It started over dinner. Fred had been twitchy all evening — kicking you gently under the table, drumming his fingers on his knee, stealing glances at you like he was waiting for the right moment.

And then, just as Molly passed the bread, she cleared her throat.

“Fred Weasley,” she said in that tone that could stop a stampede of Hippogriffs, “we’re going to talk. Now.”

Fred winced. “Mum—”

“Now, Fred.”

That’s how you found yourself in the sitting room, you on the edge of the sofa, Fred hovering awkwardly next to you, and Molly settling across from you like she was about to negotiate peace between nations.

She folded her arms, not angry, just… mum.

“So,” she began, voice gentler than you expected, “Fred’s told me about his little plan. The flat. The two of you moving in together above the shop.”

You froze. What?

Fred rubbed the back of his neck, giving you a sheepish look. “I was gonna tell you. I just — I wanted it sorted first. So you’d know it wasn’t just talk.”

Molly’s gaze shifted from Fred to you, soft but serious. “I know you two care for each other. And I’m proud of the both of you — you, finished with school, Fred and George working so hard on that shop. But this — this is a big step. A grown-up step. I just want to hear it from you, dear. Is this what you want? You don’t have to rush, not for Fred, not for anyone. You’ve got time, you know. The Burrow’s always home.”

Fred slid his hand into yours, fingers warm, squeezing like he could silently say everything he was thinking.

The room waited — Fred, hopeful; Molly, protective; the air thick with a mother’s love and a boy’s eager plans.