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A/N: Thanks to JKRowling for these characters, which provide many hours of imaginative exercise for writers, of whom I am but one. Thanks also to my Beta, Mags, for taking a scythe to my excessive -ing words, and helping me smooth out this piece of prose, originally written as a present for her. :) Baffy.

Takes place during HBP.

Crumpets.

Molly didn't like these wintry November afternoons; they sapped her spirits, making her feel the weight of years hanging about her like an old coat. This year, the month had taken on a more forbidding aspect, with its silken skeins of mist randomly veiling the landscape until it resembled a scene from a dream, or more likely a nightmare.

All due to the Dementors, roaming the countryside to assuage their hunger and infecting everyone's mood. Molly shivered; filthy, evil creatures they were. At least her children were safe from them in Hogwarts -- the ones too young to have to defend themselves from such monstrosities anyway.

Not allowing herself to dwell on the way poor Harry had been attacked by two of the horrid things and the aftermath of that mess, Molly hitched her basket to her hip and left the chilly washroom.

Its glassed half-walls and roof -- Arthur's attempt at something he called a Muggle 'Conservation', designed to give the impression of being outside -- made it all too easy for Molly to feel chills up her spine and see horrors lurking behind every bush.

As she'd done the laundry spells and ironed, her eyes had become accustomed to the light level as it faded. Only now, as she moved confidently through the semi-gloom of the windowless hallway, did she notice how dim it had become.

She ought to charm the lamps on and yet, in this house, Molly didn't feel the need as strongly as she might have in Grimmauld Place. Each chair, each rug and their placement was familiar to her, obviating the need to pierce the gloaming with illumination.

She passed through the kitchen with her burden of neatly folded washing, much lighter for the absence of her children. She intended to mount the stairs to put the things away, but was distracted by the glow coming from the sitting room and her feet took her there instead.

The room was washed warmly ruddy by the light glowing out from under the heaped coals in the hearth. The encroaching winter Molly could feel reaching out to freeze her heart receded.

So many memorable things had happened in this room. Her gaze wandered over the dark and solidly made furniture, distinctive shapes in the gathering gloom. On the far wall was the sideboard with the carved frieze that a very young Bill used to pretend was an ancient script that only he could decipher. Molly smiled over the memory of his solemn childish face informing her of this fact with all the gravity of the Chief Warlock pronouncing sentence upon a wrong-doer.

Two-year-old Charlie had tried to climb the sideboard, claiming it was tall enough for dragons to be hiding at the top. Naturally, he had ignored her warnings and made the attempt, only to lose his footing and fall the minute her back was turned.

That was the first time Molly had personal experience of how much a cut on the scalp could bleed.

She snorted and smiled fondly to herself as her gaze moved to the circular plaque that hung on the wall nearby. It showed a view into a great hall, complete with a suit of armour guarding the doorway. The whole thing had been carved in relief and painted and looked surprisingly realistic; it had been a wedding present from Great Aunt Muriel. Molly recalled convincing her twin terrors that the knight tattled on them to her whenever they misbehaved. She had meant to encourage them to behave so that the knight would have nothing to report. Instead, all she had succeeded in teaching the twins was the subtle art of causing distractions so that their mayhem went unremarked until they were ready to unleash it.

The coals settled drowsily in the grate, shooting up a flurry of red-gold sparks that made her murmur the old Quidditch chant 'Up Gryffindors!' and then she snorted over the recollection of Fabian -- or maybe Gideon -- asking 'up Gryffindor's what?' and exercising his eyebrows roguishly. Even though her brother was long dead, Molly felt no regret over hexing him for that; he had roundly embarrassed her in front of the boy she fancied, after all, and that was what sisters did. She shook her head, smiling; Ginny took after her in so many ways.

When her wandering gaze reached the fireplace, with its old-fashioned tiles and flagged hearth, that reflected the flicker of the few lazy flames disturbing the red glow, Molly's smile became warmer, fonder.

Percy had been conceived in this room. On that rug before the hearth, in the days when she and Arthur hadn't always exercised the restraint she now urged upon her grown boys. Her smile turned mischievous; how appalled her children would be to learn that their parents didn't always reserve their affections for the marital bed.

Maybe that was why Percy was such a stickler for the rules, and conformity at all costs. Their abandonment that afternoon had been such that there had been no restraint left over to go into his make-up.

Thoughts of Percy darkened Molly's thoughts again. Her lip trembled and hot tears stung her eyes. He was being so stubborn! If only he would get past this foolish notion that the Minister knew best. Even with Fudge gone, and Scrimgeour in charge, Molly wished her boy would come to his senses. Albus and Harry had told the truth all along and everyone would know it.

She hoped Albus had been wrong when he'd said that it was easier to forgive someone for being wrong than for being right, but she knew Percy's road home was going to be difficult and stony regardless. Even as a child, he'd always had to be right.

Her eyes flitted about restlessly. She mustn't dwell on it. She'd tried, been up to London... Think of something else, Molly.

Ron's first contact with chess pieces had been in this room. Perched astride Arthur's knee, he'd watched his dad and granddad direct the pieces through their mysterious dance with a fascination that had become an abiding interest. To think that beating England's Wizarding World Champion had started here, while she nursed Ginny. Professor McGonagall had spoken with quiet pride of Ron's achievement in getting past her giant pieces, but it still gave Molly cold shivers to think about it. The three of them could have died!

The cames of the basket pressed heavily into her fingers. Blinking back the tears with a sigh, Molly left her recollections and the ruddy light of the sitting room for the comparatively cool shadows of the stairwell.

She climbed the stairs, thinking how quiet the house sounded, and wondered what her children were doing, Ginny especially. It hadn't escaped Molly's notice that her attitude towards Harry had changed. She was more like herself; a mother would have to be blind to have missed the way that young man smiled at the things she said. She remembered one decent day during the summer hearing unfamiliar laughter in the garden and hastening to the window.

Ginny was sitting cross-legged on the dry grass, relating some incident with animation, her hands gesturing rapidly, while Harry lay on his front propped up on his forearms. His head hung low enough that his hair was brushing the ground (he needed it cutting, really) and Molly had watched, worried.

She needn't have; a second later Ginny paused and Harry whooped and rolled over, laughing uproariously into the clear sky while Ginny watched him, grinning.

Remembering that now, Molly smiled. At least Ginny could get him to laugh and help him forget things for a while. He needed to laugh until he was limp like that more often.

Molly found she'd nearly emptied the basket, putting things in their accustomed place. She was glad of the routine things that left her mind free to wander and daydream. She smoothed a hand over Arthur's robe as she hung it up; it was getting very thin. She'd have to find him something warmer before the winter really set in. The thought brought her up short. It was November already and she hadn't even started the Christmas jumpers! She closed the wardrobe door decisively.

She would go downstairs, charm on some lights and have a cup of tea. Then she'd see what wool she had in her sorting bag and plan.

She'd reached the last landing when she saw movement from the corner of her eye and grabbed for her wand in her apron pocket. A figure stood in the hall, making her heart race. Arthur was at work and the doors were locked. She hadn't heard anyone Apparate in, so...

The figure took another step, head cocked, listening. "Molly?"

The hall lamp came on. "Molly? Where are you, dear?" Her husband fiddled with his cloak fastening.

Molly took the last stairs briskly. "Arthur!" she said sharply, one hand over her pounding heart. "Gracious, you startled me!" She wagged her wand at him. "You think yourself lucky you didn't get hexed!"

He looked contritely sheepish. "I'm sorry, dearest, I didn't mean to startle you. Actually..." He held up a packet that rustled beneath his careful hold.

With the soft lamplight at his back, Molly could just make out the gleam of his smile. "Are those crumpets?"

He nodded. "I've spent the last hour with Kingsley and Tonks, and after what they just told me, all I wanted was to come home and sit in front of the fire and toast crumpets for my Mollywobbles to butter, like we used to."

Molly's hands went to her hips reflexively, it seemed, as she faced her husband. "How did you get in?"

Arthur regarded her blankly.

"All the doors are locked and I didn't hear you Apparate --"

His face cleared. "Ah!" He claimed a wrist and took her hand. "I'm afraid you left the washroom door open, Molly."

Her fingers flew to her lips. "Oh, curses! I must have left it unlocked after I went outside. I wondered whether it was going to be worthwhile pegging the sheets out to blow." She made a face, remembering the dead, still air. "But of course it wasn't."

Arthur's fingertips caressed her palm. The steady gaze of his eyes said he understood what she was saying, and more besides. "We should think about making up new security questions, dearest."

"Oh? Why?" Molly stared hard into his face until she recalled that Harry had been in the kitchen that night. "Oh! Because of the connection with him?"

Arthur nodded gravely. "Dumbledore is sure he's employing Occlumency to keep Harry out but --" He glanced to the hall window, murky and dismal with rags of swirling fog. "He has other tools."

Molly roused herself. If Lord-- If that-- he thought he was going to make her cower with his filthy Dementors bringing an early winter to everyone's hearts and souls, he had another think coming! Not Molly Prewett! She'd lost enough, he would have to fight damned hard to take any more from her.

She tapped Arthur's chest. "Give the fire a poke while I get the toasting fork and butter."

Arthur grinned. "Only the fire?"

Molly's cheeks tingled. "Get on with you!" she exclaimed, giving him a little push and hearing his pleased chuckle.

When she returned from the kitchen, Arthur had indeed poked the fire into a good blaze. They settled as close as the glorious heat would allow, Arthur on the rug with the plates beside him while she perched on the low, saggy pouf with the butter dish at her elbow.

This had been one of the early rituals of their married life, before the boys came along: sitting before the fire in the evenings, sometimes sharing more than the food.

They didn't couple as often these days, and when they did there wasn't quite the same fevered urgency that characterised lovers first discovering each other. There had been occasions when all it had taken was the touch of Arthur's long slender fingers across her palm to set her off aching for him. Now it was more like...

Molly cast about for an appropriate simile, smiling when she noticed the firelight had turned the silver in Arthur's hair to pale gold. She reached out and mussed the strands curling up below his ear; time for another haircut. His hair was as fine as a baby's, lovely to play with.

The toasting fork trembled. Arthur turned just enough that she could see the corner of his smile. "Mollywobbles... You know that gets me going."

Molly grinned back at him, catching more of the fine strands between her fingers, and letting them slide away, recalling how she used to spend what seemed like hours doing exactly this after they'd loved, holding him close and listening to his slow, even breaths. She leaned closer. "Don't burn them, Arthur," she murmured. "You know how I like my crumpets."

"Yes, dear." Arthur looked back over his shoulder at her then and Molly felt the heat of the fire touch her inside. "I do."

In that instant, Molly recognised that those feelings lived on inside them -- like the banked fire that could be roused at will. It might be slower to reach to the soul-deep glow, but it contained more layers of appreciation of the small things they did for each other. Like the crumpets.

And the knitting patterns.

Molly had never had much patience with Arthur's fascination for all things Muggle until the afternoon he'd come home from work bearing a couple of Muggle magazines. She'd been carrying Bill at the time, sickly and, because of intolerance to the main ingredient, forbidden the usual potions to get her past that stage every pregnant woman suffers. Arthur had been wretchedly concerned about leaving her each morning and would always arrive home with a distraction for her.

On this occasion, he'd hoped some light reading would help to pass the time between the charmed basin and comfortable armchair. When they'd been at school, she'd been a great reader. To his surprise -- and to hers -- Molly had discovered knitting between the pages of those Muggle magazines.

The first pattern had been for a garment familiar to Muggles but a revelation to Molly, more used to juggling a shawl around her robed shoulders when she was chilled. Her childhood memories were of her mother and grandmother wearing shawls, and managing them more gracefully than she did. She snorted softly. Not that grandmother, or mother either for that matter, had ever run a kitchen; that was what house-elves were for. For a busy mum though, a cardigan was much more convenient and sensible.

Deciphering the mysterious shorthand of the patterns and learning how to knit had given her something else to think about, besides her uneasy stomach. Of course, learning to knit had tempered her attitude towards Arthur's Muggle gadgetry; how could she deny him his interest in plugs while asking him if he'd found any more magazines with knitting patterns?

He was a clever man, her Arthur.

He leaned forward at that moment to tug the crumpet off the fork, making little hissing noises as he worked it free. Molly missed the feel of his thinning hair between her fingers at once.

"This is nice," she said, accepting the tea plate with its lonely crumpet and setting it on her lap while she reached for the butter dish.

"Mmm." Arthur frowned slightly as he persuaded the next crumpet into the right position on the toasting fork.

The butter spread easily, melting across the holed surface, the thick, creamy aroma making her salivate in anticipation. "It reminds me of when we were first married." She smiled fondly, scraping the buttery knife across the evenly browned surface again.

The firelight gilded the curve of Arthur's slow smile. "You're in a very reflective mood this afternoon, dearest. Should I give myself the afternoon off and see what else we remember?"

Molly's hand wobbled as she passed him his buttered crumpet. It was as though her thoughts broke into several layers at once and, ‘your job's too important', ‘you've just been promoted -- you can't do that!', and ‘why the hell not!' passed through her head in competition with each other. "Whatever you think best, dearest."

Arthur's smile broadened. "And thirdly, marriage was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other." He inclined his long back and kissed her cheek. "Bless you, dearest. You are my heart's delight."