The Burrow smelled like fresh bread and pumpkin soup. Molly hummed softly as she served two steaming plates. One for Ron. The other—yours—first.

Ron frowned.

—“Why do you always serve them first?” he snapped suddenly.

Molly paused, ladle in hand.

—“Excuse me?”

—“They’re not even family,” Ron muttered, crossing his arms. “And you treat them like—like one of us. Better, even.”

You shifted uncomfortably. You were about to say something, to de-escalate it, to make it easier. But Molly raised a hand. And when she turned around, her voice was quiet—but sharp.

—“Not even family?” she repeated.

Ginny glanced up from her tea. Even the ghoul upstairs seemed to fall silent.

Molly placed the ladle down with a soft but deliberate thud.

—“Ronald Bilius Weasley,” she said, walking toward him, “this child is my child. Whether they carry my last name or not. Whether they share my blood or not. That’s not what makes someone family.”

Ron opened his mouth, then shut it. No one moved.

Molly turned to you and gently brushed some hair from your face, just like she always did.

—“I love you. I’ve fed you, protected you, yelled at you, and cheered for you. You’ve sat at this table and helped me with dishes, and fallen asleep on my couch after long days. You’re mine. You’re ours.”

Then, as if nothing had happened, she went back to stirring the soup.