George carefully lifts the car seat from its base, glancing down at the baby nestled inside before throwing you a wink over the top of it. “Showtime,” he murmurs, stepping back so you can slide out of the car. His free hand wraps gently around your waist as you wobble slightly, steadying you like he has every day since the baby arrived.

The gravel crunches underfoot as you make your way toward the Burrow. It’s a little lopsided as ever, like it’s leaning down to greet you. The front door is already open, not magically, just open, like Molly’s been checking the window for the last ten minutes.

The warm, familiar smell hits you first: fresh bread, something bubbling and savory on the stove, the faintest scent of laundry soap and lemon oil. The house smells like home.

George pauses in the doorway, shifting the car seat’s weight slightly and shooting you a quick, private glance.

“You sure?” he asks, quiet and serious. “About letting Mum hold them?”

You nod. You've been sure since you met George, sure since he introduced you to his family, sure you wanted everything to do with the Weasley's and become one of them.

He nods back once, then steps inside.

Molly’s gasp echoes from the kitchen.

“Oh sweet Merlin,” she breathes, rushing forward with her hands clasped under her chin. “Is that my grandbaby?”

George crouches a little, setting the car seat on the old patched rug in the sitting room. The baby stirs only slightly at the motion, still blissfully asleep, cheeks flushed pink and warm.

“Can I—?” Molly asks, already halfway to tears.

George looks to you again, always asking, always making space for your comfort. And you nod again, a little choked up now too.

“Of course,” you say softly.

She scoops the baby into her arms like she was born to do it, like she never forgot the muscle memory of mothering. Her face folds into an expression of absolute wonder. She rocks gently, murmuring sweet nothings, already swaying like there’s music playing only she can hear.

“Oh, you precious thing,” she whispers, brushing her thumb over the baby’s velvety cheek. “Look at you. So loved already. And so perfect.” She leans her cheek against the baby’s head, eyes fluttering shut in bliss.

Arthur peeks in from the kitchen doorway, holding a tea towel and smiling warmly. “You two getting enough sleep, then?” he asks, concern wrapped in his soft-spoken tone. “Don’t let the little one fool you with all that sleeping during the day, they’re plotting.”

George chuckles and leans against the doorframe beside you, rubbing your back lightly. “We’re managing. Sort of.”

Molly glances up at you now, her eyes crinkled with joy but sharp with maternal instinct. “And you, my love?” she says, her voice gentler now, more private. “How are you feeling, sweetheart? Truly?”

Behind her, the table is set for a late lunch, fresh bread, roasted chicken, something rich and buttery steaming in a casserole dish.