Chapter Text
Hermione took a deep breath in and slowly exhaled, feeling her steps grow lighter and more carefree with each one.
Today was a good day—no, today was a great day. Her House-Elf Protection Act had finally passed its final review. When Kingsley told her the news, she nearly cried. It meant that her ultimate goal of securing rights for the unfairly treated had taken another step forward. The more she thought about it, the more excited she became, so much so that she nearly skipped toward the fireplace. Progress in her work also meant one other thing: she could finally go home early.
After the familiar squeezing sensation, she was greeted by the sweet fragrance of the flowers in their front yard. Not long after they married, they had settled here—a cozy three-story cottage with cream-colored walls, a wooden roof, and a sky-blue painted front door. Oak, spruce, and pink-and-white roses climbed from the pots in front all the way to the windowsills. Behind the house lay a large vegetable garden, a small pond, and a shed for Muggle tools. It was half like the home she’d shared with her parents in London and half like the Burrow. Though they had initially kept a large apartment in London for work convenience, Hermione eventually grew tired of the high-pressure city life that kept her constantly on edge. So they moved here, to the peaceful countryside near the Burrow, where they could both breathe. She designed the house, and he built most of it. Perhaps out of her own whimsy, she wanted them to construct it themselves—the Muggle way, without magic. To her surprise, that lazy git agreed. Of course, there were minor mishaps along the way: a strong wind once knocked down the scaffolding they’d just erected, birds stole their paint, and more than once, they argued over the placement of flowerpots or portraits (sometimes Hermione suspected he did it on purpose—he loved riling her up). But in the end, the result satisfied her completely. By all accounts, it was a perfect house. Their home.
As she opened the door, the aroma of roast beef and cheese wafted toward her. She’d only nibbled on a sandwich at the office for lunch, so she was starving and couldn’t wait to dig in. Still, she resisted the protests of her growling stomach and didn’t announce her arrival immediately. This was the first time Hermione "Workaholic" Granger had come home so early—she wanted to surprise them.
"...So after Hairy Uncle defeated the noseless man, what happened next?" Rose’s sweet, slightly lisping voice asked. Her pronunciation still needed work, and Hermione made a mental note to correct it later.
"Well... after that, your mum and I became... uh... more than friends. And then, we got married. We asked Merlin for a baby, and one day, like magic, he sent us you," Ron replied in a gentle voice.
There he was—her childhood friend, her love, her husband, Ron Weasley. Standing at the kitchen counter in a light tan apron, his long red hair tied back haphazardly with a band, his tall frame leaning slightly against the counter. His strong arms cradled their four-year-old daughter, her little head resting on his broad shoulder. With his free hand, he twirled his wand, directing a wooden spoon to stir a rich, tomato-scented soup. He’d gotten so good at this. She remembered how clumsy he’d been when he first started learning to cook, how Mrs. Weasley had yanked his ear and scolded him. But truth be told, he’d become a better cook than she was—though she’d never admit it. She didn’t need him strutting around, boasting about it. Still, she was hopelessly dependent on his cooking now. Ron gazed lovingly at their daughter as the golden light of the setting sun streamed through the window, making his pale eyelashes gleam and casting a golden halo around the two of them. It was a breathtakingly beautiful scene, and for a moment, Hermione was lost in it.
"Mummy!" Rose was the first to spot her, snapping Hermione back to reality. Ron turned, startled by her sudden appearance behind them.
"Merlin’s beard, Hermione! You nearly gave me a heart attack," Ron said, almost dropping his wand. Seeing his dumbfounded expression—and finally getting him back after hundreds of times he’d scared her—she burst out laughing.
"Alright, you win this round," her husband said with an embarrassed grin, carefully setting down Rose, who immediately rushed into her mother’s arms. Hermione gently stroked her daughter’s wild curls—so much like her own. She remembered the tiny kicks inside her belly when she was pregnant, the way she’d squirmed. Despite reading every book and article on childbirth and parenting, despite countless conversations with Molly, she’d been terrified when the time came. Thankfully, Ron had been by her side the whole time—even when she nearly crushed his hand. Hermione kissed Rose’s little nose. She loved her more than anything in the world.
"You’re home early?" Ron asked, surprised.
"Obviously," she rolled her eyes. "I am home early, so..."
Then it clicked. Ron’s bright blue eyes widened in disbelief and excitement, his adorable freckles dancing with his expression. After so many years together, they’d gone from completely misunderstanding each other to becoming experts at reading one another.
"The bill passed?"
"What do you think?" Her proud smile was answer enough. Both of them could barely contain their joy.
"That’s brilliant! Hermione, you’re amazing!" Ron exclaimed, just as he had countless times before. His large hands cupped her face, and Hermione couldn’t help but kiss him. He responded with equal fervor, making her heart race just like their first time—until Rose let out a disgusted "Ew!" and they quickly pulled apart, flustered. Hermione settled Rose into her chair, scolding herself for doing that in front of their child. Maybe it was because work had been so busy lately, or maybe it was because... well, he looked ridiculously handsome today.
"We should celebrate," Ron said, clearing his throat. "Harry’ll want to know. Ginny, James, Lily, little Albus... Merlin, I should make more food..." Now he sounded like Mrs. Weasley. Hermione pressed a finger to his lips to quiet him.
"Harry already knows—I told him," she said. "But that’s not why I came home early, Ronald. I wanted it to be just us." Today was one of the best days of her life, and she wanted to keep it simple and special. No overthinking, no worrying about responsibilities or work or Harry. She was too excited. She only wanted one thing.
A glint flashed in Ron’s eyes as he immediately understood. A mischievous grin curled at the corner of his mouth.
"Well, you’ll have to keep it down so we don’t wake Rose," he whispered in her ear.
Hermione felt her face heat up, remembering the last time they’d tried this—they’d barely started kissing when Rose had called out for water downstairs. Hermione playfully smacked Ron’s shoulder, earning an even more judgmental look from their daughter.
"Alright, bring the food over, Mr. Granger-Weasley. I’m starving."
"As you wish, Madam."
She sat at the table while Ron extinguished the nearly scorched soup with a flick of his wand, then levitated the dishes onto the table. Dinner was delightful. Ron recounted hilarious incidents from the joke shop, making Hermione laugh until her sides hurt. Rose waged war with her mother over vegetables—every time Hermione put broccoli on her plate, the little girl transferred it to Ron’s, who happily ate it until Hermione nudged him under the table. He then coaxed Rose into eating her greens by pretending the fork was the Hogwarts Express entering a tunnel. After dinner, they played with dolls, introduced her to Quidditch teams, and told her the story of Queen Jean and Sir Billy (a tale Hermione had made up). Finally, they tucked her into bed. Hermione missed these simple, mundane moments of family life—they were far more enjoyable than dealing with Ministry officials. Though for Ron, who handled this daily, it might be a different story.
They tiptoed out of Rose’s room, and Ron headed to the sink to wash the dishes. That was when Hermione noticed something was off.
"You’re hurt!" she gasped as Ron turned, quickly grabbing his arm and pushing up his sleeve. A dark purple bruise, almost black, marred his skin—as if he’d been hit or struck by a curse. Since fifth year, after the attack by the brain in the Department of Mysteries left scars on his arms, Ron had taken to wearing long sleeves to cover them. That was why Hermione hadn’t noticed his attempts to hide this injury until now. Ron pulled his arm back, and for a split second, she caught a flicker of panic in his blue eyes. That only made her more suspicious.
"It’s nothing, just a scratch," Ron explained. "George had me pick up supplies from another shop this afternoon, and some Cornish pixies got loose. Took us ages to round them up."
Her instincts told her his explanation was too simple. The part of her that always needed answers wanted to press further, to lecture him on being more careful, to launch into a full-blown safety talk. But she didn’t want to ruin the mood tonight.
"Why didn’t you just use a Freezing Charm?" she finally said, ignoring his evasion and taking his arm again. She pointed her wand at the bruise.
"Episkey."
The purple faded.
"Thanks," Ron said casually. "Don’t know what I’d do without you." He smirked, flicking his wand to make the dishcloth start scrubbing the plates, as if trying to distract her from the odd moment. He cupped her face and gave her a soft kiss, which she returned slowly. She wanted to lose herself in it, but an inexplicable guilt gnawed at her.
"Ron," she murmured, pulling away. He frowned, confused.
"What’s wrong?"
"Is this what you want? Am I asking for too much?"
What she really wanted to ask was whether she’d made him give up too much. Because the truth was, ever since they’d gotten together after the war, Ron had made sacrifices for her career at the Ministry. Less than two years after helping Harry round up the remaining Death Eaters, he’d resigned from his dream job as an Auror to support her, taking up part-time work at the joke shop to have more flexibility while managing their home life. Later, after they married and had Rose, as she climbed the ranks and grew busier, he took on most of the household duties—a far cry from the boy who’d once complained about her terrible cooking under the Horcrux’s influence. Sometimes, his growth stunned her. In their relationship, he seemed to keep compromising, stepping back again and again. The time she spent with him was pitifully little, yet he never complained. There was a saying that men matured late, but when they did, they were terrifying mature. He didn’t even argue with her much anymore, as if afraid of hurting her feelings. And that was the root of her guilt. It was almost laughable—Ron Weasley no longer had big fights with Hermione Granger, and that bothered her.
At her words, Ron grew serious. His blue eyes locked onto her brown ones, and the sound of running water from the sink filled the silence. Her heartbeat quickened.
"Hermione Jean Granger," he said firmly, "if I had the choice, I wouldn’t change a single second of the last twelve years with you. I did what I did because it is what I wanted—and because you’re worth it. You’re the best, most incredible person I’ve ever known. Your compassion, your stubbornness, your temper, your brilliance—being with you is the greatest fortune of my life. Never doubt that."
She felt her eyes well up. Seeing her tears, Ron panicked.
"Did I scare—"
She cut him off with a kiss.
"Ron Weasley, you absolute idiot! Oh, I love you so much!" She kissed him passionately, and he cupped the back of her neck, returning it with equal intensity.
"Fly! Fly! Score!"
Rose’s sudden shout startled them both. They froze, then crept to her door and peeked in. Their daughter was talking in her sleep.
"I’ve been telling her too much about Quidditch," Ron whispered. They quietly shut the door and shared a quiet laugh.
"Let’s go upstairs," Hermione suggested.
"Was thinking the same thing."
With that, he scooped her up, and they stifled their laughter as they headed to the bedroom. Hermione flicked her wand, shutting the door behind them.
A searing pain tore through her. She felt cold—colder and colder. She tried to see his face, but her vision blurred.
"Hermione... Hermione......" He called her name over and over, his voice laced with fear and despair, filling her with unbearable sorrow.
She struggled to lift her hand, wanting to comfort him. She said something, but she couldn’t hear her own words.
Then—only white light.
Hermione jolted awake with a gasp. She turned her head and found Ron staring at her, startling her so badly she nearly screamed.
"Merlin, Ron! What are you doing?" she blurted.
Ron was silent for a moment. His eyes gleamed an eerie blue in the moonlight, sending a shiver down her spine. But then he seemed to snap out of it, licking his lips.
"Sorry. You were shaking. I couldn’t sleep—worried something was wrong," he replied. "Bad dream?"
She swallowed and nodded. After all these years, they still hadn’t fully escaped the war’s lingering shadows.
"I dreamed... I don’t know. I just remember pain, cold, you calling my name over and over... but I couldn’t see your face."
Ron studied her thoughtfully, as if the dream meant something. But in the end, he said nothing, only pulling her into a tight embrace.
She realized she was still trembling.
"I’m here, Hermione. I’m here," he murmured, gently rubbing her back, just like he had in their third year. "I’ll always be with you." His voice cracked on the last word.
She nodded again, exhaling in relief.
She was Hermione Granger-Weasley. She had the perfect family, her dream job, a husband who loved and cherished her, and an adorable child. They’d survived the Second Wizarding War, overcome countless hardships. She was living the best life she could’ve imagined.
What could possibly go wrong?
TBC