Land of Ice and Snow

by whentheynameyoujoy

Summary:

When the enemy tightens the screws after the battle of Snowdonia, the Order of Phoenix finds itself cut off from its most crucial resource.

Chapter 1

The wind at the new supply base really was something else. Cold and briny on nights like this one it stung the cheeks and took the breath away with its strength, moving, moving, always moving, free to go wherever fancy struck. There were moments when Molly swore she could see it swirl around the robust stone house, dipping into the sparse dry grass before setting off across the waters of Loch nan Ceall, towards the village of Arisaig, rushing off to new places, to sting new people somewhere far, far away.

Looking at the expanse of the bay, she found it easy to pretend the war wasn’t out there.

“Pertinger is dead.”

Molly’s broom tumbled to the floor and she tore her eyes away from the window, hands on the wooden sill.

Remus was huddling at the rough-hew table, shoulders rounded, the shadows dancing on his face making him seem about twenty years older than his real age.

Which was a feat in and of itself.

Normally it was ten years, give or take.

Molly closed the shutters in haste. “Oh dear. How are his kids taking it, the poor things?” She strode over to the kitchen cabinets and pulled out a fullish bottle of Firewhisky, stashed away in a secret compartment for precisely these occasions, ones when a compassionate shoulder and kind words needed a bit of greasing. Molly wasn’t one to brag but the bottle had accompanied her for almost two years in two different bases and still it remained almost two thirds full.

Winky had gotten her hands on it exactly once.

Remus’ fingers wrapped themselves around the chipped shot glass she pushed towards him. “About as well as you can imagine. But that’s not the worst part. He was meeting up with Firethorn when they killed him.” His voice was tinged with defeat. “They killed both of them, Molly.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending, and then the weight of what he was saying hit her like a train.

Collapsing on a chair opposite him Molly took a swig right from the bottle, one and another and then a third one, the liquid burning her throat and flushing all cares of dignity away. What did it matter if she got plastered like a fleabag in Knockturn Alley? There was no reason to pretend anymore.

It was over.

Before she managed to take a fourth sip Remus reached for the bottle and set it back on the table.

Molly felt pungent sweat stick the armholes of her blouse to her pits, the previous shock giving in to fear, cold slimy fear. “So the fortune the old booby charged us didn’t save him in the end, did it,” she forced out flatly, just to speak.

Remus gave a tired nod. “Seems that way.”

Something fuzzy rubbed itself against her calf, piercing the empty gnaw of dread in her belly, and she glanced at the floor.

Crookshanks squeezed his large soft body between her legs, his purr loud and raspy like the spluttery radio Arthur had salvaged for those dotty experiments he pretended not to be doing in the Burrow’s barn and she pretended not to know about. The cat—Kneazle—the cat, Merlin, the whiskey was kicking in fast, and Molly had to shake her head to stop the kitchen from spinning, the supposed heart of her new home now appearing so perfectly, scarily foreign.

Merlin’s beard, what was going to happen to them?

Remus seemed to be reading her mind. “Molly, how are we doing? Supply-wise, I mean.”

Taken out of her reverie she turned away from Crookshanks who humphed and threw himself on the faded rug in front of the fireplace. “Oh, well…. we did manage to divide the inventory so that each base would have a samish batch, more or less.“ It was a few weeks ago when she sat in this exact spot with Dobby and Kreacher, hunched over a list of bases and haggling about nutritional value, but it was like a moment from another life. “The previous package came, wait, let me think, yes, mid-February. So if people stuck to the meal plan, every base should be around its eighth or ninth multiplication.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning there’s enough food to last us a week, give or take a few days.” She sighed. “Which is why I had Pertinger arrange the new delivery.”

Remus gaped at her as though he didn’t entirely understand what she was saying, and then his hands flew to his face. “A week,” he breathed, the sound muffled by his palms. “Merlin, a week. What about Neville, did he have any luck with the—“

“The seeds?” Molly tutted. “Didn’t sprout. It was a small chance, anyway.” As dab and enthusiastic as the boy was, one needed more than dab and enthusiasm to bypass the multiplication limit Finnick’s Food Fund placed on its goods. She ought to know; it wasn’t like Neville Longbottom was the first desperate person to ever plant seeds from the Fund’s vegetables and ended up poisoning his entire garden.

“And the elves?” Remus asked, voice coloured with faint hope.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Remus. We tried everything to spread the eggs across different baskets, but you know how things are. No one is willing to take the risk unless there’s hard gold involved, and we have so little of it left I had to tell Tressa to slash her potions budget by half. It’s a miracle she didn’t close up shop at the spot.” Molly generally avoided poking her nose in how others ran their corner of the Order, but although she couldn’t afford a miffed healer she could afford empty coffers even less. “Firethorn was the cheapest contact around, may the mingy fool rest in peace, and if he’s gone…”

Molly took a breath to continue but then she noticed how Remus never looked at her once, nodding the entire time she spoke. Resignation was radiating from him in waves and she felt something deep within her stir at the sight, a pinch of defiance and anger. Blimey, so what they were cut off from their only source of food. She was Molly blinking Weasley, head of the Order’s supply network, and not folding when things crumbled, which happened roughly five times a day and a good one at that, made up literally the biggest part of her job.

Turning in the chair to face him she nudged his knuckle. “Can we get someone else from the Fund to work with us?”

Remus chuckled and took a swallow of his whiskey. “Doubtful. They enjoy their stability and have no intention to undermine it by funding a resistance group when they get their money no matter who wins. The only reason Firethorn agreed to smuggle us deliveries in the first place was because we offered to pay the original price, before You-Know-Who ordered it lowered. And since the others have now seen what happens to profiteers, I’d expect the Fund to sooner turn me in than sell me a single bean.”

She tilted her head from side to side, weighing the options. “Well, Boffrand is yet to tell me to go whistle despite the Kreacher incident. Perhaps if we forget about the Fund and loan from the Gringotts we could exchange corned beef for some garbure.“

He blinked. “The Gringotts? Blimey, Molly, they wouldn’t talk to us even if I offered to secure the loan with Harry’s vault. They pretty much told me to get stuffed when I asked them to hand his money over to a proxy, and now that he’s disappeared…”

Molly stiffened and Remus quickly returned to his initial point, the subject of Harry’s disappearance still too fresh and frightening to entertain. “The goblins don’t care if You-Know-Who wins. To them it doesn’t matter who views themselves as their natural superior, the old guard or the Death Eaters. What they care about is fortifying themselves with their gold and their accounts and their investments. So as long as you can pay, as long as there’s a return on their money, you’re welcome to seek them out. But we can’t pay and worse, we are losing.”

Molly wrinkled her nose. “So what, we start going to the Fund through the front door?”

Remus snorted. “You wouldn’t get past the threshold, Molly. You wouldn’t get past the Leaky Cauldron because all entrances to Diagon Alley are so crammed with secrecy sensors they start blaring the moment you as much as think of Polyjuicing yourself. And even if we somehow bypassed the security and bought the supplies, we’d be left with a bunch of food we can’t move because it’s riddled with Finnick’s Tracking Charm.” He raised the shot glass to his lips. “Say what you will about Firethorn but at least we could bribe him to lift that.”

Molly frowned at the table. If someone’d told her she’d one day be missing the world’s most self-satisfied profiteering bellend with the world’s most ridiculous sideburns she’d have told them to lay off the pumpkin wine and go for a jog. But alas, here they were.

Remus twirled his glass. “What about live food? Any progress there?”

Ever since hers and Arthur’s escape from the Burrow eighteen months ago, the evening after Ron was spotted at the Ministry and Death Eaters came, not a day had passed when Molly didn’t curse herself stiff for not having the wits to make a detour through the garden. A single potato and chicken were all it would have taken for the Order to be set for the rest of the war. But when Arthur blasted the door open so that they could make a run for the Apparition line, there was only one thing on Molly’s mind.

Ginny’s at Hogwarts. They have my baby.

Chasing the memories of that awful night away, she scoffed. “None whatsoever. You know how people are about farming. It feels a smidge too close to what Muggles do for a living, best left to the poors. And those few who actually deign to do the work put the Hogwarts grounds to shame when it comes to securing a patch. Can’t have a competitor shrink your pumpkins and cost you a prize from Gnome’s Paradise, can you?”

Remus sighed. “Figures, seeing how ridiculous things have gotten lately. Don’t quote me on this but the word is Snatchers are going door to door and if you have an independent source of nutrition, if they find a single chicken in your coop, they take it and—“

Molly gasped. “Oh Merlin, do they—“

He shook his head. “No. They pay you, triple of what the stuff’s worth.”

She felt her forehead pucker. “A triple? But with what?”

He shrugged. “Gringotts money, probably. The point is no one who has food which isn’t treated against multiplying will sell it to us. We can’t match You-Know-Who’s price so why would they? They got theirs. And if you’re telling me we can’t even steal it…”

Remus fell silent and Molly decided to swallow the bitter pill. “What about Harry? What if Lee played him up in that show of his, reminded the world he’s out there, fighting...” At least she hoped he was. There were times when she’d welcome the reassurance herself. “Britain remembers who won the last war, Remus. Just the name, Potter. Every wizard and witch spent a decade saying it as if it was a charm giving us a better world. You don’t wipe off awe like that with a few galleons and a pat on the back.”

But Remus wasn’t interested in the balm she was offering. “Harry’s gone, Molly,” he said with an unusual sharpness. “And even if he wasn’t people have failed to turn up for him for the past two years. So I wouldn’t expect much on that front if I were you. Especially since the danger has shot through the roof.”

Leaning back in the chair he reached into the breast pocket of his threadbare jacket and slammed a piece of paper on the table.

Molly raised an eyebrow and leaned closer to have a better look in the half-light.

It was a week old front page of the Daily Prophet, a good three quarters of it taken up by a photograph of a shop being boarded shut. A headline blared across the remaining space.

OLLIVANDERS CLOSES FOR THE FIRST TIME IN 1600 YEARS

Her eyes whipped up to Remus in alarm, but he motioned her to read further. She turned the page over.

 

Last week, following multiple reports of subversive activity, Ministry officials have moved in to arrest Garrick Ollivander, the proprietor of what is generally recognised as the oldest and longest operating wand shop on the British Isles. Lifting the news embargo on the case, Eunice Slumber of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement held a private conference inside her office at the Ministry for Magic to provide details for the first time since the shop’s closing. “The investigation is currently in the evidence gathering stage which, considering the sheer scope of accusations levied against Mr. Ollivander, might take weeks, possibly months,” Ms. Slumber informed members of the press. “Although reports of past security breaches at the Ministry have been grossly overstated we cannot fail to consider who it is that Mr. Ollivander is alleged to have worked for. Therefore, he and his staff will be held at an undisclosed location until the date of their preliminary hearing can be…”

“Held at an undisclosed location?’” Molly glanced up from the article. “But if You-Know-Who found out Ollivander was one of our suppliers then why didn’t he—”

Remus nodded. “I’ve been asking myself the same question. Ollivander’s not the only wandmaker around. Best, sure. But there are others. And killing him would send quite a message to the wizarding community. ‘No one’s safe if they work against You-Know-Who, whoever they are.’”

Molly’s insides turned to water. “Do you think this is about Fred and George?” she breathed.

Remus regarded her carefully. “I think no matter how badly Snowdonia turned out for us we managed to sock You-Know-Who’s nose in a way he never saw coming. And it’d be foolish of him not to try and discover what we did there or how to return the favour. The twins have evaded him so far but Ollivander’s right there if you want to learn about some obscure, deeper kind of magic.”

Molly barely heard him.

You-Know-Who’s after Fred and George.

Her gaze flitted about the kitchen, mind racing like every other time she forgot to pretend her children were living completely normal lives, doing their completely normal thing and it was fine, Molly, really, no different than going to Hogwarts or breaking curses or taming dragons, and dammit, how many times she’d told Charlie that clowning about with fire-breathing lizards was not oka—

Remus leaned across the table, eyes burning with a frantic intensity. “Molly, we need to sort this out. I can handle running this cat herd, I can handle piecing together contacts Alastor didn’t trust me to know about. I can even handle going to battles unsure if You-Know-Who had Ollivander create some weapon we have no idea how to deal with. But if we can’t feed our people we’re finished. Kaput. The Order’s barely holding on as it is and once we start going hungry…”

He trailed off, desperation marring his features. “Snowdonia cost us fifty fighters, and those who didn’t leave because they thought I knew about that mincer left because they believed me when I said I didn’t. Merlin, bless Alastor’s memory but damn it, can you imagine what it did to my authority, going around admitting I was in the dark about everyt—“

Possessed by a new determination, Molly grabbed his hand, stopping the outburst. “Don’t worry, honey,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’ll figure something out.”

Chapter 2

While standing in Nymphadora’s office Molly finally allowed herself to admit that on a good day she’d rather chew her leg off than come over. For one thing she could count on one hand the number of times Tonks summoned her to the Order’s headquarters and didn’t have some terrible news to deliver. And it hadn’t happened once for Molly to understand how in the heck the woman managed to get anything done in the unholy mess which was her workspace.

But mostly the issue was that whenever people heard about the head procurer making herself available in person they insisted on pulling stunts like this.

Someone around here must have lost their mind.

She looked up from the list in her hand, a piece of paper covered from top to bottom, left to right with dense handwriting. “And you expect me to do what exactly, Alder? Whip up my charmed hat and pull the whole of Ollivander’s stock out of it? Who do you think I am, a fairy godmother?”

Seated on the window sill with one foot planted on the ground, Alder Brown folded his arms across his chest. “You’re our chief combat provider, are you not? So I expect you to provide us with things to do some actual combat. Unless someone neglected to tell me that fighters now aren’t supposed to have anything to fight with.” He turned to gaze outside as though she weren’t worth his attention. “Wouldn’t surprise me one bit.”

Molly glanced at Nymphadora but was met with an indifferent shrug. Either taking on a fellow Auror went against some barmy professional code the two had going on, or Tonks had enough on her own plate to deal with someone else’s problems. One way or the other, Molly clearly wasn’t going to get any help.

She waved the sheet around. “This stuff is worth three quarters of our money. Not our wand money, mind you, but everything we have. I get this for you and we can all go home the next day because there’ll be about a Sickle left to pay for everything else.”

Parsing through the endless list of demands once more, she attempted to pinpoint the few reasonable necessities. “I can get you two second-hand wands, Alder, but that’s it. Try working with what Fred and George are sending you instead. The elves aren’t hauling those crates over because it’s their idea of fun.”

“And what am I supposed to do with a bunch of Fanged Frisbees, Molly?” he snapped. “Hold a match with Death Eaters and hope they Avada themselves if we win because you refuse to bring me any bloody wands?”

She put her hands on her hips, a failproof tool when it came to handling childishness. “How about you use the weapons for once, huh? I noticed your squad asks for restocks by far the least out of the entire Order. What’s the point of my boys working their fingers to the bone if you’re going to have the stuff sit in a case, collecting dust?”

He opened his mouth to retort but Nymphadora decided to join in at last. “Molly’s right, Alder,” she said, the weariness seeping from her voice taking both of them by surprise. “None of us can afford to be picky. We have to think outside the box, and if repurposed toys are what’s available, then I better find them front and centre in your strategy.”

Silence settled over the room, heavy and oppressive, and although Molly was as high on the big shot ladder as the two of them she couldn’t help but feel put on the spot, shuffling her feet as she was, an unruly child who’d failed to satisfy the expectations of her parents. She’d never had problems announcing what’s what, this is how things are going to be, but decisions in the Order had a price tag attached to them, one frequently expressed in human lives.

Lately it very much stopped being a metaphor, if it ever was.

She should have been able to take the list, scrape together everything everyone needed to keep themselves alive, and it was a great source of shame to her that she wasn’t.

And this was Alder, for crying out loud! Considering what he’d been through, what everyone in the Order had been through, and the role her own family played in it, it was difficult for her to figure out where Molly the No-Nonsense Procurer should end and Molly the Commiserator begin.

“I’m off to the workshop once we’re done here,” she offered to smooth over the edges. “The twins want me to take a look at a new weapon they’ve been developing. Something more… dignified you might prefer.”

He scoffed. “You do that. And make sure it’s finished for a change.”

Leaning against the window frame Alder bore his eyes into her as if waiting for a suspect to spill the beans. Molly glanced at Tonks, a bit miffed and a bit more uncertain, and then miffed some more because of it. But it didn’t seem like Tonks was showing anyone the door anytime soon. All of a sudden Molly was struck with how ragged the woman looked. Gone were the last traces of pregnancy weight from her cheeks, and the wild hair colours which had returned after Teddy’s birth once again made room for the natural ashy brown. In fact, Molly could swear there was a thin whitish streak in the lank curtain reaching past those jutting cheekbones.

Not that haggard features were a rare sight in the Order. On the contrary, not looking like you were dying for a swim in a tub of Butterbeer was just about the fastest way to earn yourself a talk with an Auror over a nice flask of Veritaserum.

Tonks addressed a stack of files on her desk. “Remus dropped by earlier. How’s the food situation coming along?”

Molly shrugged, raising eyebrows at the woman’s willingness to discuss this in the open. “We’re getting it under control.”

Alder chuckled. “I bet. What’s the creative solution this time? Nymphadora is going to provide us with an all-milk diet?”

At last Tonks came alive, whether due to the mention of her full name or because of the suggestion Molly didn’t know. “Hilarious. Molly, slash the shopping list down to one wand,” she bit out and swung back in the chair before turning to the man. “Why are you still here? Don’t you have any dusty boxes to unpack?”

Straightening, Alder threw her a surprised look which immediately melted in a smooth wall of annoyance. He got up, shoulders stiffening, and marched outside without a word.

Once the door slammed shut behind him Tonks slumped in the chair and collapsed face first on the littered desk, groaning dramatically.

Molly smiled. “Tough day, I take it?”

“Don’t even ask,” she muffled into the papers. “The restructuring we did after Snowdonia threw a wrench in the gossip mill but it’s been gearing up again lately. Another day of people pouring into my office with their overwhelming need to chat and I’m hexing them out before they manage to say ‘Hey, Tonks, I just heard.’”  

Molly could very well imagine. Moody’s era wasn’t generous with information at the best of times, certainly not after they almost lost Harry in North Devon. But while there wasn’t much to be said about measures which saw everything going through a single man, one whose motto went “on the need to know, and the one who needs to know is me”, they had nothing on the anti-traitor barrage Remus unleashed. Sure, he severed the cord between the bases and the leader, the same one which made fighters unable to as much as leave the bed without a say-so from the above. But his next move entailed severing the bases from each other, turning them into mostly isolated mini-Orders functioning on their own—drafting their own missions, doing their own vetting, and unaware of a thing going on elsewhere.

Moody had protected the Order by making it so that if he died its secrets would die with him; Remus overshadowed hard-to-come-by rumours about general development with easier-to-come-by rumours about next month’s dinners.

No wonder Tonks was badgered day in and day out, sitting as she was on one of the few information crossings in the whole organisation.

Sprawled on the table, Tonks lifted her head. “I’m going to give Alastor one thing—he sure knew how to shut up a mate with a single glance. Never quite mastered it myself.” Jerking as though called a foul name she narrowed her eyes and attempted to make Molly burst into flames by the looks of it. Molly had to admit the impersonation did leave a lot to be desired.

Sighing, Tonks raised herself up in the chair. “Remus said we have about a week before things go tits up.”

“Trust me, a few more babies and you’ll be poring over Witch Weekly to do it by magic.”

Tonks pulled a face, not amused. “How did you calculate the rations? Do you mean we have a week to feed our ranks before Snowdonia?”

“No, we redid the rations after the battle. They’re adjusted to our current count.”

Tonks gave a soft chuckle, a quiet sound which seemed to reproach her for ever hoping otherwise.

“I gather that’s bad,” Molly said.

“Yeah, you might say so.” Tonks reached for a piece of paper and handed it to her. “A few kids from the other side have been inspired by our rousing message. Or rather they’re squeezed between a rock and a hard place and scared out of their wits. By what happened in the valley, or at the manor, I have no clue. At any rate, there’s a handful of teenagers in our prison, hooked on Veritaserum and spilling stuff which’s gotten me missing the bliss of my pregnancy hormones.” She shook her head. “Merlin, I so forgot what it’s like to be seventeen.”

Frowning, Molly read the short list. “Daphne Greengrass? Didn’t her uncle die in the blast?”

“Yup and she’s had quite a few choice words to say about it. Though from what I understand, the general feeling among these kids is that not only won’t squashing the Order be a walk in the park as advertised, but worse, You-Know-Who has no intention to protect them. Seems like the hard place isn’t looking so terribly hard when there’s a rock crashing down on your head.” Tonks gave an unhappy chuckle. “Took a few weeks but finally turns out the mess in Snowdonia was good for something.”

Molly went over the three names once more. “It’s four new people, Tonks, hardly anything that’s going to eat us out of house and home.”

“No, but it began with a drop and now it’s a trickle. If we play our cards right, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be flooded with rattled Slytherins who want to be in the camp with the spooky green magic. And if there’s one group we can’t afford to go hungry it’s them.” Tonks leaned closer over her desk, jabbing a finger into one of the dozens of scattered papers to make a point. “None of them are switching coats because they woke up one morning and realised it’s the right thing to do. They came because they wanted protection, from You-Know-Who, for their relatives, from the consequences of their actions. So we promised whatever they wanted—if they join us on the battlefield. They weren’t too happy about that, let me tell you.”

Blinking, Molly found herself at loss for words. “Are you serious? You’re going to arm these brainwashed children and send them to fight the side they intended to die for a month ago? Their own families?”

Tonks’ eyes went from tired mum to witch in charge in a second. “I looked at the food you’ve been delivering and it’s pretty definitively free of candy I could hand out for nothing in return,” she said. “So yeah, when I said none of us can be picky? I was very serious about that.”

Molly pursed her lips but thought better of pressing for details. After all, it was Tonks who came up with the idea of sister bases, with each leader serving as the Secret Keeper to the other one, minimising damage should things go to the devil. Surely, binding each newcomer to a handler via an Unbreakable Vow was something that would occur to her in her sleep.

Molly placed the list of new members back on the table. “I need you to assign someone to Arisaig.”

Tonks fixed her with a weary gaze. “You have three house elves, Molly.”

“Yes, one of whom threatened to kneecap a prospective supplier and another one who works whenever she feels like it. Which isn’t often. Dobby is eager to help, sometimes too eager. It doesn’t create the most respectable impression when you add his fashion sense into the mix. And we could use some respectability if I’m to find us a new source of food.”

Sighing, Tonks regarded the piles of documents on her desk. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Molly nodded and turned to leave but then the final item on her bucket list flashed in her mind. “Oh, one last thing. I… you know, if you need some peace and quiet, just drop Teddy off in Arisaig for a few days. It’s no bother and he’s such a sweetheart. And I’m sure you could use the rest.”

Tonks’ eyes narrowed, as though she realised the key to a good Moody impersonation was actually meaning the ire. “Thanks, but I’m good,” she said in a chilly voice.

One last nod and Molly beat a hasty retreat, cursing herself for a daft bint as she rushed outside and closed the door. What spectre of stupidity possessed her to make such a foolish proposal? Even if Tonks felt like parting with her son so soon after Ted’s death there was a fat chance of her taking a Weasley up on the offer, considering that if one thought about it, it was kind of sort of maybe a bit Molly’s family which bore the blame for her father dying.

Not to mention the other thing the revived gossip mill spread like wildfire.

“A word, Molly?”

She wheeled around, caught off guard.

Alder Brown was leaning against a wall in the hallway, his glare reminding her of those vetting sessions she was required to attend on a random basis.

Oh boy. She stepped in it now.

“How’s Lavender doing?” she blurted out, anxious to set the tone of the conversation.

He stepped closer, the intense expression on his face cracking and revealing a father worried sick. “Still at the infirmary. Tressa’s been plying her with Sleeping Draught. Apparently the breakdown my Lav suffered was so strong she can’t stay awake for more than an hour before the fits come back. But at least she’s coherent now. Merlin’s beard, I’d never seen her cry so hard as the night after the battle.”

“That’s fantast—“

He pinned her with a stare. “Your son was with her.”

Molly swallowed. “Alder, if this is about those allegatio—“

“Let me make myself clear,” he cut her off. “I don’t want him anywhere near my daughter, understood?”

Molly reached out but then withdrew her hand, hoping to go as delicately about this as possible. “You do realise I can’t order Ron not to be around her, right? They’re both adults, with history no less, and if they want to draw some comfort by spending time together, it’s none of my business. Or yours, for that matter.”

But he refused to be placated. “It’s his fault she’s in this condition. He had a responsibility to her as a commander and utterly failed. And if he doesn’t have enough decency to acknowledge this himself, then you’re going to have to do it for him.”

Molly felt a flare of protective anger at having her boy insulted so unfairly. “Look, it pains me that Lavender was hurt but she knew what she was getting herself into when she first joined,” she said, a bit more harshly than intended. “Everyone in the Order did. And I’m sorry but she’s far from the only one to get injured in the valley.”

Which was true. It’d been weeks since the battle but Winky still had to cover shifts at the infirmary, if only so that Tressa wouldn’t end up occupying one of those camp beds herself out of sheer exhaustion. There hardly was a person who didn’t suffer from phantom pains due to a curse or a crushed leg, and if anything was going to suck Molly’s money box dry it was the buckets of Dreamless Sleeps and Calming Draughts and Draughts of Peace half the Order guzzled like tea just to function.

At least Ron was a commander enough to stay and show concern for his people. That was more than Molly could say for a lot of the others who simply upped and left.

Alder clenched his fists. “Oh? Remind me, how did you handle it when your daughter returned with her bones shattered to dust? Because I remember you tearing the place down and trying to force anyone who’d listen to keep her chained to the stove from then on. So kindly take this rubbish about everyone knowing the risks and shove it, Molly, because I won’t have it.”

She froze but he went on before she could think of a response. “I was this close to grabbing Lav and dragging her to her mother’s safe house. If she didn’t beg me so much to let her stay… And you know what? I admire her dedication to the cause, I really do. But if there’s any unnecessary danger I won’t hesitate to remove it.”

Nose to nose with her now, he snarled. “So keep your son away if you care about him. Or I will.”

Chapter 3

While running her eyes over the rows upon rows of dirty shelves that were full to the bursting with raw materials and experiments in various stages of completion, Molly had to remind herself for the umpteenth time that both she and the elves were too busy to sort through this abominable mess and there really was no point wasting her breath on reminding the boys to keep their workspace clean or organised.

But no one could hold it against her if she let it quietly drive her bonkers.

Sprawled by the cluttered bench in their storeroom, pale and dark-eyed as though testing a line of Halloween make-up, Fred and George were explaining why she’d leave their workshop empty-handed.

“We can’t remove the multiplication limit,” George announced.

“See, at first we thought the Fund simply has a ginormous stack of food lying in a vault somewhere in the cellars,” Fred said, chewing on some nuts they had precious little to waste. “You come in, hand them your shopping list at the counter, and they place a multiplication limit on your order before you pay. So basically no one item they have in store would be in any way special. It’d be all just lying in a giant pile they sell and restock with stuff from their own production line whenever it’s close to running out. Y’know, because that’s what they tell people they’re doing.”

“Would have justified the huge, gaudy building they’re based in.” George snapped his fingers and pointed at his brother. “Merlin, do you remember how we couldn’t get any sunlight into the shop because of that ugly monstrosity?”

Fred gave a nostalgic sigh. “Damn, the mould was something else.”

Molly gently squeezed his shoulder. “Focus, honey. So what, that’s not what they do?”

“Nope, not at all. You might want to sit down for this.” Fred crossed his arms and gave her a conspiratorial look. “Remember those pears the Fund sells that Ginny likes and you could never afford?”

“The flour that had bugs in it the day after you bought it because you didn’t want to pay an extra galleon for the special package?” George said. “Those turnips they grow in the finest fields using the finest magic to ensure your taste buds will have the most finest bestest deliciousestest experience?”

Fred leaned closer and placed the back of his hand against his cheek as if imparting a secret. “It’s Muggle food.”

Molly laughed at the jest but when the boys kept giving her the same unflinching stare she felt her chin sag. “Oh you’re joking.”

“That was our reaction too when Dobby found out and told us!” George exclaimed as Molly gaped at him. “But it makes perfect sense once you think about it for a second. See, pre-Secrecy, both the Muggle and wizarding world were more or less one, right? There weren’t separate institutions for Muggles and wizards, we all just doffed our caps to a bloke with a crown.”

“Same thing with food,” jumped in Fred. “You needed a chicken? You went to Tom the Muggle who earned his living raising chickens. Ran out of flour? Pop by Agnes’ mill, she’s a Muggle who’s got your back. There weren’t separate shops for Muggles and wizards; everyone swam in one big pool. But then International Secrecy came and wizards found themselves in a pickle—because none of the food was being produced by them. Which meant—“

“Starvation,” said Molly darkly. Oh how well she knew the contempt in which wizards and witches held physical work and those who engaged in it. If you said you used your hands instead of your wand you might as well have branded yourself a social pariah. Magic made you better, superior, so why would you avoid performing it unless you were some sort of a degenerate?

“The solution?” George twiddled his thumbs. “Take a bag of food from Muggles and create an institution for its safekeeping. Hence, the first ever Minister for Magic Ford Finnick and his ministerial fund.”

“But how do you distribute this new food of yours, thou mighty official?” Fred gestured dramatically at Molly. “Do you give it to people so that they could endlessly multiply it and never need you again?”

“Or do you realise you’ve just landed yourself a goose which lays golden eggs, provided you set up certain conditions to ensure nothing ever plugs its arse?”

Fed up, Molly bent lower and clapped her palms right before George’s nose. “Why can’t you remove the multiplication limit?” she asked loudly to stop the boys’ dawdling.

Blinking, George stared at her like it was only now he registered her movements, and Molly couldn’t help but wonder when was the last time the two of them slept. “Because there’s nothing to remove,” he said. “Mum, they don’t flog you the regular tosh, just with a spell slapped on top of it.”

“It’s not like what Flourish and Blotts do to make sure you can’t buy one textbook and multiply it for the whole class,” Fred added. “Instead, the Fund uses the Muggle stuff as a template to create something completely new.”

Molly felt her forehead wrinkle as she racked her brain for the faded memories of her Hogwarts lessons. “But you can’t create food, can you?”

George waved his hand dismissively. “Fred meant to say reassemble, more than outright create. The original batch is still around but it’s not what wizards have been eating for the last three hundred years.”

She frowned. “So what were those beans I’ve been feeding you your entire childhood?”

Fred shrugged. “Beans. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Now, now, mate. Those were some heavy-duty fuel whenever we needed to perfume Woniekins’ bedroom.”

Fred hopped on the table and crossed his legs under him. “Mum, when the Fund sells you goods post-Secrecy they don’t create them by multiplying the original Muggle batch. They take the elements which make it up, multiply those, and work with them so that the new batch has not only the original characteristics, but another set as well, baked right into it.”

George extended his hand in a single fluid motion. “And one of these new characteristics is that the thing can’t be multiplied past a certain number.”

Rubbing her lower back, Molly pulled up a chair and sat down. “I still don’t understand why you can’t erase the limit.”

The twins exchanged a look.

“Okay, let’s say you have an apple,” Fred said, wriggling on the bench to get more comfortable. “There are some things which make it an apple, right? It has a taste, core, certain range of shapes—“

“It makes this heavenly sound when you throw it at Percy’s head…“ George trailed off with a dreamy look in his eyes.

“If those things weren’t there it wouldn’t be an apple,” Fred went on. “And the same goes for, I dunno, the chocolate the Fund sells. It’s dark brown, rich—and can be multiplied nine times to feed six people for the price of ten galleons.”

“Not to mention goes rancid by multiplication number eight,” George added. “Need to get butts in the door as soon as possible if you want to make some money.”

“Try taking these attributes out and what you end up with is no longer chocolate,” Fred said and reached for a nut to munch on.

Molly glanced from one twin to the other but they remained silent, like there was nothing more to add. Deflated, she collapsed in the hard chair. “Explains why it turned to ash whenever I tinkered with it back in the Burrow,” she said, the distant memories of her attempts at thrift suddenly appearing in a different, quainter light.

Seated on the table, Fred perked up. “No way, you did experiments on the Fund’s stash?”

“I knew you were one of us, mum!” George laughed.

Resting her temple against one hand, she brought the other up to silence them. “So what, can’t you get around the protection?”

Fred chuckled. “Get around the protection, she says… Mum, we tried everything. We fiddled with Pertinger’s deliveries, with the multiplications, cooked them into meals and multiplied those, cut the ingredients up by hand to see if they can be forced to regrow into the original form and multiplied that way…”

“And?”

George shrugged. “And nothing. The food knows there are ten portions of it and that’s that.”

Swinging forward, Fred drew a square with his index fingers. “Think of it as a magical camera. Let’s say I snap a picture of George here, picking his nose.”

George patted her forearm. “A rare occurrence, I assure you.”

“I can adjust the colours,” Fred continued, “move the frame around, and if I’m good enough I can make him have a really stupid look in his eyes. What I can’t do is rig the image so that it shows him putting the booger into his mouth and eating it.”

George drummed his fingertips on the armrest. “The information just isn’t there. The same way as there aren’t eleven bars of Finnick’s chocolate.”

Molly took a deep breath, the inevitable conclusion tightening her lungs. “So if I wanted to multiply the Fund’s food to my heart’s content…”

“You’d need to have the original Muggle batch, the one Ministry put together centuries ago,” Fred finished for her. “Apparently, people at the Fund are in a flap every once in a while, arguing whether they should move it to Gringotts. As long as it’s at the store, there’s a chance someone might nick it.”

George grabbed another nut. “And if someone does, if people could multiply it into as much food as they need—“

Molly cut in, feeling like a punctured balloon crashing to the ground. “There’d be no point of the Fund, or their ugly building.”

The twins brought their hands up in unison, a silent there you go underlined by a sense of victorious achievement entirely at odds with the situation.

Noticing her crestfallen mood, George straightened up. “But fear not, mother mine! Thou shalt not be left in a pinch.” He glanced at his brother. “Fred, if I may have the honour?”

Fred gave a magnanimous bow and George sprung up from the chair, grinning like a fool. He rushed off deeper into the storeroom and disappeared behind one of the racks, the sound of his footsteps soon replaced by a soft groan and then loud banging as whatever the twins kept on those particular shelves began to be ejected onto the floor.

Molly squinted at Fred but he shook his head, directing her to pay attention. “See, your little geniuses are always thinking five steps ahead.”

At last, George re-emerged from behind the shelving, floating a large rectangular object covered with a dirty tarpaulin. “Ta-dah!” he declared and let it land on the ground.

Fred jumped off the table and extended a hand towards whatever it was that George just excavated. “Mum, meet Preservox. Preservox, meet mum.”

With a great flourish George tore off the fabric and raised himself tall. Turning in the chair, Molly leaned closer to take a peek.

It was a large white cupboard, about three feet tall, two feet deep, and one and a half foot wide. There were several compartments of various depths and sizes but no door, and in the middle of the bottom part…

She gasped. “What for the love of Merlin’s beard is this and why does it have a dead rat inside it?”

Confused, Fred crouched down to see better. “Oh, that’s our test subject. We needed something which spoils easily and has no chance in hell of being treated against multiplying because no one in their right mind would ever want more of it. Watch this.” Standing up, he took out his wand. “Accio Percy!”

The carcass rose in the air and went hurtling at them but before Molly found herself with a face full of decomposing animal Fred snatched an empty wastepaper basket and caught it.

Whistling in appreciation, George seemed to share Molly’s opinion that dangerous or not, all those years spent playing Quidditch at least did sharpen the boy’s reflexes. “Dobby gave us a few tips on kitchen magic,” George said. “Y’know, the stuff Hogwarts elves use. Take a peep at our dear old Percival. Don’t worry, his biting days are long over.”

Obliging, Fred offered the basket to Molly who took it with gingerly hands, wondering what the Fund put in those nuts that made the twins believe she had any use for a doorless box and a dead rodent.

Speaking of which, she was amazed to realise the rat was in a remarkably good shape despite being stored in the workshop for however long judging by the amount of dust on the tarpaulin. The fur was nice and shaggy, with no bald patches. The skin wasn’t pulled tight over the corpse’s head and the teeth stayed hidden beneath the gums. And try as she might Molly didn’t smell a whiff of rot.

If it weren’t for the stiff limbs she’d have thought the boys were nursing an injured animal back to health, like when they were little.

Fred touched the edge of the basket. “He’s been like this for the past six months, since the moment he croaked. No flies, no decomposition, nothing. As charmingly ratty as ever, our Percy.”

George slapped the top of the cupboard. “Put anything edible into Preservox and it stays as it was. Doesn’t matter if it’s meat one day from turning green. Once it’s in you don’t have to worry about it. It’ll be fresh and edible for as long as you need. And look!”

He pointed inside and Molly had to immediately peek into the basket once more, making sure her eyes weren’t playing a trick on her.

The rat was still in the basket. And it was also inside the cupboard.

George jabbed a finger at one carcass and then the other, exuding pride. “Unless what you’re putting in is alive or treated against multiplying it will multiply itself, on its own and as many times as you want. You never run out of it.”

Fred nudged her elbow. “So what, did we do well?”

She regarded them for a while, weighing the words. “You did, boys. You did very well but call that rat Percy again and I’m shutting this workshop down and taking both of you to Aunt Muriel.”

Both froze where they stood. “You wouldn’t,” George said.

She placed the basket back on the floor, vanishing its contents, and put her hands on her hips. “Try me.”

They looked aside and her heart broke a bit.

On the surface it appeared as though Molly was the last and only one still grieving, still gripped by sadness whenever confronted with the giant hole which was gaping in the middle of their family. But it didn’t take much effort to sus out that the others simply had a different way of mourning Percy’s absence. And as biting as Ginny could be, as hard as the twins pretended to take it in their stride, as quickly as Arthur changed the subject whenever Percy’s name was mentioned, it was clear to Molly that for all their anger and hurt, if he had come back and apologised they’d have accepted him in a heartbeat.

A bang came from the adjacent study room, a door opening and slamming shut, and all three lunged for the storeroom’s exit, grateful for the interruption.

Seamus Finnigan stood in the entrance to the workshop’s lounge slash study room, hair sticking out in all directions as if he’d went for a stroll in a gale. He stared far ahead, an intent look in his eyes like he experienced a profound revelation—he’d just had enough.

“Hello, Mrs. Weasley,” he deadpanned when he noticed her.

“Hello, dear.”

George sighed by her elbow. “The Green Vanisher, test number 125.” A quill perked up on a small table by the wall and started taking the dictation. “The result—once again, a complete cock-up.”

Seamus moved for the sunken couch at the other side of the room. “Next time it’s you eejits trying to see if we can bypass the ten-minute mark. I’m done hogging the fun to myself.”

“What, and ruin this handsome kisser?” George asked, waving a hand. A shard of chalk rose by the blackboard, the room’s centrepiece, and scribbled something Molly couldn’t decipher.

“Yeah, Finnigan, where’s your heart?” Fred said and followed his brother inside.

“Buried somewhere under the pile of my broken dreams.” Seamus heaved a sigh, crashing onto the pale red sofa.

Molly folded her arms across her chest and stared the closer twin down. “Frederick Edmund Weasley. Surely you don’t mean to tell me you’re still messing around with that thing?”

Fred dropped to the faded carpet and drew his knees to his chest. “What, have you ever seen us leave a project unfinished?”

She breathed to give him a piece of her mind but George interrupted her. “Mum, let me stop you right there. This is like any other time when we get the idea to do something which is strictly speaking ‘not done’ and you go, ‘Oh Merlin, don’t you two dare sit the garden gnomes on a broom and have them pass through every single fireplace before flying out of the Burrow’s chimney’. And we’ll nod along and go behind your back and you’ll learn the truth anyway because I’m pretty sure Dad’s been cursed to never keep a secret and you’ll be mad and we’ll feel guilty but still want the recognition and then years into the future you’ll have a Butterbeer and admit the whole thing was kinda awesome, so why don’t we skip all the way to the end and go straight to the part where you say we’re your ingenious little buggers and you’re proud of us?”

Fred helpfully pointed to the coffee table where a filthy glass contained dregs of what might have been Butterbeer once, but Molly’s throat was too clogged with rage for her to utter a word, let alone engage with the joke.

They didn’t get it. They weren’t around to witness the amount of pain and chaos their Muggle toy caused, the consequences it had for their family who now had to figure out how to face the other members of the Order, many of whom lost friends and relatives in the blast. And while a lot of the obliviousness could be justified by the fact that the twins had virtually no access to the outside world, Molly refused to make excuses for their utter lack of willingness to even consider the other side.

“It’s the Protean Charm,” spoke up Seamus, breaking the tension. “I’m like seventy-five, eighty percent sure of it. It links up the individual components so that they know where the rest of them are and where the energy’s supposed to go. But it ends up creating such a hard limit on space it takes the time right with it.” He gave an annoyed smile. “Would help if Hermione was around to tinker with the spell since she’s the expert. But I suppose we can’t begrudge her a holiday, can we?”

The twins stiffened and silence fell on the room.

“So,” Fred said, careful as though broaching the subject would release some great danger into the world. “I gather they haven’t turned up yet, huh?”

All eyes went to Molly and she sighed.

To this moment she marvelled what in the world possessed Remus to leave Harry and Hermione in an unsecured safe house. Protests or not, she didn’t give a damn—they were children, alone and unprotected, and had she known there was no force on Earth which could have kept her from dragging the two to safety. But by the time she learned they were still in that blasted cottage, the morning after Snowdonia when things calmed down enough for her unwelcome visitor to speak, it was too late. The rescue party found the house empty—no Harry, no Hermione, no teetering mountains of books. If it weren’t for a bunch of clothes Harry inexplicably left behind, it’d have been hard to believe the house was ever occupied.

No one’d heard of them since then and they made no attempt at contact. The general opinion at the headquarters was that because Remus told the two about the traitor they decided to cut themselves off from the Order and strike up on their own.

In Molly’s view, few things were worse than two kids wandering around alone in the middle of the war. Especially if those kids were the Undesirables Number One and Two.

“By the way, Winky popped by, with a message from Ron,” George remarked.

“Oh?” she said, frowning. The elves, being among the few required to know the location of every single of the Order’s institutions, were explicitly forbidden from relaying messages between those who weren’t allowed to keep in touch—like the hunted weapons manufacturers and their in-the-field soldier of a brother. If Winky was bypassing the ban, then what even was the point of maintaining any kind of secrecy whatsoever? The elf sure was in for some stern talking-to.

George nodded. “Yeah. He wants to contact people from DA, put the band back together. Longbottom, Cho and Angelina, Lovegood, the Creeveys, Thomas, the Patils, Ginny if she’s up for a rescue mission…”

On the floor, Fred looked up. “Mum, he sounded mad convinced something bad happened to Harry and Hermione. That they were knee deep in trouble and needed help.”

The three regarded her with expectation.

She shook her head. “Don’t fret about it. I’m sure they’re fine. Ron’s just… Well, he’s not used to not knowing where the two of them are.”

Or having the friends he walked out on repay him in kind, she thought.

Clapping her hands, Molly marched to the door. “I’ll have Kreacher pick up the weapons tomorrow. You’ve already treated them, I assume?” she said and gestured at the crates by the sofa. Considering the boys’ atrocious sleeping habits, it didn’t hurt to make sure the Order wasn’t about to use something which could be multiplied and didn’t self-destruct.

Seamus reached over the armrest and patted the top crate. “Sure thing, ma’am. You-Know-Who’s not getting his grubby paws on these puppies.”

Joining him on the couch George stuffed his mouth full of chocolate frog. “Oi, and mum? Chould you tell Phertinger to make a new dlivery? We’re khinda running outta food.”

Chapter 4

Molly dipped the spoon into the plate of baked beans and halved the ladled portion as though eating the meal more slowly would change the fact that only four dinners now separated the Order from an embarrassing defeat.

She sneaked a peek at what poor Harry once called her partners in crime, and was met with the same scene of quiet awkwardness as every evening for the past twelve months.

To her right, Kreacher scowled into his plate like each bit of the food committed a mortal offence against him and everything he held dear. Molly congratulated herself; scowling was a huge improvement over the impassioned arguments the ancient elf used to have with her over the seating arrangements. While she wasn’t against maintaining some sort of hierarchy in their working relationship, she concluded that serving the elves food next to Crokshanks’ bowl as he suggested would be taking it too far.

But in Kreacher’s view, not being beaten or cursed from sundown to sunset was the height of elfish welfare.

Opposite him, Dobby was clutching his spoon and shovelling beans into his mouth as if it was the best treat he’d ever eaten. Molly frowned. Everything about the motley pile of children’s clothes was confusing to her. On one hand he proudly proclaimed himself to be his own person whenever the topic came up. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t willing to drop everything and come assist anyone who was the least bit associated with his beloved mister Potter. There was an air of faith and trust around him which belied the confidence he displayed whenever reminding others of how he disturbed the social order they held as the basis of their world.

The same world he was helping them restore.

She fixed her eyes in front of her, at the youngest of her assistants who was seated at the other end of the table, staring into her plate without eating, not paying attention to a thing around her.

In Molly’s mind, there was a single free elf in the Order—the one who was up for grabs. Yet as much as she used to daydream about having her own servant this one couldn’t be further from what she’d imagined. Winky may have never challenged anyone on anything but she appeared to hate every second she spent with the elves and wizards alike. With her love of sleeping, she’d do exactly as commanded and not one iota more, saying her “sirs” and “ma’ams” and holding Molly’s gaze until Molly either looked away in discomfort or snapped an order.

Although she sympathised with Dobby for dragging a friend along when he decided to escape Hogwarts, there were times when she wished he hadn’t—because whenever Molly found herself at the wrong end of Winky’s gaze she couldn’t help but feel there was something the elf wanted from her, something she reviled Molly for failing to provide.

Molly didn’t have the faintest what it might be.

Eyes drowning in the plate of beans, she pictured the roast chicken and vegetables she used to place on the table in the Burrow’s kitchen, letting the meat sit for a few minutes before carving to keep the juices in. Arthur would arrive from work a short while later, exhausted but eager to regale her with one of his many tales of Muggle buffoonery. If it was the summer, there’d also be a big chicken pie and carrot cake and enough apple juice to satisfy the amateur Quidditch team under her roof. The twins would come late from their practice up on the hill, letting in warm night air and a swarm of mosquitos. Hermione would compliment Molly on her cooking while Harry’d dig in after the annual fast at his aunt’s and later offer to do the dishes. Ron and Ginny would argue themselves hoarse about Chudley Cannons versus Holyhead Harpies, with Percy seated between them, not hearing a word of whatever school project Hermione’d want to discuss with him.

The Arisaig supply house didn’t offer companionship or hearty food or passionate racket where you couldn’t hear yourself think. All it had was unease and worry and quiet, so much uncomfortable quiet it set Molly’s ears ringing. Not even Crookshanks broke the silence by chirping at the flies behind the window, fail as he did to return from his daily hunt.

Considering the cart the Order found itself in, keeping his distance may have been a wise decision.

She glanced up from her dinner. “You really outdid yourself tonight, Winky. What did you season the beans with?”

The elf kept her eyes trained on her plate. “Bay leaf and cloves, ma’am,” she answered in a whisper and Molly cringed.

When Hermione raised a stink about the elves working for no pay, refusing to see the wisdom in not wasting precious money on those who weren’t used to receiving any and had nowhere to spend it anyway, Molly threw her hands up and let the whole thing go. But something about those words stuck and she caught herself mulling them over, studying those three who proved so indispensable in running the complex nightmare machine that was the Order.

Exploited, Hermione called them. Conditioned. Slaves.

Merlin, Molly swore, the girl had a way of either irritating a person to bits, or making you conclude no one could be this zealous about a cause unless there was something to it. And she had to admit that put in those words, the picture was clear and not pretty. Watching Kreacher stand on his tippy toes and scrub the sink till it shone, Molly had felt a pang of guilt.

It couldn’t hurt to show them in some small way that she valued their contribution, could it?

Giving them money was out of the question. But it was only natural to offer the three to call her by her first name, with no honorific.

So she did.

Kreacher stared at her as if she soiled her skirt right in front of him, and then excused himself to do a job Molly was pretty sure he’d already done a day prior. Wringing his hands, Dobby actually stammered it out, a bit less uneasy each time until he found the opportunity to insert the word into every sentence he uttered, making Molly itch to remind him she was his boss, not his mate so please, tone it down a little.

It was Winky’s reaction, though, which caused her to shudder and rethink Hermione’s whole spiel because the elf would draw the sounds out like they formed an especially vile insult, pinning Molly to the spot with her gleaming eyes.

Molly lasted a week before she took the offer back, much to Dobby’s disappointment.

It was a mistake anyway, she told herself, drenched in discomfort as she recalled the whole humiliating affair. It wouldn’t do to give the trio ideas when she needed them to obey, not join her for brunch. And although she knew next to nothing about the finer details of interspecies hierarchy in pureblood families, her notion of servants never did include them treating her like a pal.

“Delicious.” She swallowed another spoonful of beans. “So, any news from France?”

To her right, Kreacher nodded gravely. “The stuck-up walrus is ready to do business with you, ma’am. But there are a few things he wants in return.”

One snap of fingers, and a fat scroll appeared on the table, as thick as the family ghoul’s ankle. Face sullen and even more prune-like than usual, Kreacher pushed the wad of parchment towards her and Molly unrolled it, frowning.

She didn’t get past the first few inches. “Boffrand’s not even undergoing any risk by working with the Order. What’s he need a hazard fee for?”

“If ma’am likes, Kreacher could make him see sense.”

She shook her head. “I told you, no kneecapping.”

“A stomp on the foot, then?” he added breezily and turned on the wooden chair to face her, eyes intense and serious. “The pest is taking ma’am for a ride. Trust Kreacher when he says vermin like this needs to be dealt with as soon as it pokes its ugly nose out or it will grow bolder over time. Today he’s mocking you, tomorrow he might do the same to master Potter.”

Molly suppressed a smirk. It was sort of funny how after cursing the ground people from the Order walked on Kreacher now knew no greater horror than someone laughing at Harry and what he stood for.

She went back to reading the encyclopaedia of their contact’s requirements, suspecting it might be just the first volume before he’d deign to give them a single potato. “So we’re supposed to make Boffrand’s daughter an assistant to the Minister for Magic, provide guarantees that he’ll be able to set up shop in Diagon Alley after the war’s over, and pay him double of what we gave to Firethorn. Do we at least get a few bulbs and a chicken in return?”

Kreacher studied his spoon carefully. “He feels those would be an obstacle to a long-term partnership. If ma’am recalls, that’s when the matter of the man’s knees came into play.”

Sighing, Molly reached for her wand and watched it burst into life with the Incendio spell, turning the scroll into a tangle of charred parchment.

That was another door slammed shut right in front of her nose, then.

The old elf regarded her with a wary expression. “Kreacher is sorry he couldn’t do better.”

Shaking her head, Molly pulled her plate closer. “No, you did great. It’s not your fault some people have the appetite of a bicorn.”

Would it have been wiser to ask Fleur? she wondered. Perfect French, better-looking face, definitely better manners, and oh, yes, a human being. On the other hand, Molly’s daughter-in-law suffered fools about as gladly as that walking dictionary of blood-based insults did and there was something to be said about inflating your status by sending a servant in your stead, so…

To her left, Dobby uttered a tragic sigh. “Such pity. Dobby never had to use magic to make meals more appealing when it was mister Boffrand supplying the food. Unless the little master refused to eat his broccoli but that was on the mistress’ orders.”

Molly wasn’t surprised to learn his last owner circumvented the Ministry’s long-standing ban and supplied his larder from abroad. With rumours spreading about Guillaume Boffrand regularly getting new types of goods into his store, not content to settle for the same ever range of pork and lettuce that was available at Diagon Alley, it didn’t take long for people from Finnick’s Food Fund to become nervous about their shrinking base of customers and for the Ministry to deal with the competition.

But if there was someone who could afford bribing officials to look the other way, his name definitely was Lucius Malfoy.

Molly stirred her dinner, Dobby’s chattering a distant buzz in her ears.

Muggle food. The wizarding world had been surviving on Muggle food. Finnick or Boffrand, it made no matter. All those decades the Ministry touted its line about wizards being special people who needed special sustenance… what a bunch of poppycock it turned out to be. So what, was it all just to keep the Fund wealthy, the only game in town? Fred and George seemed to believe so. Molly had to admit there was certain logic to their reasoning. It was one thing to create a situation where wizards and witches couldn’t buy from anyone else, forced to rely on the Fund’s monopoly. It was a whole different feat to convince them they didn’t want to give other options a try.

Merlin, had no one found it strange that both half-bloods and the Muggle-born could live in the Muggle world despite being magically gifted?

You didn’t, she reminded herself bitterly.

And these days it wasn’t likely people would start wondering, either. The Ministry returned to its long-standing view that the Muggle-born stole their magic, never were wizards in the first place. And how many of Arthur’s friends, smart and capable, had been refused positions over the years, just because one of their parents was a Muggle?

Shoot, how deep did the roots of pureblood supremacy go?

Meanwhile, Dobby kept pontificating like a professor. “You really couldn’t give mister Firethorn’s turnips to the children as they were. What a waste of money that would have been.” He frowned at Kreacher, puffed up and radiating outrage. “And no bulbs for mister Neville!”

Molly smiled into her beans. Dobby had this notion that if you were a friend of Harry Potter’s you were a good person and a friend to the elves, period, no question about it. Out of the whole Order, no one appeared better equipped to stand up to the challenge than Neville Longbottom.

When the boy first began defying the Carrows’ rule at Hogwarts, it made the two natural allies as students were far from the only ones who found themselves in the crosshair of the new regime. Ever since Dobby came into her employ, Molly heard many a story about the school’s elves being threatened, overworked, even harmed, and Neville stepping in to help them, encouraging others to follow his example. So when the kids went into hiding in the Room of Requirement, it was a no brainer for Dobby to return the favour and make sure they wouldn’t starve.

It also didn’t hurt that Neville was in charge of the Order’s greenhouse and Dobby loved hanging around there, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the smell of earth.

Molly straightened up on the chair, cracking her spine. “Let’s not cry over spilt Blemish Blitzer. There might be another way.” She paused. “How do you feel about a trip to Diagon Alley?”

Dobby looked up from his dinner. “Are we still smuggling books for Miss Granger?”

“Are we finally selling some?” Kreacher asked.

Molly pointed from one to the other. “No and yes, that’d be a good idea, Kreacher, at least once Hermione comes back.” The girl accrued a small fortune in rare literature; she couldn’t possibly need all of it. “I need you to go to Finnick’s Food Fund.”

Kreacher’s brow creased. “But the Order doesn’t have a contact there anymore.”

Dobby rolled his eyes. “Of course it does, dumb-dumb, otherwise she wouldn’t have asked.”

Gazing into middle distance, Kreacher added flippantly, “Oh look, the child has a mind to speak. How adorable.”

Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “No, we don’… that’s not what…” She sighed, deciding to start over. “You can pass the Alley’s security sensors undetected, right?” The two nodded while Winky kept staring at her plate. “So you should be able to get into the Fund undetected too, shouldn’t you?”

They fell silent and for a while Molly thought she’d need to go into detail for them to understand.

But then Kreacher exchanged a glance with Dobby. “Kreacher doesn’t think what ma’am’s suggesting is possible, elven magic or not.”

She frowned, taken aback. “Why not? Elves can bypass the best wizarding protection there is, can’t the—“

And then Winky’s hollow peeping joined the fold. “If you can trust goblins as far as you can throw them, that should really tell you how little you can trust the wizards working for the Fund.” She tore her eyes away from the food, appearing startled to realise she spoke out loud. “Just something the master used to say whenever he took Winky along on inspections.”

Molly regarded her carefully. “Is there a… special kind of magic at the Fund?”

She shrugged. “Winky doesn’t know. Winky knows only of hallways which don’t ever end, doors that open to acromantula lairs half a world away, rooms which make you forget how you got in and why.” She pinned Molly with that unnerving bug-eyed gaze of hers. “But it’s alright. Winky’s a good house elf. She welcomes the freedom to sacrifice her life for ma’am’s mission.”

Molly flinched and glanced at the other two, even her eyes back-paddling. “Okay, never mind. How about your friends at Hogwarts? The school’s officially on You-Know-Who’s side, their kitchen must be stocked to the roof. A lost delivery or two wouldn’t raise any alarm bells, no?”

It wouldn’t be the first time they’d satisfy their needs with the Hogwarts treasure trove, after all. Severus may have succeeded in turning the castle into a fortress, something Dumbledore either wasn’t willing or able to do, but even he couldn’t prevent Neville from nicking basic medicinal herbs and seeds from Pomona’s greenhouse when the Order needed them.

Sure, it was also this nicking which made the boy’s presence at Hogwarts no longer tenable when he got caught handing the loot over to Cho Chang in Hogsmeade last spring. The point remained, though; the school had a lot of stuff the Order could use.

But Dobby fixed her with huge eyes, like two lakes threatening to burst its banks. “Ma’am, the elves… they want Dobby to help them. T-they…” He collected himself. “Things were ugly before Dobby took Winky and followed mister Neville to the Order but the C-carr… They’re no friends to house elves, ma’am, no friends at all.” Sitting on the edge of his chair, he leaned closer. “If a party could be spared… then perhaps—”

Molly looked away. “I’ll ask Remus what can be done.”

With the horror stories pouring out of everyone who escaped the school, she didn’t have to stretch the bounds of her imagination to picture the treatment non-humans received. And she sympathised, really, she did. But liberating hundreds of elves when the Order barely managed to sneak out a few children at this point? It would require a full-scale battle, and for what? A whole new army of hungry mouths to feed, ones which were better off at Hogwarts keeping their stomachs full and taking care of those who had no choice but to stay.

Speaking of which…

“How are we doing with the extraction?” Molly asked, scraping her spoon against the bottom of her plate.

Dobby perked up. “Everything’s set to go, ma’am. The students will earn detention in the Forbidden Forest and then Professor Firenze will ambush the group and run away with the children to the other side of the woods. We’ll pick them up there. Professor Hagrid is just waiting for the right night to give the okay.”

Kreacher wrinkled his nose. “Is ma’am sure she can rely on those beasts? Kreacher wouldn’t trust a half-giant and a half-horse with a pot of water to boil, much less with a brood of little wizards to rescue.”

Dobby sucked in an offended breath. “That’s it!” he squeaked, reached across the table, and snatched Kreacher’s dinner. “Want to speak ill of Professor Hagrid? No beans for you!”

Standing up, Molly gently took the plate from Dobby’s bony hands and returned it to the annoyed Kreacher. “Dumbledore trusted both Hagrid and Firenze with the safety of his students which is more than enough for me. And even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t do us any good to call them names, Kreacher.“ She headed off to the kitchen sink and placed her own dirty dishes into it. “Which goes for all of you. No more threats or grumbling when you’re dealing with a bad contact, understood? We want people to help us? We have to treat them nicely.”

A chorus of mumbled yes, ma’am was her answer.

One wave of the wand and a scrub brush appeared to clean the stained plate. Watching it at work, Molly suddenly felt a hot flare of anger in her stomach.

Hagrid and the centaur would get the kids. The elves were toiling round the clock to find the Order food because Molly and the others couldn’t stick their noses out without risking death. And soon they’d have to go to the goblins and beg for some gold as well.

Without them the Order couldn’t do a thing.

She didn’t have to lift a finger.

It was all so…

Pathetic.

Chapter 5

Eyes flitting between the defunct phone booth at one end of the Whitehall street and the black railing at the other, Molly wondered if she had been spending too much time around the kids to have conceived of an idea this patently dangerous.

The last time she visited the Ministry she wasn’t leaning against a building, jumping in fear whenever someone approached and passed again. Instead she marched over to the red booth as though it was a palace her family owned for generations. Carrying a heavy lunch basket over her forearm she slid down to the assembly hall of gleaming black stone, giddy with excitement to share Arthur’s first day at work. Married to a Ministry man! Blimey! Things were looking up for good old Molls.

That was almost thirty years ago, before Bill was born and the first war broke out, claiming the lives of her beloved brothers.

Molly grasped Tonks’ plan of Muggle London in her sweaty fingers and glanced at her wristwatch. 4:59 p.m. They should pour out any second now.

For approximately fifteenth time in as many minutes she suppressed the urge to pace to and fro, hide in the nearby alleyway, or skulk right in front of the public loos like a hawk to make sure he wouldn’t get away. And for approximately fifteenth time in as many minutes she decided against it. As much as her nerves would benefit from the exercise there was a non-zero chance her status as an alive person might not if she caught someone’s attention. Muggle street or not, an old man stalking it up and down was likely to arouse suspicion.

No, keeping her distance and acting like a baffled traveller was her best bet. Besides, forcing her legs closer together and taking unnecessary steps was bound to make her even more ill at ease.

Honestly, Molly thought as she shuffled her feet and fingered the half-empty flask of Polyjuice Potion in the pocket of her trousers. How do people go about their lives with these dangly bits swishing around?

A shadow fell on the map.

“Sir? Are you lost?”

Jolting, Molly glanced up and clutched the piece of paper to her chest.

A young brown-skinned woman with a long jet-black braid appeared in front of her, considering her with the soft gaze of someone talking to a confused elderly person. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a form-fitting orange T-shirt under a black jacket. A Muggle, then, most like. Though you couldn’t assume too much these days, what with the kids mimicking the fashion of their Muggle-born classmates.

Molly took a breath to calm down. “Eh, yes, actually, I am, miss.” Gosh, she sounded like dear grandpa Clemens as he went on his campaign to smoke himself into an early grave. “Do you happen to know where I could find…” She glanced at the map and frowned, racking her brain for what it was Tonks had told her to say at a moment like this. “The nose?”

The girl gave her a strange look. “You mean the Eye? Just round the corner, it’s pretty hard to miss. The dark powers won’t be opening it until Christmas, though.”

That piqued Molly’s interest. Was You-Know-Who pulling a fast one on Muggles by figuring out a way to keep an eye on them? It would make sense, after all. He’d pretty much conquered the wizarding Britain at this point, so the next choice naturally was to expand—whether he’d head off to other countries, or subjugate British Muggles, no one was yet able to confirm. Muggles offered a more logical course of action, though, weak and gullible as they were.

And he wouldn’t be opening this eye of his until Christmas? Molly didn’t doubt the Aurors were going to find the information very useful.

Before she managed to thank the nice lady, a thunder of stomps shook the cobblestones beneath their feet and they both looked towards the public toilets across the road.

A crowd of men and women was striding up the stairs and into the street, clad in stern office clothes and making for the two openings into the main avenues.

“Wow,” the Muggle whistled. “Did Number 10 over there have laxatives for lunch or what?”

But Molly was already weaving her way through the crowd, heading for the ginger sleek of hair floating sharply away.

As though he wished to be anywhere but here.

“Junior Assistant Weasley! Junior Assistant Weasley!” she cried out, her fear of getting caught overshadowed by the very real possibility he’d Disapparate before she’d reach him. “Junior Assistant Weasley!”

A matter of utmost importance requires your attention, a matter of utmost importance requires your attention, a matter of utmost…

“Junior Assistant Weasle—!”

Percy whipped around, cheeks hollow and chin slack with annoyance. There was no way he was eating enough. “Stop hollering, man, I can hear you just fine. What is it?”

Molly stopped dead in her tracks, brain empty as she laid her eyes on him after such a long time. “There’s an utmost… a matter most of…”

“Well?” he snapped. “Merlin’s bollocks, quick, out with it.”

She gulped like a fish and he snorted, turning away. “The opening hours are Monday to Friday, nine to five in case you untie your tongue.”

Something clicked behind her breastbone at his insolence, and suddenly the situation didn’t seem all that frightening anymore.

Molly grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him around. Putting her hands on her bony hips she gave him a stern look as he faced her again, struggling to maintain balance and visibly angry. “None of your siblings would get away with acting like this,” she hissed. “What do you think makes you an exception?”

Now it was Percy’s turn to forget how breathing worked. Freckles beaming like spotlights against his pallid complexion, he regarded her with his mouth hanging open, as if the crowds around them disappeared.

But it didn’t take him long to collect his wits. “You can tell me on the way,” he barked out, seizing her by the elbow. “I’m not giving up my walk just because you feel too good for the filing office.”

***

The lake sparkled in the afternoon sun like a tray of diamonds, its banks peppered with tufts of greenery just awakening from its winter slumber. A couple of feet from the wooden bench the two were sitting on a group of large birds waddled in the shallows, squawking and occasionally taking flight to dip their heads under water, coming back up with fish flapping in their long pouchy beaks.

No wonder Percy didn’t want to miss this.

A good distance away, a giant circle was looming against the blue sky, towering over the surrounding buildings which already were nothing to scoff at in terms of size. Molly wondered what the ring was for or how it could possible stay upright without magic. She considered asking but figured Percy had more important things to worry about than some Muggle nonsense.

At last, she decided to break the silence. “You come here often?” she asked matter-of-factly.

Percy shuffled on the bench and rubbed his nape. “Most days after work. It’s… it helps me organise my thoughts.”

Molly nodded. “I see. It is very nice here.”

For a while only the people far behind them made a sound as they lay on the grass in the shadow of trees, talking and laughing with no care in the world.

Clasping his hands between his knees, Percy straightened up. “Let’s rip off the bandage, then. Go on, unload it on me.”

She shrugged. “What do you expect me to say?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me how disappointed you are?” he said in a flat voice, gazing somewhere far away. “That I’m a disgrace to the family name, a brown-nosing, power-obsessed arse who let the faintest bit of praise get to his head so much I disowned my own parents the first chance I got? That everyone’s been fighting the good fight while I keep coming to my nice job to collect a nice pay cheque for turning a blind eye to the Ministry’s nice body count? That you were silly for ever defending me because everyone’s been right about what a self-serving prat I am? That at least I finally have something real to be ashamed of?”

Oh, sweetheart.

She sighed. “I’m not disappointed with you, honey. I’m… sad.” The word came out as if on its own and it was then that she realized how true it was. “Yes, I’m sad. I’m sad you’re not coming home any longer, that I can’t ask how your day was, that you don’t need your shirts pressed anymore. I’m sad your brothers are scattered all over, about never seeing your father unless we schedule an appointment. I’m angry at your sister for being so darn stubborn, and at myself because you’d have to be blind not to see where she takes it from. And I’m scared because at any moment someone might walk in the door and tell me I won’t be seeing my babies ever again. Because we’ve been at this for two years and no one knows when it will end or how.” She gave a chuckle. “But most of all I’m tired and could really, really use a holiday.”

It felt good to get stuff off her chest, to expose that numb void behind her breastbone. If speaking about it could only fill it, too.

Percy stole a glance at her. “Egypt was nice, wasn’t it?” he peeped.

She nudged his elbow. “Remember how dad thought baba ghanoush was a vengeful spirit haunting the resort?”

He smiled softly. “Gave a speech on needing to be pleasant to old ladies while they’re still alive and everything.”

“Merlin, you never forgot to remind him at dinner.” She shook her head, lost in the memory.

Percy shuffled a bit closer, seeming more comfortable. “I’ve got some savings in Gringotts. Not enough for Egypt, the Ministry doesn’t pay that well, but it would cover the supplies for a few weeks of camping. What do you say, a family trip to the lochs, walks, boat rides, we’d share the cooking duty while hunting Nessie…”

Molly beamed. “Oh I’d love that. I keep hearing how ‘Chefie, the abused kitchen elf’ is practically Ron’s middle name but he refuses to show me.”

The conspiratorial gleam in Percy’s eyes died at the mention of Ron. “They all hate me, don’t they?” he said quietly.

She gazed at the tips of her shoes. “They’re… disappointed.”

They watched as a toddler in a purple skirt and woollen tights scuttled past their bench and towards the lake, squealing with delight, chubby arms pointing at the birds. A young man appeared behind her at once, scooped the girl up as she was about to fall into the grass, and twirled her high in the air until she shrieked her laughter.

“I’ can’t go with you,” Percy said firmly, gazing at the man as he carried the child away.

Molly nodded. “I know.”

“It’s just… there are so many things, so many…”

She patted his hand. “It’s alright, sweetie. I understand.”

Percy blinked, his sagging features oozing disappointment. Like he couldn’t believe this was it. Like he’d preferred to be chewed out or told he chose better than his siblings. Anything but this passive acceptance.

But Molly refused to give him more. The door was always open for him to come back but no one could drag him through if he didn’t want to take those steps himself. She wasn’t going to provide him with excuses to stay and she wasn’t going to force him to leave. Whatever else happened, Molly wouldn’t stand in for his conscience and she wouldn’t be the angry voice he’d replay at night, assuring himself over and over he wasn’t welcome.

Because as much as she hated the notion and the sense of helplessness it brought her, she knew that when you’re a parent there comes a point when you have to let the tots stand on their own feet and make their own choices. Some things they have to work out by themselves.

And if they fall, they fall. You can’t live their life for them.

“Mum, why did you come?” Percy asked. “Surely not to have a chinwag. Is everyone okay?”

Molly reached into her pocket, removed the flask with the two doses of Polyjuice Potion Tressa issued her, and took a sip. “They’re fine, all things considered.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” He turned around to see if they were alone. “The word ‘round the Ministry is there’s been a major upset in Wales. I don’t know what the Order did there and I don’t want to know but people at the top really, really do. And I suppose it has something to do with the twins because they’ve been officially promoted to Undesirables Number Four and Five.”

Molly gave a noncommittal nod, making a mental note not to tell the two monkeys. They’d only fight over who was Number Four.

But she didn’t fool Percy. “I thought as much,” he said. “And that’s not the worst of it. There’s a whole new department being set up, mum, dedicated to catching the Undesirables. No more committees, no more Snatchers, these bastards are relentless and they’re getting right down to business. Blimey, Fred and George have their own file, a team whose only job is to find and bring them to London. I’ve never seen anything like it, not when the Order first began kidnapping students, not when Harry stormed the Ministry, never.”

She nudged his knee with her own. “It’s nice of you to worry about your brothers, darling. But no, that’s not why I’m here.”

His eyebrows knitted. “Why, then?”

Molly glanced around the park, making sure nobody was watching them. “Y’know, you never actually told me the nitty-gritty of what you do at work now, that’s how quickly you left home. Don’t get upset, I don’t mean to hold it against you but I’ve been wondering. What does being the Minister’s assistant mean? Does he give you some freedom to do your own thing? Can you access departments on his behalf?”

He pinned her with a glare. “Mum, what are you up to?”

Molly turned to face him, deciding that time for sugar-coating had long passed. “We need to rob Finnick’s Food Fund, Percy. It’s either that, or giving up in three days’ time, and sit down, young man, your mother hasn’t finished talking!” She grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him back on the bench. A passer-by gave them a curious look. “You wanted me to rip off the bandage so I’m ripping off the bandage. No reason to call attention to us.”

Percy peeked at the departing Muggle before he leaned closer and hissed, “Have you completely lost your marbles?”

“Don’t use that tone with m—“

“Oh, I will, because rob—” He blinked, coming to his senses. “Because what you’ve proposed is utterly insane and can’t be done in a million years.”

“The Ministry inspects the Fund for irregularities, doesn’t it?” she whispered urgently. “Or at least the Magical Law Enforcement does? There must be reports, something we could use to piece a path through.”

He narrowed his eyes, as though talking to a slow child who insisted on being difficult. “Why do you think the Fund has the highest turnover rate out of all businesses in Britain, mum? The best paying job in Diagon Alley, after Gringotts? It’s because they change the layout every three months, precisely so that some blockhead doesn’t get the idea to do what you’re thinking of doing.”

She wrinkled her nose and then her stomach dropped like a stone as she put two and two together. “So when the Sallows told us their Amelia couldn’t make it to Bill’s wedding because she had a run-in with a big cat at work…”

Percy gave a resolute nod. “Yeah. That’s why the Ministry does the inspections in the first place. To make sure the Fund observes the mandatory training procedure and newbies aren’t thrown into the lion’s den. Literally, in Amelia’s case! And still they’re losing employees left and right.”

Molly glanced away, to hide the shuddering breath threatening to rip through her chest.

“Are things that bad?” he asked after a while, cautious.

She felt every bit of desperation seep out, poisoning the air around them. “We’re hanging by a thread, honey.”

The group of young Muggles sprawling behind them on a blanket roared in laughter and the sound of their gaiety set her cheeks aflame. How dare they, she thought and dug her fingers into the tiny cracks in the wooden bench. How dared they be happy and carefree when her entire world was coming to an end.

Percy stared into the distance. “Mum, I want to help you, I do but you must understand… I thought working for the Ministry would be impossible when you and dad got exposed, but then Ginny disappeared from Hogwarts and now when people think the Order managed to pull a fast one…” His voice grew frantic. “It’s exhausting. They’ve assigned me a handler, a senior assistant they call him, but the bloke’s clearly there to keep an eye on me, day in and day out, watching me, asking all these bloody questions, and if they haven’t done anything with my flat already then I’m sure it’s only a matter of…”

As he stuttered and fell silent, Molly jerked her hand to rub his shoulder but withdrew before her skin made contact with the rough fabric of his jacket. If they’d been followed, and they very well might have been judging from what Percy’d revealed, then the last thing he needed was having to explain why a strange old man was comforting him in a public park.

Sitting up, Percy squared his shoulders, emanating a steely determination she’d rarely seen in him. “I know a mate who knows a mate who knows a mate in Paris. He’ll help you.”

Molly gasped and snatched the bottom of his sleeve between her fingers. “Oh, sweeth—“

But he went on. “Moving money from my account to France will be a bit tricky, but he’ll set you all up in the meantime. And I hear finding a job in Place Cachée is nowhere near the nightmare it’s here, so thanks Merlin for small favours, I suppose. Though Ginny might be a problem, seeing how she’s a dropout and all. Dunno if enrolling her in Beauxbatons is an option, unless Fleur manages to teach her French and some manners by September.”

She let go of his sleeve, blinking. “Wait, wait, wait, sweetie, what…” When she grasped his meaning her relief dissolved in a fresh pool of sadness, like a lump of butter in hot milk. “What about the others? We can’t leave them behind, darling.”

He nodded at the ground. “I know.”

A young woman appeared in Molly’s peripheral view, heading for the nearest empty bench and pushing a peculiar contraption on wheels. A toddler was sitting in it, face scrunched up in the tell-tale signs of an imminent tantrum. Observing them, Molly was gripped by a powerful desire to go back in time, to return to those simpler days when her biggest worry was how to squeeze in cooking porridge for the boys and mending Arthur’s socks before going to Diagon Alley, praying their vault at Gringotts held enough money for Bill’s schoolbooks.

Sitting here and staring down an inevitable defeat, those things which used to give her a headache and keep her up at night appeared so much easier to pull off.

Though it wasn’t over yet, was it? Molly wondered as she watched the Muggle hold a strangely shaped cup, the child sucking on its protruding tip. There was a final avenue to explore, one which hadn’t even occurred to her as an option, not until her chat with the twins.

Well, if this wasn’t the right time to go for it, then the right time was never.

Molly rubbed at her cheek. “There’s one thing you could do,” she said, forcing herself not to waver.

Percy raised his head. “What, mum?”

“Does the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office still keep that storeroom of theirs?” she asked, despising the jerkiness in her voice.

He frowned. “It does, but Perkins got the boot recently so I expect the Ministry will close the whole department pretty soon.”

Molly reached inside her jacket and scratched her ribs, taking care to be as discreet as possible. “Perfect. So people won’t find it too strange if the Minister’s assistant is hanging about and doing some light supervising, will they?” Every fibre of her being screamed in protest at the idea. But Percy believed himself to be under tremendous scrutiny. And if he was, ensuring he’d be viewed as an unwitting victim if ever interrogated was paramount.

“Mum, what—”

He froze, catching a movement in her lap.

Silent and motionless, he regarded the stubby wand on her legs with the intensity of someone attempting to set it on fire.

And slowly, incredibly, he looked up and nodded.

Wishing nothing more than to yank him into a bear hug, Molly willed him to get up and walk away. “Are you sure you want to help?”

He paused, as though retracing the steps which took him here. “Yeah.”

She couldn’t help the broken sob that escaped her lips. “Thank you, sweetie, thank you so much.”

“I won’t like this, will I?” he sighed.

Molly shook her head. “I’m sorry, darling. It’s for your own good.” Keeping the wand placed on her thighs she trained it on him and watched his gaze turn cloudy as she whispered the terrible word.

“Imperio.”

Chapter 6

The drab building was sprawled at the outskirts of a Muggle town, squat and low, its harsh straight lines and flat windowless walls decorated with a row of huge red letters blaring out a word Molly’d never seen before. She eyed the structure with suspicion, tugging at the tight waist of her dark brown trousers which seemed to grow tighter whenever she moved her feet.

Did Muggles like their stores to resemble large ugly shoe boxes? Merlin, she hoped this wouldn’t be one of those fads kids go crazy about and bring over to the wizarding world. Whatever you wanted to say about the hurl of stone ornaments the Fund was based in, you had to hand the Ministry one thing—at least their people knew to build in a style.

Next to her, Penelope Clearwater glanced up from their list. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Weasley,” she said tentatively and rubbed her neck. “I’ve shopped at Tesco loads of times with my mum. It’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Molly nodded, not correcting the girl’s assumption. Of course there wasn’t anything to fear. Those were Muggles swarming inside. What could they do? Did they have wands to assault her with? Yeah, didn’t think so. If they decided to try something she’d hand them their bums before they’d remember which ingredients went into a gingerbread cake.

If they even knew what a gingerbread cake was.

Penelope peeked inside the angular holder that used to be Molly’s pouch before the girl transformed it. “Alright, we should just about manage,” she blurted out, counting the peculiar coins and pieces of paper. “I haven’t done this for a few years so I’m a bit rusty on the prices. But if we don’t go too nuts about the meats this might be doable.”

Molly stuffed a finger under the collar of her sky-blue blouse, dotted with white flowers. “That’s good to hear, honey,” she wheezed. Was Muggle clothing supposed to cut into your skin like wire?

Hearing the choked noises coming from Molly’s throat Penelope looked away from the boxy pouch. “Oh Jesus!” she gasped and seized Molly by the wrist, exposed by the shrinking blouse. Tugging, she manoeuvred her out of view as Molly struggled to take a single step. Glancing down, Molly saw that her legs, forced apart by the three-sizes too small trousers, were starting to look more and more like a pair of meaty sausages.

Penelope ran her hands over the clothes and pulled on them here and there, loosening them with nonverbal magic until they no longer resembled a set of gnome rompers attempting to murder its wearer. “You know,” she whispered, meeting Molly’s eyes for the first time since they arrived. “You really can calm down, Mrs. Weasley. This is the safest place you’ve been to since You-Know-Who’s return.”

Enjoying a liberating breath, Molly patted the girl’s hand. She took her by the arm and began leading her in the direction of the store. “Of course, dear.”

To Penelope who didn’t participate in the decision-making part of the Order’s operations and had no reason to wonder about the consequences of those decisions, filling their cupboards with food from a Muggle store didn’t seem like a big deal. But to Molly, this was about the most reckless thing she’d ever done.

It took Percy two days to sneak into the storeroom and steal every single Muggle coin and numbered paper the department had accumulated over the years. And it took Molly the same two days to prepare an outing into the Muggle world which wouldn’t rely on the Polyjuice Potion, saving her the need to go and report to the Aurors for a registered dose. After all, how likely it was they wouldn’t stop this folly since the mission she’d just returned from involved unauthorised use of the Imperius curse and creating a trail which might lead Snatchers to them if Percy caught someone’s attention?

Blimey, the interrogation had been something else.

To Molly’s complete lack of surprise, she wasn’t allowed to be the one who’d collect the money from Percy and lift the curse. If the Aurors had left her to tie up the loose ends, there’d be no way in the world she’d continue to violate her son’s autonomy by casting a Memory Charm for good measure.

And yet, all that was a piece of cake compared to the disaster this operation might cause.

Because as certain as she’d been a few days prior, nodding at Fred and George’s conclusion that there was no danger to eating Muggle food whatsoever, now she found herself coming back to the many memories suggesting otherwise. She recalled the lessons in Muggle Studies of her youth, those where the teacher said that a witch’s entire being ran on magic, brimmed with it from head to toe while Muggles had no choice but to live in a sad state of deficiency. She remembered the lively discussions on the Wizarding Wireless Network, the experts challenging each other on many points but never on the fact that an unbridgeable gap separated Muggles from wizards. So was it really so crazy to assume both groups needed a different type of sustenance to survive, that what would nourish one might kill the other?

The Order would just have to risk poisoning its every single member with Muggle swill, and the notion of being the one responsible made Molly sick.

The building’s glass door loomed ever closer as they approached. Molly didn’t see any handle or doorknob, only a few Muggles inside, hanging around a stand or some such. As she wondered if they’d actually have to walk through the glass to get in, the door parted in the middle.

“Penelope!” she hissed and yanked the girl’s sleeve. “You can’t use m… you-know-what here!”

“Eh?” Penelope gave her a confused look and then took a sharp breath. “Oh, no, that’s how the door works. There’s a sensor to make it open automatically when someone comes close.”

Automatically. Molly frowned. The mess Arthur’s automobile wreaked was still fresh in her mind. Having the gadget in charge of their exit, who knew what—

“Good afternoon, ladies,” a squeaky voice said close to her left, oozing boredom. “Would you care for a free taste of Blighty’s Best, now available with green pepper and chilli? One package a day keeps disease away.”

Inside the shop, right by the entrance, was an orange-striped wheeled stand, handled by a tall pimpled teenager in an orange uniform and a cap. A selection of what appeared to be soft cheeses lay on several trays in front of him.

Molly stopped, not giving herself a chance to think. “I’ll have one, young man. How kind of you to offer,” she said. After all, what right did she have to reject precisely the kind of test which would tell her if this exercise had been foolish from the first?

Penelope stepped closer. “I’d go for one of the plain ones if I were you,” she whispered in Molly’s ear.

Molly nodded and reached for the nearest wedge that didn’t have any suspicious black or red dots in it. Fortune favours the brave, she thought and popped the morsel into her mouth.

“Holy cow!”

She jerked, startled by Penelope’s gasp of disbelief. The girl let go of Molly’s arm and ran deeper inside the store, stopping in front of a tall wire rack full of tiny packets while Molly was left to chew the cheese in awkward silence.

Speaking of which, the cheese was… alright? Creamy, it downright melted on the tongue, leaving behind a nice salty flavour which made her hunger for more.

If it was about to poison her she couldn’t tell by the taste.

“What a fine product you make,” she told the attendant.

The boy looked like he didn’t care one way or the other. “Thank you for your patronage, keep buying Blighty’s Best, have a nice day.”

Nodding her goodbye, Molly moved to cover the few feet which separated her from Penelope, shoes flying across the polished tile floor. “What is it?” she asked.

The girl appeared as though put under one of those spells the Weird Sisters used on their fans to make them forget themselves and jump up and down like a leaping toadstool. At least Xenophilius believed that’s what caused all that unrestrained screaming, among many other things on which his Luna had already read up as he proudly informed Molly.

Penelope showed her a packet with a still photograph of cabbage on it. “Seeds, Mrs. Weasley, these are seeds. People buy them for their allotments. There’s leek, carrot, broccoli, mint, tomatoes, you name it. Jesus, they even have melon and catnip.” She laughed. “Who’d have thought we’d get a present for Crookshanks, right?”

Frowning, Molly glanced at the labels with prices that meant nothing to her. “But can we afford them?”

A single stand which gave you the freedom and independence to feed yourself, without having to stump up pouches of galleons every once in a while? Aware of how the wizarding world guarded its food Molly didn’t doubt only the richest Muggles possessed enough money to buy even a piece of this treasure.

But Penelope nodded with the vigour of a child asked if they want some pudding. “Oh yes, we most certainly can if we mix in some dried spices, just to make sure we don’t spend everything at once. And this right here,” she said and pointed at her large shopping basket which already contained roughly a dozen packets, “is about two thirds of our vegetables list. Throw in some protein and we’re covered. I don’t think Neville will need more than a month to get it done in that greenhouse of his.”

“Right.” Molly curled her lip. “Well, you keep at it. I’m going to find us some potatoes,” she said and turned away.

Clenching her fists, she breathed in through her nostrils. How come the mission was going so smoothly and how come this ease made her feel so…

It was Penelope, she concluded and gave a curt nod. Shy and too polite on a good day, the girl preferred to keep to herself so much it gave off a decidedly impolite air. Seeing her this excited in public about, well, anything would have made Molly suspect some Polyjuice shenanigans if she hadn’t checked earlier.

Yes, she mused, that was the issue. And it was flattering, seeing Penelope relax and let loose in front of her boyfriend’s mother. If nothing else, it answered Molly’s question what Percy saw in her. And the more she thought about it, the more sense their relationship made. My, why wouldn’t Percy fall for someone hiding layers of personality under the mask of a bland recluse? It wasn’t like he was a stranger to choosing carefully whom to let beyond the walls he spent years constructing around himself.

Focusing her eyes on what lay in front of her, Molly realised she’d been staring at a row of shallow crates lined next and above one another, with many different kinds of fruits and vegetables piled in them. Muggles, she thought, smiling. Didn’t they know the goods would bruise like this? She’d have the boys scrub the Burrow’s cellar by hand if they treated her produce so crudely. And what a waste it was going to be, too. The fresh clean smell of the cucumbers, for one, was intoxicating. And the apples, Merlin the apples. She could feel the juice running down her throat just by looking at their firm glowing skin, and all of a sudden she was back home, in the Burrow’s garden, filling one box after another with fresh harvest, wet autumn wind caressing her sweaty face.

And next to the apples…

Wait, she frowned, recognising the half-forgotten shape. Were those tomatoes? In Britain? In April?

She stepped closer and bent to read the small white label on the crate. There was a bunch of numbers, the name of the variety, and the country of origin.

Spain

Molly whipped up, her throat tightening.

How, in the HECK, did Muggles scrounge up such a rare fruit and out of season, no less, when the wizarding community living next door couldn’t muster a whiff of solidarity to give the Order a few turnips during a bleeding war? First the stand of infinite food supply and now Muggles were what, talking and doing business with each other across countries? Where for the love of Merlin’s nose hairs did they learn that trick?

Calm down, Molly, she scolded herself and snatched a potato. You have no idea how they got those tomatoes. They could have stolen them for all you know.

She turned to get away from the offending veggies and her vision pulsed white as she collided head first with a Muggle man who’d been heading towards the crates.

Molly’s hands flew to her mouth, the pain giving way to worry about what mess this might turn into. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“’S alright,” the man grunted and rubbed his forehead, his tone suggesting it was anything but. Before he managed to say something else or sweet Merlin try and attack her, Penelope materialised by her elbow.

“Apologies, sir,” she said. “My aunt is in the early stages of multiple sclerosis. It can be difficult for her to get around sometimes.”

The man shrugged and reached for one of the many nets of onions filling the vegetables station.

“I could have handled him, dear,” Molly whispered as Penelope took her potato away and put it into the noisy cart-basket thingy she dragged along.

“I know,” the girl said in a grave tone while Molly frowned at the man who was now stuffing heads of garlic into a flimsy see-through bag.

That was another thing she wondered about as Penelope led her aside. Nobody was queuing in the shop and there was no counter or an assistant who’d take a person’s shopping list and bring whatever was required. Instead, the shoppers pattered around like rats, grabbing this and that and throwing it into their baskets themselves.

So what, Muggles were coming in to do an assistant’s work and paying for the privilege? Molly’d have thought they’d be too busy and worn out from having to do every single trifle the non-magic way.

“Nuts, nuts, nuts,” Penelope muttered as they entered a jungle of confined alleys formed by tall shelves. “Ah, here they are.”

She stopped in front of a short shelving filled with tiny packets. “How about this one?” she said, fingering its edge. “It’s a mix. That’d be the best choice, no?”

Molly nodded without saying a word, her eyes roving over the names on those endless transparent packages. She knew walnuts and hazelnuts, of course, but there was also something called cashew, then almonds, peanuts, pine nuts, pecan nuts, macadamia nuts and pistachios, plain, roasted, salted, coated in sugar, coated in chocolate, coated in spices, and next to them raisins, dried bananas, dried cowberries, dried plums, dried peaches, dried apple slices, pear cubes, chia seeds, something with the letter Q in it, sunflower seeds, poppy seeds, flax seeds, sesame seeds, pumpkin seeds, figs, coconut chips, candied orange peel…

Her hand grabbed a packet of the shrivelled ovals she remembered so well. “Can we afford these ones, too?” she heard herself ask.

Penelope took a closer look at the package and then the price tag. “Dates? Yeah, I think we can squeeze them in. Why, are you baking a cake, Mrs. Weasley?”

“If I clap up a recipe,” Molly said and gently placed the dates with the rest of their groceries, avoiding Penelope’s gaze.

While on the holiday in Cairo, half a century ago, the Weasley clan took to spending a few moments after dinner at their table on the balcony, planning a trip for the next day, listening to the twins argue with Percy about some long-forgotten piece of magic, or just lounging around, not saying anything and enjoying the seaside dusk. And there’d always be a smooth wooden bowl on the crisp tablecloth, full of sticky prunes no one ever tasted. Feeling adventurous during their last night in Egypt, Molly grabbed one and sunk her teeth in as warm briny wind washed over her face. The flesh was chewy, honey sweet, and she found herself reaching for one piece after another, savouring the unexpected richness until Ginny noticed and started teasing her about it because look, people, someone’s getting their money’s worth around here!

And everything was right with the world.

Molly stepped away from Penelope’s basket to prevent herself from kicking it across the floor.

It didn’t seem possible but the mission grew worse with every step they took deeper into the maze. At the meat station Penelope stopped Molly from asking the assistant about the shiny phlegm in which the whole chickens were packed, although hers was a perfectly valid worry because Merlin, the transparent wrapping looked like it couldn’t ward off the most benign magical pest! She did manage to ask where they could buy a bean, but stupefied silence was her sole answer before Penelope mumbled something about aunties from the country.

They spent full five minutes studying the cocoa content of several bars of dark chocolate, the teensy letters pressed onto the wrappers proving impossible to read, until Molly grabbed a random bar and flung it into the basket, grumbling that if Muggles were so prone to skimping it was necessary to put in writing they were not trying to cheat you, whatever the sleeve claimed was probably a lie anyway.

The dairy corner was a surprise, with its rows of chill-breathing Preservoxes that had glass doors no less. As she tried to locate the small cubes of yeast in the shelving, Molly reminded herself it was Muggles finding torturous ways to catch up with wizards, not the other way around.

And worst of all, there were endless kinds of every-single-thing. Muggles couldn’t drink one type of tea, oh no! They had to have black and earl grey and jasmine and green and herbal and fruit teas, and then various types of those, loose leaves and in bags, with different brands for each. And the same went for lentils and rice and oil, butter, lard, yeast, yoghurt and milk, pepper and salt and flour, fish and pasta, cheese, ham, eggs, and bloody water! Blimey, even toilet paper and soap had their own separate aisle! And that was only the stuff Molly saw before they got to the hot meals station where a Muggle served, Merlin’s honest, roast meat and potatoes!

 “…salt, toothpaste, beans,” Penelope mumbled next to her, going over their list. “Alright,” she gestured towards the long rack on her left. “Red wine for basting and we’re done.”

Pampered little buggers, Molly thought, barely listening as she reached into the bottom shelf and snatched a miniature bottle. Why should she care their lack of magical abilities didn’t prevent them from erecting ridiculous constructions or growing impossible vegetables or preserving their groceries? In the end none of it would save them once You-Know-Who decided to pop in for a chat. No, it’d be Molly and hers standing on the line, risking their lives for these oblivious knuckleheads.

Talking about oblivious knuckleheads, when did she move away from the wine section and why was she standing in a queue of Muggles by a moving belt as Penelope placed their shopping on it, a Muggle woman at the other side feeling the need to take each and every item and hold it until there was a sharp beep? What sort of rubbish was this, couldn’t they just pay? Why was the woman even checking the stuff? Was she suggesting that she, Margaret Weasley, did something to it? Had the cashier seen that sorry bunch of misfits behind them? Those would sure have been a better target for her insulting suspicions!

Molly glanced over her shoulder at the snake of Muggles with their strange clothing and strange habits and strange carts full of even stranger shopping choices.

Who on Earth needed so much goods? she gritted her teeth. Wizards didn’t and they did fine, they did bloody fine, dammit! Children, these Muggles, spoiled damn children who knew nothing of suffering and sacrifice, the lot of them, with their seventy types of sweets and their meat pre-chopped into cubes and their huge wheels in the sky they gave silly names to, confusing good witches and making them appear like silly bints, and frankly, how could Muggles hope to prevail against You-Know-Who without those like her protecting them, really, how?!

“That’d be exactly 32 pounds, miss,” announced the cashier.

Penelope opened her angular pouch. “Damn,” she said under her breath and stepped closer to Molly. “We’re exactly one pound short.”

“So what now?” Molly stuck her chin out and fingered the wand in her waistband, spoiling for a fight. “Are they going to throw us out?”

“No, no, Jesus, no!” Penelope’s eyes popped wide. “We just have to pick what to leave behind. I’m thinking maybe the wine? It’s not really essential, is it. Or maybe—“

The cashier spared them a bored glance. “Look, ladies, you’re holding up the line.”

“Oh for Merlin’s sakes!” Molly snapped. “Keep your precious trash!” She reached for the packet of dates nestled between a carton of milk and a pound of beef, snatched it between her fingers, and flung it away like a poison. Because she didn’t need these people or whatever they had to offer, they needed her, dammit, and Dumbledore would sooner rise from the grave to give the world’s greatest performance in clog dancing before she’d allow them the satisfaction of knowing they had something which made her feel better, if only for a few seconds!

The packet whizzed through the air and hit the cashier square in the forehead before she managed to duck, the paper corner making a soft bloody trail in the skin.

The floor beneath Molly’s feet opened up and her stomach plummeted straight into the hole as everyone in the queue fell into a stunned silence, their eyes following her warily like she’d taken a poop right then and there and was about to start slinging it around. She froze, yanked from the haze of her rage as though Apparated back to sanity.

She couldn’t have been more mortified if Arthur told her she’d spent the last Christmas party drunkenly propositioning the Minister for Magic.

A man dressed in a blazer with the word SECURITY emblazoned on it appeared by her elbow. “Ma’am, I’m going to ask you to leave at once if you don’t want the police to get involved.”

Penelope, pale as a Hogwarts ghost, raised her hands and stood between Molly and the Muggle. “Wait, that’s not necess—“

“Yes, it is necessary.” Molly bowed her head and balled her fists, already walking past Penelope towards the exit, willing to go right through if the automobile that was in charge of the glass wall didn’t break it in two. But at the last second the sheet parted with a soft whoosh and the next thing she knew she was outside, wet evening air slapping her hot cheeks.

Street lamps sputtered to life among rows upon rows of wheeled automobiles and shed light on the Muggles streaming past the Muggle store in this Muggle city that’d witnessed her shame.

They would return home to their contraptions, enjoying the warmth and company of their loved ones, none the wiser about the war that raged all around them. And why should they be? They didn’t cause it. It wasn’t them who tore the world apart. They could go to work and sit down with their friends out in the open and shop without being consumed by the endless gnaw of fear.

They were free.

She stumbled towards the shop’s outer wall where a grey tube held a jumble of spoked wheels, and slid down into a squat, the fire of humiliation tightening her throat as she dropped her head between her hands.

Molly, you’re such an arse.

The glass whooshed again and Penelope darted outside, hands full of shopping bags, head whipping around. When she noticed her crouching by the neat pile of shaped metal she rushed over and squatted in front of her, the bags spilling on the grey dirty ground.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Weasley?” The concern dripping from her voice was enough to send another wave of embarrassment crashing over Molly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, studying the tops of her knees. “That was… inexcusable. I should apologise to that woman.”

Penelope gingerly patted her shoulder. “I talked them into letting me pay but I don’t think they’re going to allow us in anymore. Christ, what happened back there?”

Molly gave a soft chuckle. What words could express the ache of shame hollowing her belly, the humiliation of knowing that for a while, no matter how brief, she bought into the lies? And not only that, acted on them, too! And why? Because for a few minutes, those lies gave her comfort. Because it was one thing to acknowledge she wasn’t superior to Muggles. It was completely different to see they were her equals in every single way.

How could a Muggle-born understand? And more importantly, why should said Muggle-born care about said pureblood’s bruised ego in the first place?

Such nonsense, really.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Weasley?” Penelope repeated, soft worry tinging her voice.

She shook her head and took Penelope’s hand in hers, looking straight into the girl’s eyes. “It’s Molly, dear.”

Chapter 7

The blazing windows made the Arisaig supply house look like a Christmas tree in the middle of a winter night. With Penelope in tow, Molly’d never been so glad to lay her eyes on it.

“Kreacher, get the ledger and then go find Neville Longbottom!” she shouted into the open main door before they stepped over the threshold. “Dobby, go to the twins, there’s a multiplying box for you to collect. Tell them to start making more, we need one for each base and safe house. I don’t care what kind of toy they’d rather have exploding in their faces, this is now their number one priority. And have them add a door! Oh, and don’t forget to take out the rat first.” They passed through the short hallway to the staircase and turned towards the kitchen on the right. “Winky, put the kettle on, this is going to be a long night.”

Dobby ran into the hallway, waving his arms. “Ma’am, ma’am—“

She pushed past him into the kitchen. “It’s Molly, Dobby.”

“Oh, sweet!” he squealed before the surprise in his face drowned in the remembered worry and he tugged at her skirt. “But Molly, there’s a—“

She didn’t need him to finish.

Andromeda Tonks stood in the middle of the room, pale and with her hands clasped over her stomach. Her features spoke of someone who’d been through the wringer and fully expected more to come.

Molly whipped around to stop Penelope from entering. “Could you take Crookshanks to Tressa, dear? He’s been vomiting a good deal lately, the poor thing,” she lied without blinking. “You should find him hiding somewhere upstairs.”

Penelope started but didn’t argue.

Andromeda waited until the girl’s footsteps rustled up the staircase. “Nymphadora told me you needed help,” she said, rubbing the back of her hand.

Molly raised her eyebrows and heaved the shopping bags on the kitchen counter. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the idea of working with Tonks’ mum but when she made the request she hoped to get an assistant who’d be able to do the job full-time, not as an occasional stint whenever their busy schedule allowed.

But Andromeda wasn’t finished. “So I brought him,” she said and gestured towards the table.

Molly peeked behind Andromeda to see who was sitting there and her breath hitched.

The few weeks since he last arrived at Arisaig, only to be immediately dispatched by Dobby and dragged away by a couple of Aurors, hadn’t done Draco Malfoy any favours. The lank white hair hung in strands well past his ears as if he hadn’t washed it in days. The loose grey T-shirt he was wearing revealed the Dark Mark on his forearm, an ugly splotch of black against pallid skin. At least the borrowed clothes were clean, unlike the sweat-drenched uniform he had on last time, although he hadn’t bothered shrinking them and so they appeared to be melting off his body like a piece of rotten skin. He was staring at the table top with quiet apathy, not paying attention to Molly or the three elves who were exchanging uncomfortable glances.

Though who knew if his silence was a result of apathy or the gallons of Calming Draught Tressa from the infirmary had been giving him.

It made no matter, Molly concluded. Silence was an improvement over the allegations he spouted during his previous visit and then every day after to everyone who was willing to listen.

And there were lots of those.

When Molly woke up the morning after Snowdonia, slumped in a chair by the window after a tearful night of revising the Order’s rations, it was to Draco Malfoy screaming in front of the house, demanding to see Ron, for the murdering traitorous bastard to come out, to come out now.

So when Remus Lupin and a few others arrived to take the boy away and confine him until they learned what the frick was going on, they took Molly with them. And then went to get Ron. And Arthur. And Bill. And Fleur.

They interrogated every member of the Weasley family to figure out who outed the Order’s spy everyone just realised even existed.

There had been four people who knew that the young Malfoy switched sides. Harry and Hermione vanished off the face of the earth and at any rate had never been included in the practical minutia of the battle. Alastor was dead and no one in their right mind would ever suspect him of betraying the Order.

Which left Ron.

Only Ron was aware of there being a spy in You-Know-Who’s army and precisely what role they were going to play in Snowdonia, both of which someone babbled about to Bellatrix Lestrange before the battle started.

Only Ron could possibly be the traitor they’d been hunting the past year.

Yet two flagons of Veritaserum, six days, and ten experienced Aurors later Remus went and made an official statement that nothing untoward had been discovered and mister Weasley was free to join his squad—to the infinite relief of Molly who’d spent those six days haunting the corridors of the Order’s makeshift prison, by turns crying and yelling at anyone who passed by that they had the wrong person.

But although Ron’s investigation turned up nothing of interest Draco Malfoy’s accusations took root in people’s eyes, wondering, distant and wary, making Molly fluster and beat a hasty retreat at the earliest opportunity.

And now she was expected to take on board the boy who caused her so much grief. She was supposed to work and live with the broken child whose pain and bile poisoned the Order against her family.

Watching Draco Malfoy slouch on the hard chair, Molly knew one thing for certain.

That offer of babysitting must have angered Tonks more than she thought.

Notes:

And it’s done. I enjoyed experimenting with worldbuilding aside from the main story, and am really looking forward to working with it in later instalments. Seeing how I was late again with delivering this part, OK, lesson learned—I’m not giving any definite date for when the next one’s going to drop. There’s not a day when I’m not thinking about this series or writing it but unfortunately life gets in the way a lot. Hopefully it’ll be better this time. All I’m going to say right now is that Draco’s coming back to narrate the next one and that the story will move towards rebuilding what I’ve had so much fun smashing. See you around!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 5 of The Lies They Tell