Molly Prewett hopped down from the table in the quidditch field house's equipment room, brushing past Lucius Malfoy forcefully enough to spin him a quarter turn away from her, and storming out the door. Her lips were still pulsing from Lucius's kiss – the kiss she was now swearing to herself would be the last one between them ever.
For so many reasons, it was a good decision, an absolutely necessary one, the only one. He was bloody engaged, or whatever those high brow weirdos liked to call it when they paired off teenagers. But her heart was pounding as she left him all the same. After an hour and a half of running quidditch tryouts, Molly was too tired to stay fierce for much longer. And she knew the ache along the bridge of her nose was her body warning her that if Lucius caught up to her, took her hand, gave her that look, she couldn't trust herself not to burst into tears and throw herself back into his arms.
There was one sure way to lose him before he overtook her on her way to the castle, and that was not to go to the castle at all. Now that the quidditch team hopefuls had cleared the pitch, it was overrun with four very noisy third year boys from her own house. Lucius wouldn't dare act like he liked her in front of other people, not even a pack of kids like these. She turned hard toward them.
Back in those days, students weren't allowed to play on the regular house quidditch teams until their fourth year. It was a very unpopular policy among the younger students, but no one hated it as much as James Potter did. He and his friends had taken to their brooms, darting over the empty pitch, showing off how much better they were than the talent Molly had just seen in the older students.
Talent? Molly huffed. That ratty little Pettigrew boy could hardly stay on his broom. The tall one with the scars – Lupin he was called – he had an odd litheness about himself, like he was deliberately slowing his reflexes out of some kind of modesty. Or maybe it was secrecy.
It was none of her business.
Neither was the exact relationship between the boy playing keeper – that Sirius Black – and Lucius Malfoy's new little fiancee. Uncle Ignatius could explain it to her, if she cared to ask. Which she would not. Black was still a little small for a keeper. He'd grow into it – not that Molly Prewett was one to hold someone's size against them.
Potter, though – he was talented. Age thirteen, maybe fourteen, and he already flew like an angel, fluid and fast. Of course, he had the benefit of the very best equipment and lessons, the spoiled brat. His mouth was what would hold Potter back in life. He was not altogether unlike Lucius, really – the pampered only child of a wealthy family. Only Potter was free to openly throw himself at whatever girl he fancied.
If only Arthur Weasley, with his good heart, and his selfless drive to protect the other people on his team had talent like this showoff Potter had.
Molly laughed to herself. That was it. "Hey, Potter!" she called. "Bring it in. I've got a proposition for you."
—-
Dinnertime was well underway by the time Molly arrived in the Great Hall, fresh from the shower, dressed in capris and a jumper she'd knit herself, her hair still a little damp and darker than usual. Auburn was what Lucius called it when it was this shade, like when their matches lasted into the rain, and he'd meet her in the field house afterwards anyways and rake his fingers into it and…
Molly cleared her throat and patted her cheeks, telling herself to snap out of it. She squared her shoulders and strode into the hall, eyes front, not letting her line of sight drift toward the Slytherin table. She focused on her own house, and a swatch of red hair head and shoulders above the rest.
"Good news," she said as she bounced onto the bench next to Arthur Weasley.
He froze, a massive spoonful of mashed potatoes held in his cheeks. Across the table from him, his mate Reg Cattermole was even more stunned, elbowing the girl beside him to get her to turn and look.
The girl's eyes flicked up and down where Molly sat leaning into Weasley's arm. "Molly," she said.
Molly gave her a nod and a prim smile. "Mary Elizabeth."
Their icy little greetings had given Arthur enough time to swallow. He shifted a little so Molly wouldn't be so crowded but her arm seemed stuck to his somehow and she was as close as ever.
Maybe…
No. Arthur shook his head and concentrated not on how nice and clean she smelled but on what she'd said. "News for me? About the team?"
"Of course about the team," she answered, her manner as breezy as if they sat close together chatting over dinner every night.
Arthur was happy to be disarmed, eager to guess what they were talking about. "Oh, you've come 'round on the Muggle chest protectors for beaters then? You'll allow them on the pitch from now on? I knew you would. See Reg, I told you she was smart."
"Muggle what?" Mary Elizabeth demanded. She was Muggleborn and prided herself on being Arthur's top resource for Muggle lore. He couldn't get enough of it, like a passion.
"It's a sports thing, Mary," Reg said, speaking calmly, as if trying to keep her from getting angry. "You know you don't care about that."
Molly pressed on. "No, it's not the protectors," she said, something vaguely scolding in her tone.
"Oh!" Arthur exclaimed, dropping his fork. "Then you've come to reassure me that my arm didn't leave a bruise all across your stomach when I caught you. I'd be glad to hear that. Been sitting here worrying about it, actually."
Mary huffed. "Yes, he could hardly eat a bite."
Molly frowned at Arthur. "Bruise? What bruise? Why would you be worried about that? Are you bruised yourself, Arthur Weasley? Are you?"
Arthur folded his arms, holding them tightly against himself, out of sight. "That's not what I said."
"Wasn't it?" Molly demanded, sitting up straighter beside him, her face in his. "Show me."
Arthur was blinking rapidly again. "Show you what?"
Molly laid a hand on his arm. "Your bruise, of course. If I've injured you, I need to take responsibility."
"It's fine, Prewett," he said, twisting away as her grip tightened. "No marks but freckles here. And I hardly think you'll find them very – oof."
Molly had tugged hard on Arthur's arm. "Roll up your sleeve, Weasley," she said. "If there's no bruise, show me."
Arthur let out a sigh and shoved the cuff of his jumper up and down over his forearm so quickly it looked like a Muggle sleight of hand magic trick meant to keep her from getting a good look.
Molly chirped a protest. "It's purple!"
"It's a little red, that's all," Arthur said, but she was grabbing at his sleeve herself, turning on the bench to block Arthur's access to his own sleeve with her body. It was the last thing Arthur was expecting and as he jumped with surprise as she tucked herself under his arm, her back pressed all along his side.
Reg and Mary watched horror-struck as Molly and Arthur tumbled sideways off the bench and onto the floor. Arthur's nearly empty plate clattered to the stone floor with them, narrowly missing Molly's head. At the racket, everyone in the hall turned to look – everyone but Lucius Malfoy who snapped to his feet, tossed his head, and marched out the door.
Even as onlookers rose to gawk at them, some of them howling and whistling as Arthur and Molly continued to tussle on the floor, squabbling and grappling with each other's arms and hands as if no one else was there.
"Honestly, Prewett. You don't see me demanding a look at your stomach."
"Don't even think about it – "
"How can I not think about it?"
"Mr. Weasley," a voice called at last from the teachers' dais. "Miss Prewett, this is no way for students your age to behave." It was Professor McGonagall, standing over the table, her hands folded, lips pursed in disapproval.
All at once, Molly remembered where she was and hopped to her feet. "Sorry, Professor," she said as Arthur pushed himself up off his back, still sitting on the floor. Shaking her head, McGonagall sat back down to her after dinner tea. The student onlookers grew bored and let their attention drift away – all of them but Mary and Reg.
"Come on, Weasley," Molly said to him. "I can tell you about some plans I've only just made for the quidditch team while we put a poultice on that arm."
"But you haven't eaten anything," he protested, righting his own dropped plate, nodding his farewells to Reg and a quite irate Mary.
"I'll come down for a sandwich in a bit," Molly said, towing Arthur behind herself by a handful of his jumper as he shrugged at Reg over his shoulder.
She led across the Entrance Hall and down the stairs to the potions classroom.
"Sit," she said, shoving him onto a stool. "Stop being heroic and roll that sleeve up properly. This is an excellent way for me to even the score between us for that damsel in distress business on the pitch."
Arthur obeyed. "Oh, I see. So now I'm the damsel." He was not complaining.
"Exactly," she smirked.
Arthur waited, looking about the evening gloom of one of Hogwarts' strangest, smelliest classrooms. He'd never been there after dark. It might have made him a little out of sorts, but Prewett seemed so sure of herself it almost convinced him he belonged there too.
She was rooting through her locker at the back of the room, humming her delight at something. "Yes, there it is. All ready."
"You really don't need to go to all this trouble," he called to her. "I've got loads of Essence of Murtlap in my trunk. I was planning on using some before bed tonight."
Molly scoffed a laugh. "That's fine if you want your sheets to smell like pickled squid. Not to mention your skin. No, Sluggie says my poultices are brilliant." She turned around, grasping something the same bright pink colour as her jumper. "Come now, Weasley. Do me the honour of letting me heal the harm I've done you."
She boosted herself onto the stool next to him, bending over his bared forearm. She was humming again, blowing lightly on the red-purple streaked across the fine, white skin of his inner arm. Arthur hoped she didn't hear the hitch in his breath. It was just air, but it was from a girl's mouth – a cute girl's, one who felt to him like – he couldn't say what.
He couldn't do anything but watch the top of her head as she worked, keeping quiet as she finally told him her good news about Potter and his mates agreeing to give Arthur a crash course in quidditch before the next round of tryout on the weekend. It was all arranged, apparently. He would practice chasing Potter while Black played as his fellow beater and the other two played as opposing beaters.
"What can I say, Weasley?" she explained when he asked her why she'd gone to all the trouble. "You play with heart, like my brothers did. And that's the kind of thing people can't learn. Beater moves though – anyone can learn that. Even those kids."
"Well, I'm grateful as anything," Arthur said, folding his sleeve down over the pink poultice now fastened to his arm. "But why have the lads agreed to it?"
Molly shrugged. "I offered Potter the spot of relief seeker on the team. There's a little known loophole in the rules that allows for underaged players as long as they're only seekers. And it's not like I'll need to use him. Sharlene McKinnon is going to be my seeker this year and she's quite reliable. Anyways, I reckon all Potter really wants is a quidditch tunic with his name on it that he can give to that girl he fancies."
Arthur hummed as if he understood Potter completely. "All the same, I'm much obliged to you," he said, suddenly stiffly well-mannered.
Molly laughed at him. "Don't thank me until you've spent an afternoon with them. They're rather awful little blighters and I've given them power over you on the pitch."
With that she bounced off her stool and stood in front of Arthur with her hand outstretched, as if to shake on an agreement. "Right. So practice hard, and we will meet again on the pitch on Saturday."
Arthur took her hand. It was the same temperature as his own, warm in spite of the coolness of the dungeon classroom after dark. He was still holding it, shaking it when he asked, "What's in it for you, Prewett? I don't understand why you've gone to all this trouble."
It was time to let go of him, but she kept her grip on his hand. There was no way she couldn't tell him that she was trying to move on from a stupid, secret, self-destructive fling with Lucius Malfoy by throwing Arthur between them. She couldn't say that Lucius thought himself so superior to Arthur that linking herself to him, even if she didn't really mean it, would repulse Lucius and get him to move on to his fiancee, where he belonged. No, she couldn't say anything like that.
When she thought about it in such calculating terms, it made her hate herself a little. She should have the resolve to leave Lucius for good simply because it was the right thing to do, simply because he would never acknowledge her, let alone feel anything like love for her.
She said none of that. And it didn't feel like a lie, like an exaggeration, like anything but the truth when she told Arthur, "It's like I said. I like your heart." She pulsed her hand once against his before letting it go. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going upstairs for something to eat."
