1972, 19 December
The first time Molly holds her second-born son in her arms, all she can do is wonder how soft he is. She could have ten children, fifteen, a whole Quidditch league, perhaps, and never, ever get tired of the first time she looks into her child's eyes, how innocent and simple he is. She marvels in the softness of his tiny little feet, baby fingers winding around one of her own, a soft patch of red hair smoothed over his head.
It was in these kinds of moments that she knew she was meant to be a mother. She would take care of this baby, protect it, cherish it, teach it. She would send him off to Hogwarts in eleven years and feel a bit bittersweet - her baby is leaving home, growing up.
Molly knows she'll make him jumpers every Christmas, including this one, just as her mother did with her. She'll raise him on delicious, home-cooked meals, with lots of siblings. She'll fawn over him and frown every time when he gets injured - Weasleys', they have a knack of getting themselves into trouble - and occasionally scold him for being too dangerous, because she really doesn't want her baby to get hurt.
But right now, she's cuddling baby Charlie in the crook of her arm and feeling joy incomparable to anything else in the whole entire world.