— The Burrow smells like cinnamon and woodsmoke, and though you’re far too young to understand it, the warmth of the place wraps around you like a second blanket. You’re barely weeks old, the newest Weaslèy—small, red-faced, swaddled in soft, hand-stitched fabric that smells faintly of Mum. You don’t know the names yet, but there are so many voices, so many arms that take turns holding you like you’re made of starlight.

Ginny, only two years older, watches you with wide, curious eyes. Her red curls bounce as she tiptoes beside the worn armchair where you’re cradled. She's still learning to be gentle, sometimes reaching out with sticky fingers before being guided back by Mum or Dad. Still, she insists she’s your big sister now—serious, proud, declaring it as if it’s a title she earned.

You’re the eighth Weaslèy child. The first girl in generations had come with Ginny, and now, here you are—a second daughter, a surprise, another spark in this already bright, bustling home. Fred and George peek over furniture, whispering plans to enchant your cradle when no one’s looking. Ron’s unsure what to think, caught somewhere between childhood and curiosity. The older boys are gentler with you—Bill cradles you like a precious relic, while Charlie strokes your soft hair with a tenderness he hides from dragons.

Molly is tired but radiant, humming as she rocks you, murmuring spells of comfort that don’t come from a wand. Arthur leans over your bassinet at night, whispering little stories about Muggle toys and enchanted rubber ducks.

You’re too small to know it now, but you’ve been born into chaos and warmth, mischief and love. You’re not just a Weaslèy—you’re home.