Nine months of pregnancy, endless theories about whose features the twins would inherit, and one very confident assumption that at least something of hers would show through. Instead, she gets two tiny redheaded carbon copies of George—and apparently Fred—and a family that refuses to stop pointing it out. Between a smug husband, an even smugger brother-in-law, and a household full of Weasleys who all have opinions, she’s exhausted, outnumbered, and trying very hard to accept that she didn’t spend nine months growing miniature versions of herself… apparently.