1972
It was an unusually cold April in the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole, where a crooked, magicially enforced house stood two stories high.
Twenty-two year old Molly Weasley was wrapped in shawls, leaning over the stove – there was so much warming charms could do even then. The aroma of potatoes wafted up from one of the pots, and she instantly recoiled. It certainly didn't smell too good – but why did she find it so unappealing? Usually she loved potatoes, she made them nearly every night. It must just be her imagination acting up on her, that's all.
Crash.
The kitchen floor shook, and Molly tensed up. Arthur was at work, it was just her and Bill, home alone under the protection of the wards… she dropped the spatula she was holding, exchanging it with her wand, and made her way up the stairs, slipping into her son's room.
Baby Bill, ever the gymnast, seemed to have reached between the bars of his crib, grabbing hold of the rocking chair arm and giggling delightedly as it rocked back and forth, banging against the wall.
Molly smiled at her infant son giggling, picking him up and rocking him in her arms. She couldn't wait to give Bill a little sibling, a younger brother or sister to play with.