It was supposed to be dark and stormy. Not brisk and dry. The knock had come at the door while Molly was making a small pot of porridge for breakfast. Bill was running around the back yard, after complaining because Charlie had a cold and couldn't come out and play, and Arthur was at work, so Molly had been the one to cautiously crack the door open.
And then the porridge was burning and she didn't care because her brothers were gone and they wouldn't be dropping in to say hello to their nephews any more and Gideon wouldn't be making cracks about an army of Weasleys taking over the world and Fabian wouldn't be calling her Molly-pot anymore and she could feel the tears running down her face and a great gaping hole of it couldn't happen splitting her open –
Molly didn't notice the tea pooling in her lap until she heard the chatter of voices outside the front door. She had been sitting quite happily in the kitchen when the owl with the Daily Prophet arrived, with the front page, with that Mark, at the Cup, where Arthur and the children –
She got up and sprinted outside, face pale, mind creating images of horror; missing family members, bloody faces, grave deliverances of condolences, a soft voice saying someone, anyone was in St Mungos –
And was faced with her complete family, Harry and Hermione, looking agitated and tired, but all there, all alive and no one was hurt. She sagged with relief before hurrying forward to embrace each and every one of them, to make sure they were really there, to relieve her trembling nerves.
She was just so relieved, and a part of her thought that was incredibly selfish – because what if it was someone else who was being told their family wouldn't be coming home from the cup but another part of her just didn't care because they were all safe and not like Gideon and Fabian.