Fred carefully lifts the car seat from its base, peeking down at the baby nestled inside with a soft whistle. “Blimey, still cute. Must take after me,” he says with a cheeky grin, throwing you a wink over the top of the carrier. Then, in a softer voice, almost reverent, “Showtime.”

He steps back, giving you space to slide out of the car, but his free hand immediately wraps around your waist the moment your settle on the ground. He steadies, you like he’s done every single day since the baby arrived, your crutch for every twinge of pain, like it’s second nature now.

The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you make your way up the path toward the Burrow. It’s as crooked and charming as ever, the top floors tilting like they’re bending down to welcome you home. The front door is already open, not from magic, just anticipation. Molly’s probably been peeking through the curtains for ages.

The familiar smell reaches you before anything else: fresh bread, something rich and bubbling on the stove, and the soft scent of lemon oil and laundry soap. It smells like love, like the Burrow always has.

Fred pauses in the doorway, shifting the car seat slightly and glancing sideways at you. His expression sobers, just for a second.

“You sure about letting Mum hold them?” he asks, low and sincere.

You nod. You’ve been sure since the moment you met Fred. Since he introduced you to his impossibly large, impossibly warm family. Since you realized you wanted to be one of them.

He nods too, then strides inside announcing himself loudly and proudly, "look who I brought."

From the kitchen, a sharp gasp.

“Oh, sweet Merlin,” Molly breathes, appearing in the hallway, hands clasped beneath her chin. “Is that my grandbaby?”

Fred crouches with surprising gentleness and sets the car seat down on the familiar old rug in the sitting room. The baby stirs only slightly, still pink-cheeked and dreaming.

“Can I—?” Molly asks, already welling up.

Fred looks to you again. Always checking in. Always giving you the final word. And you nod, this time a little tearfully.

“Of course,” you whisper.

Molly scoops the baby into her arms like she’s been waiting her whole life to do it. She sways instantly, instinctively, murmuring something soft and wordless as her cheek brushes the baby’s downy hair.

“Oh, you precious thing,” she breathes, her voice thick with emotion. “So loved already. So perfect.”

Arthur appears in the doorway, drying his hands on a tea towel, his smile gentle. “You two managing any sleep at all?” he asks, voice laced with quiet concern. “Don’t be fooled, they nap like angels, but they’re scheming.”

Fred snorts and leans casually against the doorframe, brushing a hand along your back. “We’ve reached the ‘surviving on toast and litres of coffee’ phase,” he quips. “But yeah. We’re hanging in there.”

Molly glances at you now, her smile still wide but her eyes searching.

“And you, my love?” she asks quietly, reaching toward you without letting go of the baby. “How are you feeling, sweetheart? Truly?”

Behind her, the table is already set: a loaf of fresh bread, roast chicken glistening in its juices, and something creamy and golden bubbling in a casserole dish.