She doesn't know his first name. They are in the same House, but for a good girl contact with boys is strictly limited to classmates - he is a year below her - and on occasion the prefects - a rather doubtful future for this one boy, all things considered.
What she does know from the whispers that follow him constantly is that he's a twofold traitor. They say in voices meant to be overheard that he got Sorted into the wrong House, that he's the first of his line in three hundred years to step out of the shadow of the Snake. That would be forgivable, though possibly not by his family, if it weren't so desperately obvious that he wanted to be Slytherin. Even she can see it - the yearning glances across the Great Hall, the looks exchanged with a yellow-haired boy at least a year older than she who smiles with sympathy, but perhaps not with commiseration. And every time it happens the disgust seethes among those unlucky enough to have to sit next to him.
It amazes her that none of them, not even the boy himself, can tell that he's Gryffindor to the core. Slytherins all lie under the shadow of their Founder, and revel in that darkness. She can tell the blond boy is clever and talented and knows it - she wonders if he knows that he's using darkness to hide the blankness hidden deep away in his center. But Gryffindor's own traitor shines like a lion should, like her mother claims her father did when he was still alive and like she thinks their Head of House does all the time, even when he's stroking a cat or offering Muggle candy to frightened first years. When he doesn't have to walk with steps wary of feet carefully placed for tripping, his stride turns into the easy pad of a tomcat. When he thinks there are no angry glances headed his way, she has seen him touching books, prodding trinkets like he wants to know how the words and pieces slide together to make what they make.
It's a shame, she thinks, that their entire House hates him. So she asks a few careful questions, and corners him one day in the library, when the golden afternoon sunlight sprawls over his table and gilds his scribbled-on parchment.
"You're Arthur Weasley, aren't you?"
He looks up, cautiously. His red hair falls about his face like a young lion's mane. "Yes...do you need som-"
"It's nice to meet you, Arthur," she breaks in. "My name is Molly," she adds. Then she pulls out her chair and sits down.