Molly watched as Blaise followed Ronald out of the train, falling quietly into place behind Ronald's much more energetic stride. She waved, and Ronald waved back cheerily with his free hand and sped up, winding through the crowd of students to reach her. Blaise sped up, too, trailing in his wake, but as usual he didn't look at her. He didn't even seem to be looking at Ronald, but rather watching the end of Ron's trunk to know where to go. She was distracted from watching him by another glimpse of red hair - Fred and George had caught sight of her, too, and were pushing towards her from further away down the platform, dragging their own battered trunks. That left only Percy, but he wouldn't even be out of the train, yet. He always wanted his belongings packed up just right, and then as a prefect he had to check the train for stragglers before it left.

This was it, she knew. Two weeks at home with Blaise as her son. Or, well, legally he wasn't yet, but that didn't matter; she knew what was what. It was his willingness to be so, and her willingness to take him, that made him her son, not a certificate on parchment, however many official seals the Ministry attached to it. Well, his expressed willingness, anyway. She wasn't sure Blaise knew what he'd agreed to, or how serious she was about it.

Molly frowned, fretting. She really didn't know Blaise at all, yet, but it didn't matter: he was hers, now, and she'd go to the ends of the earth for him. Still, it would be so nice if she already knew what to do!

“Hiya, Mum!”

She looked up at the raucous call to see the twins still twenty feet down the platform and dragging their trunks behind them. The enthusiasm of their greeting made her smile. They hadn't quite managed to get it in sync that time. Sometimes it was positively uncanny, how they could choose to be either perfectly in sync or very carefully not speak over one another at all, depending on their mood. Today, they were just loud.

“Hello, boys,” she told them when they were closer. She ought to have scolded – imagine shouting across the whole crowd for her! - but she was just too happy to see them. By then, Ron had gotten to her, too, and repeated the twins' enthusiastic “Hiya, Mum!”

Blaise greeted her last, and much more softly. “Hello, Mrs. Weasley.”

“Hello, dear,” she told him warmly, automatically matching his quieter tone. “I'm so glad you're here.”

“Thank you,” he said. It was said with his usual quiet courtesy – not exactly insincere, but just...politely thanking her for lying to him. She found herself vaguely hurt, and did her best to breathe it away. The boy barely knew her, and his last family had kicked him out only a few months ago. It should not surprise her that he hadn't warmed up to her in the week since they'd offered to adopt him.

They all needed to wait a bit on the platform for Percy, and while Fred, George, and Ronald all chattered with each other and her and called goodbye to friends on the platform as they left, Blaise just stood, unmoving and unspeaking, politely watching the crowd or listening to the others talk. He caught her watching him, once, and looked at the ground. Unable to help it, she reached for him, running a gentle hand over his hair. It earned her brief eye contact, and what she could guess was a blush, but if anything the boy tensed up even further.

Finally, Percy got off the train from the nearest car. Unlike the twins, he waited until he was well within speaking distance before greeting her.

“Hello, Mother,” he told her. She smiled at him and refrained from shaking her head at the stiff dignity he displayed. She knew he was as glad to see her as the twins were, but Percy couldn't bear to be fourteen years old. He was absolutely determined to seem older, and as a result he came off more like he was wearing his father's shoes and finding them uncomfortable: Arthur himself wasn't nearly that stiff, even when he was working.

And that was everybody. She turned and headed off of the platform, welcoming the sound of her five youngest sons chattering and dragging their trunks around her as they headed for the station's parking area.

And here was yet another oddity about the Weasleys, Blaise realized: they had one of those contraptions the Muggles used to get around in. A bit like the vehicles the older students used to travel to the castle instead of the boats, only without the Thestrals to pull it. And the Weasley's version flew, which had to be illegal. He wasn't going to sneer at Ron's family, even if they hadn't been kind enough to take him in, but he was starting to feel like he'd entered a foreign country, rather than just a new household. Who on earth was tinkering illegally with Muggle objects? And why? Were the Weasleys somehow unaware of the fact that Kings Cross Station had a Floo system? True, you had to wait for it, and it was smoky with the passage of so many students at the same time, but surely that was better than illegally modifying a Muggle vehicle and then flying it over the countryside?

But then, this was Mrs. Weasley, who left a kitchen cauldron rusting on her front lawn rather than evict a bunch of antler bunnies. He really couldn't predict what these people would do.

The rest of the day passed unbearably slowly. They got to the Weasleys house in the early evening, greeted Arthur, ate dinner in the Weasleys' usual noisy, highly social manner – much more noisy and social now that it was eight of them instead of five – and then cleaned up and retired to the Weasley's living room until around eleven o'clock, when Mrs. Weasley finally they insisted they all go to bed.

Blaise would've happily headed up long before then – really, he'd've preferred to eat dinner in his room, read a book, and go to bed without talking to anybody at all - but he knew better than to make it too obvious how little fun he was having when the rest of the family were so clearly enjoying being together after the months apart.

The twins teased constantly and mercilessly, telling jokes and playing pranks on everybody and tugging Ginny's hair every time they passed behind her, and Ron talked a mile a minute, sitting next to Mr. Weasley on the battered couch and updating him about everything that had happened at Hogwarts since Christmas, while Mr. Weasley listened and asked questions and at least acted as if he was genuinely interested in the answers. Mrs. Weasley seemed to mostly sit back in her sagging armchair to knit and watch and listen, but she got up occasionally to bring in tea and biscuits or a tin of fudge, and she positively radiated contentment the entire evening from cooking dinner straight through bedtime. Even Percy unbent enough to sit on the floor and play a game of Exploding Snap with his little sister, who was probably the happiest of the bunch that her brothers were home.

It was the first time Blaise had ever seen the whole group together, and it was unbelievable. Just - beyond overwhelming. Who on earth had this many kids? Who on earth wanted this many kids? Yet he'd never met a group of people so damned loudly happy in his life! There are more, he remembered. A couple of older brothers, at least. One worked with dragons, he thought, possibly somewhere in Eastern Europe. And there was at least one more, too, though he couldn't remember a thing about him. What did they think of their mother's little project?

The whole warm, loud, happy evening was so foreign – so utterly impossible to either understand or imitate - that Blaise felt like he was watching from inside a fishbowl: in the room, but not really part of what was going on. It wasn't that the family ignored him, either – Mr. Weasley once again did his best to engage him in conversation, Fred roped him into a game of Wizard's Chess, and Mrs. Weasley smiled every time she looked at him and touched his head or back gently every time she came close. When he didn't immediately take a biscuit, she brought him his own little plate with two of them, and then later did the same with the fudge. But while they evidently wanted him to be there – or at least certainly wanted him to feel welcome – the sense of distance and vagueness never really went away. He just hoped it wasn't as obvious as his reticence about the food had evidently been.

Finally, though, Mrs. Weasley sent them all off to bed, serenely unbothered by the complaints she got and pointing out that she had let them all stay up an hour late as it was. Blaise absently noted the ten o'clock bedtime and waited for someone else to head up the stairs before him, trying not to make it too obvious that that was what he was doing. He didn't want to be the first to leave the room, or to enter the private areas of the house. Percy headed upstairs first, and Blaise followed him. Still, he lingered in the bathroom for a bit, waiting for Ron before entering his bedroom. There were too many people in the house for him to feel comfortable taking up the upstairs bathroom for long, though, and he was grateful that Ron didn't linger too long.

When they were both in bed, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley came in to say goodnight. Mr. Weasley mostly just stuck his head in to look at both of them. “Goodnight, boys,” he said. “See you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Dad,” Ron answered.

“Goodnight Mr. Weasley,” Blaise said. It tightened his stomach even further, hearing now obvious it was that he had not called the man 'Dad' immediately after Ron had, but Mr. Weasley just pulled his head back out of the room and headed down the hall.

Mrs. Weasley came next, and kissed Ron's forehead, then came and kissed Blaise's just the same. He'd mostly expected it, and though he didn't exactly mind, it was the best he could do not to flinch from sheer discomfort. It was like any other time she touched him, but even more intense - how was he supposed to react to her affection? Was he doing something wrong and didn't know it?

“Welcome to the family, dear,” she whispered before she left. “We're so glad you're here.” He thanked her again, but couldn't come up with much else to say, and just stared at the ceiling when she finally left, feeling his heart race in his chest.

“...you said yes, didn't you?” Ron asked after a bit.

Surprised, and unsure of Ron's reaction, Blaise didn't answer right away, and finally Ron spoke again, sounding nervous himself.

“I'm...not really allowed to ask, and I didn't want to pressure you anyway, only I'm dying to know, and that sounded like...”

“...yeah,” Blaise told him, heart in his throat. “...I said yes.” He'd wondered why none of the Weasleys had said anything that week. Surely Mrs. Weasley would've told them something.

“I'm glad,” Ron told him.

“...thanks,” Blaise answered roughly. He wasn't quite sure he believed him, or if it would last if he did, but it helped that Ron at least wanted to be happy about it.

“You'll be a way better brother than Percy, anyhow,” Ron told him.

Blaise gave a short laugh. Poor Percy. Blaise couldn't quite blame the others for ribbing him, but it was constant. It was amazing Percy hadn't hexed them all. “Hey, don't forget he let the twins kidnap him that one time,” he told him.

He could hear Ron's smile in his voice. “True. That was wicked.” He paused for a bit, then said. “You'll still be better, though. I can't wait to see what you and the twins get up to.”

The words surprised him, and then Blaise realized, and laughed again. He and the twins had had a good time, back when Harry had recruited them into playing pranks on Snape. And Stone had told him about Fred and George's interest in Potions. Ron was right about the kind of trouble the three of them could get into together. Blaise would look forward to it, too...if he could possibly imagine having anything to do with the twins' antics, now. He couldn't have done it, then, if he hadn't known that the Luxanuses wouldn't care. He had to be more careful, now.

But the humor had relaxed him some, anyway. And Ron was right that he normally got along well with Fred and George. Brothers, he remembered. Mrs. Weasley had referred to them as his brothers. Ron seemed to expect the same. “Bet you'd've preferred Hermione, though,” he told Ron finally.

“Are you kidding?” Ron asked. “Hermione as my sister? I'd never be allowed to procrastinate again! Sure, she's cool enough in small doses, but I wouldn't hitch myself to her for the rest of my life for anything. You're way more fun.”

Surprised by the unexpected vehemence of Ron's response, as well as the reference to the “rest of his life”, Blaise didn't answer for a moment. Finally Ron spoke up again.

“Seriously, Blaise,” he said with an uncharacteristic gravity. “Welcome to the family. I'm really really glad to have another brother, and I'm glad it's you. I was the one that convinced Mum to take you in in the first place, though I didn't know she'd go so far as to adopt you.”

Oh. He'd thought it was just Snape. Sure, Ron was a friend, but not as close as Ron was to...well any of the other four Slythindors, really. He'd've understood Theo or Harry wanting him as a brother, or maybe even Hermione – like Theo, she didn't have any siblings and the two of them at least kept each other good company with their schoolwork - but Ron? Ron already had five brothers, and he and Ron probably would've been at constant wand-point if not for Harry. As it was, Harry and Ron were at near-constant wand-point...or, well, at least mutual sulks and avoidance and the occasional minor fistfight. Harry sometimes forgot he was a wizard, when he got mad enough. But Ron could be in the middle of a massive fight with Harry and still defend him vehemently the moment somebody else so much as looked at him sideways. Gryffindors were weird that way.

Apparently, that crazy loyalty extended to Blaise, as well. Warmed by the revelation, Blaise said the only thing he could think of. “...thank you. Really. You're a lifesaver.”

“No problem,” Ron told him awkwardly. “...goodnight.”

“'night,” Blaise answered.

The next morning, Blaise woke up and immediately pulled his pocket-watch from under the pillow. It was one of the ones whose alarms only the bearer could hear, but he shut it off anyway before he crept out of bed silently to head downstairs.

At the bottom of the steps he looked around a bit to reassure himself that nobody had been up to light the oil lamps, yet, and relaxed a little bit as he confirmed that yes, the household was still asleep. Mrs. Weasley generally got up around 6:15. That gave him roughly forty minutes to clean up the kitchen from last night before he needed to get back upstairs and either fall back asleep or – if she saw him - pretend to be just getting up. She'd have to be grateful, otherwise, which would be awkward.

The dishes were clean, but hadn't been put away last night, and despite the family clean-up the night before there were several plates and cups on the countertops and scattered in the living room that he needed to deal with. As silently as he could manage, Blaise got the clean dishes out of the sink and put them away, guessing for a couple of things and quietly leaving out the one big soup cauldron he really couldn't find a place for. Then he just as silently cleared the countertops and family room of dishware and loaded the sink again. He couldn't run the dish-cleaning spell without at least some noise, so he left it and worked on setting the family room to rights, instead, and then running the mangle in the scullery. It, at least, ran silently.

He held his breath when he heard someone get out of bed and head to the bathroom upstairs, and it occurred to him that Mrs. Weasley might no longer be the earliest riser in the house. Fred and George might get up in order to set up some sort of prank, or Percy to study, or something.

The living room was as neat as he could make it, and the kitchen counters and table wanted only a quick scourgify, which he couldn't do since he wasn't in school. He could've used SprayGify on them, instead, but they'd been dirty before everybody arrived, and he didn't want to imply that Mrs. Weasley wasn't a good housekeeper. Besides which, not everybody liked using SprayGify on food surfaces. One of his mother's aunts had claimed it made any food with tomato in it break out in stripes. He couldn't remember which aunt, though, and there was a serious difference in reliability between the two. He could use the SprayGify on the owl's perch by the back door, but he was out of time – perhaps tomorrow, if Mrs. Weasley hadn't already done it.

The toilet flushed upstairs, and two minutes later Blaise crept carefully back up the creaky staircase, and went back to bed. Exhausted from a late, restless night and the early wakeup, he fell asleep almost instantly.

Her kitchen had been cleaned up. Mrs. Weasley surveyed the nearly empty sink and the one remaining clean pot, and moved to peek into the family room. Her suspicions were totally confirmed, and she found herself putting her hands on her hips. When had the boy managed it? He'd either gotten out of bed last night after everybody was asleep, or this morning before anybody had woken up. Which meant the boy had had a maximum – absolute maximum – of six hours of uninterrupted sleep.

She was going to have to speak to him. This was already way too much of a habit, and now that he was going to be hers it was her responsibility to break him of it. Imagine, an eleven-year-old getting out of bed when everybody was asleep in order to clean! And on his first day home, no less!

Well, not in her house.

Usually her morning routine involved putting the kitchen back to rights, but today that just meant a quick Spraygify on the countertops and owl perch and running the dish cleaning spell on the sink. As perturbed as she was about Blaise's cleaning, it gave her time to make a particularly elaborate celebratory breakfast for Easter, and the boys' first day home. She didn't know Blaise's favorite breakfast foods, yet – she'd watched, but he really just ate whatever didn't require anything to be passed to him.

She'd actually asked him about his preferred breakfast foods, when he'd been with them for his suspension, but all she'd been able to get out of him was a slight smile and a polite, “I like a lot of things.” She'd even pushed a little, and the boy had given her a very generic list of things one might choose to make for breakfast – all things that she'd already made for him before she asked. Getting any information out of the boy was like pulling teeth.

But the others' varied preferences would provide plenty of things for him to choose from, and hopefully if she put it buffet-style on the countertop he'd actually manage to take what he wanted. She'd watch and see.

She'd made the Easter simnel bread and hot cross buns last night, but this morning she felt like making a real feast, and she had everything she needed to do just that.

So, to work. Arthur preferred poached eggs on toast. Fred preferred bacon, George sausage. A ton of it. Percy wouldn't want to admit it, but he wanted banana pancakes, drenched in chocolate syrup the same as he'd done when he was seven. He was the only one that ate it, and he always blushed to see it on the table, but the smile he'd give her for it was worth the effort.

Ronald shared Arthur's love of poached eggs, but she'd give him the ones that got cooked a little more than Arthur typically preferred. He also shared Fred's love of bacon. Ginny mostly just wanted a variety, which cooking for her father and brothers provided. Still, Molly put out two varieties of jam for her instead of just one. And mounds and mounds of plain white toast for Arthur and Ginny and Fred to pile things on.

By the time she called 'breakfast', Arthur, Percy, and Ginny were already downstairs, having woken up and followed the smell of bacon straight into the kitchen. Percy was already dressed for church. It made him look quite out of place next to his pajama-clad father and sister. Ronald came down next, with Blaise following, as usual, in his shadow. Blaise, too, had dressed, though evidently he hadn't been aware that he needed formal clothing. Probably a good thing, actually – church wasn't until after lunch. She'd need to let him know what Easter was going to look like, she realized. Holidays at unfamiliar houses could be stressful. Last to come down were the twins, promptly enough, but the look on George's face made her faintly suspicious anyway.

“Hey, sausage!” George enthused. “Thanks, Mum!”

Molly smiled, letting go of her suspicion for the moment. She could put out a feast, or just George's sausage, and he'd react exactly the same way, and eat exactly the same thing. Sausage. Just sausage. Plus more sausage. Goodness was she happy her boys were finally home!

The breakfast table was crowded, but surprisingly quiet for a meal for eight people. Things got rowdy again as everybody finished eating, and they chatted and teased each other while she and Arthur and Percy finished eating. Blaise had already finished, having not spoken the entire meal. He'd chosen the cross buns, along with a small amount of bacon once it became clear that there was extra. When everyone was done, she got up and started clearing up, and everyone followed her lead.

They got things more-or-less cleaned up before Ginny quite suddenly shrieked and jumped, tugging at her shirt until a good-sized ice-cube fell out from underneath it. She managed to catch it as it fell, and lobbed it at Fred, who raised a hand to fend it off. The ice cube hit his arm and bounced, hitting the floor and skidding to a rest against Molly's left foot. She put both hands on her hips to glare at them, and Fred gave her a sheepish look in return. Ginny didn't even try to look repentant.

“Alright, everybody,” she said. “Out.”

“Hey, I didn't-” George started.

“Put a snake in somebody's bed?” Molly asked him pointedly. She knew her son.

George drew himself up, clasping one hand to his thin chest in mock affront. “A snake, you say? In someone's bedchambers? Foul accusation! And by my own dear mother, to boot.” He paused for a moment before abruptly lowering the arm and speaking up quite primly. “Thomas is a slow worm,” he informed her.

Molly closed her eyes, but she couldn't close her ears.

“A slow worm?” Arthur repeated, his tone echoing her own feelings. “You put a slow worm in somebody's bed?”

“Isn't that a kind of snake?” Ginny asked her brother. Unlike her father, she sounded delighted. Evidently the likelihood that it might be in her bed hadn't concerned her in the slightest. Which was why George wouldn't have chosen her bed to put it in. In all likelihood, “Thomas” was comfortably ensconced in Arthur and Molly's room.

“Anguis fragilis,” Percy told his sister matter-of-factly. “A legless lizard, not a snake. You can tell because they have eyelids.” There was just the barest shade of wry humor in his usual pompous tone. It was a bad day, when even Percy sided with the twins in their mischief. It had been happening more and more frequently, of late.

“Out!” she repeated, opening her eyes to give them all a good glare.

George looked surprised. “You don't want me to get Thomas out of your bed first?” he asked.

Molly felt her eyebrows rise and her mouth fall open, but George was already shooting up the stairs, his father pursuing close behind.

“I'm going, I'm going!” she heard George exclaim. “No need to-” she heard what she thought was probably a swat, but knowing Arthur, it hadn't been a hard one – more Arthur participating in George's joke than any attempt to punish it. It made her smile, hands still on her hips. Slow worm or not, she couldn't feel much but joy this morning. And if George had meant anybody any harm by his prank, he wouldn't've used a slow worm. She was the one who'd taught him his love of creepy crawlies, after all. Not that she particularly wanted to find one in her bed.

The rest of the family had trooped obediently outside, but Blaise had held back a little, stacking up the plates on the countertop, and only now was starting towards the door. It reminded her of her original mission, and she shook the thoughts of slow worms out of her head. They weren't the important thing, here. “Blaise,” she called.

He froze on his way out, and turned around. She expected him to show some anxiety, or confusion – perhaps some tiredness from his short night - but all she got was his perpetual polite interest, like he was a bank clerk facing his next client.

“Ma'am?” he asked her.

“When did you clean up?” she asked him.

He flushed, and looked down. “This morning, Ma'am,” he told her. “I got up early.”

Right. Because every child naturally woke up in the dark and decided to use the 'unexpected' free time to creep downstairs and clean the kitchen. Molly found herself almost angry with him.

“You're family, now, Blaise,” she told him gently. “We didn't offer to adopt a house-elf, we offered to adopt a son. You don't need to be cleaning up after us and doing our laundry.”

“I don't mind, Ma'am,” he told her, sounding a bit strained.

“I do,” she told him. “Taking care of you and the others is my job, not yours. And you need your sleep. You'll have chores same as the others, but you really don't need to earn your place here. I'll tell you if there's something I want you to do for me.”

“I'll tell you if there's something I want you to do for me.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” Blaise answered automatically. “...thank you.”

It was the complete opposite of what he meant, but he couldn't afford to let his annoyance show. So taking care of him was her job, was it? For exactly how long? And how, exactly, was it worse to make him earn his place, rather than to pretend not to and then get rid of him when he wasn't worth the trouble?

She was staring into his face, and he gave her a carefully questioning look, as if he didn't understand her probing. He did, more or less. She wanted more of a reaction than he'd given her. Was he supposed to act like he believed her, though? Probably, but his temper really wouldn't allow it, at the moment. It was best if he just didn't give her any clues at all.

Damnit, she'd been displeased enough with him when he was more-or-less earning his keep! Now she wanted him to stop? The woman was worse than Snape! And Snape wasn't the one who was supposed to actually keep him for any period of time!

“Alright,” she said, sounding a bit reluctant. “I also wanted to let you know how today was going to go, since it's Easter. It's about the same every year – we do a big breakfast like this morning, then a smaller lunch, and we go to the latest afternoon church service. We'll leave for that around 2, then come back after and those who want to will dye easter eggs. Tonight will be our normal small dinner. Tomorrow your oldest brothers Charlie and Bill are coming, so we're holding off the big fancy Easter dinner until then. I'm keeping their visit a bit of a surprise from the others, but I thought you'd prefer to know ahead of time.”

That, at least, was helpful. Holidays completely trashed any knowledge he had of how a household worked and what the routine was that he needed to fit into. Now he at least knew something. He needed to be clean and dressed in nice clothes by 2PM. He actually liked church reasonably well, though he'd only been a couple of times when he was smaller. It didn't require much from him other than standing and sitting at the right times. He didn't have the right responses memorized, of course, but he could just mouth things and nobody noticed.

“Thank you,” he told her. “...that's helpful.” It was hard, giving her even that level of information – what if it sounded like he was telling her what to do? - but that kind of instruction was exactly what he needed to not mess things up later, so it was worth the risk.

“Alright,” she said again. “Go on out and play, then.”

She didn't seem satisfied, but that was a dismissal if he'd ever heard one.

Go play. Right. But at least leaving people alone was something he was good at.

He did go and watch a little as the game was getting set up, but even if his broom hadn't been under his bed in Ron's room, he didn't even know what the game was, as they were still apparently deciding on the rules. Just watching made his stomach twist even tighter than it had been when he got up that morning. He'd barely managed to eat breakfast, as it was. Though the cross buns had helped. He liked sweet stuff.

No. He'd just go for a walk, and get out of all of their hair for awhile. Back by two, he remembered. Or, well, back in time to leave by two. He'd set an alarm on his pocket-watch.