The first time Molly Weasley returned to Number 12 Grimmauld Place after the summer that the Order re-formed, Remus had just got back in the country. It had been a difficult four days in Germany, arguing with the over-suspicious werewolves with whom he was supposed to have been forging ties, and he was ready to collapse in a heap as soon as he walked through the door.
The house at Grimmauld Place was not a place Remus liked being for any length of time. The tapestries and paintings reminded him that he was a trespasser, not fully human in a stronghold of pureblood pride, and nearly every room bore the evidence of dirt and infestations, both magical and mundane. As much as he had liked Sirius when they were mates at school, he found it hard to take his company now; Azkaban had frozen him in time, changed him in some ways and kept him from changing in others, and Remus had grown and moved on. But it was the Order headquarters, where they all gathered, and it was a convenient resting-place between assignments.
He'd planned on immediately heading upstairs to his room; but there was a light humming coming from the kitchen, and it didn't sound like Sirius. Quietly closing the front door, he slipped down the hall.
"Oh, it's you, Molly," he said, surprised. "What're you doing here?"
"Cooking stew. It'll be ready in twenty minutes. Have a drink in the meantime, why don't you?" She wasn't even looking at him, instead regarding the stew-pot with a critical eye. A wave of her wand, and the blue flames under the pot obediently scaled themselves back a notch. "Well, go on. The butterbeer's in the cupboard."
He laughed and went to retrieve a bottle. "One for you?"
"I've got one already, thanks," she said, indicating the half-full bottle on the counter.
"Where's Sirius?"
She shrugged. "In his room, I think. Kingsley wanted him to look over some papers."
"Ah," he said, taking a long pull from his butterbeer.
"I offered to bring them over, and since the children are at school and Arthur's out in Suffolk, somebody charmed a post-box, he said, so there's really no reason to go back to the Burrow so soon, is there?" She turned from the stew-pot and Remus could see a flush of colour on her face, spots high on her cheek.
"Of course not," he said.
The second time Molly returned alone to Number 12, Remus and Sirius were playing chess in the drawing room when she walked in with a shopping bag nearly as big as she was.
"I've got a new recipe for baked chicken with apricots - you like apricots, don't you?"
Sirius looked up from the game, frowning. "Is there a meeting tonight?"
"Well, no. But I thought you boys might want --"
"We can take care of ourselves."
"That's very kind of you, Molly," said Remus at the same time. He shot a quelling glance toward Sirius. "I love apricots."
"I'll just get started, then," she mumbled, not looking at either of them as she left. They heard the kitchen door bang -- fortunately not loudly enough to rouse Mrs. Black.
"No call to be rude to her," said Remus, moving his bishop four spaces.
"I don't like her. She treats me like a child. Treated Harry like a child -- hasn't he seen enough to be trusted with the truth?"
"Despite what he's seen, he's still a child." And you act like one more often than not, he thought but did not say out loud. "I think she's just lonely, with her own children back at school."
"She's got Arthur," grumbled Sirius. "She can mother him."
"She probably does," said Remus.
Seven moves later, Sirius won and vanished upstairs. Sighing, Remus went into the kitchen; Molly had already finished her first butterbeer, so he opened two bottles, one for himself and one for her, and they talked about nothing in particular while they waited for the chicken to finish cooking.
Sirius came down for dinner, sniffing the air and smiling as though Molly's presence in the kitchen had been his idea. He looked approvingly at the glistening sauce, speared a large piece and popped it in his mouth. "Very tasty."
"I'm pleased you like it," said Molly. But she was looking at Remus.
The third time Molly came back was for a meeting of the Order, called to discuss Hagrid's mission to the giants. It hadn't been a success, Dumbledore told them. If they fought at all it would likely be on Voldemort's side.
It seemed to Remus that Dumbledore's grave glances were directed toward him. With the giants as possible opponents, the Order needed all the allies they could get -- including the werewolves, whose dissatisfaction with their treatment in most countries made them a prime target for Voldemort's propaganda. More missions, he thought. More arguments, more unpleasantness, more trying to convince sceptical werewolves of things he wasn't completely sure he believed himself.
Sure enough, when Albus finished his report, he turned to Remus. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to go back to Stornoway. We can't afford not to have their werewolves on our side."
"Of course." It would be a fool's errand; the werewolves of the Hebrides were insular and likely to be uncooperative, but there was no point in saying it at the meeting.
"That would be rather ironic, wouldn't it?" Arthur Weasley said, raising an eyebrow at him. "Werewolves coming to the aid of Muggles - they won't appreciate it, of course, and we'd better not tell them. They'd as soon shoot silver bullets at you. Cut off your head and put it on a pike, you know."
"Of course," repeated Remus, with a weak smile. He pushed away from the table. "If you'll excuse me for a moment." Nodding at Albus, he made his way to the kitchen where he slumped against the counter, his head in his hands. How was he to convince werewolves to side with the wizards, when the wizards were as prejudiced and ignorant as any Muggle?
The door swung open; he looked up to see Molly enter the kitchen. "He doesn't mean anything by it. Don't take it to heart."
"I know, Molly, I know." He sighed.
"He's under a lot of stress. The business with Percy," she started, then made a little unhappy shrug. "We're all under a lot of stress, I suppose."
"I suppose." She did look stressed, her face lined and sad, and instinctively he moved closer to her, put an arm across her shoulders. "It's all right, Molly."
She buried her head in his neck and mumbled something.
"Hmm?"
She lifted a tear-streaked face. "I came to comfort you. Silly, aren't we?" But she did not move from the circle of his arms, and he did not let her go; she seemed so lost and vulnerable there, the mother hen with nobody to mother but grown men.
"Ridiculous," he agreed.
"You're so kind," she whispered, and leaned up as though to kiss him on the cheek. But her lips brushed his lips instead, very lightly. "You're such a kind man," she repeated, and kissed him again.
"Molly, look." Gently he stepped away. "We should go back to the meeting."
"Yes, yes," she said, brushing imaginary lint from her clothing. Her voice sounded high and girlish and a bit coy. "But we'll talk later, won't we, Remus?"
"Of course," he said, as he opened the kitchen door.
The fourth time Molly did not come to London; instead she called through the fire and invited Remus to dinner at the Burrow, saying that he must be awfully tired of being closed up in that dank place with only house-elves and mouldy nasty portraits for company.
"Well, there is Sirius," he said, mildly.
"Oh, Sirius." Her voice was dismissive. "You're probably sick of each other by now, aren't you? Give the both of you a break."
It wasn't until he arrived that he realized that Arthur wasn't there, wasn't going to be there all night. It was his turn at the Ministry watching the Prophecy, and now he was at the Burrow with Molly, and what she was expecting he didn't know. She served a cassoulet and white wine, and they talked easily at the table, but in the back of his mind he was wondering just what he was going to do, when the meal was over and Molly wanted…well, if Molly wanted anything.
They had cups of tea afterward in the living room, and Molly chattered about Charlie in Romania, and her hopes for the twins' NEWTs, and Remus nodded his head, and made the appropriate noises at the appropriate times, trying to decide whether it would be kinder to hurt Molly, sitting on the sofa next to him, or Arthur, who might never know. But as long as she didn't actually do anything, or say anything that forced the issue, he was happy to just sit on the sofa and sip tea and listen.
It grew late. He tried to leave twice, and each time Molly pressed another biscuit on him, or another cup of tea. "It's dreadful being alone," she said. "Isn't it?"
"I suppose it must be," he said.
"Poor Remus." She raised a fingertip to his jaw and traced it gently, and he felt his heart sink. This was it, then. "So alone."
She leaned forward to kiss him. Then stilled, her face a mask of shock and horror. "No," she whispered.
Relief washed over him like rain. "Of course not, Molly," he said, but the next moment he realized she was not looking at him but instead staring over his shoulder, and turned to see the grandfather clock, the golden hand labelled "Arthur" pointing straight up, twelve o'clock, mortal peril. Mortal peril.
"How long… I wasn't watching…oh, Arthur," she sobbed into his shoulder, and he stroked her hair and whispered soothing meaningless things. When the tap-tapping came against the window she was still shaking, not aware of it, not aware of anything, and he gently disengaged himself and went to the window. It was Fawkes, who seemed to realize that Molly was in no condition to accept the letter he carried and offered it to Remus instead.
"He's all right, Molly. He's all right." He said it again and again until she looked up. "They took him to St. Mungo's."
"St. Mungo's," she repeated, her voice tentative.
She made no move to take the letter he held out, just looked at him, eyes red and puffy and hopeful. He pasted a confident smile on his face and put a hand under her arm, helped her to her feet. "Come on. I'll take you to see him."
The floo powder was in a jar on the mantel and he scooped out enough for both of them. As he pressed a portion into her palm she grasped and held his hand for a moment.
"I'm so glad you were here, Remus. You're a good friend."
He stared at her face; her eyes were open and free of guile. She really meant it, he realized. "I just try to help."
She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, the chaste, sweet kiss of a good friend. "You do. More than you know." And she tossed the powder into the fire and stepped through.
Bemused, Remus raised a finger to his cheek before stepping through himself.
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http://hieroglyfics.net/hp/friends.htm | written January 2004 by Isis