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The pub was warm and humming with quiet conversation with fairy lights tangled in the rafters giving everything a soft golden hue.
Harry held the door open as Daphne stepped inside beside him, her pale blond hair swept back in a twist.
“There they are,” Harry murmured, spotting the familiar redhead and chestnut curls in the corner booth.
Daphne’s eyes followed his gaze. Ron and Hermione sat close together, leaning in as Hermione said something with a quiet laugh. Ron rolled his eyes with a grin, nudging her shoulder with his. Two empty pint glasses sat in front of them.
As they approached, Daphne tilted her head and asked, almost absently, “You didn’t tell me Ron and Hermione were dating.”
Harry blinked. “They’re not.”
She stopped, turning toward him. “What?”
“They’re not dating,” he repeated.
Daphne frowned, watching as Hermione adjusted Ron’s collar with a gentle scold and he swatted her hand away, grinning. “They’re literally glowing at each other.”
“Yeah,” Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s… a thing.”
“A thing?” Daphne echoed. “You mean they’re secretly dating?”
“No,” he said. “They’re just... like that. Everyone knows they have feelings for each other. I’m pretty sure they know too. But they never do anything about it.”
Daphne stared at him for a long moment. “That’s stupid.”
Harry let out a short laugh. “I know.”
There was a pause as they resumed walking toward the booth.
“But what can you do?” Harry added with a shrug.
Daphne shot him a look. “Plenty, actually, Mr. Potter. Haven’t any of you tried setting them up? Pushed them in the right direction?”
Harry pulled a face. “We’ve always said we didn’t want to interfere with their lives.”
Daphne rolled her eyes in the most dramatic, perfectly aristocratic way possible. “No wonder they’re still not together.”
Harry chuckled, bumping her shoulder playfully as they reached the booth. “Maybe you’ll have better luck than the rest of us.”
She smirked. “I’ll need to get to know them first. Don’t want to ruin all the fun by being too obvious.”
Hermione looked up, smiling brightly. “Harry! And you must be Daphne.”
Daphne stepped forward with her usual graceful poise. “That’s me. It’s lovely to finally meet you both.”
Ron gave a cautious nod. “Hey.”
Harry slid into the booth beside Ron. Daphne settled next to Hermione, who was already asking questions about her work at St. Mungo’s.
The evening settled into an easy rhythm after the first round of drinks arrived. Laughter bubbled at the table, and the pub’s quiet charm wrapped around them like a blanket. Hermione, to no one's surprise, took to Daphne almost immediately.
“You work in Spell Damage?” Hermione leaned in, eyes wide with interest. “That’s one of the most complicated departments. Do you handle long-term curse exposure or more acute cases?”
Daphne smiled, pleasantly surprised by the genuine curiosity. “A bit of both, actually. I started in diagnostics, but I’ve been assisting in magical pathogen reconstruction lately. It’s… intense.”
Hermione let out a soft gasp. “You’ll have to tell me everything. I've read about the Cresswell Protocol, but I’ve never actually met someone who’s implemented it in practice.”
“Most of the theory’s outdated, but the foundation's still useful,” Daphne said with a knowing grin. “I could lend you a few of my case files—sanitized, of course.”
“You’d really do that?”
“Of course.”
Harry leaned back in his seat, watching them with an amused smile. “And this is how I get replaced.”
Daphne didn’t even glance at him. “You knew what you were signing up for when you dated someone smarter than you.”
Hermione laughed at that, and Harry mock-clutched his heart.
Ron, meanwhile, sipped his drink a little more quietly than usual. His eyes flicked between Daphne and Harry every now and then. He wasn’t rude—just wary.
He finally asked, not unkindly, “So, Daphne. How long’ve you been into Quidditch?”
She tilted her head, amused. “I haven’t. I mean, I know the basics, but I’ve never followed the leagues closely.”
Ron blinked. “Right. But you’re dating Harry.”
Daphne caught the implication immediately, but her tone remained cool. “Yes. I’m dating Harry. Not the Seeker. There’s a difference.”
Ron looked at her for a beat longer. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Alright.”
But as the evening wore on, even Ron began to relax. Daphne teased him over his choice of buttered crisps, Hermione explained a theory about potion absorption that made no sense to anyone but her, and Harry regaled them with a hilarious story about someone trying to hex a broomstick with a banana. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth drink, Ron laughed so hard he nearly tipped over his glass.
By the time the clock struck half past midnight, they were a pleasantly tipsy, glowing mess—except for Harry, who had stayed mostly sober, knowing full well he’d be apparating Daphne home.
“I had a really lovely time,” Daphne said warmly as she tugged her coat on. “You two are brilliant.”
Hermione grinned and hugged her, cheeks flushed pink. “I’m so glad we got to meet you. We should do this again.”
Ron nodded. “Yeah. It was alright.”
Harry snorted. “High praise from Ron.”
Daphne smirked and took Harry’s arm. “Take me home, Potter, before I say something overly sentimental.”
He laughed, gave his friends a wink, and with a crack, they Disapparated.
Hermione turned toward the fireplace, wobbling slightly. “You can crash on the couch if you want.”
Ron blinked at her, bleary-eyed. “You sure?”
“Of course.” She was already heading toward the mantle, stifling a yawn. “Floo’s quicker than waiting for the room to stop spinning.”
Ron muttered something about flying fireplaces and stumbled in after her.
The Floo dropped them off in a flash of green flames and residual warmth from the pub. Hermione landed first, a little unsteady in her boots, the haze of firewhisky still swimming behind her eyes.
Ron followed right after—also wobbling as he was slightly more tipsy than he let on.
Hermione reached out to steady herself and missed the edge of the sofa by an inch. Her heel caught awkwardly on the edge of the rug, and before she could catch herself, she stumbled forward with a small yelp.
Ron moved without thinking. One long stride, arms out.
She crashed straight into him.
“Oof—blimey,” he grunted, catching her with both hands. They were flush together now—her chest against his, his hands splayed along her back and waist to keep her steady.
Hermione blinked up at him, a little dazed from the stumble and the contact. “Thanks,” she mumbled.
Ron’s breath hitched. “No problem.”
But neither of them moved.
Her fingers had landed on his chest, just over his heart. She could feel it pounding under her touch. Fast. Uneven. Matching hers.
She looked up. His face was so close—closer than it had ever been for her before. His freckles were more noticeable in this light, and there was something in his raw eyes.
He didn’t look away.
“Ron,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure what she meant to say.
“Hermione,” he murmured back, equally uncertain.
But then his grip on her waist tightened, ever so slightly, like he didn’t want to let go. And her breath caught.
And that was all it took.
Her hand slid up from his chest to his shoulder.
His lips were on hers before either of them could second guess it.
It was clumsy at first. Years of tension didn’t unravel neatly. But the kiss deepened, grew warmer, surer. Her arms looped around his neck as he pulled her closer, lifting her slightly to keep her from losing her footing again. She laughed softly against his lips, and that was when he kissed her harder, as though he'd waited too long to hear that sound.
They broke apart only long enough to stumble their way down the hall, not quite making it to her bed in any sort of graceful way. His jacket hit the floor. Her wand rolled under the table. Her laughter was soft and stunned—like she couldn’t believe this was happening.
Neither could he.
But neither of them stopped.
By the time the fireplace died down, the flat was quiet again. Ron was breathing steadily beside her, one arm resting over her hip, and Hermione lay wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling, heartbeat still thudding in her chest.
It should have felt like a mistake.
But in that moment, it didn’t.
She turned her head slightly to look at him.
He was already looking back.
Neither of them said a word.
They would tell themselves later it was the firewhisky.
They would say it didn’t mean anything, not really .
But in that moment, the truth was too loud to ignore.
And by the time the sun rose, they had already agreed—wordlessly—that it would never be spoken of again.
A mistake, they'd call it.
Even if they both knew it wasn’t.
The morning after had been quiet—too quiet. Ron had woken up first, pulled his pants on in silence, and mumbled something about needing to feed Crookshanks as an excuse to leave. Hermione hadn’t corrected him, even though Crookshanks had been at her mother’s for two days.
From that day forward, things shifted.
Letters between them have diminished. Their group dinners became rare. Even Harry noticed the tension and asked Hermione about it once, to which she simply said she was “busy with work.” Ron said the same. Everyone else bought it. Except maybe Daphne, who raised an eyebrow every time the two of them didn’t look each other in the eye.
And then came the exhaustion.
At first, Hermione chalked it up to stress. Too many late nights at the Ministry. Too many early mornings at the office, finishing up paperwork. But the fatigue didn’t let up. It settled into her bones and refused to budge.
She started forgetting things—her keys, her wand, a department meeting. That never happened to Hermione Granger.
Then the nausea began. Mild at first, then stronger. By the third week, she was sitting in her mother’s kitchen, head cradled in her arms while the kettle whistled shrilly behind her. The minty steam wafted up, but it only made her stomach turn. Across from her, her mother was flicking through the Sunday paper, glancing over occasionally with a look of growing concern.
“You look dreadful, sweetheart,” Jean said gently. “Are you getting any sleep at all?”
Hermione groaned softly and let her head drop into her hand. “I thought I was, but I’m just so… tired. All the time. And foggy. I forgot my wand in the sink yesterday.”
Her mother raised an eyebrow. “In the sink?”
“I was rinsing off a plate,” Hermione mumbled. “And I just left it there. I didn’t even realize until I got to work and tried to unlock the records room with a pen.”
Jean laughed. “You know, that kind of exhaustion sounds familiar.”
Hermione gave her a tired look. “Oh?”
Jean set her tea down, her tone teasing as she said, “Last time I felt like that, I was pregnant with you.”
Hermione blinked. “Mum—”
“No, I’m serious,” Jean said, laughing a little. “No amount of sleep was enough for me. I’d doze off in the dentist’s chair between patients. And the nausea hit me right after the fatigue, like clockwork.”
Hermione gave her a flat look. “I’m not pregnant.”
Jean held up her hands. “I’m just saying, it reminds me of that.”
Hermione rolled her eyes and stood, brushing off her jumper. “Well, that’s not it. I’ve probably just been pushing myself too hard again.”
But as she left her parents’ home and Apparated back to her flat, the words echoed in her head like a low hum.
It reminds me of that.
She tried to ignore it.
She blamed it on stress. On work. On the weather. On everything but the possibility her mother had so casually suggested.
But as the week went on and her body didn’t feel like her own—and her period never came—Hermione found herself at home, clutching the third pregnancy test like it was her lifeline.
Just like the other previous two, it was positive.
She stared at it, willing it to change, to blink, to turn off—to do anything that would make the little pink lines disappear.
Then her vision blurred.
And she fainted.
The first thing she became aware of was the cold—an unforgiving chill that crept through her cheek and hands, biting into her skin. Then came the pounding in her skull, a deep, rhythmic throb like distant thunder. Her eyelids fluttered heavily and a sharp white light pierced through the fog behind her eyes.
She groaned, blinking up at the ceiling.
“Bloody hell—Hermione? Hermione!”
A voice. Familiar. Worried. Desperately worried.
She turned her head with great effort. A mop of red hair swam into view, and panic-soaked blue eyes locked onto hers.
“Ron?” she rasped.
Ron let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a sigh of relief and practically dropped to his knees beside her.
“Oh, thank Merlin. I’ve been knocking for ages—I thought you were still asleep or ignoring me, and then I heard this thud and the door wasn’t locked, so I came in and—” He ran a trembling hand through his hair, his voice rising with every word. “You were on the floor, and I thought—I didn’t know if—are you okay? What the hell happened? Should we go to St Mungo’s? You don’t look okay.”
Hermione’s eyes closed briefly against the blinding ceiling light. Her brain still felt wrapped in cotton, but the sharp reality of what she’d just seen flashed across her mind, chasing off the haze.
“No,” she murmured, trying to push herself up onto her elbows. “No, I—I’m okay. I just…”
She faltered. Ron caught her by the shoulders before she could tip sideways again.
“You just what ?” he asked, heart in his throat.
Hermione looked up at him. Her cheeks were pale, her curls a disheveled halo around her head, and she suddenly realized she was still clutching the pregnancy test in one hand. She lifted it slowly, almost dazed.
“I’m pregnant.”
He stared at her for a long moment.
Then, “You—no—you can’t be pregnant!”
Hermione’s expression twisted. “What do you mean I can’t?! I am! ”
“But—but—we can’t be parents!” he shouted, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t even keep a houseplant alive, Hermione! I once accidentally fed my owl spaghetti.”
Hermione gaped at him. “You fed your owl spaghetti? ”
“It was leftover! It looked like worms!”
“Oh brilliant! ” Hermione threw her hands up. “Well I once fell asleep in the Ministry archives and woke up screaming about decimal systems!”
“I ironed a grilled cheese sandwich once!”
“I’ve eaten ice cream straight from the tub while crying to Witch Weekly’s heartbreak edition!”
“I thought swaddling was a type of salad!”
They both stopped.
There was a moment of quiet horror as they stared at one another.
“We’re going to destroy this child,” Ron whispered.
“Utterly ruin them,” Hermione said with a gasp. “They’ll be born, take one look at us, and crawl back in.”
Ron began to pace. “We’ll have to move. Start new lives. Fake names. I can be—Reginald. You can be—Gertrude.”
“I’m not being a Gertrude!”
“Fine, you pick the names when we fake our deaths. But we’re not ready, Hermione! Victoire still gives me that weird look whenever I visit Bill!”
Hermione groaned and flopped back onto the floor. “I have a presentation on magical law reform next week. You know what doesn’t pair well with pregnancy? Magical law reform. ”
“We’re going to be terrible at this.”
“Absolutely atrocious.”
Another pause.
Then Ron took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. We’re panicking.”
“You think? ”
“I’m just saying—maybe we can do this,” he said cautiously. “We’ve handled worse.”
“Like what?”
Ron opened his mouth. Closed it. “…Okay, fair.”
Hermione groaned. “This can’t be happening.”
“It is happening,” Ron said, and then pointed at the test like it had personally offended him. “And that little stick is the traitor that started it all.”
“I think I might be sick.”
“Please don’t faint again.”
It took them two full weeks to calm down. Well— relatively calm.
There were still moments of complete panic. Hermione would be mid-argument—debating the ethics of goblin trade clauses with a senior official—when the thought would suddenly hit her like a rogue Bludger.
She was pregnant.
With Ron Weasley’s child.
And just like that, the words would vanish from her mind. Her voice would trail off mid-sentence, her quill would stop mid-scroll, and she'd stare blankly ahead while the reality washed over her all over again. Every time it hit her, it felt like the first time.
Ron, for his part, tried very hard to act like he had everything together. But Hermione had known him far too long to fall for that.
It was Harry who told her what was really going on.
They’d been having lunch together in the Ministry atrium when he said, seemingly out of nowhere, “Is Ron okay?”
Hermione had nearly dropped her fork. “What? Why?”
Harry looked at her, brow raised. “He’s been weird at practice. Just… off.”
“Weird how?” she asked, trying to sound casual and very much failing.
“He’s not yelling,” Harry said, with a note of bafflement. “You know how he usually gets when they’re half-arsing drills—shouting about coordination and broom posture and Merlin forbid someone miscommunicates on a pass. But this week? He just sort of… blinks at them. Nods. Says, ‘yeah, try again,’ like he’s been Imperiused.”
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling.
Harry leaned in a little. “He won’t tell anyone what’s up. Not even me. But he’s clearly in his head about something. It’s worrying”
Hermione had just shrugged and tried to change the subject, but the truth was, her heart had clenched tightly in her chest.
Because despite his own spiraling, Ron checked in with her every single night.
Sometimes it was a call through the Floo. Other times it was a knock on her door with takeaway in his hands and a poorly hidden excuse like, “Mum made too much stew, thought you’d want some,” even though Hermione was fairly sure Ron didn’t have dinner at the Burrow at those times.
He’d ask how she was. If she’d eaten. If she was still reading those terrifying pregnancy pamphlets. If she was taking it easy at work.
And Hermione would be lying to herself if she said it didn’t make her chest ache a little—clench with something anxious and warm at the same time. Because Ron Weasley, despite panicking just as much as she was, somehow still made her his priority. He was so infuriatingly gentle with her in a way that made it seem like everything was so going to be okay.
And there was a baby. She didn’t know what to do with that thought most days, but it was there. A reality blooming quietly inside her. And no matter how often he panicked or made jokes that didn’t land or forgot basic prenatal facts she’d told him four times—there was no doubt in her mind that Ron would step up. That he’d be there. That he’d raise this child with her.
Two weeks in, they finally had a proper sit-down dinner at her flat. Ron had brought over curry—"nothing too spicy," he’d promised, which meant it was bland and weirdly watery, but Hermione appreciated the thought.
They sat side by side on the couch, quiet for once, the food half-eaten on the coffee table in front of them. Hermione curled her feet under her, Ron nervously fidgeting with a napkin.
Then, gently, Ron broke the silence.
“So what do you want to do?”
Hermione blinked at him. “ Why do I have to decide that alone?”
Ron looked at her, startled. “No—I didn’t mean it like that. I just—” He took a breath. “It’s your body, Hermione. You’re the one carrying the baby. I mean, yeah, we both…” He gestured vaguely. “...contributed to this project. ” He made air quotes that got her to snort. “But you're the one who has to deal with the nausea and the weird cravings and your ankles going all puffy. So… the decision should be yours. I’ll support you either way.”
Hermione watched him carefully, her voice quieter now. “Do you want the baby?”
Ron looked down at the napkin he’d shredded. “I haven’t really let myself think about that,” he admitted. “Because I didn’t want to make you feel guilty. Like if you didn’t want it, but I did… that would be unfair.”
“But you do want it?”
He gave a tiny nod, still not looking at her. “Yeah. I think I do.”
Her heart stuttered a bit. “And you’d really be okay with letting me make that choice? With something this big?”
Ron finally looked up at her with earnest eyes. “You’re Hermione Granger. You always make the right call. I trust you— completely. ”
That made her breath hitch.
There was a long pause, broken only by the soft hum of her fridge and the occasional creak of the old couch beneath them.
Then, finally, Hermione spoke.
“I want to keep the baby.”
Ron blinked. His mouth opened slightly, then curved slowly into a smile.
“Okay,” he said softly, and took her hand. “We’ll do that then.”
Hermione wasn’t nervous about the appointment until she saw Ron sitting in the waiting room of St. Mungo’s, stiff-backed, eyes wide, and clutching a clipboard like it might explode.
She gave him a look. “You’re not the pregnant one, you know.”
Her words were lost on him, he was still rocking back and forth.
Hermione rolled her eyes but took the seat beside him. She got where he was coming from though—this felt different. More real. It was one thing to take a test alone in her bathroom and faint. It was another to sit in a Healer’s office, waiting to hear exactly how pregnant she was and what came next.
When they were finally called in, the room was warm, softly lit, and smelled faintly of eucalyptus. Healer Madeline Sorelle was young, sharp-eyed, and immediately friendly. She smiled at them as they sat down.
“Well, Hermione. Let’s take a look and see how far along you are.”
A gentle spell later and a floating image appeared above the large piece of parchment that’s been hung up in the ceiling—fuzzy, grayish, and slightly pulsing.
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. That was… their baby.
The healer pointed at the moving image. “You’re just over ten weeks along. Everything looks healthy—it’s a steady development. I’ll get you set up with a schedule for your upcoming visits, nutritional guidelines, potion doses for each trimester… oh, and we’ll need to run some basic bloodwork, just to rule out any hereditary conditions.”
Hermione nodded, trying to absorb everything.
Then she heard it— sniffing.
The healer looked over and smiled kindly. “It’s okay, dear. Lots of mums get emotional the first time.”
Hermione frowned. “It’s not me,” she said dryly.
They both turned.
Ron was sitting very still in his chair, his eyes misty and his lower lip trembling as he stared at the floating image. “It’s got arms, Hermione,” he whispered. “And a little blob head.”
Hermione rolled her eyes and waved toward him. “Ignore him.”
The healer tried—and failed—not to laugh.
After the appointment, Hermione suggested they go to a quiet restaurant on a side street. It was small, brick-walled, with flickering candles and the comforting smell of garlic and rosemary.
They took a corner table and shared a plate of pasta, sipping lemonade while the reality of it all slowly settled over them like a warm (and slightly terrifying) blanket.
Ron twirled spaghetti around his fork and said, “So… how exactly are we telling our parents?”
Hermione looked at him over the rim of her glass. “Well, you’re not starting with, ‘I accidentally knocked up your daughter.’”
“Damn. That was my opening line.”
She snorted. “We should tell my mum first. She’ll cry, but then she’ll help us plan everything. Dad will probably take a long walk in silence before he speaks to you again.”
“I’ll bring biscuits,” Ron offered. “Might help.”
Hermione gave him a fond smile. “And your family?”
Ron winced. “Mum might faint. Or cry. Or faint while crying. The twins will never let me live it down. Ginny’s probably going to be thrilled. Dad will ask a million questions about Muggle baby toys.”
Hermione poked her fork at a meatball. “We’ll just do it together. One group at a time. So we don’t get mobbed.”
“We’ll still tell Harry first right?”
“Oh definitely.”
They sat in silence for a while, eating and listening to the low hum of conversation around them.
Then Ron said quietly, “What about… the raising-them part?”
Hermione looked up. “You mean after we tell everyone and the baby’s actually born? ”
“Yeah.” He leaned forward. “Do we live together? Do we… split time? Co-parent? Should we move closer to your work?”
Hermione hesitated, then said, “Let’s just… keep taking it a step at a time. We’ll figure it out. Together.”
Ron nodded. “Together.”
They clinked their lemonade glasses, and for the first time in weeks, the weight didn’t feel quite so heavy.
Just… different. Manageable. Like maybe, just maybe, they could do this.
But the more time passed, the more tangled Hermione’s thoughts became.
She’d always been good at sorting out her feelings—charting her logic like an Arithmancy equation until everything made sense. But this wasn’t Arithmancy. This was Ron.
She knew Ron liked her. She wasn’t oblivious, not after everything they’d been through—the stolen glances, the inside jokes, the way he still remembered how she liked her tea after all these years. And she liked him too. Of course she did.
But now there was a baby. A tiny, growing life between them, making everything so much more complicated.
Back then, they held their feelings back out of caution—afraid that if they tried something and it didn’t work out, it would ruin the friendship they relied on. Now, the stakes were infinitely higher. If they got it wrong, they wouldn’t just be risking heartbreak. They’d be risking the emotional stability of their child.
She didn’t even want to think about that.
And yet… it was becoming harder and harder to ignore how Ron had been treating her these past weeks. Gently. Thoughtfully. Every night, without fail, he checked in. A short note through the Floo. An owl when he couldn’t come in person. “Have you eaten?” “Don’t forget your calcium tablets.” “Want me to pick up that book you mentioned?”
He held doors open, made her tea exactly right, glared at anyone who so much as bumped into her. Once, when she fell asleep on the couch mid-sentence, he just quietly draped a blanket over her and sat nearby, reading by wandlight. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
How was she supposed to keep her feelings in check when he was acting like that?
Hermione was early to her next appointment at St. Mungo’s. She’d meant to be. The quiet in the waiting area gave her a moment to breathe—or pretend she could—while flipping through a pamphlet on fetal development and trying not to hyperventilate at the drawing of something that looked more like a tadpole than a baby.
“Hermione?”
She startled and looked up. Daphne Greengrass stood just inside the waiting room, dressed in sharp Healer robes, a clipboard tucked under one arm. Her expression softened with surprise.
“Oh—hi, Daphne!” Hermione stood up abruptly, shoving the pamphlet onto the side table as if it were evidence. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I’m covering Diagnostics this week,” Daphne replied, stepping forward. “You alright?”
“Me?” Hermione gave a high, slightly unhinged laugh. “Fine. Completely fine. Just waiting for my—um, appointment.”
Daphne didn’t buy it. She tilted her head slightly, narrowing her eyes. “You’ve got that look.”
Hermione blinked. “What look?”
“The ‘I’ve been overthinking myself into a migraine and might actually combust if someone doesn’t stop me’ look.”
Hermione gave a reluctant smile. “Alright, maybe I’m a bit overwhelmed.”
“Sit,” Daphne instructed, already dropping into the chair beside her. “Spill.”
Hermione hesitated, then took a deep breath. She glanced around—thankfully, the waiting room was nearly empty—and lowered her voice. “Okay. But you have to promise not to tell anyone. I mean it.”
Daphne blinked. “You’re scaring me. Is this a Ministry thing?”
Hermione gave a small laugh despite herself, but it quickly dissolved into something more nervous. “No. I’m—” she looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers in her lap. “I’m pregnant.”
Daphne’s eyes widened, mouth parting slightly. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Hermione didn’t look up.
A pause, then gently: “How far along?”
“14 weeks,” Hermione mumbled.
Daphne reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “I won’t tell a soul. You know that, right?”
“I do,” Hermione said, voice wobbling a little. “Thank you.”
There was a moment of quiet before Daphne asked, not unkindly, “Can I ask who the father is?”
Hermione winced, then muttered, “Ron.”
Daphne’s lips twitched. “Ron Weasley?”
Hermione nodded again.
“Oh, I knew it,” Daphne said with an infuriatingly smug little smile.
Hermione groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to anyone with eyes,” Daphne said, still smirking. Then, more gently, “Are you okay?”
“I think so,” Hermione said quietly. “Mostly. It’s just… complicated.”
Daphne hesitated. “Want to talk about it?”
Hermione hesitated. “It’s… complicated.”
“Oh, brilliant. My favorite kind,” Daphne said dryly. “Go on, then.”
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t want to say too much—but at the same time, she needed someone outside her usual circle. Someone who wouldn’t immediately tell Harry or Ginny or start spiraling with her.
“It’s… about Ron,” she said at last.
Daphne’s brow rose. “You and Ron?”
Hermione nodded, fiddling with the sleeve of her cardigan. “We… Obviously things got a bit messy. We were always close, and for a while we avoided acting on anything because we didn’t want to ruin our friendship. But now…”
Daphne leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. “But now you’ve got the baby and something’s changed.”
“Exactly,” Hermione said, relieved to not have to spell it all out. “And I’m trying to act like nothing’s changed, like we can still be casual, like it won’t hurt if—if it all goes wrong. But Ron… he’s been so gentle with me lately. Kind. Attentive. And it’s only making things worse.”
Daphne was quiet for a moment, then said, “Worse… because you want more? A relationship?”
Hermione looked away, but nodded.
“And you’re scared he doesn’t?”
Another nod.
Daphne clicked her tongue. “Let me guess. You’re overthinking everything so thoroughly you’ve now imagined five versions of the worst-case scenario and not one version where he actually feels the same?”
Hermione huffed a guilty laugh. “More like seven versions. And one where I accidentally move to Iceland out of panic.”
Daphne smirked. “Classic. Look, I don’t know Ron like you do. But I have seen how he looks at you, and I’ve seen how he doesn’t look at anyone else. That man is tangled up in you, Granger. And from what you’re saying, it sounds like he’s terrified to mess things up.”
Hermione’s eyes widened a little. “Is he?”
“Yes!” Daphne said, resting back in her seat, “one of you has to be brave enough to say what you actually want. That’s you, by the way. You’re the brave one.”
Hermione gave a quiet smile. “Is that your healer diagnosis?”
“No, that’s my woman-who-is-dating-Harry-Potter-and-therefore-has-seen-all-levels-of-emotional-repression diagnosis.”
They both laughed.
Just then, Ron arrived at the other end of the corridor, spotting Hermione with a wave and jogging over.
Daphne rose to her feet. “I’ll leave you to it. But Hermione—just... think about it. Don’t let fear make decisions for you.”
Hermione looked up at her. “Thank you, Daphne.”
Daphne gave her a wink and disappeared around the corner just as Ron reached her.
“You’re late,” she said with a smile, but her tone was light.
Ron rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry—Percy cornered me. Weirdly helpful, though.”
Hermione raised a brow. “Helpful Percy? That’s a headline.”
He grinned at her and offered his arm. “So, ready for another look at our little secret?”
Hermione hesitated, then took his arm. “Let’s go.”
The appointment had gone well—baby was healthy, heartbeat steady, Hermione’s blood pressure excellent (much to her own satisfaction), and Ron hadn’t cried this time. Almost. A single suspicious sniff halfway through the scan, but Hermione had chosen mercy and said nothing.
Afterward, as had become their unspoken tradition, they walked down the street to a quiet little restaurant. The staff already knew them by name and had even asked last time if they wanted “the usual,” which had made Ron unreasonably proud.
They sat across from each other in their booth. Hermione stirred her lemonade absently with a straw, while Ron kept poking at the condensation on his glass, silent.
It was unusually quiet between them. Normally Ron would be cracking jokes or grumbling about the weird names Muggles gave their food. And Hermione would be correcting him or sighing dramatically. But today, the air between them was… heavy. Expectant.
“Ron,” she said at last, her voice low. “Can I ask you something?”
He looked up quickly, his ears pink. “Yeah, anything.”
She hesitated. “If this hadn’t happened—” she gestured vaguely, meaning the baby, the appointments, the quiet moments between their old friendship and whatever they were now “—would you have ever told me how you felt?”
Ron’s eyes widened. “I—what?”
She gave him a small, sad smile. “You’ve always been there, you know. All the time. Looking after me, joking with me, defending me. And I—I knew. I knew how you felt. I think I’ve always known. And I should’ve said something sooner, but…”
“I thought saying something would ruin everything,” he admitted, voice rough. “We’re best friends. You and me and Harry. And I didn’t want to risk losing that. Losing you.”
“I was scared too,” Hermione whispered. “We’re good together. As friends. I didn’t want to break that. But then we… well. We did.”
Ron made a choked sound. “Yeah. We really did.”
“And now,” she continued, “we’re having a baby. And it’s not just about us anymore. But even with all of that—I don’t want to pretend I don’t have feelings for you. I don’t want to hide it because I’m scared.”
He was staring at her, completely motionless. “You mean that?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “I do. I like you, Ron. A lot. And not because we’re having a baby or because it’s convenient. I like you because you’re kind. And funny. And you make me feel… safe. And happy.”
A slow, stunned smile spread across his face. “Bloody hell.”
Hermione’s lips twitched. “Is that your grand confession, Ronald?”
“No, no. Wait. Let me—” He leaned across the table, his voice softer now. “I’m in love with you, Hermione. I’ve been in love with you for so long, I forgot what it feels like to not be in love with you. And yeah, I was scared too. But being scared didn’t stop it. And it’s not going to now.”
There was a pause. Then Hermione stood up, walked around the booth, and sat beside him. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, her hand slipping into his.
“I’m really glad it’s you,” she said.
Ron turned and kissed the top of her head. “Me too.”
They sat like that for a long time, their food forgotten, her thumb running slow circles over the back of his hand, the weight between them replaced by something warmer. Something permanent.
Whatever came next, they’d face it together.
And that was enough.