Every Christmas, Molly knitted scarves for her children — colors chosen with care, initials stitched by hand, warmth woven into every thread.

You never expected one for yourself.

You weren’t blood. You weren’t married in. Just… someone who lingered on the edge of the chaos, always welcome, never official.

But that morning, as wrapping paper flew and laughter echoed through the Burrow, you noticed a package with your name. Inside: a scarf, soft and warm, in your favorite colors. Your initials stitched right into the edge.

You froze, unsure what to say.

Molly wrapped her arms around you before you could even open your mouth. Tight. Fierce. Steady.

—"You’re part of this family, whether you like it or not," she whispered into your ear, a smile in her voice.