The last figure, all dressed in black, walked to the gate of the Burrow, his outline blurring into the also black night. Molly Weasley stood by the door of her home, the soft firelight creating a halo around her red hair. Her hand clenched the door frame, knuckles white, as her deep brown eyes watched her husband escort the dark figure off their property. Her face was stony, her a straight line, her brow slightly furrowed, presenting a calm that was not replicated inside of her. The rhythm of her heart was fast and unsteady, pounding against her chest like a gunshot, each beat pressing with a greater weight.

Only a few hours ago, the Ministry of Magic had fallen; Death Eaters had stormed the Weasley's home, finally able to break through all the protective enchantments around it. Molly could still remember the silence, the confused, horrible silence, as Kingsley Shacklebolt's lynx had melted into the air, leaving the news of their immediate danger behind. The panic, the swirling mess of screams, spells and Disapparition, swam in her mind, a symphony that she could not get out of her head. It had been her eldest son's wedding, supposedly the happiest day of his life. Molly closed her eyes with a feeling of bitter anger; it shouldn't have been this way. Bill should've had the best night, everything should've been perfect. After all, everybody had worked so hard.

Bill and Fleur were upstairs, she knew because she had heard voices on the landing. She hadn't actually seen them in hours, as the Death Eaters had separated all the wedding guests that hadn't managed to get away. They had then been put through rigorous interrogation about the whereabouts of Harry Potter. Molly had been made to sit in the scullery, just off the kitchen, whilst they talked to her husband. She heard raised voices, though she didn't catch the actual words. Sick with worry, she had spent her time rearranging jars of jam and preserves, just to take her mind off it; though there were only so many times she could convince herself that the apricot looked out of place next to the tomato relish. It was Harry the occupied her mind most, after she had finished thinking of her own children and husband. Had the disguise they'd given him worked? Either way, Molly prayed he had hidden himself safely somewhere. The Death Eaters, however, had gone through every room at the Burrow, so Molly wasn't sure where he could be hiding. As they exchanged places, Arthur had managed to whisper to her that everyone was fine, giving her a small sense of reassurance. She had then been questioned for nearly a full hour, but had not given in.

Now, the last Death Eater was departing. He turned on the spot and disappeared, Molly not taking her gaze from the place where had stood until her husband was nearly back to the house. Arthur looked tired, his blue eyes dull, his shoulders drooping slightly as he walked. Molly stepped aside to let him through the door, which he closed behind him. He let out a sigh as he took his wife's wrists and gently pulled her into an embrace, his chin resting her head, which in turn lay against his chest. Molly listened to his heart, which mirrored the scared beating of her own. She breathed in his familiar scent and a wave of comfort swept over her, as if she had just drunk a calming drought. Lifting up her head, she looked at his face and gave him a weak smile, which he returned before kissing her on the nose.

"Everything's okay?" Molly asked.

Arthur nodded.

"They seem satisfied for now," he replied, releasing Molly from his arms and walking into the sitting room.

"Harry?" Molly said sharply, "They didn't find him?"

Arthur sighed again and seemed to be deliberating whether or not he should speak. In the end, he did.

"He's not here, Molly. He left."

And, just like that, the worry that she had been trying so hard to get rid off came back again. Of course, he'd been telling her for days that he was leaving. The likelihood of Harry changing his mind had been extremely slim; he was too much like his godfather in that respect. Still, Molly had hoped that he might listen to reason, that he might concede his task (whatever it was) would be too dangerous for a wizard who wasn't much more than a boy.

"Well, Ron and Hermione will miss him," Molly said, trying to sound cheerier than she felt, "that's all I can say."

Again, Arthur looked slightly guilty, as if he didn't want to speak.

"Hermione is not here either," he said quietly, "She went with Harry."

"Oh," Molly said, once more trying to make light of it, "poor Ron will-"

She froze, breaking off in the middle of her sentence. Her features hardened and there was a dangerous glint in her eye. Something had just occurred to her.

"Arthur," she said in a clipped voice.

Her husband had obviously been expecting her realization, for his head was facing the floor and he looked like he wanted to fade backwards into the wallpaper. He took a few steps, trying to block the staircase.

"Arthur," Molly repeated, "where is my son?"

She stressed every syllable, spoke each word deliberately slow. She felt her face flushing as she advanced on Arthur, who did not say anything. With speed that she didn't even know she possessed, Molly side stepped him and started to sprint up the stairs, Arthur running after her. She came to Ron's room and wrenched open the door. Upon seeing what was lying in his bed, she nearly threw up. The family ghoul was moaning and groaning to itself, red hair on its head, ugly lumps covering the parts of its body not hidden by pyjamas. Molly slammed the door and turned on Arthur, who had just made it to the landing. Seeing her face, he backed away a little.

"That's not Ron," she said, in a harsh, low whisper.

"No," Arthur replied.

"He's not here, is he?" she said, her voice a barely audible breath.

"No," Arthur said again.

"He went with Harry and Hermione, didn't he?" Molly whispered, a manic look on her face.

"Yes," Arthur said.

Molly didn't know what to do. The whole world seemed to be swaying around her, nothing seemed to make sense and everything had changed in an instant. Ron was gone. He had left, without warning, without even saying goodbye. Molly took a step forward, then sunk to the ground, leaning against the banister, her eyes staring blankly into space. She hadn't been able to stop him, even after everything she'd done. Her son had left her. Silently, she started to cry, Arthur standing awkwardly on the landing. He sat down next to her, trying to resist his own urge to cry.

"Molly?" he said hopefully.

His wife raised her head, her hair hanging down over her cheeks. She looked at him sadly and then, to his relief, shuffled closer and buried her face in his shoulder, wrapping her hands around his arm. Arthur stroked her hair, as he often did, as she began to sob noisily. They sat like that for quite some time, before Molly wiped her eyes and took a few steadying breaths. She rested her chin on his shoulder and he kissed her forehead.

"Tell me I'm being ridiculous," she croaked, her voice rough from crying.

"You're not being ridiculous," Arthur said softly, "I can't say I'm happy about his going either."

Molly frowned.

"But you're so calm," she said, "How can you be so calm?"

"We can't both be crying wrecks," Arthur shrugged.

"You're mocking me," his wife said and then she started to giggle.

Before long they were both laughing and it felt strange to be doing so at that time, but it was a relief, especially to Molly, to find they could still laugh. When they had finished, Arthur helped her to stand.

"They're really gone," Molly said with a wistful sigh, "aren't they?"

"Yes," Arthur replied, reverting back to monosyllabic speech.

"I can't do anything about it?"

"No."

She thought it over and then said, "I don't know how to deal with that."

"Well you don't have to," her husband replied, "not alone anyway."

Molly smiled as he put his arm around her neck and gave her a squeeze. Dear, sweet Arthur, so dependable, so good.

"You know," she whispered, "after all this time, I can't believe I'm still finding new reasons to fall in love with you."

"They don't call me the man of mystery for nothing," Arthur grinned.

"Nobody calls you that, dear."

"Yes, they do!"

"Who?"

"People."

"No they don't."

And the argument went on as they went off to bed; some things just didn't change.