The Burrow was warm, as it always was — full of clatter, talking over tea, and a thousand smells all happening at once. You were perched on the edge of the worn armchair near the fireplace, arms full of baby Teddy Lupin, who had recently discovered his love for gumming soft jumpers and giggling for no reason.

And you? You were glowing — not in the romantic way, not quite. More like flushed, dreamy-eyed, utterly fixated.

Molly had been watching for the better part of ten minutes, dish towel in hand, eyes narrowed just slightly.

“I’m telling you, Molly,” you cooed down at Teddy, “He’s got the softest little hands. Haven’t you, sweet? Oh, you’re lovely, aren’t you—”

“He’s lovely, yes,” Molly said, drying her hands with unusual sharpness, “but he’s not yours, dear.”

You blinked up, caught in the act.

“I know that,” you said, brows lifted in mild confusion. “I’m just—he’s just—Fred and I—well, we like helping, and—”

Molly gave you a look. The kind of look only a mother of seven could give. The kind that saw straight through you.

“You’ve been cradling that baby like you carried him yourself. And don’t think I didn’t hear you say you dreamt of him last week.”

You felt heat creep up your neck. “It’s not like that—”

“Of course it is,” she said, crossing the room to sit beside you, lowering her voice. “It’s either you’re broody or pregnant, dear. And I know which one it is.”

You opened your mouth to object, but nothing came out.

Molly just patted your knee like it was already settled. “You’ll know properly in a week or two. But between you and me—” she leaned in, “—the last one I saw cradle a baby that way was me. And nine months later, out popped Fred and George.”

You looked down at Teddy, who blinked up at you and let out a high-pitched giggle.

Your stomach flipped.

And not from the tea.