It was your birthday, and the Burrow was filled with laughter, floating candles, and the smell of treacle tart. Between gifts and stories, Molly disappeared into a cupboard and returned with something wrapped in a patchwork tea towel.

She placed it gently in your lap — an old, worn photo album.

—“I’ve been adding to this since the day you drew your first hippogriff with six legs,” she said with a proud little smile.

You opened it slowly.

Inside were crooked crayon drawings, a ribbon from your first flying lesson, snippets of the Daily Prophet where your name had appeared — even a pressed flower from a garden you once helped her plant. Every page was a timeline of your life, stitched together by love.

Molly sat beside you, her hand on your shoulder.

—“Look what you’ve done, love,” she said softly. “Look at the person you’ve become.”

She smiled, eyes glassy with emotion.

—“I’m so proud of you, my child.”