“BLAAISE!” He could hear the loud, drawn-out call before he could even see the house.

“BLAISE?”

Blaise stopped as he got to the edge of the woods, and saw Mrs. Weasley's dumpy figure in the back yard, backlit by the lamp that hung next to the door. She was calling. It was a little past three in the morning, and she was calling. Probably, she'd been doing it all night. He hadn't even expected her to still be awake.

How was he going to get his stuff, if she was still awake and looking for him? Damnit, woman, don't you give up? He wasn't her son.

“BLAAAISE! Come home, son! Please?”

Blaise winced. He was starting to feel like he'd done something bad, to make her sound like that. But – was she seriously still calling him?

“BLAAISE!”

Blaise swallowed. What was he going to do? He couldn't leave without his stuff, he couldn't sneak past her to get it... and she was still calling him.

He couldn't go back. He couldn't. He'd broken all of her rules, he was a Death Eater's son...

“BLAISE? Come on, Blaise! Come home.”

Finally, Mrs. Weasley turned, and went back inside, but somehow he thought she'd be out and calling him again, if he waited too long before returning.

Blaise felt his stomach clench. He was insane. He could not seriously go back. She'd be furious with him. But she won't kick you out. Not if she's calling like that. If he did go back, though – somehow, it felt like a big, big deal. He couldn't go back, and then leave again tomorrow. Not with Mrs. Weasley calling him like that.

He could not seriously be thinking about going back. But he couldn't exactly get his stuff now, either. What could he do?

Somehow, he got his feet to start moving – just short, tentative little strides, at first, then a slightly faster creep, but he didn't have far to go, and soon he found himself standing in front of the back door, heart in his throat.

She didn't know he was there, yet. He could still leave, worry about how to get his stuff later... he lifted a hand, and knocked, probably too softly for her to even hear it, but he couldn't make himself knock again. He was stuck staring at his feet, unwilling to look up lest she open the door. Nothing. Stomach clenching even tighter, Blaise forced himself to step forward again and knock harder. This time, he heard footsteps from inside, and he stepped back as the door swung open.

“Blaise,” Mrs. Weasley whispered. Then louder, elated - “Blaise!”

She came out to him, and Blaise found himself enclosed in her arms, pressed tightly into her chest as she hugged him.

“Blaise,” she said again. “Oh, Blaise, thank God.”

He'd come back! Molly thought. She couldn't hardly believe it. Hours and hours she'd been calling, and now finally-!

“Oh, you are in so much trouble, young man,” she told him fiercely, not loosening her hug at all.

“Srry,” she heard indistinctly. She was smothering him, but she couldn't seem to let go. Finally, she transferred her hold to his shoulders, and pushed him back to look at him. Instantly, his gaze went to the floor.

“No,” she told him directly. “Look at me.”

His shoulders hunched, and for the first time he openly disobeyed her, shaking his head just slightly in refusal.

“Don't you tell me no,” she told him warmly. “You're in plenty enough trouble as it is. Look at me, Blaise.”

Finally, he did, and his gaze was wide open and terrified before he quickly looked down again. It was the most open expression he'd ever shown her.

“Oh, Blaise,” she said, her temper dying down. She pulled him into a hug again, this time more gently. “My son,” she told him softly. “Oh, my son. Thank God.”

This...Blaise didn't know what to do with this, though the feeling that he'd done something bad was growing worse by the minute. Mrs. Weasley was crying. Holding him, and crying. It wasn't the first time he'd disappeared from a house, and nobody had ever reacted like this before. What did he do now? He felt like a lump, just standing there while she cried on him, but he truly had no idea what he was supposed to do. My son. She was calling him her son.

It took long minutes, but finally Mrs. Weasley let him go. Or, well, for a moment Blaise thought she had, but a moment later she was holding onto him again. She gripped both of Blaise's upper arms, this time, holding him away from her as she looked him over. A moment or two later, she transferred her grip to one of his wrists and began towing him with her into the house. Like a naughty two-year-old.

“Arthur!” she called, loud in the darkened house. “Arthur, Arthur he's here! He came home! Come and see!”

Mr. Weasley was up, too? Didn't he have work in the morning? But the man came to the door of the mudroom at the summons, and Blaise saw his mouth open briefly in surprise to see him...and then his whole upper body loosened and slumped for a moment, almost like he was in pain, or suddenly exhausted. He closed his eyes as he did it, and even reached a hand up to rub them, but when he opened his eyes again, his gaze was penetrating, direct on Blaise's, like he could read Blaise's thoughts through his pupils.

“What made you change your mind?” he asked. His tone wasn't exactly angry, but it was brisk and businesslike. He meant for Blaise to answer.

Blaise stared at him, for a moment, confused, and then realized what Mr. Weasley meant. But how did the man know?

After experience with Snape, Blaise didn't dare lie to him. Not with the way the man was staring into his face. Mr. Weasley had clearly realized that Blaise hadn't intended to return, and he wanted to know why he had. Blaise picked his words with care.

“I- I didn't, really,” he admitted, ashamed. “I just needed my things. But then I heard-” but he cut off, there, and looked down. They'd understand what he meant, but somehow it felt way too personal to speak of, or admit to. She had called for him, but he still didn't quite know why. There was no reason why it should've had an effect on him. It was hard to even admit that he'd heard her calling. My son.

“You were still awake,” he said quickly. “I couldn't-”

“So you're planning on leaving again, then?” Mr. Weasley demanded.

Damn. That wasn't what he'd meant, but he could see how Mr. Weasley could assume that. If he'd just come back for his things, he'd leave again. He could still do it.

“I-” he started. But there was nothing he could say to that. Mrs. Weasley had been calling – she clearly wanted him to come home and wouldn't want him to leave again – or at least, now right now - but what did Mr. Weasley think?

“Allow me to make one thing very, very clear to you, Blaise,” Mr. Weasley said seriously, staring down at him. “You are not permitted to run away like that. Ever. You are a very lucky young man that you came back on your own because I would have been very displeased to have to come find you or to have you brought back here by the aurors. And I would have found you, eventually. You are a part of this family whether you like it or not and somehow I would have found you and brought you back. Is that clear?”

Blaise swallowed. That...was not at all what he expected. Though for once he knew what was expected of him. “Y-yes, sir,” he said softly.

“We will mostly talk about this tomorrow,” Mr. Weasley continued, “but know that you are in very deep trouble and if it happens again, either while you are at Hogwarts or while you are home, you will very much regret it. And if you do run away again some time in the future and come to your senses, you will want to be very, very prompt about coming back before I have to come after you. I will come after you, and I will not be pleased. You. Are. our. Son, and you are to stay here where we can look after you. Am I understood?”

“Y-yes sir,” Blaise said again, flinching. Even Snape hadn't managed to tell him off quite this effectively. But – you are our son. You are to stay here where we can look after you. Damn, but that hurt. The thing was, he actually felt like their son, a little, at the moment. Like...he'd merely misbehaved, and he was in trouble, like any of their other children would be. But that was a fantasy he couldn't afford to indulge. No matter what they said, he wasn't really one of theirs.

“Good,” Mr. Weasley told him. “Then it is time for bed.”

“Dinner,” Mrs. Weasley corrected sharply. “You missed two meals today, Blaise. Go upstairs and get into your pajamas, then come get dinner.”

The way she said it, you'd think that missing two meals was a crime worthy of capital punishment, and he'd just been sentenced. He believed her that she actually was mad at him, but she was somehow singularly bad at showing it. At least to him. He knew Ron was never confused. Still, at the moment Mr. Weasley was a lot scarier, and Blaise was just happy for the excuse to leave the kitchen.

He shot a hesitant look at Mr. Weasley, who'd told him to go to bed, but Mrs. Weasley spoke up again.

“Quickly, please,” she added then. “It is already very late.”

And Mr. Weasley nodded confirmation, which relieved the tension.

“Yes, Ma'am,” Blaise said.

“Call me Mum, dear,” she told him gently. “I know it doesn't feel right just yet, but please call me Mum.”

He stared at her, but he didn't dare refuse. “Mum,” he said softly. He'd never used the word to anyone else, and it felt distinctly strange on his tongue. He turned his back on her and headed quickly up the stairs.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The rest of the evening was vaguely hideous. He snuck up the stairs and into the bedroom as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake Ron, but it was a lost cause. As soon as the door creaked open, Ron rolled over to turn on his lamp, then turned to look at him.

“You're back!” he exclaimed. “Where'd you go?”

“Umm...no time,” Blaise told him. “Your Mum said to hurry, and your Da is pretty mad.”

Ron's eyes went wide. “Merlin,” he said softly. “They are going to kill you. Don't worry, mate, I'll arrange a real nice funeral service for you. I'll write the eulogy myself – or better yet, have Hermione write it. What do you want on your headstone? Can I have your broom?”

But Blaise really wasn't in the mood to joke, and he had no time anyway. He changed into his pajamas as quickly as possible, not daring to dawdle. But he needed information, he realized.

“Your Da is mad,” he told Ron instead. “Do you know what he's likely to do?”

“Depends,” Ron answered. “Last time – well you saw, I was stuck in my room the whole week. But it's different for each of us. Sucks, though, I'll tell you that. Mum'll yell, and she gets mad easier, but it's Dad that'll really make you regret it, if you do make him angry.”

“I'll bet,” Blaise agreed. That wasn't nearly as much information as he'd hoped for, but he was out of time. Pajama-clad and barefoot, he turned towards the door.

“You'll want slippers,” Ron told him. “The kitchen floor's cold at night, and Mum doesn't like us being up in bare feet. Take mine if you don't have any.”

Good to know. He didn't have slippers, but Ron's were on the floor between the two beds. Blaise slipped them on and finally moved to the door to head downstairs.

He was just heading out of the room when Ron spoke up behind him. “They're your Mum and Dad too, you know.”

So they keep telling me. Fortunately, Blaise was already mostly out the door, and didn't need to answer.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Pajamas, check, slippers, check...next came 'come get dinner'. Wonderful.

But nothing for it. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley definitely weren't going to kick him out – at least not at the moment - but he didn't really care to find out what they would do, if he annoyed them further.

He got downstairs, but lingered at the entrance to the kitchen, not really sure where to go once he went in. Mrs. Weasley was at the stove, preparing, at his best guess, his death-by-tomato-soup-and-cheese-sandwich. If she thought that was a punishment, she was sorely mistaken, but he couldn't honestly believe that. That was just Mrs. Weasley. Somehow, she must've figured out that he liked it, and so prepared it now when she was furious with him. As an especial torture a la Madame Weasley, he was to eat it in his pajamas. He'd eaten in his pajamas before, but always furtively – getting up in the middle of the night to raid the icebox or beg someone's house-elves for leftovers. Never had he done so when the lady of the house was going to actually see him.

Mr. Weasley was seated at the table, now, and he looked up just as Blaise's gaze rested on him.

“Come on, then,” Mr. Weasley told him. “Come sit. We won't bite.”

Right. Still, he'd been given a definite instruction. Feeling awkward, Blaise came and sat in the chair Mr. Weasley had indicated, avoiding his gaze by staring at the very plain table-top. It was surely obvious that that was what he was doing, but he really couldn't bring himself to meet anyone's eyes. He'd come back. They'd let him come back. What happened, now?

Arthur watched as Blaise perched on his chair, completely quiet and barely moving. Barely breathing, even, as if even the room to fully inflate his lungs was not to be taken for granted. Molly placed the food in front of him, and set a gentle hand on his shoulder as she moved away. The boy thanked her softly as she put the food down but visibly flinched at the physical contact and waited until she moved away before tentatively starting to eat. It almost made him want to shake the boy – to somehow snap him out of it. Were they such monsters, that Blaise needed to ensure that they really intended for him to eat the food they'd placed in front of him? Did he think that after calling for so many hours, Molly didn't really mean it that he was welcome here?

Relax, damnit! he thought. Just bloody well relax. We're not going to begrudge you the air in your lungs.

Perhaps somebody had, he thought. Molly had said that Blaise had been through several different homes. Who knew what had caused the boy to lose his home in the past? Molly's tack of telling the boy explicitly what would and would not get him into trouble seemed like a good one, though now that the boy had broken those rules it was more complicated. How did you punish a child who was already this frightened? Did you punish a child for breaking rules out of this kind of fear?

Yes. Sort of. Molly had pointed out when Blaise was upstairs that in some ways this was a blessing – she had the perfect excuse to keep the boy very, very close to her with very, very explicit instructions about where he was supposed to be at all times. Hopefully, if there was no way the boy could get it wrong, he'd relax a bit better. And it would look, on the outside, like they were punishing him. And Blaise would probably even see it as a punishment himself, though perhaps not the one he was expecting. Certainly their other children would see it as harsh enough. Which was important. Blaise already really didn't feel like one of their brood. As different as he was – as much different handling as he did genuinely need – it wouldn't do to let anyone think that he was somehow in a different category from their other children; somehow not 'theirs' enough to be punished with the others as needed.

Though at this point, he would welcome a little misbehavior. They couldn't prove that they were really keeping him no matter what if he refused to even test them. Running away in sheer terror wasn't exactly his preferred form of misbehavior, but he'd take what they could get, right now. Blaise had broken the rules, so they had a chance to show him what happened when they were displeased with him. They'd work with what they had.

Blaise ate quickly, neatly, and silently. It put Arthur in mind briefly of the Last Supper – the Israelites taking a quick meal of lamb and unleavened bread before fleeing Egypt. It was hard not to try and reassure him, but he doubted that it would actually help. Right now, it would just point out that they were bothered by his nervousness. The boy couldn't exactly relax on purpose.

Blaise ate quickly, not really feeling hungry but wanting out from under the Weasleys' worried stares. Soon, the food was gone, and he sat quietly with his hands very still in his lap, waiting for an instruction.

Molly gave a deep sigh before she spoke, and she sounded tired. “Alright, Blaise,” she said. “Go on up to bed, now. We'll talk more tomorrow.”

Thank goodness for explicit instructions. “Yes, Ma'am,” he told her.

“Mum, honey,” she corrected him softly.

Blaise nearly flinched, but kept it off his face. “...Mum,” he repeated obediently. “...Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, son,” Mr. Weasley said.

It took him a long time to fall asleep, and it felt like only a second later that he heard Mrs. Weasley's call up the stairs. For once, he'd slept as late as Ron.

“Alright, boys!” she shouted. “It's eight o'clock! Rise and shine!”

“I'M NOT A BOY!” Ginny bellowed back from the first floor.

“YOU'RE ALREADY AWAKE!” Molly replied, just as loud.

It was a ritual they went through every morning, Blaise had learned. Or, every morning when there were enough of them there to merit Molly bellowing up the stairs for her boys, anyway. Presumably it changed when all the boys were at school and Ginny was the only one home. It was strangely pleasant to wake up to, despite the noise. There was so much good feeling in the silly ritual – always exactly the same – between mother and daughter.

This morning, though...call me Mum, dear. He couldn't go downstairs. He just...couldn't. And had Mrs. Weasley said eight o'clock? Usually it was seven. Usually, she hasn't stayed up all night calling for you, he reminded himself. It didn't make him feel any better.

“Breakfast in ten!” Mrs. Weasley called last.

Ron woke up to his mother's calling and greeted him blearily before heading for the bathroom down the hall. He'd clean his teeth and wash his face and very likely go straight down in his pajamas, Blaise knew.

Blaise sat on the edge of his mattress with his bare feet on the floor, gripping onto the sheets of his bed with both hands. The window beckoned, but he didn't have time for a walk – and, realistically, he couldn't trust himself to come back again a second time. Not this morning, at any rate. We'll talk more, tomorrow.

She wouldn't've made him call her 'mum' if she was planning on kicking him out after all. Somehow the thought didn't help in the slightest. Finally Blaise pulled his feet off the floor and lay back down under the covers, this time pulling them over his head. He couldn't really fall back asleep, but he managed a light doze, focussing vaguely on lists of potions ingredients and an old daydream or two until Mrs. Weasley called again up the stairs.

“Breakfast!”

The call woke him up from his doze, and he uncovered himself and sat up again, feeling his heart pounding. Breakfast. With Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Bill and Ron and the others... or the window out onto the roof. The forest.

And homelessness and possible starvation, he reminded himself sharply. Not to mention how bloody ungrateful that would be. An image came to his mind of Mrs. Weasley, calling and calling and calling... he could not run away again. He would not.

Call me Mum, dear.

His heart beat was loud in his ears, and it was all he could do to just stay on his bed. He had to go down, though. He had to. Any moment now, he would get up, and go downstairs, and get breakfast. Just...any moment now. Just as soon as his heart slowed a little. He wasn't even dressed yet and it was time to go down.

He just had to go. He had to. But he was just sitting there, somehow, his stomach twisting itself in knots all the time. Surely, surely it was better to just go?

He didn't know how long he sat frozen, but eventually, there was a quiet knock, and then the door opened. It was Mrs. Weasley, and he was on his feet in a moment, an apology springing to his lips.

“Sorry!” he said quickly, shaken. “I'm coming. I was just – Sorry. I'm coming.”

“Shhhh,” she said softly. Like he was some kind of wild animal. “It's fine, hon. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I'm fine,” he assured her. “Sorry.” He started moving past her, ready to go down the stairs to join the others, but Mrs. Weasley took his arm to stop him.

“Wait, hon,” she told him. “It's alright.”

“I'm fine,” Blaise told her, trying again to move towards the door. “Sorry.”

She didn't release his arm. “Wait, hon,” she told him more firmly.

He stopped, and controlled his expression ruthlessly. “Yes, ma'am,” he told her. He fell silent, then, standing quietly as she held his arm. She tugged, and he followed, realizing too late that she was pulling him into her arms. But that was all she did, for a moment – just held him, like she had the night before, this time without speaking. He held obediently still, hoping she couldn't feel his heart beating against her as he could. Belatedly, he realized that he was so stiff he was shaking, and tried pulling away. She held on, silent but insistent, and gradually he realized that he could hear her heartbeat, so much slower than his.

Finally, she did speak up, and her voice was quiet and matter-of-fact.

“Yes, you broke rules and scared us yesterday, and yes, we're going to talk about that,” she told him quietly. “We're not going to pretend that it didn't happen. But nothing awful is going to happen, and you don't have to come down if you don't want to. I'll bring you some breakfast up. If you want to come down later, you may, and you'll stay with me in the kitchen while I do some cooking before lunch. Or if not, you can stay here, and I will come and sit with you, instead.”

“N-no,” Blaise told her, looking up suddenly. “You don't have to do that – I'll come down. I was just-” but he couldn't come up with any excuse whatsoever, and she didn't give him time to.

“You're grounded anyway, honey,” she told him gently. “You can spend time with me in the kitchen downstairs, or you can spend time with me up here, but you're going to have breakfast and you're not going to be allowed to be by yourself.”

Blaise tugged away to look at her, appalled. “N-no,” he told her. “Y-you-” you cannot possibly spend that much time in here with just me! And with Bill home, no less. He got the impression from Ron that neither he nor Charlie came home, much. But how to word that to her without it sounding like he was protesting the punishment? “You should spend time with Bill and the rest,” he managed finally, looking down again.

“The rest of the family will be just fine,” Molly told him, pulling him back into her embrace and putting her head on top of his. “I want to spend time with you, today.”

Finally, she loosened her hold, but only tugged him down to sit on the bed right next to her, her arm around his shoulder.

“M-mum,” he protested.

“I know, hon,” she said. “I know this is hard.”

Blaise looked at her, startled. Did she? Could she?

She smiled at him, and he realized he'd met her eyes. He looked down.

You can spend time with me in the kitchen downstairs, or you can spend time with me up here, but you're going to have breakfast and you're not going to be allowed to be by yourself. Oh, God.

“M-mum,” he protested again.

“Shhh,” she told him softly. “Just try and calm down a little, alright? I'm not going to make you go anywhere.”

No, she was just going to come in here. Before he realized it, he'd made a frustrated sound, and Mrs. Weasley chuckled. “I know, dear,” she said. “I'm annoying. I've been told.”

He had no right to be mad at her this morning. “N-no,” he protested blindly. But she was annoying, and he didn't think he could make the lie sound sincere right now.

“Annoying,” Mrs. Weasley told him firmly. “And mean, and scary, and crazy, and hopefully just a tiny bit attractive. But if not, that's okay, too. I'll just keep being annoying and maybe you'll eventually realize that it's okay to not always like me, and it's also okay to like me. But that can take as long as you like. For the moment, just take a deep breath and try and relax a little bit. ”

Who was this woman who could read his mind?

“You know I'm scared, too?” she told him. “You're my son, and I love you, and I want so badly for you to know that and I don't know how to convince you. But that's okay. It's going to take some time, but that's okay. You'll figure it out. But you won't figure it out if you keep running away from me. So I'm going to keep being annoying.”

He was stiff under her arm, he realized, but she was relaxed, her body soft against his. She was stroking his shoulder with her thumb.

She had no right to be so damned gentle when she was being so...unreasonable! She wanted to punish him, fine, but surely she could just confine him to his room, or something. Carefully, he tried moving away from her.

“No, Blaise,” she told him gently, hand momentarily tightening on his shoulder to prevent him.

Blaise felt his breath hitch. “Ma'am-” he said softly.

“Mum,” she corrected gently.

He tried again to move away, and again she held him. “No, Blaise,” she told him again. “You're alright.”

Of course he was alright. Or at least he would be, if she'd just let him go. This time, his attempt to move away was more overt, and Mrs. Weasley's tone changed to one of warning. “Blaise,” she chided him.

“I can't!” he told her. It came out angry, that time, and he twisted, finally managing to actually get out of her hold.

She moved, too, though, and caught him, and next thing he knew she was hugging him tightly, pushing his head gently into her chest like she had before.

He kicked her in the shin. Just – pulled his leg back and kicked her. Not particularly hard, he realized, but too hard to be mistaken for anything else. Appalled, he froze again. “Sorry,” he told her quickly. Oh God oh God... “I'm sorry, Ma'am, I'm so sorry...”

“Mum,” she told him firmly, cutting into his litany.

His breath hitched. “...Mum,” he whispered, horrified. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.”

“You didn't plan to, I'm sure,” Mrs. Weasley told him, pulling back to hold him at arm's length and look at him. Her voice was full of a surprising warmth and humor. “But that was far too well-aimed for you to have really not meant to. You're madder than a wet hen, aren't you? On top of being terrified, anyway. I'm rather pleased, really.”

He was too shocked to remember not to look up, and her face confirmed her words as she smiled down at him. “You've allowed me to see more of you in the last ten minutes than you have since I first met you,” she told him. “Once you're not quite so terrified of me we'll talk about not kicking, but for the moment I'd welcome an honest paddy.”

Mrs. Weasley, Blaise reflected for what felt like the thousandth time, was nuts.

“So,” she told him. “Go nuts. I want to hear all about how much you hate my house, and my clothes, and my hair, and my food, and the stupid jackalopes living in the front garden. Let me have it.”

Blaise just stared at her. She was seriously insane.

“No?” she told him.

Mutely, he shook his head, eyes very wide.

“Okay, then,” she said, her eyes direct on his. “How about this: 'Mum, I want really, really badly to run away again, and you being here is not helping. Please do shove off and leave me alone.”

Blaise swallowed, and looked away from her. She knew. How could she know?

“We're not going to let you run, Hon,” she told him more gently. “And we're not going to let you hide here all alone, either. I'm sorry that you don't like that. Since you did run, you're going to be grounded for awhile. Which means you're to be within arm's reach of either Arthur or me at all times. To make matters worse, I love you, and you scared me, so I am going to hug you, and I'm not going to ask your permission. But you can be as mad about that as you like.”

This – this could not be happening. This was a nightmare. “I'm sorry,” he found himself telling her. It came out pleading.

“It's not really a punishment, Hon,” she told him softly. “I just know how scared you are and I can't take the risk that you run again.”

“I came back!” he found himself arguing.

“Barely,” she told him gently.

She knew that, too. How much had he said, last night? He didn't have a response, either.

Grounded. Even Snape hadn't punished him this harshly. Or...not exactly harshly, but... so pointedly. Even he could see the logic – you ran away, now you get to stay really really close. Which was about the worst outcome he could think of. Other than maybe being asked to leave, but – on a certain axis, worse even than that.

“I won't run again,” he told her nervously. “I promise.”

“I'm glad,” she told him. But didn't say that she would leave him alone. “Ma'am...” he protested.

“Mum,” she told him firmly.

Angry, he kept his body stiff and didn't answer her.

Blaise was still stiff and silent in her arms, but this time he was angry with her. And showing it. Molly could've cheered. “Good boy,” she told him, gently rubbing his shoulder. “You're doing great, honey. It's alright. You're doing just right.”

Just right? Really? He was seething, and he knew she could see it, and so she was going to praise him?

“Leave. me. alone,” he growled at her.

“Sorry, Hon,” she told him. “That's not an option, today.”

He just stayed stiff, fighting. She just kept stroking his shoulder. Annoyingly, it felt nice.

After a bit, she started to talk again. “I know, hon. I know you hate this. But you need a mother something terrible, and this is the only way I know to see that you get one.”

The sympathy grated. “I'm fine,” he told her, twitching his shoulder irritably.

“You're not, and no one expects you to be,” she answered. Worse, she just kept holding him, and just kept rubbing.

“You can't hold me forever,” he pointed out.

“Five minutes,” she told him. “Five minutes, and I'll let you go.”

That...helped. A little. Sort of.

“...fine,” he said stiffly.

Finally letting go of him – with one arm, at least – she cast numerare, and a five-minute count appeared on the opposite wall and started ticking down.

“If I sit down with you, will you stay put this time?” she asked him next.

Do I have a choice? But there was no way he was saying that, even if she did seem to want him to be mad at her. He just stayed stiff in her arms.

“That was a real question, Hon,” she told him, not loosening her grip. “Will you stay with me if I sit down?”

Yes, Ma'am. Just say, 'Yes, Ma'am.' How hard is it? But she wanted him to call her 'Mum'. He was not going to let her fool him into calling her 'Mum' only to then get kicked out again.

“Do I have a choice?” he asked her. So apparently, there was a way he was saying that. Because he was seriously going insane.

“Of course you do,” she told him seriously. “You always have a choice. You can kick and scream for the next five minutes, or you can sit quietly, or you can sit stiffly and show me how very angry you are with me right now. You can curse me out, out loud or in your head, or you could work with me and try to learn what I'm trying to teach you. You could even try hexing me, though I doubt you'd manage it.Whatever you choose, though, I am going to hold you, just as I would've when you were this upset as an infant, if I'd been there.”

That... “You weren't,” he pointed out harshly. And I'm not.

“I know,” she answered. “I'm sorry. You can be mad at me for that, too, if you like. But I'm here now, and I'm staying.”

Once again, he found himself without words. That wasn't what he'd meant. Really, it wasn't. But what did he mean?

“And you're staying, too,” she told him softly. “No more running.”

Blaise found himself swallowing hard, at that, suddenly feeling genuinely guilty, instead of merely angry or scared. He didn't really know what to offer her, though. The only way he'd ever managed to please her was to kick her in the shin, and he wasn't going to do that again...

But...he was starting to get...some inkling...of what she wanted. And there was one thing he thought he could just – barely – manage. It was bloody hard to get out, though. He felt like he'd said it a thousand times already that morning and yet this time...felt different.

You are our son. You are to stay here where we can look after you.

Call me Mum, dear.

Hello, little brother.

Welcome to the family. I'm really really glad to have another brother, and I'm glad it's you.

I'm here now, and I'm staying. And you're staying, too. No more running.

“...sorry, Mum,” he managed.

It came out almost inaudible, and his heart raced and his stomach churned just from saying it, but he knew she'd heard by the way her grip on him tightened just a little in response.

“Thank you,” she answered simply. “Now, if I sit down, will you stay?”

A sort of muffled, frustrated sound came out of Blaise's throat, and he felt himself blush. “You're bloody annoying,” he told her.

He heard himself say it with a shock, and flinched hard, but she gave a surprised sort of laugh. “I know,” she said. “Your brothers think so, too. You'll get used to it.”