Chapter Text
The most unusual thing about the Boy-Who-Lived staying in her house was that he seemed genuinely surprised that people liked him.
‘He’s quite charming, isn’t he?’ said Arthur fondly, having discussed Muggle things with him at great length over lunch. Molly nodded - most boys approaching their teenage years would have felt awkward to the point of humiliation if their friend’s parents had essentially interrogated them about things Molly highly suspected were incredibly boring. Certainly Ron, sitting beside them, had seemed horrified, hissing ‘Dad!’ and throwing Molly pleading looks, or exchanging eye rolls with Fred and George.
But Harry had initially looked taken aback, but then quietly pleased, answering Arthur’s endless questions with remarkable politeness. Even when Arthur sat next to him again at dinner, he still seemed to look surprised. After dinner he’d started clearing the table apparently without even thinking about it - little Lee Jordan had helped when he’d been round before, and so had some of Charlie’s friends when he’d been younger, but it had always been with a, ‘can I help, Mrs Weasley?’, to which she would, of course, tell them they were sweet but decline, and they’d run off upstairs or into the garden again. It didn’t seem to occur to Harry Potter; he simply started collecting the plates and condiments and bringing them up to her at the sink, and when she had told him not to worry, that magic would do it, he had blinked in surprise, and uncertainly asked what he should do.
‘You can hand me those socks so I can darn them,’ she said promptly, looking down at his feet, where she could see the tip of his big toe poking out.
He looked utterly startled. ‘You don’t have to do that, Mrs Weasley.’
But she had insisted, and while she had sat in the armchair and darned what seemed to her to be adult men’s socks, she watched as he happily exchanged chocolate frog cards with Ron on the sitting room rug. Arthur was on the other side, writing to Dumbledore to tell him where Harry was and to firmly suggest that he stay for the rest of the summer, given that he had tentatively, shyly, blushingly asked, in a mere whisper, that he not be sent back.
‘Of course not, dear,’ she’d said at once, without thinking. ‘Not if you don’t want to.’
‘Molly,’ Arthur had sighed once the boys were out of earshot again. ‘We can’t just take in children like that. I’ll need to let someone know.’
‘Well, let Dumbledore know,’ she’d said, a little irritably. ‘He knows I’d already raised concerns. Tell him that Harry wants to stay here - and tell him what the boys said.’
She wasn’t sure whether or not to believe her boys about the bars on the window or Harry being locked in “all the time”. It seemed a conveniently dramatic excuse to pinch Arthur’s car, and Ron had always exaggerated. Privately, she had wondered a few times if he was telling the truth about being friends with Harry Potter, until she noticed a lack of taunting from Fred and George and had asked them.
‘We’re as surprised as you are, Mum, but yeah, Ron made a friend.’
‘You never see one without the other.’
The twins seemed to like him too, which was a relief, because she was aware they could be quite cutting when they wanted to be, and the poor boy seemed so earnest and sweet she rather thought it might break her heart if they were nasty to him. But they had even suspended most of their brotherly bullying of Ron, the four of them degnoming the garden with more enthusiasm than she had ever seen in them before.
Whether or not the children were telling the truth didn’t strictly matter to her - all she knew was that the boy was uncommonly skinny, that he seemed utterly delighted to be there and had no desire to return, that it wasn’t usual for a boy to refer to his own family as ‘the Dursley’s’ as though they were neighbours, and that as much as Molly was well aware of the necessity of hand-me-downs, she rather thought that Harry’s Aunt could have at least attempted some sewing to bring up a hem here or there.
‘Is it just since you went to Hogwarts things became a bit tense with your family, dear?’ she’d asked carefully.
‘Oh, no,’ he’d replied cheerfully. ‘They’ve never liked me.’
She hadn’t known what to say to this, because she’d been so confused. He seemed to her to be a very engaging, bright, sweet boy - so polite and helpful - and her sons seemed so taken with him too, that she was baffled as to what there was that they couldn’t get along with. She hadn’t needed to answer, though, because Ron had dragged him away to play exploding snap.
It was only Ginny’s reaction to him that reminded her that he was famous. It was like having a character from a fairytale in their house, and Molly had had to pull Ginny aside and quietly remind her not to stare. For his part, Harry didn’t seem to notice. He was, it became quickly apparent to Molly, not the Boy Who Lived, but simply a child; a child she felt an instinctive urge to take under her wing.
In the evening, she hadn’t needed to cajole her youngest boys as much as usual to go to bed - they had all started yawning at around half past six, and by half seven even Fred and George could be seen to be leaning heavily on their elbows, heads drooping.
Arthur liaised with the ghoul and got the camp bed out of the attic, and she bustled around in the airing cupboard, hoping Harry wouldn’t mind the duvet cover being a bit worn and tatty. She dug around for the best one, and swapped the spare pillow for one of the ones on her bed, because the spares were all a little lacking in stuffing after all these years, and half of them were utterly misshapen because Charlie had always had this odd habit of folding them in half to sleep.
When she returned to Ron’s room, both boys had already changed into pyjamas - Harry’s seemed far too large for him, he had had to tie a large knot in the cord of the waist band to keep the bottoms up, though if they had fallen the length of the shirt would have easily protected his modesty.
The boys were giggling over Martin Miggs comics, and as Molly entered, she heard Harry saying, in an amazed voice, ‘and these are all yours?’
‘Well,’ said Ron fairly, though Molly was surprised not to hear an edge of resentfulness in his voice, ‘they were Charlie’s first, but he said I could have them.’
‘Wow,’ said Harry. ‘I have to nick Dudley’s Beano comics-’
‘Here we are,’ she announced, bustling through the doorway, and with a wave of her wand, she had the camp bed made. ‘Have you both brushed your teeth? Can I get you anything? You have water here if you need some - Ron, you’re not having a lie in tomorrow, I’m still angry about the car-’
They got into bed as she talked, Harry taking off his glasses and setting them on Ron’s bedside table, fumbling slightly as he went to his camp bed. She wondered how bad his eye sight was, and whether she might be able to find another little table somewhere that she could put by his bed - if Dumbledore let him stay longer, of course.
She knew Ron, now twelve years old, would be utterly mortified if she tucked him in, but she leaned over his bed and kissed his scowling, embarrassed face as she bade him goodnight, and then, she was sure to Ron’s intense annoyance, she moved over to Harry.
He had already rolled over onto his side, looking at the wall, and when she placed a hand on his thin shoulder, he jumped slightly, turning his head to look up at her with eyes like saucers. Up this close, she could see the jagged scar just beneath his fringe. ‘Night, night, dear,’ she whispered to him, smiling. ‘Arthur and I are on the second floor, on the right if you need anything.’
‘T-thanks,’ he whispered back. He really did have such sweet, bright green eyes - they seemed permanently round in wonder.
‘Sorry about her,’ she heard Ron mutter irritably as she left. ‘She still thinks I’m eight.’
‘It’s fine,’ she heard Harry say quietly as she closed the door.