The Burrow smelled like cinnamon and woodsmoke, the kitchen warm despite the draft sneaking in through the crooked windowpanes. You were perched at the table with a mug of tea, doing your best to focus on the steam curling upward — anything to avoid meeting Molly Weasley’s knowing smile.

“So,” she began, in that deceptively casual tone that meant trouble, “when are you and Fred going to make it official? I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

You almost choked on your tea. “We—what?”

“Marry, dear. Have a few little ones running around,” she went on, as if she were discussing the weather. “I’d like to be a proper grandmother while I can still keep up with them.” Her eyes sparkled as she bustled past with a dish towel, clearly enjoying your flustered expression.

From somewhere behind you, you heard the creak of the stairs and the unmistakable sound of Fred’s voice calling out for you. The timing was suspicious enough to make you wonder if he’d heard every word.

Molly just patted your shoulder, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially, “Don’t take too long, love. We Weasleys don’t do well with waiting.”