Following a thread on whether Molly was powerful enough to have defeated Bellatrix. Any mother will tell you: of course! Prompts to be included: Voldemort's POV. Voldemort is not allowed to kill Arthur. Football. Molly's clothes sense. Knitting. Film dialogue must be referenced. Greyback.
MY EYES! Part the Third: Hugs & Stew –A Mollymort Romance
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"THOMAS MARVOLO RIDDLE! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN! DINNER'S READY! THERE'S NO NOTE! YOU MIGHT HAVE DIED!"
Molly Weasley stood on the doorstep of the Burrow with her care-worn hands on her rounded hips, her ample bosom that he so admired – well, both of them actually - heaving. She stood there in all her red-headed glory, her brown eyes glinting with protective anger and her nostrils flaring.
Tom had reached an epiphany about what constituted a real pure-blood woman when he had witnessed Molly slicing and dicing his Trixiebella like vegetables for stew (oh! and Molly's stew was a thing for someone to die to make a Horcrux for!). A real woman! How lies had fed Trixie's legend. She was all black leather, laces and backcombed hair (that was a complete nightmare to run his fingers through) and pampered soft hands. Before him stood Molly, resplendent in her vividly floral robe with multi-coloured wrap-around cardigan that she'd knitted herself.
He closed his eyes and hitched his breath against the memory: what this woman couldn't do with knitting needles! It was only when he had seen the knitting patterns that he had realised that she shared the same source of fiendish power as Dumbledore.
He was so glad he'd made a Horcrux of the Elder Wand when he'd disposed of Snape. Potter had, very obligingly, replaced the wand in Dumbledore's tomb and the Ministry had given every protection known to Wizardkind to prevent the wand being stolen again. The last fragment of his soul would be safe – FOREVAH!
He was quite pleased really how that had turned out. Who'd have thought ...
"WELL?" Molly tapped her sensibly-shod foot on the stone step, her arms now crossed, fingers drumming impatiently on her beautifully rounded upper arms that he ...
"THOMAS!" Molly barked, snapping him out of his heated reverie.
"I wouldn't have died. We were just playing football. We would have been back sooner, only Greyback ran off with the ball," Tom pouted and then pointed an accusatory long white finger at the large furry fellow to his left, who scuffed his shoes into the dirt, too embarrassed to look into Molly's eyes.
"LOOK - AT THOSE NAILS!" Molly squawked as she grabbed his pointing finger. "You can't possibly do your chores around the house with nails that length! How many times must I tell you!" she admonished, shaking her head reprovingly at him, followed by that indulgent smile that made his chest organ that pumped blood flutter strangely as he relished the callused touch of her capable hands.
"Are your little friends staying for tea, dear?" Molly bestowed her ravishing smile on the four Death Eaters he had been playing five-a-side football with against the Order. He bristled with possessive fury, the Killing Curse almost spilling from his lips as he saw his minions moving to accept.
"NO!" he boomed and then remembered how she hated it when he 'created'. "No, they already have tea arranged." The men shuffled their feet, grumbling under their breath, "best stew ever," and "cream teas to make a Horcrux for," and other such mutterings of discontent, but he stared his best homicidal lunatic stare at each and every one until they shuffled away.
"Bye bye, boys!" Molly called, waving them good-bye as they left the Burrow's wards and Disapparated. "That Fenrir's a funny lad, isn't he?" she wittered. "Had a Krup that smelt like him when I was a child ... he used to create so at bath time ..."
He glided in after her – domestic goddess that she was –
"Ah ah ah!" she admonished him kindly, wagging her forefinger at him. "If you won't wear shoes, use the bucket to wash your feet. They're covered in mud!"
He drew his wand to scourgify his feet.
"Now, what have you been told, Tom?" Molly rebuked him again. "Hmmm?"
"No magic until I've put on weight," he griped, his bottom lip protruding.
"That's right," Molly nodded encouragingly. "It uses far too much energy and you're far too peaky. All skin and bone too! And I need to put those eye drops in again," she muttered as she stood on the tip of her toes to check his eyes then referred to The Witch's Compendium of Everyday Healing that lay open by the sink. "They're still far too bloodshot."
As she administered the eye drops to him, pressing her voluptuous form to him, he inhaled her womanly scent deeply through his slitted nostrils and over his acute olfactory senses that his years of nurturing from Nagini had given him. The scent of a woman: talcum powder, Eau de Nil and stew. It was a heady, heady scent. Molly Riddle – Lady Voldemort (a wizard could dream, couldn't he?) was an intoxicating woman.
Once he was clean and Molly had inspected his hands and feet, and cast a cutting charm on all of his nails with a good-natured harumph, she served him a bowl of stew and he told her about the game and how they'd beaten the Order's five-a-side team.
"Without magic?" she chided.
"I didn't use my wand once," Tom protested, as he Occluded all the wandless magic he'd performed against Shacklebolt in goal.
"Thomas-"
Uh-oh. Was she such a good Legilimens? Would she middle-name him?
"Marvolo-"
Oh no.
"-Riddle. Do you think I was born yesterday? My brothers would have shown you a trick or two and I've brought up seven children, all of whom were better liars than you when they were still in nappies! Now ..."
Tom sat, his shoulders hunched as the diatribe washed over him, flooding him with satisfaction. Diatribe meant correction. He rather liked correction. Correction was followed by hugs and stew. Trixie had never understood those final ingredients need to be supplied by herself – no-one wanted hugs and stew from a house-elf!
He apologised profusely when he sensed her diatribe was finished and an apology was called for. As he wiped a slice of her homemade bread around the bowl, to her good-humoured tut, he noticed her cleaning pinafore hanging from the door. He gulped. She smiled.
From the dresser, she took a large sheath of parchment.
"Now, dear. Would you just look over these for me and put your signature," Molly thumbed through the sheath and magically marked of six places for his signature, "there ... and there ... and there ..."
He watched her adoringly. Could he deny her anything?
Contract for Product Endorsement for U-No-Poo
Between Weasleys Wizard Wheezes (U.K.) Co. Ltd. (1) and Thomas Marvolo Riddle (aka Lord Voldemort) (2)
He felt thunderous anger churn in his gut, rising like a volcano, ready to erupt in fury ...
"You promised," Molly said, head cocked to one side in remonstration. He knew he'd have to go along with this. He had been indirectly responsible for the death of a couple of Prewetts and one of her sons. But really, he thought, it wasn't as if she didn't have another exactly the same. Not that he dared ever say that to her, mind you. Her offspring with the man he'd ensured had been promoted to Minister of Magic to keep out of his hair – erm – his way (he corrected) were appallingly dear to her and there seemed to be nothing he could do to displace them, no matter how hard he tried. When he did try, she turned The Weapon on him. He was pleased that none of his Death Eaters had ever learnt of The Weapon or his rise to almost-power on those two occasions would have been cut even shorter.
He read the terms of the endorsement and signed his name with the blood quill Molly had found at the back of the Prewett vault. She smiled and patted his hand.
"Good boy," she said kindly. "I'm so pleased you agreed. If you hadn't, I would have been so-"
Tom flinched – here it was ...
"-disappointed."
She kissed the crown of his bald pate, and wrapped her cleaning pinafore around herself and picked up the scouring brush.
Tom trembled in anticipation.
There was no doubt in his mind: he had always loved a dominant pure-blood woman.
~ FIN ~
