Writing muse is stirring, poking at creativity muse and they're currently wrapped in some kind of delicious foreplay that allows me to write metaphors like these. Translation: I'm writing again. Expect nothing. It could all disappear as quickly as morning mist...
There had only been a few times in Harry's life that he'd really missed the presence of a mother. He'd grown up without one, so most of the time he never felt like he was losing out.
When a moment struck and he decided he needed one of those intense, motherly bear hugs, he thanked the moon, stars, and whatever else was out there for Molly Weasley.
It was a little after lunchtime on a Wednesday and he guessed (correctly) that she'd be at home. Whilst lurking just outside the Burrow's magical protection, he cast several spells that were likely to be illegal in their context to make sure she was alone.
Once the coast was clear he ventured further into the garden to the back door.
From inside, the lemony smell of washing up bubbles drifted out through the open kitchen window, carried by a song on the wireless and the smell of baking. He knocked once for propriety and let himself in, for being family.
"Harry!" Molly cried as he stuck his head around the door and shot her an impish grin. "Come in!"
He did, and was soon enveloped in her arms.
It was exactly what he needed.
He was ushered to sit at the kitchen table, presented with tea and biscuits for dunking, and tucked his feet up underneath himself on the chair to watch her ice a cake.
"Hope you don't mind me getting this done," Molly said as she viciously beat icing sugar and butter in a bowl. "It's for Mrs Cottle across the way's birthday tomorrow. She's going to be seventy five and I thought it was an achievement that warranted a cake."
"I totally agree," Harry said. On sitting down he'd removed his Auror robes, revealing a worn out white shirt that was rolled to his elbows and grey pinstriped trousers underneath. The fact that his shirt was untucked and he was wearing battered trainers... well, these things didn't matter so much.
Since he'd been granted the afternoon off - a concession since he'd worked a night shift earlier in the week - he had nowhere to be and nothing to do other than spend time in the kitchen that reminded him of some of the best parts of his childhood. The parts where he felt like family.
"Charlie has a new boyfriend," Molly said in the conversational (bordering on gossipy) tone that disclosed she had no idea of Harry and Charlie's ex-relationship.
"Yeah?" Harry choked out and sipped his tea. Nausea clawed at his stomach. He reached for another biscuit, hoping its papery dryness might ease the discomfort.
"Yeah," she echoed. "His name is Patrick. Handsome fellow, too. They came over for tea on Saturday afternoon; Charlie was back over for the weekend. They seem happy together. I hope this one works out for him. He's a good boy, my Charlie."
"He's great," Harry said quietly. Then quickly brushed biscuit crumbs from the table.
Molly looked up with a little frown on her face, which quickly melted into a smile. "I wish I could see more of you, Harry. I miss you when you're not around. Ron too, of course. You should all come by more often."
Harry laughed.
"We'll try," he said. "I promise."
To himself he silently echoed that vow. He'd been given a second chance at a mother. She was precious to him.