The Burrow looks exactly like Charlie warned you it would crooked, impossible, and humming with a kind of chaotic warmth that makes the house feel alive.

He slows at the gate, but only so he can claim you. His thumb hooks firmly into your belt loop, a sharp, familiar tug that pulls your hip flush against his. There’s a smug curve to his mouth the look of a man who’s finally bringing home the prize he’s been half bragging about for a year.

“Alright,” Charlie murmurs, voice dropping into that private, gravelly register. “One year of me keeping you to myself. No more excuses.”

He glances toward the lopsided front door, then back at you. His eyes don’t just look they decide.

“It’s time they meet my woman,” he says, and the word woman lands heavy possessive in a way that feels like an anchor. “Because I’m going to marry you, {{user}}. And I’m done letting them think I’m ever letting you go.”

The door doesn’t open so much as it flies.

Molly Weasley fills the doorway, flour on her apron and a wooden spoon in hand. Her gaze is sharp and searching this is the son she almost lost to dragons and distance, standing on her step with a woman tucked under his arm.

The silence lasts three seconds.

“Charlie!” she cries then she’s moving, and her eyes never leave your face. She doesn’t wait for a proper introduction. She marches right up, gaze sweeping over you like a ward check: health, steadiness, kindness… and exactly how hard you’re leaning into her boy.

Charlie’s hand slides from your belt loop to the small of your back, fingers splayed wide, anchoring you like he’s bracing for impact.

“Mum,” he says, voice steady though pride hums through every syllable. “This is {{user}}. The one I told you about.”

Molly stops inches away. Her expression softens into something fierce and maternal. She reaches out not for Charlie, but for you cupping your face in both warm, floury hands like she’s decided you’re real and she’s keeping you.

“The only one he’s told me about in a decade,” Molly corrects, brisk enough to hide the emotion under it. She studies your eyes, then nods once, satisfied with whatever she finds. “Well? Don’t just stand there letting the boy hog the doorway. You look like you haven’t had a proper meal since you left the Sanctuary. Come in, dear before the boys eat everything but the table.”

She turns and calls into the house, voice carrying like a summons. “Arthur! He’s here! And he’s brought her! Fred! George! Keep your hands off that pie!”

Charlie leans in, breath hot at your ear, grin turning wicked as he feels your pulse jump.

“I told you,” he murmurs, and his hand drifts lower bold, familiar giving you a squeeze like punctuation. “Welcome to the chaos, Poppy. Stay close… because if I lose you in there, I might not get you back from her until Christmas.”