Chapter Text
A shard of sunlight warms Molly’s face as she stands before the young girl.
Molly likes to think she’s a relatively even-tempered, rational person – all things considered. She can take most things in stride, can make most things work. She’s a bit like clay, that way: adaptable. Doesn’t mind playing the hand she’s dealt.
When it comes to most things, anyway.
Though, being the rational person she is, or strives to be – she recognizes that there are some things that she just downright, completely – and yes, irrationally – dislikes. Mint chocolate chip ice cream, things in groups of four, the color chartreuse. Other things, most innocuous. Some things, not so much.
Like her surname, for instance.
Weasley. She doesn’t dislike the sound of it, not really – though it doesn’t exactly do her any favors. Molly doesn’t have a problem that it’s not especially elegant, nor that it doesn’t quite roll off the tongue.
No, Molly Weasley dislikes her surname for a multitude of other reasons, including – but not limited to – how it sounds when sneered.
“What do you want, Weasley?” the first year Hufflepuff scowls, with an admittedly impressive amount of loathing in her high voice. Molly feels the momentary urge to flinch, to recoil and wrinkle her nose from the vitriol. She supposes, absentmindedly, that Alana must be good at this – scaring people off.
But, however surprising it might be to learn, it takes a bit more to rattle Molly Weasley.
She sighs, then, before sitting in the armchair beside the young girl with a tentative smile. The Hufflepuff Common Room isn’t necessarily cozy – there’s no dark, blanketing warmth from Gryffindor's hearth that wraps around you like a coat in the cold. Still, it’s inexplicably bright and comforting in its own right. The Common Room is a blinding smile, as opposed to a tight hug, in that way. Molly quite prefers it. The plump, toffee-colored armchair that she plops into makes her almost wish that she had a cup of warm tea.
The late afternoon sun beams through the windows that sit at the very top of the Common Room’s walls, just skirting the grass outside. Moments like this, seeped in smiling sunlight, Molly wants to stop time, to lounge beneath the warm, welcoming rays and think about nothing. Perhaps she’ll take a walk around the lake, later.
“Well?” the small girl challenges again, and it takes Molly a moment to recall why she’s even approached her in the first place. “What do you want?”
“Oh, right,” she startles, digging into her satchel and pulling out a book with a leather-bound cover. “Afternoon, Alana. I – well, I just wanted to give you this, I s’pose.”
Molly doesn’t want to make Alana feel cornered, or singled out, or in any way exposed. So Molly doesn’t say that when she was in the library yesterday evening – trying (and failing) to finish her latest Charms assignment – she noticed little Alana Selwyn sneaking toward the muggle fiction section like some sort of spy. Molly doesn’t tell the young girl how she watched in silent curiosity as Alana took a book from the shelf in a mixture of fear and reverence. And, Molly definitely doesn’t mention how, with Madam Arnold’s rather shrill announcement that curfew was imminent, she watched Alana drop the book with a start and scurried away.
Really, with all that fuss, who wouldn’t have picked it up to see what sort of book she was too afraid to even be associated with?
So, Molly doesn’t recount any of this to Alana, and just holds out the book with patience.
Alana and her sorting into Hufflepuff had been a passing topic of gossip for the first few weeks among the school. The Selwyns are historically staunch Slytherins – Molly even heard that Alana is the first Selwyn in over eight hundred years to be sorted anywhere else. To have that broken, especially by a young girl as outwardly sharp as Alana, magnified the drama of it all. It faded from the upper students’ interests relatively quickly, but the younger ones are still sticking with it, it seems. Just last week, Molly docked ten points from Ravenclaw for a second year who was taunting her.
Molly knows it’s hard, being the odd one out of a legacy. She was the first Weasley in God-knows-how-long to not be in Gryffindor. And it’s easier, now, that there are others – and not just Lucy, either, but Albus and Dominique and Louis and Hugo – but it wasn’t easy, then, when she was the one who tarnished tradition.
She remembers the start of first year, being so sad and so miserable for so many reasons, and having to hear about one more thing that made her different, that made her weird. Having people whisper in the corridors as she walked by – having them ask her name in class and then blanch and ask again, because surely you’re not her, you’re not the one who –
So, suffice to say: Molly gets it. Or, at least, gets it as much as another person can get it.
Alana takes the book cautiously, her eyes – a rather striking light brown – narrowed in suspicion. When she looks down to see the title, embossed in gold lettering on the cover, she looks ripe for murder. Well, as murderous as an eleven-year-old can look, Molly supposes. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Oh, no – wait, no! Sorry!” Molly exclaims, realizing that she didn’t even explain why she seemed to be handing the girl a book known for its controversial pureblood author. The Proud Wizarding History of England was well known for being a book that many pureblooded Slytherins (with parents whose beliefs hadn’t quite reformed) could be found reading. “No, please. I didn’t – just, just open it up.”
Alana opens the book slowly, and as she reads the inside cover page, the tense set of her shoulders immediately slackens. She has a small frown as she pulls in her bottom lip. Molly can understand her confusion. Why would little Alana Selwyn expect fifth year prefect Molly Weasley to give her a magically concealed copy of The Secret Garden?
“I saw you by the literature section, the other night,” Molly says carefully. “Maybe give it a read, see what you think? It’s a rather simple charm – no one except who’s holding the book can read what’s really in it. I could teach it to you, sometime, if you’d like?”
Molly finds that Alana appears much younger when she doesn’t look like she’s about to hex someone halfway to hell. Her dark hair is pulled back into a low-hanging ponytail, and a smattering of freckles dots the bridge of her nose. She has a round face with soft cheeks. Her voice sounds small, some tangled mess of hope and sadness that isn’t Molly’s place to unravel. “Why?”
The encouraging grin Molly gives her is soft and genuine. “We don’t choose our surnames. We are stuck with them, though, I’m afraid, but they’re only as important as we make them. What other people think – it doesn’t matter, as much as we might think in the moment.”
Alana doesn’t reply, but she doesn’t shut the book and toss it, either. Molly can consider that a win.
She stands, then, and slinging her satchel over her shoulder, smiles. “Don’t worry about returning it, or anything. It was my own copy. I’d like you to have it. See you at supper, Alana.”
Maybe she will take that stroll around the lake, after all.
*
Molly begins the afternoon in quite a good mood. And it continues, into the evening. It definitely doesn’t stay that way, though. (She’ll get to that.)
She arrives to the Great Hall toward the tail-end of supper, with many of the students gone. A group of various sixth and seventh years clustered in laughter by the Ravenclaw table while smatterings of younger students munch away. Molly heads toward the Hufflepuff table and smiles widely.
“Mols!” Lucy greets, waving her over. “Why are you here so late? Meeting Leah?”
Molly grins, sliding in beside her sister, across from two of her other second year friends. Lucy, along with Amelia Dursley and Rochelle Simmons, were sorted into Hufflepuff the previous year. They've remained practically inseparable ever since.
“Got caught up outside, enjoying the weather,” she remarks idly, nicking a bread roll from Lucy’s plate with a smirk. “And, unfortunately, you’re stuck with just me. Lee’s been training for trials since noon or something, and Dougal is on another one of his projects, so no idea where he’s gone off to. I was planning on eating alone, anyway.”
“Isn’t – isn’t she already on the team?” Rochelle whispers, almost to only Amelia, but Molly catches it and nods all the same.
“Leah wants one thing, and that’s the Quidditch Cup in the Gryffindor Common Room,” Molly says. “Whatever it takes, she says.”
“She – you know, she’s really quite terrifying,” Rochelle says, her voice small. Molly doesn’t think she’s ever heard Rochelle speak in any tone or time that wasn’t soft.
“Very,” Molly agrees happily, leaning over to inspect what remains on Lucy’s plate.
She tries to snatch another bread roll, but her little sister slaps her hand away. “Da wrote. He asked for you.”
“Any news?” Molly questions, nudging her playfully. “Has he finally quit the Ministry and joined the circus, then?”
“He’s living out his dream of being an animal trainer as we speak – Uncle Char is very jealous, I’m sure,” Lucy replies, rolling her eyes. “Is there ever any news with him? Same thing: he loves us, be safe, and please don’t cause a sentient slime infestation like your older sister if you can help it.”
Molly shoves her with a grin. “That was an accident.”
“Well I certainly hope it wasn’t on purpose,” Luce deadpans, slipping into a beaming smile. “Ames was wondering how you even did that, by the way.”
Molly turns to Amelia, who immediately pinks at her gaze, quickly moving her eyes down to her plate.
“That’ll need to stay a secret, I’m afraid,” Molly jokes good-naturedly. “So, how’s dueling club treating you, then?”
“It’s pretty wicked,” Amelia blurts, her cheeks only becoming redder as she looks quickly down at her plate.
“Lucy’s the best in our year,” Rochelle chimes in, quietly. “She just got moved up to the third-years’ group.”
“It’s really not a huge deal,” Lucy says mildly, but Molly doesn’t miss how her sister seems to eye her for any reaction. “It is fun, though. I like it a lot. Don’t know why they won't let first years participate.”
Sometimes Molly becomes actively aware of just how strong her love is for her little sister. Her brave, loyal, beautiful little sister. She takes after their mother in most ways, all toffee waves and a brilliantly dimpled smile. She’d also inherited the pale, freckled skin of their father and his pale blue eyes.
Lucy goes mostly unnoticed – that is, unperturbed – by the Hogwarts population, thankfully. Molly supposes it’s easier to skate by without all the Weasley recognition when one doesn’t have red hair or Gryffindor robes. She’s thankful that she herself only has to deal with one of those characteristics, and even more so that Lucy needs to deal with neither.
She pulls her sister into a side hug and squeezes. “I’m so proud of you, Luce. Seriously, that’s wicked. You’ll have to teach me a few moves!”
Lucy beams, her wide smile infectious. “Thanks! I can try, Mol, but I’m not sure how quickly you’ll catch on… dueling isn’t exactly, you know…”
Molly rolls her eyes, nudging Lucy as a high laugh bubbles out of her sister’s throat. Supper proceeds in much the same fashion, the two of them joking while Lucy’s friends sit quietly, occasionally contributing. Molly genuinely likes her sister, which is more than what most of Hogwarts seems to think about their siblings, her own friends and family included. Dougal never misses a chance at annoying his own sister, a Slytherin who also happens to be this year’s Head Girl. Molly’s fairly certain he’s already gotten detention because of it.
She leaves the Great Hall just after Lucy and company, with half a mind to visit the library before curfew. Perhaps she could try and get ahead by reading a bit more about the Shrivelfigs they’re meant to unpot and replant in Herbology next week. Not that it’ll help all that much. The practicals in Professor Longbottom’s class never go well for her, no matter how much she prepares, and this year’s been especially worse than others.
Molly strolls lazily out of the Great Hall, no clear destination in sight – and in no great hurry to find one, as the Entrance Hall is practically deserted – when she can feel the form of someone behind her.
“Molly Weasley,” a deep, careful voice says. It’s not a question, but there’s a hint of uncertainty, all the same.
She stops, spinning around to find a tawny-skinned, broad-shouldered young man in white button-down with a loosened emerald and silver tie around his neck. His arms are taut and crossed, and he looks almost ready to start a muggle fistfight. His hair is dark, the color of strong coffee, falling in unruly waves just passed his ears. She’s seen him around before – almost confident he’s a seventh year – in the halls with the other Slytherin uppers. He probably plays Quidditch, too, but his name escapes her.
“Erm, yes,” she coughs awkwardly, stumbling to give a polite smile. “Can I help you?”
And it seems her response makes his futile attempt at any sort of decorum shatter like glass.
“What the fuck is your problem?” he demands lowly. A spark of cold fear shivers down her spine and pools into her gut. “I mean, what the actual fuck were you thinking? Is this kind of shit fucking funny to you?”
Molly stands her ground, keeps her shoulders as straight as she can manage, and looks right into his burning eyes. She keeps her voice as even and measured as she can. She won’t give in to bullies. “Excuse me, but what are you talking about? Who even are you?”
“You gave my little sister a fucking pureblood pseudohistory book!” he growls lowly, utterly outraged. The hard set to his jaw has her wondering if he’s cracked his teeth.
And suddenly, Molly understands.
“Oh my God,” she whispers awkwardly, well beyond the point of caring what she says. “You’re Jude Selwyn.”
Jude Selwyn. Jude Selwyn. She’s heard things about him, of course, who hasn’t? Brooding, ruthless on the Quidditch pitch, and as silent as a predator ready to strike. And it seems that he’s just picked Molly as his (new? next?) target.
“And you’re dead,” he declares, quietly and with so much authority she believes it herself.
She starts thinking wildly, broken thoughts frantically whirring in an attempt to stitch themselves together. She is rather hopeless with dueling. She could run. No, that would give him free range to hex her. She could hit him? Not straight on, of course, maybe in the throat? Is she even quick enough to get a straight shot?
He takes another half step toward her, and Molly balls her fists at her side. “I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing, Weasley, but you’ll regret it. Stay the fuck away from my sister.”
Before she can say or do anything in reply, like inform him that she did not give his sister a piece of pureblood propaganda (as some sick joke or otherwise) or try to wallop him in the throat to escape, someone else seems to have entered the corridor. They clear their throat expectantly.
“Evening, lads. Everything alright?” Teddy questions good-naturedly, his hands tucked into the pocket of his Head Boy robes.
Molly blinks back to Jude Selwyn, finding that he hasn’t even taken his feral gaze off her. “Mind your own business, Lupin.”
“Right… I think I saw your friends are waiting for you back in the Hall, Selwyn. Best head on,” Teddy suggests, not unkindly, but firm all the same.
Jude Selwyn leans slightly toward her, and as she stands there with inches between them, frozen, she can see just how close his eye color is to fire. His whisper might even sound gentle, in any other conversation. “I mean it.”
Jude Selwyn struts away purposefully, and it takes Molly a few seconds to realize that Teddy Lupin is still there, looking at her. She feels distinctly uncomfortable, albeit in much more of a teenage-angst way than with Selwyn, moments ago.
Molly is suddenly overwhelmed at the sight of his lovely blue hair and blue-brown eyes and how painfully nice and kind he looks and wants to hide. She finds herself compulsively wishing that she’d braided her hair with extra care, today. The red ringlets have probably morphed into an uncontrollable fuzz-halo around her head. Or she could've at least put on a bit of mascara? (Who is she kidding, she doesn't wear mascara, and bloody well can't, not unless someone else helps her put it on. She should practice more, but every time she ends up stabbing herself in the eye, blinking in pain, and having to wipe away the raccoon eyes in defeat.)
“Hi, Molly,” Teddy greets quietly, slipping a half-smile that is probably meant to be placating.
This is strange. She doesn’t speak with her cousins often, and very rarely with their affiliates. Teddy Lupin, being significantly raised by her aunt and uncle and holding the title of Victorie’s boyfriend, makes him adjacent to both. Sure, they’re both in Hufflepuff, but she doesn’t think she’s actually spoken to him in more than passing greetings at uncomfortable family functions since she was eight.
She’s watched him from a distance, of course, the way all people watch those deemed ‘popular’ with a vague, removed sort of interest. He was kind, athletic, talented… who couldn’t help but perk their ear whenever gossip about Ted Lupin was concerned? She ignores the way her heartbeat hums in her chest and attributes it to the panicked fear she’s been consumed with less than a minute ago, rather than that dimple of his that seems to stand out in the low light of the corridor.
“Evening, Ted,” she replies choppily.
She’s never had a talent for social grace or charisma, and doesn’t bother trying to fool anybody into thinking she does. She finds that it creates more awkwardness, her attempts to fit into socially acceptable sociability. Teddy’s grin widens minutely, all the same. It suits him.
“Wouldn’t expect you to be acquainted with Selwyn,” he observes casually, shrugging as he shoves his fists a bit deeper into the pockets of his robes. “He give you any trouble?”
“Oh no, not really. It’s all a rather small misunderstanding, actually,” Molly assures, unsure if she’s trying to convince him or herself. “Nothing to worry about. Thanks for checking, though. I appreciate it.”
Teddy blinks at her, once, then nods. He doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but after a moment, he shrugs. “Alright, then… if you’re sure. Well, I’m to meet Vic – s’pose I’ll see you around?”
She gives a tight smile and a nod. “Bye, Ted. Enjoy your evening!”
She fights off the urge to cringe at her entirely too stiff, too chipper goodbye as she watches the corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement when he huffs out a single, quiet laugh. “Yeah, g’night, Molly.”
Ugh. Molly doesn’t know how this can get much worse, honestly.