mother
v. mother
The kitchen smelled of fresh bread and a bubbling stew that Molly had been stirring absently for the past twenty minutes. Outside, the faint sounds of Ginny and Ron arguing about something carried through the open window. Fred and George had roped Percy into one of their elaborate pranks because Percy’s muffled shouting echoed faintly from somewhere upstairs. Gwaine kept an ear out for anything truly heinous, but it seemed rather normal.
His mum didn’t flinch. Molly had long since mastered the art of letting the chaos roll off her shoulders. Besides, she had someone to talk to, someone to keep her company.
Gwaine sat at the table, a stack of peeled potatoes in front of him, his hands moving in quick, precise motions as he chopped them into even cubes. He didn’t look up as Molly sighed and leaned on the counter, turning the spoon over in the pot.
“Your father has the nerve to tell me we should host a dinner for the Lovegoods,” she said, her voice laced with exasperation. “Dinner! As if I don’t already have enough on my plate with seven children tearing this house apart!”
Gwaine hummed lightly, a sound of acknowledgment more than agreement, and kept chopping. He kindly refrained from reminding her that Bill and Charlie were out for the country...or that two of her children were in the garden. His knife hit the cutting board in an even rhythm, and Molly found herself relaxing a bit just listening to it.
“‘It’ll be good for them, good for their morale, Molly,’ he says,” she continued, her tone shifting into a wry imitation of Arthur’s voice. “‘Morale!' Who needs morale when the kitchen’s half-falling apart and the larder's half-empty? And the Lovegoods! You know how Xenophilius gets!”
Gwaine made a face. He did know how Xenophilius got. Poor Luna. But as Molly turned to look at Gwaine, waiting for a response, he glanced up at her, his steel-blue eyes soft and understanding, and gave her a faint smile. “You’d pull it off, Mum,” he said. “You always do.”
That was all it took. Molly sighed again, but this time it was less sharp, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. “I suppose,” she said, turning back to the stew.
This was how it always was with Gwaine. He didn’t need to do much, just sit there, listen, and offer those quiet, reassuring words that made everything seem a little less overwhelming. She didn’t have to explain things to him the way she did with the others. He just understood the pressure his poor mother faced.
“You know, love,” she said, stirring the pot with more vigor now, “you’re a better listener than most adults I know. You’ll make someone very happy one day.”
“Mum,” Gwaine said softly, the faintest hint of a laugh in his voice. “You keep saying that like it’s the goal,” he teased lightly. “What if I just want to be a good cook for myself?”
“Well, that too,” Molly allowed, watching him with a fond smile, before insisting, “but mark my words, whoever you marry will count themselves lucky. You’re kind, you’re clever, and you’ve got such a steady head on your shoulders! Not like Fred and George, always scheming. Or Percy, bless him, who’s so wrapped up in his books he can barely see past the end of his nose. You’re so reliable, Gwaine. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Gwaine’s smile didn’t falter, but his hands paused for just a moment before he set the knife down. “I think you’d manage just fine, Mum,” he said. "Remember that Christmas, the one with the reunion? No one had a single bad thing to say about the food, not even Great Aunt Muriel."
It was the kind of thing Molly loved to hear, even if she didn’t notice the way his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve or the brief flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
Her boy was solid, steady, and dependable in a way that let her lean on him without a second thought. She didn’t realize how much she did it, how often she sat him down at the table and unloaded her worries, not because she needed him to fix them, but because he was there, and he listened, and he always knew the right thing to say. There was something in his boy's sensible nature- he could be trusted to calm her without downplaying whatever issue that plagued her.
She didn’t worry about Gwaine, not really. He was so capable, so mature, even for his age. There was nothing to worry about because Gwaine never gave her a reason to.
And that, in Molly’s mind, was proof of how strong he was.
“Do you think I should invite the Diggorys if we do this dinner?” she asked, moving on as if she hadn’t just heaped half her mental burdens onto his shoulders. “Amos can be a bit much, but they’re lovely people, really.”
Gwaine nodded, reaching for another potato. “They’d probably appreciate it,” he said, his tone as calm and even as ever.
Molly smiled. “That’s what I thought.”
She kept talking, her voice warm and bright as she planned out this hypothetical dinner. To her, this was normal, mother and son, working together in the kitchen, sharing the kind of bond she thought every parent dreamed of having with their children.
And to Gwaine, it was normal too. Normal to listen. Normal to carry. Normal to offer reassurances he didn’t always believe in himself.
By the time the stew was finished and the potatoes were neatly diced, Molly was feeling much better. She kissed Gwaine’s head as she passed him on her way to the sink, her heart full of love and gratitude for the boy who was always there when she needed him.
“You’re such a good lad,” she said, her voice soft with affection.
Gwaine smiled, ducking his head. “Thanks, Mum,” he said quietly.
She didn’t notice the way his shoulders tensed just slightly before he picked up the knife again. She didn’t notice the way his smile faltered when her back was turned.
Why would she? Gwaine was fine. He was steady, dependable, her sweet boy.
And that, Molly thought, was all she needed to know.