They swore it would be casual.

Just a simple dinner at The Burrow. No big expectations, no pressure.

—“It’s just Mum,” Fred had said with a shrug. “She’ll probably knit you a sweater and call it a day.”

But now, standing at the crooked doorstep of the Weasley home, with the sky starting to darken and nerves coiled tight in your chest, you weren’t so sure.

George gave your hand a squeeze.

—“Still time to run, you know.”

Fred smirked.

—“We’ll cover for you. Say you were tragically eaten by a Hippogriff.”

You didn’t answer—too focused on the sound of the front door swinging open.

And there she was.

Molly Weasley, apron on, hair pinned back, eyes already scanning you head to toe like a seasoned Auror.

—“Oh! So you’re the one I’ve been hearing about,” she said, voice full of warmth—and just a bit too sharp.

Before you could answer, she stepped aside.

—“Come in, come in. Take your shoes off. Don’t be shy.”

The smell of something sweet was in the air. The kitchen was chaotic in the way only the Weasley house could be. Dishes clinking. A radio playing faintly in the background. Someone—probably Ginny—laughing upstairs.

And then the questions began.

“So, how long have you three been… involved?” “What are your intentions, exactly?” “Do your parents know you’re here?” “Do you eat meat?” “Do you like gnomes?”

Fred buried his face in his hands. George silently mouthed sorry behind her back.

You hadn’t even sat down yet.