You hadn’t expected to be nervous. But as you stood on the porch of the Burrow, hands slightly clammy, the front door creaked open—and there she was.

Molly Weasley.

She pulled you into a hug before you could say a word, arms warm and steady. She smelled like cinnamon and lavender, like the kind of safety people write books about.

—“You’re just skin and bones,” she scolded gently, fussing over your jacket. “Come in, love. I made treacle tart.”

The kitchen felt like it always did—chaotic and soft, humming with memories and old magic. Photographs lined the walls, many of them showing familiar redheads laughing, dancing, fighting over chairs.

Your boyfriend—her son—was helping in the garden, leaving you two alone.

Molly sat you down, poured tea, and studied you with those sharp, motherly eyes.

—“I know you’ve been through more than most ever should,” she said softly. “And I know my son is stubborn, dramatic, and probably impossible at times.”

You smiled.

—“But he’s also got your eyes when he talks about you.” She smiled too, eyes misty. “And I’ve learned to trust those eyes.”

A silence settled. Not awkward—just full.

—“After Fred… after the war, I wasn’t sure I’d see him smile like that again,” she added. “But then you walked in.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you just held your cup and nodded, throat thick.

—“You’re family now,” Molly said simply. “Whether you like it or not.”