He tried to keep up as the stretcher began to move, his long legs tangling awkwardly with the Healers’ quick pace. His free hand hovered uncertainly over her stomach before resting there, a small, helpless gesture of comfort. “You and the baby will be just fine,” he murmured, though it was unclear who he was convincing.

When they finally reached the room and the Healers shifted her onto the bed, Arthur busied himself with the blanket she’d accused him of forgetting, triumphantly pulling it from the bag. “See? Never doubted me for a moment,” he said, offering a crooked smile that faltered the second she grimaced. “Right. Less talking, more hand-holding.”

He leaned close, brushing a strand of hair from her damp forehead. “You’ve done this five times, Molly,” he whispered, voice thick with awe. “But somehow, it still feels like the first.”

“Don’t you dare start getting sentimental on me now, Arthur Weasley,” she hissed, though her voice trembled more from emotion than pain. “You’ll have me crying like a ninny before the baby even gets here.”

She squeezed his fingers tighter, grounding herself in the warmth of him. That stupid blanket. She managed a watery chuckle, despite everything. “You did forget it. Don’t think producing it at the last second earns you points,” she smiled like a grateful idiot.

Another contraction hit, fiercer this time, and her words dissolved into a groan. She turned her face into his sleeve, breathing hard, letting his scent and the steady rhythm of his voice calm her fraying nerves.

When it passed, she slumped back against the pillows, exhausted already. Her hand found his again, curling into it like second nature.

“I know you’re scared,” she murmured, softer now, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “So am I. But there’s no one else I’d want next to me. Not ever.”

She opened her eyes, searching his face. “You and me, Arthur. We’ve done impossible things together. We can do this, too. For the fifth time.”

And just as the Healer called out for her to bear down, Molly gave him one last look. Fire and love blazing in her expression.

“Right, right,  fireplace,” he muttered, half to himself, half to her, his voice pitched high with urgency. He maneuvered around the rattling teacup, nearly tripping over the duffel anyway, and gave a hasty glare at the enchanted clock as if it had done this on purpose. With one arm firm around Molly’s shoulders, he guided her toward the hearth, his grip tightening when she gasped through another contraction.

“Nearly there, love, nearly there,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple even as his own hands trembled. “Hold tight, we’ll have you in a proper room before you can scold me for forgetting the baby blanket.” And with that, clutching Molly in one arm and the duffel in the other, he stepped them into the green flare of Floo, straight toward St. Mungo’s entrance, calling hoarsely for a healer the moment their feet touched down.

“You’d think, after five children, this would come with a bloody manual,” she muttered through clenched teeth, only half-aware of the startled Healer rushing toward them. “And you—” she turned a fierce glare up at Arthur, “—you forget the blanket?” There were now tears in her eyes. Hormones everywhere.

“Madam Weasley?” came the Healer’s steady voice, slipping between them like a calming charm. “Room five is ready. We’ve got a birthing ward set up and a Mediwitch on standby —”

The Healer motioned for a stretcher, which appeared with a pop.

Molly groaned as she was guided onto it — not just from the pain, but from the absurdity of it all. “Remind me again, why we didn’t just apparate?”

Molly huffed, eyes closing as the stretcher began to glide smoothly down the corridor. “Next time you’re carrying the baby.”

And with that, she were whisking her away. Away from her husband. “Where’s Arthur?” she screamed immediately. “He has to stay —“ the Healer began, “He has to stay by my side!” she let her have it. “Arthur!” she screamed.

With a quick bend, Arthur dragged a battered old duffel out from beneath the frame. Its seams had been reinforced three times over, though one strap still looked a little singed. “Right,” he said, nodding briskly. “Now, can you make it to the fireplace, or shall I fetch the chair?” His tone held a note of boyish eagerness that almost clashed with the gravity of the moment, but it was impossible to miss the care in it.

He was already halfway to the wardrobe where a peculiar contraption leaned, part wheeled-chair, part walking-stool, with faint enchantments humming under its frame. He glanced back at her, waiting. “I’d rather you be comfortable and steady than us depending on my muscles. Besides,” his grin widened, “it’s been far too long since I had reason to put this beauty to the test.”

“Oh —“ she grimaced, “Oh, Arthur,” she panted, her voice tight but firm. “He’s not waiting. These aren’t just those practice ones.” Another wave hit, and she closed her eyes, riding through it with a huff of determination. “He’s really coming. Fast.”

When she opened her eyes again, Arthur’s ridiculous grin and bouncing energy tugged a small, fond laugh from her, despite the pain. “You and that contraption,” she muttered, casting an amused glance at the magical hybrid chair. But she gave a slight nod, breathless but resolute. “Chair. Now, please.

The room pulsed with magic — anxious, excited, very Weasley magic. A couple of enchanted items blinked to life as if sensing the urgency: a teacup rattled off its shelf, and the old clock on the wall spun its hands once before shouting, “Maternity Ward!” in a shrill, excited voice.

Molly winced and gave it a look. “Yes, thank you, we know!”

The next contraction came sharper, faster. She gasped, gripping the edge of the bed until her knuckles went white. “Arthur. Fireplace. Now.”

But her eyes were shining, even through the pain. “And if you trip over that blasted duffel again, I swear, I will hex your trousers off in the middle of St. Mungo’s.”

She leaned back in her chair, arms folding loosely, a smirk tugging at her lips. “And somersaults, already? That’s not a Quidditch player in the making, that’s a bloody McKinnon trait if I’ve ever heard one. If he comes out with my left hook, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

For all the teasing, there was a soft glimmer in her gaze as she watched Molly fuss absentmindedly at her belly. Marlene reached across the table, snagging Molly’s hand with a squeeze. “You’re going to be brilliant at this, you know. The whole lot of them are lucky to have you. Sugar cubes and all.”

“Oh, don’t say that, I’ll cry. And I’ve been so leaky lately. I cried at a butter advert yesterday. The butter, Marlene.”

She rolled her eyes at herself, though her smile didn’t fade, and her gaze was soft enough to match the steam curling off her teacup. “And don’t knock alphabetizing. It keeps me sane. Do you know how long it takes to find thyme in a toddler-ransacked pantry? At least now I can weep over my toast efficiently.”

A flutter passed across her stomach and she stilled for a moment, palm resting where a tiny foot had just made its opinion known. “There he goes again. Honestly, he’s going to come out marching. Or boxing, if your genes have anything to say about it.”

She looked up at Marlene then, her expression fond and tired and very full. “You say I’ll be brilliant, but I look at you — at how you just are, so fiercely, so brightly — and I think, if I can raise them to have even half your fire, we’ll be just fine.” Molly sniffed and reached for her tea again.

When she remembered her childhood, it was her mom's endless patience with Lydia's wild and free-wheeling nature; the way she always when to make Lydia stop and when to let her do something stupid. Rosemary Travers almost always had everything in control. It had been rough when her father died, but her mum had come out of it eventually. She hadn't let anything phase her since. Things were always phasing Lydia.

"Emma's like that, she's patient too. And so focused. She'll make a great mum. I think I'd get it wrong too much. What kid needs a mom that doesn't know how to make up her mind, you know?"

“Lydia,” she said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face with the back of her dirt-smudged hand. “Patience isn’t something you are. It’s something you practice. And I’m not patient all the time. Just ask the radishes. Or the boys. Or definitely Arthur,” she laughed.

She glanced over with a small, wry smile, her eyes warm but serious. “You don’t need to be some perfect statue of serenity to be a good mum. You just need to be present. Loving. Willing to try.”

She pushed the soil gently back into place, firm but tender, like tucking in a sleeping child.

“And Emma’s amazing, yeah. But so are you. You feel everything so deeply. That’s a kind of magic not everyone has. You know what my mum used to say?” She shifted, turning toward Lydia more fully. “She said kids don’t need perfection. They need someone who sees them. Really sees them. And you, Lydia Travers, see everything like it’s lit from within.”

She leaned back on her hands, catching her breath a little. The baby had kicked. A quiet beat passed.

“I think the people who worry they’ll get it wrong — they’re the ones who will get it right.

Then, with a smirk, she added, “And if all else fails, you just grow a garden. It teaches you everything you need to know about patience, letting go, and dealing with shit.” She winked.

"Snatchweed." Lydia repeated, hoping it would help her remember it for later. Molly was a good teacher, it was no wonder her boys loved her so much. "I found this one?" She said as she pointed to a plant that wasn't snatchweed but also didn't look like the flowers all around it?

"I think if I ever become a mum, I'd like to be one like you. You're so good at it."

She turned toward Lydia, her expression softening with both pride and surprise. "That one’s nutsedge, actually," she said, nodding toward the weed Lydia had pointed to. "Good eye, my dear," she smiled.

Then her eyes settled fully on Lydia, really saw her: elbows smudged with earth, a little furrow between her brows that showed up when she was thinking too hard. The compliment hung in the air.

Molly smiled. Not the quick, polite sort she gave at the market, but one that came from somewhere down in the roots of her heart.

"Oh, love," she reached out and brushed a leaf from Lydia’s shoulder. "You already are that kind of person. The gentleness? The noticing? That’s half the battle. The rest comes day by day in sticky fingers and muddy knees."

She chuckled lightly, and her other hand moved instinctively to her round belly. "I still don’t always get it right. But you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to love them enough to keep showing up. Same as the garden."

She leaned down to kiss Molly on the cheek before settling into the seat across from her, plucking a sugar cube off the tray with a wink. “Arthur playing saint with the kids today? Or did you bribe him with something to get out on your own?” Her tone was teasing, but the look in her eyes was softer, genuinely fond. “It’s good to see you, Mol. You doing alright? And the tiny future Gryffindor in there, behaving?”

She reached for her teacup, steam curling around her fingers. “He’s taken them to the orchard. Bill was practically vibrating with excitement. And I think Percy made a list. For the apples.” She smiled.

She glanced down, then raised an eyebrow. “As for this one, he’s been doing somersaults since sunrise. I swear he’s training for the Quidditch pitch already. Merlin help me if he turns out like Fred and George.”

Her gaze softened as she looked at Marlene. “But I’m good. Really. It’s nice, being here with you. Even if you did steal the best sugar cube.”

But when Frank started talking about Neville, about giving him what he didn’t have, Molly’s heart softened in that way it always did when people spoke about their children with real love. Real hope.

She reached across the table and set a hand on his arm. Warm, solid. “You’re doing right by him, Frank. More than right. And Al’s wonderful. She’s always had that quiet kind of strength. It pairs well with yours.” Her eyes softened. “Neville will grow up knowing he’s safe, and wanted. That’s something even magic can’t give unless it’s already in your heart.”

At the mention of furniture, she let out a chuckle and gave his arm a gentle pat. “Oh, I’ll be there the moment you need me. No child of yours is sleeping in a crib with uneven legs or a changing table that squeaks. And don’t even think about buying something pre-made. That’s how you get hexed screws and a hundred tiny curse-activated drawers.” She shook her head fondly.

She smiled, tired but proud. “Neville’s lucky. And any future little Longbottoms will be, too.” She winked. “Just be sure you’re stocked up on nappies and biscuits. In that order.”

His eyes softened and his ears went faintly pink at her compliments. Everything she said about Al was true, of course, but it always felt odd to hear compliments about himself. By now he was mostly sure he'd cut it as a parent but it was still reassuring to hear others say the same. "He'll have everything and more, as long as I'm around to provide it. He's already my whole world."

Frank laughed and shook his head. "Merlin what would I do without you, Molly? Besides own probably cursed and poorly constructed furniture. I really can't thank you and Arthur enough for all your support. It truly means the world to me and Al."

She leaned in slightly. “Men and their ‘thinking’. I’ve heard that line before. Usually just before the ghoul in the attic makes more sense than what’s coming out of their mouths.”

Still, she couldn’t hide the fondness in her voice, even as she gave him a pointed look. “And don’t you go thinking I didn’t notice that clever little turn of yours -- trying to distract me with baby talk. As if that would keep you out of trouble. You better start reading to them early, James Potter, because if they’re anything like their father, they’ll need all the guidance they can get.”

She reached over, gave him a brisk pat on the cheek like she was swatting away a fly, gentle but firm. “Now then. You tell Lily she’s welcome to send along those muggle titles anytime. Arthur’s been absolutely itching to get his hands on something called a ‘car manual.’”

“You always see through me, don’t you?” he murmured, voice thick with emotion and something boyish behind it. “Always have. Always will.”

He looked up at her then, eyes shining with tears that didn't quite fall. “I know I can’t shield them from everything, Molly. I know the world’s, not exactly in the best shape to hand a baby to.” He paused, drawing her hand closer to his chest. “But I swear to you, and to them whoever they turn out to be I’ll never stop trying to make it better. For them. For you.”

A warm smile tugged at his lips, the kind of smile that came from deep down from knowing, from love, from wonder. “A whole team, you say?” He chuckled, resting his forehead against hers. “I can’t lie, I’ve imagined a sea of red hair bounding around this house, driving you mad and making me late to work every other morning.”

He squeezed her hands gently, reverently. “We’ll find the room. I’ll make the room. I’ll build so many rooms you’ll think we’re running a boarding school. And the roof? Love, I’ll reinforce it myself, twice over magic and Muggle tools, just to be sure.”

He leaned in then, brushing a kiss against her cheek. “You’ve given me everything, Molly. And now, this.” His hand shifted ever so slightly on her belly, as if trying to feel what was still just a promise. “I didn’t know my heart could stretch this far.”

Then, softer, more to her than anyone else: “Happy birthday to me, indeed.”

“Oh, Arthur,” she whispered, her voice thick with the weight of love and time and the thousand things they’d never needed to say out loud. “You’ve always tried. You try with your whole heart. That’s what makes you -- you. That’s what makes me feel safe, no matter what the world’s doing outside that hill.” She motioned around them.

Molly pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, her own gaze shimmering with that mother’s knowing, the kind that held both fire and tenderness. “We’ve weathered plenty, haven’t we? And here we are. Another birthday. Another baby. Another promise.”

Her hands covered his where they rested on her stomach, fingers lacing through his with quiet certainty. “This little one’s coming into a home already bursting with love -- and yes, probably chaos -- and yes, probably an alarming number of mismatched socks. But they’ll know joy, Arthur. They’ll know how it feels to be truly wanted. And that’s more than most ever get.”

She smiled then -- that smile, the one she reserved for Arthur when the rest of the world was miles away. “And if you’re building rooms, love, then I suppose I’ll be planning meals for a kingdom. I’ll write the spells myself if I must. A warming charm for every corner, a lullaby in every hallway.”

Molly leaned in again, her lips brushing his temple as her hands slipped around his shoulders. “You don’t have to give me anything," she murmured into his ear. “You’ve already given me everything I ever wanted. A home. A partner. This mad, magical, beautiful life.”

Then, with a spark of mischief in her eye, she added, “Though I will be needing a bigger pantry, Mr. Weasley. And don’t think you’re getting out of that shed expansion we talked about. Five kids, Arthur. That’s a broom closet’s worth of mess just in boots.” She laughed again, softly, but her arms around him only tightened, grounding him in the now.

“Happy birthday, love,” she said. “To you. To us.”

“I -- yes, maybe,” she said, voice quieter than before. “I think maybe life. It all feels tangled right now. Like like I’ve stepped into someone else’s story and I don’t know how to read them even though I've been here before.”

She laughed nervously, then quickly looked down, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I sound ridiculous. It’s just -- there’s a feeling. Something growing," inside her but Sybill didn't know such a thing. She glanced up, “something around me," she cleared her throat, "And I don’t know if it’s safe."

Molly blinked fast and tried to smile. “So maybe just a little more clarity. If the cards are willing.”