isn't it? The bargaining, the deals."
"I will kill you," the fairy queen growls, tears spilling across her puffy face. "I will rend the flesh from your bones, I will make you long--"
"You," Molly Weasley says stiffly. "Will do nothing. If you do, then tomorrow my husband will be here with an army to cut through all your pretty little spells, and they'll all be armed with these." The lie slips from her mouth, smoother than butter. "Now let us leave, or you'll be blind for a week."
Without waiting for an answer, she turns and strides out of the room, the fairies rushing to clear a path for her. She keeps her pepper spray held high while the other hand holds her boys close, fighting not to break into a sprint.
Molly makes her way up the spiral stairs, which miraculously do not twist to crush her. Her legs are shaking by the time she emerges onto the grass, and the hill snaps shut behind her heels. She collapses to her knees, panting, the bottled-up terror twisting through her guts. She chokes down vomit, grounding herself with the burn in her throat as she feels in the grass for her wand.
"All right, darlings?" she whispers, stroking the babies' heads as they wriggle and squirm. "Good," she says, letting out a soft sight of relief. "Let's go home."
"This is your brother," Molly says, holding up one baby to the three small boys gathered in front of her.
"This is also your brother," Arthur chimes in, holding up the other baby, an absolute twin to the first.
"If either of you ever suggest otherwise, Mummy and Daddy will be very cross, understand?" Molly asks, giving her children a look. They all nod obediently, and little Percy almost topples off his seat.
They do as they're told. No matter how mad they get at their brothers--and they get very, very mad sometimes--they will never even hint that that the twins are anything else than just that: twins.
Molly and Arthur send out letters announcing the birth of the twins. To relatives who already got birth announcements for one child, they say that of course, the second twin's announcement got lost in the mail, what else could it be?
Fred and George Weasley sleep in the same crib that night, and many nights after.
So: which twin was it? Who's born with fairy magic in his veins, fueling the incredible pranks and spells he performs with his brother at an impossibly young age? Who navigates the halls of the castle with an almost sixth sense, and teaches the other twin to do the same? Who shares his magic with his twin as they grew, building greater and greater spells together as they transformed into trickster juggernauts? I'm not going to to tell you, and Molly Weasley isn't, either.
She does her best to raise them right, to teach them to use their gifts well. When Ron's teddy bear is turned into a spider, Molly sits them down (after the yelling's over) and lectures them about the importance of empathy, of making sure that your pranks don't actually hurt somebody in the way Ron has been hurt. She thinks they get it, thank God.
Molly tells all her children about fairies, but she only tells Ginny about changelings. Her lessons aren't enough to save her from the diary, of course. After her daughter comes home that summer Molly will find her curled up in her sheets, trembling slightly. She pulls her daughter close and tells her stories about brave women standing up to nasty fairies (without naming names and dates, of course) just to distract her daughter, just to make her child smile.
When Fleur Delacour enters her lives, Molly sees the shine of Veela in her silver hair and is afraid, because she doesn't know if Fleur was raised to use her power carefully or wield it as a knife. It takes her a long time to overcome her fear, a longer time to realize that she was afraid in the first place, and the longest time to apologize for feeling it at all. She does manage it, though.
And Luna...she wonders about Luna Lovegood, Luna with her eyes that see through you and her ability to know things she shouldn't, Luna with her pockets full of odd things and her sweet, strange tongue. But her suspicions aren't confirmed until the night of Bill's wedding, when Luna comes besides her, eyes glittering in the candlelight.
"He's from under the hill, isn't he?" she says, pointing at one of the twins as he whirls about the room, making a girl laugh. "The way he moves, all those spells he and his brother pull off...that's Fey."
"He's my son," Molly says, a little stiff.
"I know," Luna says, smiling brightly at her. "You're very lucky." She smiles at Lily and walks up to the twin in question, inviting him to a dance.
The twins never discover their secret history. Why would they? They're perfect copies, after all, and they are family. What reason would they have to suspect a little different in blood?
When Fred falls at the Battle of Hogwarts, perhaps George's fairy strength is what helps him to survive. Or perhaps Fred passes on his strength to his brother, giving them what he needs to continue their legacy.
It doesn't matter, really. The loss leaves a hole in Molly's heart anyway, but she manages to stand, tears sticky on her face and fire in her eyes. She takes down Bellatrix in the Great Hall, because Molly Prewett Weasley has never had time for cruel people who don't use their gifts well.
Afterwards, she holds the surviving twin close, and breathes in his scent with the same joy and relief and pure love she felt the night she brought them both home.