Their home is full of books, of course, and there are always Quidditch odds and ends scattered about—gloves, a spare broom, a magazine with the Cannons flying across the glossy front page, old pictures of Ron waving merrily in his Gryffindor Keeper’s uniform--and you can never be sure where you’ll discover a stray Chocolate Frog. The house smells of parchment and mown grass wafting in through open windows in the summer and any house containing a Weasley should come with a guarantee that it’ll never be totally quiet and people are always Flooing in and out without invitation and that ghastly burnt orange armchair Ron insists on keeping clashes horribly with the rest of the comfortable-but-sophisticated décor she picked out and the best cleaning spells in the world, inherited from Molly Weasley herself, can’t quite manage to get rid of all of the hair Crookshanks sheds.

It’s a bit of a mess, really, Hermione sighs in exasperation one day after returning home from work, feet aching and eyes blurry, knowing she won’t find the time to straighten up tonight: but Ron’s laugh is echoing through the hallway, and she can hear the pounding of her children’s feet as they race to greet her, and, well, it’s home.