The Lost Boys

Light

Ron and Draco gave him dirty looks whenever he came out of the kitchen. It didn't matter; Harry was content to spend his time handing Molly Weasley recipe ingredients, winding yarn for her while she labored over hideous and unappreciated sweaters for her children, listening to her talk. She was, after all, the only one unreservedly on his side. She had not ever forgiven Sirius for standing up to her, anymore than Harry had forgiven him for dying.

It had been a long, long year and Harry was tired and it was pleasant to have an uncritical audience for once. It was pleasant to close his eyes and pretend that Molly was his mother and the Burrow was his house (pleasant if not productive.) This, of course, made Ron his brother, and not only Ron but also the others: up to and including Draco Malfoy, of whom Molly confided she had become increasingly fond. Draco looked like a greyhound being raised by wolfhounds, short and thin and pale, moving warily out of the way of his littermates' larger paws. Unlike Ron, there was no endearing clumsiness to Draco.

It should probably have bothered Harry that Draco and Ron seemed to have formed an alliance against him. Somehow, though, Ron has ceased to matter. Perhaps he had outgrown Ron; certainly he had outgrown Draco. He could not summon any interest in their small battles any longer. He was tired, and having resigned himself to a summer at the Dursleys' had been taken by surprise when Remus Lupin turned up after only three weeks to rescue him from the drudgery and peace of Privet Drive.

When he had been at the Burrow for six days, Molly sent Harry out to play in the sun and after an hour of poking at the garden gnomes with a stick he summoned his broom and flew up to the field the Weasleys used as a Quidditch pitch. Ron and Draco were neither playing nor fighting; Harry found them sprawled under a tree smoking illicit cigarettes and talking. Harry was shocked to see that Ron had been crying.

Without a word, Harry turned away. He had never considered that it might be Ron who had moved on, Ron who had outgrown Harry. And Draco, whose face had been neither hard nor cold. Could it be that what they had shared had nothing at all to do with Harry, with the Order, the war? Harry was moving before he realized it; in a heartbeat it seemed he was back at the house, dropping his broom outside the back door and cannoning into the kitchen.

"Harry, what is it?" and he was being pressed against Molly's generous breasts. It was enough, then, to be comforted, to be still. They were standing so, still, when Ron and Draco came in for lunch. When the door opened Harry stepped back but it was too late. Ron stopped just inside the door, his face quite blank. Draco, behind him, froze holding the door open with one with one hand; after a moment Ron turned and pushed by him without a word. Harry started after him and Draco said, "Don't, Potter," and went instead. When he had let the door slam, Molly sat down hard at the table. Harry went into the study and closed the door and did not come out until dinner time.

Every night since he had come Molly had made one of his favourite meals but tonight there was no welcoming smell of food. The lights in the kitchen were brighter than usual and at the unlaid table Severus Snape was as out of place as a vulture in full sunlight. Beside him Molly knelt, bandaging a horrific wound on his wrist.

Shock enough, but what shattered Harry was the look on her face. She was not a beautiful woman but at times she approached beauty. Kindness blazed on her face, and tenderness. In fact, the look she wore was one Harry had only ever seen turned on himself. He had thought that what she felt for him was--unique? Stronger than what she felt for Malfoy? Stronger than what she felt for her own children. The only thing Harry had going for him was his status, and now even that was gone.