The Burrow had a way of making introductions feel less like meetings and more like events the house itself had opinions about.

That morning, it was louder than usual.

Doors slammed. Kettles screamed. Someone—Fred, probably—had enchanted a spoon again. Even the stairs sounded like they were gossiping.

Ron stood near the kitchen table like he was bracing for impact.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Hermione said.

“What thing?”

“The one where you look like you’re about to intercept a Bludger with your face.”

“I’m not—” Ron started, then stopped. “Okay, I might be.”

Harry didn’t help. Harry never helped. Harry just leaned casually against the counter like he wasn’t actively ruining Ron’s peace of mind by existing.

“She’s fine,” Harry said.

Ron shot him a look. “You said that last time and she turned into a wolf in my hallway.”

“That was her walking style,” Harry corrected, far too calmly.

Mrs. Weasley bustled past them. “Now, everyone be kind. No staring. No asking inappropriate questions. And Fred—if you’ve enchanted anything, I will know.”

From upstairs: “We haven’t!” came two identical voices.

A pause.

“…this time,” George added.

Then the fireplace flared green.

The room shifted.

Conversation didn’t stop—it just… thinned, like sound itself had decided to make space.

You stepped out first.

Not rushing. Not hesitant.

Just arriving like the world had already agreed you belonged in it.

Dark curls framed your face, loose and shifting slightly at the edges, as if even your hair wasn’t entirely committed to staying one thing. Your eyes moved slowly across the room—not nervous, but aware, like you were reading the shape of everything at once.

The Burrow seemed to lean in.

Ron forgot, briefly, how to swallow.

Mrs. Weasley recovered first. “Oh, there you are, dear.”

You paused at that.

Like you were testing whether “dear” was safe.

Then Mrs. Weasley crossed the room and pulled you into a hug.

Ron watched for the flinch.

It came—tiny, instinctive—but it didn’t last.

Instead, something in your shoulders eased like a knot untied too carefully.

Fred whispered, “Blimey.”

George whispered back, “She’s real.”

“Of course she’s real,” Hermione hissed.

Harry stepped forward. “Everyone—this is Lilith.”

There was a beat where no one quite knew what to do with that.

Then Ginny smiled first.

Not cautious. Not uncertain.

Just… interested.

“Hi,” Ginny said simply.

That seemed to help.

You looked at her a second longer than the others, then nodded slightly.

“Hello.”

Ron noticed the way you said it—careful, like you were placing it down gently in case it broke.

Mrs. Weasley released you but kept a hand on your shoulder like an anchor. “You’ll stay for breakfast, won’t you?”

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t want to.

Because you were deciding what “stay” meant.

“…yes,” you said finally.

Fred immediately grinned. “Brilliant. We’ve got enough food for—what—three wars and a small wedding.”

“Fred,” Mrs. Weasley warned.

Ron should have stopped staring. He knew this. He did not stop staring.

Harry, unfortunately, noticed.

And gave him that look.

Ron mouthed, don’t.

Harry mouthed back, too late.

You turned slightly then, as if something in the room had shifted direction.

Your gaze landed briefly on Ron.

Just a glance.

But it hit like a misfired spell.

Because your expression changed—not dramatically. Just enough to register him.

Like you were noticing something that would stay noticed.

Ron straightened so fast he nearly knocked his chair over.

“Hi,” he blurted.

Too loud.

Too immediate.

You blinked.

Then, softly: “Hello.”

Silence again.

Fred leaned toward George. “He’s done.”

George nodded solemnly. “No recovery.”

Ron ignored them. Mostly.

Harry was still watching.

Of course he was.

Mrs. Weasley ushered everyone toward the table. Plates clattered. Tea poured. The Burrow resumed its usual controlled chaos.

And Ron knew, with absolute certainty, Harry was already thinking something deeply annoying.

Something like:

Oh. That’s going to be his wife.

Ron stabbed his breakfast.