The battlefield was quiet now. Only the low hum of spells fading and distant cries remained in the air. You stumbled out from the rubble, robes torn, face smudged with ash, blood dripping from a cut on your temple.

Before you could even speak, Molly Weasley was running toward you.

She didn’t hesitate — she wrapped her arms around you so tightly it almost knocked the air out of your lungs. Her tears soaked into your shoulder as she held you, trembling.

—“If something had happened to you…” she whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t know what I would’ve done. You’re my child. My baby.”

You felt her hands checking for wounds, her sobs muffled against your chest.

—“No matter how old you are… you’ll always be my little one.”