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He Knows She Only

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He hears her crying in the night when he stays with Ron, and it brings tears to his own eyes. Mr. Weasley is gone and he can't believe it, can't believe how much he misses him, can't imagine how much harder it must be for Mrs. Weasley. Molly.

He's called her Molly in his mind for years now, not letting himself think about why. He's always loved Mr. Weasley. Ron's dad is the closest thing he's ever had to a father. His mum the closest to a mum he'd ever want, and calling her Molly feels vaguely wrong but he doesn't know why.

But Mr. Weasley is gone, and Harry is free to call her Molly.

He can't bear the sound of her tears any longer, and he quietly slides out of bed, creeps out of the room he's sharing with Ron. He steps over the creaking floorboard, eases open the door, and walks silently toward the poorly muffled sobs at the end of the hall.

Her door is open. It usually isn't. Usually he has to strain to hear her cry but tonight her door is open. He closes it behind him and takes a breath to steel himself before crossing to sit by her side on the large, soft, empty-looking bed.

His hand lifts and hovers for endless seconds, then slowly drops to rest on her heaving back. "Molly," he whispers, feeling brave and sick with fear all at the same time. She's never said he could call her Molly, never seemed to see him as anything other than the goddamn Boy Who Lived. No, that's not fair. She's never treated him that way. She took him into her home, her heart. As Ron's friend. But she also always knew who he was.

He shakes his head at himself. This isn't about him. He begins to stroke her back. "Molly," he says again, "Molly, don't cry. Please, Molly, I'm so sorry."

She doesn't seem to hear him, but her sobs soften and ease, and he realizes she's asleep. It breaks his heart. He slides into the bed behind her, curling himself around her. He's always surprised to realize how very small she really is. She's so larger-than-life when awake that he is startled to find her fitting easily into his arms.

He's grown tall, and it truly hits him now for the first time. She's lost weight in her grief. He tightens his arms around her, burying his face in her back and pressing a kiss to the cotton nightgown over her spine. "Shhh, Molly, it's going to be alright, I'm here, I love you, don't cry."

She quiets to soft occasional sobs, pressing back into his body as if craving the warmth, the contact of another body. He isn't sure when she wakes but can tell when her mind sharpens enough to realize that it can't be her husband wrapped around her. She stiffens in his arms and stops breathing briefly. He quickly rests his chin on her shoulder and murmurs, "just me, Molly, it's just Harry. You were upset. I- I wanted to help."

"Harry," she sighs, relaxing again. She strokes his arm where it's wrapped around her. "Thank you, there's a love. You've always been such a thoughtful boy."

He cringes.

"I'm not a boy any longer, Molly," he says quietly, hips shifting restlessly to press the evidence of his claim against her arse without his permission.

Her breath catches and she turns in his arms, rolling toward him. He loosens his grip so she can, closing his eyes in pleasure and discomfort as she rubs him with the movement.

She's facing him now, one leg curling around his and pressing her body full length to him. She reaches up to cup his face and he can't breathe, can't think, can't believe this is finally happening. He knows she's only missing Arthur. "No, you aren't, are you? Then again, you never really have been, love." She sighs, softly, full of regret. "You weren't allowed."

"Molly," he says, and she shakes her head. "It's all right, Harry." She slides her hand into his hair, teasing his ears as she does and his eyes close again, in pure pleasure this time, only to have them fly open when he feels her lips on his.

So soft, he thinks wonderingly, opening his mouth just enough to kiss her back, tiny plucking kisses that burn in his gut all out of proportion to what they are. He sighs into her mouth and can feel her smile against his lips.

"Like that, do you?" He can hear the amusement in her voice and tries to decide if he should be offended or not, but then her tongue flickers into his mouth and he forgets it completely.

"Molly," he gasps, arms tightening around her convulsively. He's kissed others before, he even kissed Ginny, but nothing has ever felt like this feels. He realizes that this is his secret dream, that this is why it felt wrong to call her Molly in his mind. Why he broke up with Ginny. She wasn't Molly. He meets her tongue with his own, letting her teach him the patterns she likes, following her lead.

He knows she's only missing Arthur.

She pulls him impossibly closer, her soft full breasts pressed against his bare chest. He can feel her nipples hardening through the cotton of her nightgown, and his hand slides around from its safe perch on her back to tease the plumped side of one breast. She hums and falls back, lying flat and bringing him down with her. Her breast is not pressed against him any longer and he's torn. He wants her close, he wants to feel her breast in his hand. He cups her, stroking her nipple through the fabric with his thumb.

She pulls softly away from his mouth. "Harry," she murmurs, "yes." She curls her fingers in his hair, stroking and petting him. His eyes close again and his head drops to rest on her chest. He'd always wanted to be touched like this. Always wanted a Mum who would pet him, stroke his hair as he went to sleep.

This was even better. He starts pressing little kisses to her chest, imagining she has freckles like Ginny's. He tugs at one of the tiny buttons that closes the gown from neck to ankle with his teeth. She laughs softly, sensuously, and he feels his cock react. He backs off just enough to bring both hands to fumble at the buttons. "Molly," he says. He wants to tell her he knows she's missing Arthur, that in the dark he can be anyone she wants him to be, but he can't force the words past the lump in his throat. He wants her to want him, Harry, not pretend-Arthur, not even the Boy Who Fucking Lived.

Somehow she knows. He can see it in her eyes when she lifts his face to meet her gaze. "Harry," she answers quietly, emphatically.

He blushes and his heart turns over. He ducks his head, using the buttons as an excuse to hide the hint of wetness in his eyes. He blinks rapidly, methodically opening the buttons down to her waist.

He pushes the fabric open, smoothing it away from the center of her body, not quite brave enough to expose her breasts to the moonlight filtering through the window. He desperately wants to see her, though. She again seems to know, taking her hand from Harry's hair and moving the gown those last few inches as Harry whimpers. Her nipples tighten in the cool air. He is mesmerized, bending without conscious thought to take one small berry into his mouth.

She sighs, chest lifting into his mouth, hand going again to curl in his hair, encouraging him. Time seems to slow, to stop, cocooning them from the world and the consequences of Harry loving Molly, treasuring her as he always has.

He touches her the way he dreamed of doing, she encourages and coaxes with hands and sighs and quiet murmurs.

Her other nipple, the soft rounded skin of her belly - his mouth worships her as he goes. His tongue traces the patterns left in the stretched skin of six pregnancies and seven children. He wonders which ones represent Ron and which are Ginny. The twins probably have more than their fair share. The thought makes him smile - trust those two to leave their mark.

He dips his tongue into her navel, his grin against her skin widening at the gasp she doesn't bother to hide.

He keeps moving, sliding down further as she shifts her legs apart to make room for him. He nuzzles the curls between her legs with his nose. He can smell her arousal and feels a clenching in his stomach at the thought that he did this. He thinks there is probably more silver than red in the mass of curls. He presses a kiss to them. Her legs move restlessly and she moans. He lifts her legs to his shoulders, stroking the soft skin.

"Harry," she moans, and he thrills to the sound of his name on her lips. He brings his hands down, opening her with his thumbs. He moans and inhales deeply.


She squeezes her legs around his head and he obeys the silent order, tasting her carefully, using the tip of his tongue to tease at her clit, savoring the silent cues she gives that tell him he's doing it right.

He shifts, pushing his tongue into her deeply, stroking in and out. He cups her hips in his hands to hold her to his mouth. He moans and she jerks so he does it again, realizing the vibrations of his voice bring her pleasure. He can feel her body moving with him and he loosens his grip on her hips so she can lift into the thrust of his tongue. He keeps stroking rhythmically, losing himself in the taste and feel of Molly, his Molly, if only for tonight. He's pulled suddenly from his stupor by the sharp tug of her hands in his hair and he realizes she's been saying his name increasingly desperately for quite some time now.

He lifts his head, face shining wetly from her arousal and grins goofily at her. She can't help but smile back at him even as she tugs his hair again. "Come inside me, Harry, I want you, want you to make love to me. I need you."

The words arrow straight to his heart and he almost loses control, quickly moving up her body to take her mouth in a hungry kiss. "Molly," he whispers urgently and she wraps her hand around him, guiding him to her, taking him inside.

It nearly blows his mind. He pushes slowly into her, unwilling to rush this ultimate fantasy. He's never felt this way before. No one has ever been so hot, so wet, so perfect for him. He stops when he's finally completely inside, panting, sweat rising in the small of his back and welling at his temples as he holds himself still, holds himself back.

"So good, Harry," she murmurs, wrapping her legs around him, trailing a finger over the damp skin in front of his ear. "This is just what I needed." She lifts her face, small tongue cleaning herself from his chin. He nearly snaps, bending to capture her lips, hips jerking to push himself impossibly deeper.

She clenches around him and he does break, thrusting hard and fast and erratically into the wet warmth of her. "Molly," he cries and she clenches again. His hand strokes her belly, moving up to cup her breast again. He pinches her nipple lightly as he works in and out and she gasps, muscles tight and back arching as she comes. The feel of her muscles working around him send him over the edge. It's been so long that I've wanted this, he thinks, even as her voice sounds breathlessly in his ear. "It's been so long."

He realizes dully that it was Arthur the last time who did this for her, that she must be comparing him with Arthur.

He pulls out of her, collapsing next to her with a combination of post-orgasmic bliss and crushing disappointment. She positions his head comfortably on her chest, for once not seeming to understand how he feels. She curls her leg around one of his again.

"Thank you, Harry," he hears, and her hand cups the side of his face, fingers stroking his hair, holding him close to her heart.

"My pleasure."

He knows she was only missing Arthur.