Post-HBP. If you haven't read that and I ruin it for you, don't say I didn't warn you.

Stop the World, I Want Off

Chapter 1: Burden of the Son

"Molly! Molly, where are you?"

Molly Weasley rushed from the kitchen, wand at the ready. Arthur's voice was ragged and urgent. In times like these, one was perpetually on guard. She stopped, gasping at the sight of her husband bent over, shivering and bleeding from a gash across his temple. Regaining control of her motor skills, she lurched forward, a healing charm already on her lips.

She blinked back tears. She had always known that this was a risk - from the time Dumbledore had asked them into the Order, she knew that her entire family had pledged their lives to the greater good. This was, however, the first time it had really come home - this war-worn state. As she moved closer, she realized that Arthur's wounds were worse than she had first perceived - he was bleeding beneath his robes. Yet somehow he stood, the simple action stopping her in her tracks.

"Arthur?" she ventured.

"I'm - I'm fine," he rasped. He caught his breath and looked her directly in the eyes. "Molly, can we take one more child?"

She said the only thing that came to her mind, "Do we really have a choice?"

Arthur, through all the blood and dirt on his face, managed a grim sort of grin. Turning, he threw a handful of Floo Powder into the grate and stuck his head through. Who or what was on the other side, Molly had no idea but her mind was otherwise occupied.

Who was it this time? What other family was lost? Which child's life was ruined this time? She could hardly bear it anymore. With her own children all battling Voldemort in their own way, she had from the beginning of the year been temporarily housing the few children that could be rescued from Death Eater attacks across the country until their relatives could be located. What those children had seen, what haunted their nightmares, Molly could only begin to imagine.

"He's on his way." Arthur said.

They watched, tense, as a madly spinning figure appeared in their fireplace and abruptly crumpled, unable even to step out of the grate. Molly's heart clenched. The boy, though tall, looked frail and exhausted. He was an awkward, pitiful pile of soiled robes, blood, bruises and unwashed blond hair.

She watched as Arthur reached forward, shifting the boy out of the fireplace and onto the rug. Stepping back to give his wife a good look at their new boarder, Arthur proclaimed tiredly, "This one's going to be staying with us for a while, Molly."

There was quiet groan, two bleary gray eyes opened and Draco Malfoy asked for water.

"Morning, Molly," Arthur murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple before sinking into his chair at the head of the dining table. He glanced at the lone figure seated in the middle of the left row of chairs, back to the window. "Draco."

"Sir."

Molly winced. It had been nearly three months since the young Malfoy had come to reside with them and though it had taken Arthur nearly three hours of explanation, Mrs Weasley had come to understand the situation. In a nutshell, Draco Malfoy had defected.

Though the details Arthur provided her with were sketchy at best, Molly surmised that Malfoy had somehow found a way to tip the Order off about an impending Death Eater attack and had made his move there. Drawing Harry away from the main body of the battle, Draco had thrown himself at the mercy of his worst enemy and Harry had – with all the nobility of a true hero – helped him. What Molly found most surprising was that Ron had been the one to suggest Draco board with the Weasleys.

That, at least, was the 'how' of the situation. The 'why', she supposed, was known only to those involved.

However, Molly had to admit that this Draco Malfoy was drastically different from the snotty twelve-year-old she had last seen in Flourish and Blotts and the snobbish fourteen-year-old she'd seen at the Quidditch World Cup. This Draco Malfoy was subdued. Lonely, despondent, insecure, quietly sullen, one could even go so far as to call him humble even. However, above all, this Draco Malfoy was absolutely terrified. Terrified of what he had done, what he could do, what he would have to do and what could be done to him.

And as much as Molly Weasley despised Lucius Malfoy, she couldn't help but pity the boy sitting in front of her. In her estimation, the sins of the father were not the burden of the son. That Voldemort would stoop so low as to threaten a child into doing his dirty work… it made Molly want to murder him herself. She fumed as she sipped her tea, her stare enough to make the gnomes in the backyard run for cover. The abrupt scrape of chairs against the floor jerked her from her ruminations.

She followed her husband to the door, intent on returning to clean the kitchen as a normal distraction from her state of constant worry. When she got back, however, she found a most extraordinary spectacle. Draco Malfoy was washing the dishes – without magic.

Unlike their other boarders, Molly had never requested any assistance from the young Malfoy. In fact, the liberties she had taken with other children – asking them about their families, asking them to help out around the house to keep them busy, holding them when they cried – had never crossed her mind around Draco.

She cleared her throat. "Draco, you needn't do that."

Obviously startled, he looked up. "I …simply thought to help, Mrs Weasley. My apologies."

He was already wiping his hands dry, the three cups and plates clean and dried. He turned to her and she watched an ancient young man, who wore only gray and never smiled, bow deeply before striding out of the room.

TBC

Author's Note: I started writing this for the LiveJournal Community, 30Kisses, a while ago. I initially gave up my claim but I've been compelled to pick it up again. And to share because, really, I'm a review junkie. And, before you scream; No, this is not a Draco/Molly story. Molly just serves as an interesting perspective from which to launch the plot.