Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy, and all these other people are characters belonging to J.K. Rowling. I claim no rights to them, their surroundings, or their situations. Much to my sorrow.

--- 22 Mrs. Weasley: Only a Mother Could Love

Molly Weasley pressed her hands over her ears, trying to block out the din that the Order of the Phoenix was generating all around her. No luck there; it seemed that everyone in the room had a strong opinion to share, and was determined to make their own heard over everyone else's.

Everyone except herself, Remus Lupin, and Albus Dumbledore, she corrected herself. Molly had her own opinions regarding Draco Malfoy, Severus Snape, and the House of Slytherin, and under normal circumstances she wouldn't be shy about sharing them. She'd tried, earlier.

But she knew more than most witches about the fine art of the shouting match, and this one had degenerated beyond her ability to manage; even her gentle, mild-mannered Arthur was tossing in his two sickles' worth, at high volume, and that was usually an indication that things had got far out of hand. She'd wait until the others had run out of steam, then take her turn. She had a thing or two to say about this disgraceful display, and fully intended to singe a few ears--once she could make herself heard.

Remus, never one for theatrics, was regarding the furor rather sadly, shaking his head now and again at what he heard. Something seemed to be worrying him, but then Remus always managed to look worried about something; she supposed it must become habit, when every twenty-eight days one faced the prospect of turning into a primal killing machine.

As for Albus, he was sitting quietly at the head of the table, his hands steepled before him, watching impassively as his oddball collection of friends and allies carried on like...well, like her entire pack of offspring over a Quidditch disagreement and a little too much butterbeer.

Somehow, the issue of whether or not the Order should disregard Severus' explicit request to retrieve Draco Malfoy without their help had got derailed, in favor of a heated argument over whether either Draco or Severus was worth concerning the Order with anyway...and then someone had gone and dragged the whole Slytherin question into it.

No, not 'someone,' she thought, leaning back in her chair to look around Tonks, whose hair had gone mixed orange and fire-engine red and was sticking up in a remarkable imitation of a bonfire, as she played a spirited game of point-and-counterpoint with Mad-Eye Moody. That one...

Sirius Black stood almost nose-to-nose with Minerva McGonagall, and Molly dearly hoped that Ginny wasn't lurking nearby, listening in with one of those damned Extendable Ears. She didn't want her daughter exposed such language as Black was using. Not that McGonagall was taking it lying down...Molly caught a snatch of a scorching tirade in what sounded like Gaelic.

Why doesn't Albus say something? she wondered anxiously. It's as though he isn't at all concerned...but how could he not be? This bloody idiocy is going to tear us apart, and Severus and the boy could already be dead--or worse. She watched the Headmaster intently, hoping for some sign that he knew what he was doing. Of course Albus always did, or nearly always, but...

He caught her gaze, returned it gravely for a moment, and then winked solemnly. Feeling better, Molly returned her attention to the fight. As far as she could tell, no one was winning--the majority seemed to be opposing Sirius' preposterous notions, but he and his few allies (of whom Moody was chief, and shame on him; the old Auror ought to know better) were vocal enough to more than compensate, and several people seemed to be switching sides as points were scored by either party.

"...irresponsible, hot-headed hypocrite! If you think you are the only one who's suffered, let me assure you, you could not be more wrong..."

"...can't be trusted, not a single one of 'em, and we all know it! Think there's no reason we've only got one Slytherin in all the Order? How many Gryffindor Death Eaters d'you know of? Or Hufflepuff, or Ravenclaw..."

"...gone round the twist, old man, if you think getting rid of a House will get rid of the bad seed..."

"...tell you, I know him! He's always been a sneaky, slimy little prat without a drop of human kindness to his name, and he always will!"

"Hello, Ron; hello, Harry." Dumbledore's words, spoken in his usual mild tone, cut through the hullabaloo as effectively as though he'd bellowed them at the top of his lungs.

Molly turned toward the door, and flung herself out of her chair with a little scream, as she took in the sight of her youngest son and the orphan boy she'd come to think of as her own. Arthur also rose in alarm, and Bill stared agape at his brother and his friend.

They looked as though they'd both been beaten with whips and clubs, and rolled through a bed of hot coals for good measure. Setting aside numerous minor cuts and scrapes, Ron's right eye was swollen almost shut; a swath of hair had been burnt away just above his left ear, his robes were in tatters, and he limped slightly as the two young men came further into the room.

Harry looked both better and worse. He seemed less physically battered, though sporting his share of bruises and burns, but there was a haunted quality to his gaze that compelled Molly to run and gather them both in her arms. "What's happened? What have you been doing? How on earth did you get into such a state?"

Expecting both boys to squirm and complain, as they usually did at her mothering, she was all the more alarmed when they both allowed her to hug them tightly to her--even returning the embrace (albeit briefly.)

Remus spoke from behind her, overriding the chorus of questions from the rest of the Order. "Where's Hermione?"

"She stayed behind, for a bit," Ron said, pulling away but keeping contact with Molly, as though to reassure himself that she was still there. The question seemed to distress him, she noted with a mother's keen eye for such details, though he was trying not to show it.

Harry also detached himself, giving his surrogate mother a subdued smile. "Professor Dumbledore, there are some things we need to speak to you about. Alone," he added, looking around at the rest of the Order only a trifle apologetically. He deliberately avoided looking at Sirius Black. Oh, there's going to be a fracas there and no mistake, Molly thought worriedly. Black's fathomless eyes were boring into his godson as though he meant to drill a hole in the boy's skull and extract the answers he wanted by main force.

"Very well," Albus said with a nod, and Molly was grateful that Harry would have a reprieve before he had to deal with Sirius. Whatever had just happened--and she suspected she had an inkling, being that it was Ron, Harry and Hermione involved--the last thing the young man needed was to be subjected to an Inquisition before he'd had a chance to catch his breath. "Minerva, please stay, if you would. Everyone else--this meeting is adjourned."

"But," Tonks said, looking confused, and quite crushed at the prospect of being left out. That seemed to express what many of the others were thinking, as well; but they slowly rose and made their way to the door, filing out with various curious or dubious glances at the two young adventurers.

Too vivacious a personality to stay disappointed for long, Tonks paused to pat Harry's arm on her way out, chuckling. "Got one over on us at last, eh Harry? Knew you would, sooner or later." She made a ridiculous face at Mad-Eye Moody (literally--her face twisted itself into a clownlike mask, and she stuck her tongue out, twice as long as it should be and bright red) and almost skipped out of the room.

"Tonks!"

"Oh, sorry, Bill!..."

Molly and Sirius were the last to leave the room. Fixing Ron with a We- will-discuss-this-later look, she couldn't resist giving each of the boys another quick hug--who knew when they'd be in a mood to let her do that again?

As he clasped her close, Harry whispered in her ear, "Don't tell the others--go see Madame Pomfrey. Think you might be needed."

She drew back and eyed him curiously, but he'd already turned his attention to Sirius, and his face had closed up, revealing nothing of his thoughts. She patted his shoulder to let him know she'd understood, and left, scowling at Black on her way out. He ignored her.

Outside the kitchen door, most of the members of the Order were gathered, whispering among themselves and eyeing the door with the same burning curiosity that had always eaten up the children when Order meetings were in session at Grimmauld Place. "Oh, get along, the lot of you. When Albus thinks it's right for us to know, we'll know," she said briskly, making shooing gestures at the little crowd. Sirius emerged from the kitchen, looking like a thunderstorm on legs, and strode off without a word to anyone.

"Er--so, does this mean we needn't worry any longer about Malfoy or Snape, then?" Arabella Figg ventured, looking around inquiringly at everyone.

"I would say so, yes," Arthur said decisively. He caught Molly's gaze and they nodded to one another; he'd come to the same conclusion that she had.

"Excuse me, all, there's something I just need to look into." She smiled and hurried off, toward Poppy's little corner of the ball room. The Healers had now hung heavy curtains around that area, forming a small makeshift room where their patients could have some privacy.

"Poppy?" she pushed back the curtain just a bit, and called the Mediwitch's name softly, hoping not to disturb anyone.

"Oh, Molly." Madame Pomfrey appeared at once, stepping out of the enclosure and drawing the curtain shut behind her. She was calm and efficient as usual, but was betrayed by the slightly-deeper-than-usual crease between her eyebrows. "What can I do for you?"

"I've just seen Harry and Ron," Molly explained, "and Harry said I should come to see you...that I might be needed. He didn't say why, though."

Poppy frowned thoughtfully at her for a long moment, then slowly nodded. "Well, you know...he may be right. Perhaps you are, at that." She pulled the curtain back, gesturing beyond. "Come on in, then...I'll explain what I know, and that isn't much. But keep your voice down, and don't raise a great to-do about it, all right?"

Molly nodded, mystified, and stepped inside.

"Oh..." she said, not surprised exactly, but more taken aback than she had thought she'd be.

The Malfoy boy was curled up on a cot, wrapped in heavy blankets and to all appearances, oblivious to the world around him. His eyes were open, but underscored with dark smudges and staring glassily at a random spot on the floor. He'd always looked a little too pale and slightly underfed, in Molly's estimation; but she had seen people come out of Azkaban Prison looking better than this young man did right now.

Despite knowing very well what an arrogant, cold-hearted little beast he was, she was too much a mother not to be moved by the sight--particularly since, according to Albus, it had been his own parents who'd lured him into the trap. "Saints preserve us, Poppy," she whispered, after they'd moved to the opposite end of the enclosure, "what did they do to the child?"

"I've had only the bare bones of the tale," the Healer said. "Apparently Malfoy took it into his head to make his son a Death Eater, in the family tradition, and Draco declined." Her low voice shook with fury. "So they bound him up and started the ritual anyway."

Molly brought a hand to her mouth involuntarily. "Dear Merlin...but that's not even possible, is it? Without his consent..."

"No. And that black-hearted piece of filth knew it very well. I suppose he would rather have seen the boy dead, or hopelessly insane, than disloyal to his cause. But that's not the worst part. Narcissa tried to intervene, somehow--"

"Well, good for her! Some kind of mother she'd be if she hadn't! The very idea..."

Poppy nodded sadly. "But it cost her her life. Lucius killed her for her disobedience. Right there in front of the boy."

Molly opened her mouth, then shut it again, struck speechless for one of the very few times in her life.

"...and then he was killed in the battle, just a few minutes later."

"Both his parents?" Molly whispered. "Oh, Poppy. That's...that's..."

"Horrible? Depraved? Unspeakably tragic? Yes," the Healer agreed, "but I have a suspicion there's even more to it than what Potter and your boy Ron told me when they dropped him off. He's in such a deep state of shock, I haven't been able to get through to him at all. Apart from the half-Mark they put on him, he's not injured, physically, and he's clean of any Dark Spells. But he's gone catatonic."

Molly bit her lip, looking back at the youngster with deep pity. "Well, and no wonder."

"All I can think to do is try to get a Dreamless Sleep potion into him, and hope he finds his way out of it on his own. Or else transfer him to St. Mungo's and let them deal with it, but after what happened to Severus and the Granger girl--"

"No, I shouldn't think that would be wise. The poor thing, he tried to do what was right, and now he's got no one..."

Poppy nodded bleakly. "And that's what worries me most. He'll probably recover, given time, he's young. But what kind of marks this is going to leave on him? I don't even want to guess." She sighed. "Speaking of which, he didn't even react when I removed the protomorsmordre from his arm. He'll have a scar there for life, but better that than the alternative..."

It came to Molly suddenly why Harry had sent her to look into this dreadful business. A young man all alone in the world, scarred by the horrible incident that had taken his parents from him...yes, she did have some experience with such things, didn't she? She blinked impatiently as her eyes filled up at the thought.

Well. Seventeen was a far cry from eleven, and further still from age one. She knew of no spells that would cure a shattered heart. But if Harry thought she could be of help to this boy--and that there was something in him worth helping--then she'd do her best to prove him right.

"D'you mind if I sit with him for a bit, Poppy?" she asked.

"Be my guest...though I won't be held responsible for what he might do, if he comes around and decides he doesn't like you." The Mediwitch shook her head grimly. "Remember he's a Malfoy, albeit a very young Malfoy, and he's always been a nasty piece of work."

Molly smiled. "He's a boy, and I've brought up six of those...seven, counting Harry. I don't think there's much he could say or do that I haven't seen before."

Poppy looked dubious. "I'll take your word for it. Just give a call if he gets out of hand."

Waving the warning aside, Molly nevertheless approached the boy's side with caution. She wasn't sure whether Draco would remember her; then again, both he and his late father seemed to have an uncanny knack for identifying a Weasley on sight, so likely he'd peg her immediately. If he even sees me at all, she though sadly, drawing up a chair next to his cot.

"Hello, Draco," she began tentatively, trying to keep her tone neither too cheerful nor too sympathetic, but a little of both. "I don't know if you'll remember me. I'm Molly Weasley. Ron's mother."

No reaction.

Pausing briefly, she went on, "Madame Pomfrey has just been telling me what's happened to--to your family." She lowered her voice, speaking as gently as she could. "I--I know it can't possibly help, but I wanted to tell you how very sorry I am. My husband's folk and yours haven't got on well for a long time now, but we are related, you know, some ways back up the family tree. We never would have wished to see it come to this, no matter what differences we had..."

The child might as well be made of stone, she thought, dismayed. Draco blinked now and then by reflex, but otherwise remained completely inert. Surely there must be something that will get through to him?

She sat and thought for a little while, and Draco went on staring at the floor. Greatly daring, she reached out to run a gentle hand over his pale blonde hair. It was so thin and lightweight, almost feathery; nothing like the coarse terra-cotta thatch that most of her children had, or the dark dense mass of Harry's hair. Her touch brought no more response than her voice.

At last she started up again, trying to shake the impression that she was talking to a wall. "I can't say I know what it's like for you, Draco. I've been very, very fortunate; I haven't lost anyone yet. And that's saying something, you know, considering all that's happened in the past few years, and what a large family I have." She swallowed hard. "But we've had some very close calls...sometimes I lie awake at night, wondering whether tomorrow will be the day when someone Floo's or owls me to say that my luck's run out at last. Or if it will be my children who get the message, and they'll have to go on without me--or Arthur--or both of us--"

Stop this, foolish woman, she scolded herself, you can't go getting sidetracked this way; hearing you moan about your troubles won't help the boy with his own.

"I'm sorry, Draco. I don't mean to blubber at you." She sniffed, fumbling for her handkerchief and wiping her eyes. "Listen. I suppose this will sound ridiculous to you, with a great mansion and your own House Elves and all...I know what your father has said about our little Burrow, and it's true, he could have bought the place out of his pocket change." She refused to dwell over the old insult; the dead were dead, and to speak ill of them could only breed more ill. "It's small and crowded and full of oddities. But it's a home, and no matter how full it gets, there's always room for one more."

She'd said it before she could really think it through. Oh gods, Ron and the twins would have her locked away if ever they heard, and maybe they'd be right. Still, Harry had asked...and the boy was family, albeit distant family. And he refused the Dark Mark--that's certainly a point in his favor.

Slightly flustered, she went on, "You must have come to some sort of understanding with Harry--"

There! For the first time, something she'd said had drawn a reaction. The young man turned his head just slightly at the mention of Harry's name; his eyes came back into focus, though they were only pointed in her general direction now, still not really looking at her.

Watching him closely, she added quietly, "Harry asked me to come and speak with you. He's like another son to me, and just between you and me and the curtain, there isn't much I wouldn't do for him--even if I don't quite understand why he asked.

"So if there is anything I can do for you, that would make things a little easier, Draco--all you have to do is ask." Inside, she had to laugh a little at the absurdity of it; Lucius Malfoy would have cut off his own hand before he would have asked a Weasley for the time of day. "Maybe pride won't let you, or you just dislike us enough that you wouldn't. I really don't know enough about you to say. But know that the offer is there, all the same...we can put the old feud to rest, if you're willing."

There was something flickering in those strange grey eyes, but she couldn't guess what it was. Draco's expression, or lack of expression, hadn't changed at all, and he remained as silent as ever.

Feeling she had done everything that she could (and maybe more than she should have!) Molly leaned forward and patted his hand awkwardly. "There, I won't trouble you any further. Try to get some rest. I'll be about, if you...well, I'll be around."

She got up and made to leave, wondering whether she had accomplished anything beyond making a royal fool of herself. She would have to talk with Harry, find out just what he was thinking, why he had wanted her to--

"Mrs. Weasley?" It was barely more than a whisper. She stopped in her tracks, then turned around slowly, thinking it must have been her imagination.

Draco's eyes were guarded, filled with conflict, but watching her steadily. He licked his dry, slightly cracked lips, and said haltingly, "I thought--that I heard once--you're a very good cook."

Whatever Molly had been expecting, this certainly wasn't it. But it was a start--and so utterly typical of a seventeen-year-old boy. It put her squarely back on familiar ground.

"Are you hungry, dear?" she asked, smiling warmly.

He nodded slightly, retreating back into his silence. That was all right. These things took time.

"I'm sure I can cobble something together. Just give me a bit...I'll be back soon." She ducked out of the makeshift infirmary, heading for the kitchen at a fast clip.

It was the story of her life, the only answer she'd ever found to calamity. She wasn't a warrior, or a witch of great talent; she couldn't bring back the dead, unmake injustices, or even protect the people around her from the evils that were still to come.

But she could feed them.

It would have to be enough.

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