Summer 1998. Ron's back from Australia, to find that things have changed in his absence.
The Burrow was quiet as Ron let himself into the kitchen. Which was weird, because the Burrow was never quiet. Just one more example of the way the world was strange these days, in the months after the war.
He dropped his bag on the tiled floor. “Hello? Is anyone home?”
For a moment, there was only silence—and then came the thunder of feet on the stairs. Seconds later, Molly Weasley barrelled into the kitchen. She didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate even the tiniest bit, just kept on propelling herself across the kitchen until she collided with her youngest son. Ron just about managed to brace himself and keep them both upright as she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tight,
“Ron! Oh, my little Ronniekins! When did you get back?” she sobbed into his chest.
“This morning.”
She pushed herself back, grasping his biceps and looking up at him, eyes watery with tears. “And you couldn’t have warned me? Oh, if only I’d have known! I’d have made sure everyone was here to meet you!”
“I wasn’t sure how long the aeroplane would take or I would have owled ahead.”
She shuddered. “I still don’t like to think of you in one of those metal tubes, all the way from Australia.
“They’re perfectly safe, Mum,” Ron informed her, as though he hadn’t expressed exactly the same sentiment to Hermione back in Sydney a mere thirty-six hours beforehand.
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