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As soon as they’d announced Hermione’s pregnancy, the advice had started rolling in. It ranged from Molly’s tried-and-true knowledge (“Use mugwort to help with milk supply—it worked wonders for me!”) to Luna’s more ludicrous suggestions (“Don’t leave the baby unattended outdoors. Pixies love redhaired babies, and they will take her!”)
However, there was a common thread of wisdom that ran throughout all of these tips: Life with a baby was amazing and fantastic and new, but also…difficult. And in defense of their family and friends, no one had even pretended that life with a newborn would be easy.
As responsible parents-to-be, they’d tried to heed these warnings—they really, really had. But there was only so much one couple could take, and after hours of listening to horror stories about nappy explosions and spit-up and night feeds from Audrey and Angelina alike, they’d (naively) decided they could manage on their own, thankyouverymuch.
“We’ll be fine,” Ron had said nervously one evening after they’d left Harry and Ginny’s house, the wails of both Albus and James still echoing in their ears. “Our parents did it. Their parents did it. We’ll get through it, yeah?”
Hermione had just bit her lip, shrugged, and returned to reading one of her many parenting books. At that point, she’d still been convinced she could research her way out of dealing with the hardest parts of parenting.
And what a fool she’d been.
Because, at the time, Hermione (somehow) hadn’t realized something quite crucial—that babies are just tiny humans. And human behavior is one of those stubborn things that cannot always be researched or predicted.
Rose was born on 15th December at 3 o’clock in the morning. She was born nearly two weeks late. In retrospect, this should have been Hermione’s first clue that this baby would not be operating exactly in accordance with predictability.
Ron was the picture of a proud father when the healers had finally pressed the squalling bundle into his arms. Mirthful tears had slid unapologetically down his face as he’d gazed at Rose, his eyes filled with such raw love, devotion, and awe that it made Hermione burst into tears, too. He’d cradled the baby like she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen, worth more than all the money in the world, worth more than his own life.
Of course, Hermione felt that way about her baby too, but it was so different to see those feelings reflected on Ron’s face—to see him so full of compassion and understanding, like he hadn’t really lived until he’d seen their daughter.
And in spite of the complete inappropriateness of her feelings, Hermione began to feel a tad…envious.
She knew that those feelings of envy were ridiculous. Really, truly, she did. Rose was just a baby, after all! She hadn’t asked to be brought into this world any more than Hermione had asked to have bushy hair or large front teeth.
Furthermore, Hermione’s feelings weren’t to suggest that she didn’t possess any motherly inclinations. Quite to the contrary, in fact. From the very moment that Rose had been born, Hermione had reached a startling realization that she loved this tiny little red-haired, brown-eyed baby with more fervor, more intensity, than she’d ever even fathomed. It actually scared her a bit, to be honest—the depth, the immediacy to which she’d loved her daughter. The second that she’d come out, Hermione had been filled with a sense of rightness, a feeling that she knew she’d never felt before, an assurance that she loved her baby more than anyone else on the face of the earth. Except for Ron, of course.
But that was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it? Since Rose had been born, she’d never been more confident in her love for Ron, in her conviction that they were meant to be together. She adored watching this strong, powerful man hold their tiny baby and whisper quiet consolations, even if said baby couldn’t understand anything he said.
Still, she wondered—deep down inside—if Ron was simply better suited for this job than she was. And she also wondered if perhaps Rose’s company was simply preferable, especially while Mummy was such a weepy, leaking mess.
These suspicions had started the very day Rose was born. After the adrenaline had worn off from the birth itself, Ron had insisted that Hermione go to sleep, and after 48 hours of labor, she had not been difficult to persuade.
When Hermione had awoken several hours later, though, Ron hadn’t moved an inch. His eyes were bleary and unfocused, his facial hair grown in, his bright red hair matted to his head, but he was still sitting there and smiling at Rose like a complete madman, the occasional tear slipping down his face. When he’d noticed that Hermione was awake, he’d grinned even more broadly back at her.
“I just can’t believe how beautiful she is,” he’d rasped, wiping away more errant tears as the baby wrapped a chubby hand around his finger. Hermione had made a dry half-joke about how she already had Daddy wrapped around her little finger. Ron had chuckled, still staring at the curly-haired infant, and confirmed, “Damn right.”
He hadn’t left her cot in St. Mungo’s for the entirety of their stay. When they’d returned home several days later, Hermione had still been weak from the birth. Ron had done a near-perfect imitation of his mother and all but forced her into bed.
“You need your strength, love,” he’d admonished kindly, kissing her on the forehead. Hermione had huffed and muttered something about not being disabled. In response, Ron had easily cradled the baby in his arms, stared her defiantly in the face, and repeated: “Bed. Now.”
From then on out, Ron had taken to parenting as if it were this dormant ability he’d had his entire life, an asset that had somehow lurked beneath the surface until they’d had a baby of their own. In Hermione’s opinion, the amount of natural skill that he possessed was…alarming, to say the least. Ron seemed to have a sixth sense about their daughter, a kind of tuned-in sensitivity to when she’d be upset, when she’d need a nappy change, when she needed to be winded for just a bit longer to get her to settle down.
And frankly, Hermione had never been more frustrated. Being a mother was something she was meant to be good at, wasn’t it? She was a woman, after all. Those instincts should be just that—instinctive! For all intents and purposes, it should’ve come to her as naturally as magic, as easily as analyzing legal documents, as quickly as spell work.
But being a mother hadn’t come that easily. Whenever Rose cried, Hermione was seized with an overwhelming amount of panic, an immediate urge to correct whatever the problem was. This was how she’d lived her entire life, after all—by noticing a problem, attending to it swiftly, and moving on, having learned a lesson. Except for this time, there didn’t seem to be any lesson to learn.
In fact, it seemed like nursing Rose was the only thing she could do to make her daughter happy. Fortunately for Hermione, Rose had inherited Ron’s appetite, and she was able to keep her baby content for as long as it took to feed her; after that, though, all bets were off.
As the days began to blend together and Ron slowly started returning to occasional shifts at the Wheezes, Hermione felt an increasing sense of futility, a growing feeling that she simply wasn’t cut out for this like Ron was. By Christmas Eve, Hermione’s exasperation had reached new heights. Rose had spent the entire day wailing, and by the afternoon, her entire body was the same color as her hair. None of Hermione’s exhaustive efforts—from feeding, to nappy changes, to winding her, to walking, to playing with her, to distracting her—had worked.
She’d been close to admitting defeat and getting help from Ginny when Ron came stumbling through the Floo.
Without even removing his cloak, he swooped in and sat beside her on the couch, pausing for a cursory glance at the circles beneath his wife’s tired eyes. “Alright, love?” he asked, worry written on his face.
She just shrugged and passed the baby to his open arms, careful to support her head as she did so. And just as Hermione had predicted, Rose stopped crying immediately when Ron pressed her against his chest, his large hands rubbing slow circles on her back. Within seconds, her wails and sobs had diminished to mere whimpers.
Ron smiled sweetly and pressed a kiss to her little head, but it was all too much for Hermione to take.
In an instant, she leapt up from the couch, hurriedly muttering something about “laundry.” It was a weak excuse, but the sitting room was already swimming before her eyes; she knew didn’t have long. Hermione ignored Ron calling her name in bewilderment, refusing to turn around to see his hurt expression; it was the only thing that could have possibly made her feel any worse.
She all but ran down the hallway and threw herself into the bedroom, not allowing herself to dissolve into tears until the door was firmly shut.
Perhaps I’m simply not meant to be a good mother, she thought morosely through her sobs, crawling into bed and staring at the bedroom ceiling.
Rose’s contented coos began to echo from the other room, and she could hear Ron talking to her in that same lilting, soothing voice he’d used since the day she was born. If she'd had her wits about her, she might’ve been able to appreciate how lovely it was that he talked to her so much, even if she had no idea what he was saying.
But Hermione wasn’t in the mood to be sentimental (or even appreciative) at a time like this, not when she felt like such a complete and utter failure. She nestled into bed a bit more and released another pained, gasping sob. She could already feel exhaustion tugging at the corners of her eyes, the events of the day wearing on her more than she’d like to admit.
And she had one taunting, pained thought before she fell into a fitful sleep: You can’t be good at everything.
Some time later, Hermione blearily opened her eyes, the bedroom ceiling coming into blurry focus. From the darkness in her room, she could tell that at least an hour had passed. She reached out a hand beside her to feel if—no, of course Ron wasn’t in the room. He was probably still with Rose, just like she, the baby’s mother, should be.
She rolled over to look at the clock and winced a bit at the pressure against her full breasts; it was much later than she thought. Rose would be ravenous soon, if she wasn’t already. Weasleys didn’t do well if they were denied meals. Rose was certainly no exception.
She rose gingerly from the bed and tiptoed to the door, trying not to make any noise in the event that Ron had actually gotten the baby to sleep. A slow flush of guilt crept up her neck again, and she sighed; it wasn’t Rose’s fault that her mother felt so inept at caring for her. It was just a shame that she had to suffer as a result.
Hermione shook her head resolutely, reaching for the door handle. Perhaps all she needed was to read some different parenting texts. Muggle books might have more to offer, after all—a fresh perspective.
She began padding down the hallway, still lost in her own thoughts. Yes, I can ask Mum for some of the books she used with me. The information must be rather useful, even if— But Hermione froze, stock-still, in the middle of the hallway.
Ron was standing in front of the Christmas-adorned Floo, jostling the baby gently against his chest as he spoke to her. Hermione bit her lip and felt the tears spring to her eyes before she could stop them. Those two really were precious together.
Surely he wouldn’t mind if she just listened in a bit...?
“-And that,” Ron continued in gentle overtones, “is why Bulgarian quidditch players won’t be going anywhere near you.” He pressed a gentle kiss to the squirming baby’s temple as Hermione covered a snort with her hand.
She stared at them with love in her eyes as the lights from the Christmas tree twinkled merrily across their freckled faces. Maybe things weren’t quite as bad as she thought; Rose was less than two weeks old, after all. Perhaps this was just a venture that had taken a bit longer, a skill that had taken Hermione slightly more time to master, something that she’d laugh about in years to come. She might even be able to comfort Rose as well as Ron did, one day.
She was about to interrupt, to alert him to her presence, when—
“But now that we’re on the subject, Rose Bud,” Ron said, clearing his throat. He began walking back and forth as he continued to bounce her.
Hermione knew this trick well, mainly because she’d never been able to perfect it herself, despite studious application. It was a maneuver designed to keep the baby occupied for just a bit longer, and like all things with Rose, Ron had adopted it completely subconsciously. Hermione cocked her head, suddenly fascinated. If he had something that important to say, she was interested in hearing it herself. Even if it felt a bit like snooping.
“I reckon you can’t understand this,” Ron said softly, a hint of sadness in his voice. Hermione managed a weak smile; Rose hadn’t been able to understand him talking about quidditch players either. Not that it had stopped him.
“Do Daddy a favor,” he continued, now shifting Rose to his shoulder and kissing her ear. “Try to go easy on Mummy when I’m at work, yeah? She’s a brilliant genius, your mum. But somehow she hasn’t quite figured out yet that you’re exactly like her, and I think that’s why she’s having such a hard time.”
Rose let out a loud grunt, and her face scrunched up. Ron chuckled and began patting her on the back.
“Say what you want, Rosie, but it’s true. You remind me more and more of her every day. And I couldn’t be happier about that, to tell you the truth.” His voice lilted on the end; even though his back was facing her, Hermione could tell he was flashing the baby his lopsided grin.
But as Ron continued to prattle on, Hermione felt her head start to spin. She soundlessly leaned her full weight against the wall, not trusting her feet to continue holding her up. Taking deep breaths, she stared blankly ahead, mouth opening and closing like a fish floundering on dry land.
Merlin.
He was right.
How had she not seen it before?!
She’d been so blinded by Rose’s appetite and bright red curls and freckles that she hadn’t even noticed it. But now that the facts were staring her in the face, it was obvious: She and Rose were extremely similar. They were both so particular, both so requiring of a specific type of reassurance, both so responsive…to Ron.
Well, no wonder she’d had so much difficulty! She'd been trying to get her to respond to a personality exactly like her own!
Hermione let out a startled laugh—her first in days—before she could stop herself, slapping a hand over her mouth just in time.
Ron, who was still casually chatting to Rose, didn’t seem to notice.
Oh, how she’d misunderstood!
Hermione could’ve wept with joy in that moment, her body filled with a wave of love and compassion as her brain and her heart finally clicked all the pieces together. It wasn’t that she was a terrible mother...it was that Ron just happened to be an excellent father. And Ron happened to be an excellent father because Rose was so much like her.
After all, she and Ron were used to caring for each other—it was just how the two of them worked. Ron was the person who reminded her to take a break and eat, the person who informed her when it was time for bed, the person who made sure she wasn’t working so hard that she made herself sick.
Hermione cared for Ron too of course, just in entirely different ways. She helped him talk through things when he needed to, but also understood when it was sometimes too painful to bring things up. She also coaxed him to realize when he did need to talk about certain things to make them better, and provided him with gentle reminders about getting his own work done. The two of them fit together like gears on a clock, each needing the other to function. She’d been trying to care for their baby without even considering how to approach things from Ron’s perspective—even though their baby was half Ron.
Godric, why hadn’t she realized any of this before? She scrubbed her face with her hands as days of frustration melted off. Of course Ron was able to handle things so fluidly, of course he was able to foresee and anticipate exactly what their baby might need. He’d been used to helping Hermione for ages now; he now knew Hermione far better than she knew herself.
Hermione pushed off from the wall and stood up straight again, feeling completely at peace for the first time since her daughter had been born.
And she would’ve been happy to let Ron shush and cuddle and play with their daughter all night long, but a startled cry from Rose’s lips brought her back to reality. Her breasts were now painfully engorged, and if Rose didn’t eat soon—
“Oh. Hey. Didn’t see you there.”
Ron had turned around to face Hermione, an affectionate smile playing on his lips as he bounced Rose in his arms. “Didn’t want to wake you,” he murmured, glancing down at the baby and wincing a little, “but she seems a bit peckish, thought you might want to…”
“Of course,” Hermione breathed, unbuttoning her top as she went to take the baby from him.
The three of them sank down onto the couch, and Ron shot Hermione a sheepish grin as she brought Rose to her chest; he loved watching this bit. She rolled her eyes at him playfully, bringing the baby even closer just as her tiny mouth went wide and rooting. Rose released an appreciative gurgle from her throat as she latched on, and her parents both laughed.
“You may act like Mummy, Rose Bud,” Ron said softly, playing with a ginger curl as he propped his head up on his hand, “but you’re 100% Weasley when you get food in front of you, eh?”
Rose slurped loudly in response, her brown eyes wide and curious. Hermione gazed at her fondly, grabbing hold of her chubby little fist before she could reach up and yank her hair. But Ron was two steps ahead; he gently brushed Hermione’s hair from her shoulder, making sure it was far out of Rosie’s grasp.
The three sat cuddled together for a few moments, content to relax as the lights from the tree danced across the room.
“Happy Christmas, Rosie,” Ron finally whispered, pressing a kiss to her curly red hair.
And as Hermione smiled broadly at her little family, all nestled and warm in front of the fire, she felt—for the first time in her life—like perhaps she’d be a good mother, after all.