Chapter Text
He found her on the floor again.
It happened so often lately that Percy only gave an exasperated sigh as he peeled her away from the crib rails against which she’d fallen asleep with her fingers curled through the slats, already in his formal robes for another day at the Ministry.
"Shh," Hermione said, too harshly, her back and tailbone aching as she let him lead her out of the nursery. "She must have been up a dozen times in the night. It takes forever to get her down again."
"I doubt it was a dozen," he replied absently, adjusting his cuffs and heading toward the kitchen with hardly a glance her way. If she hadn't been so tired, she might have been tempted to curse him in the back. As it was, she barely remembered where she’d set her wand down for the night. "You should sleep in our bed."
"I spent half the night walking her up and down the hall to settle her," she said, and the words felt thick in her mouth, like she was speaking them through wads of cotton. Morning light had only just begun to drift through the cottage windows, the soft grey of early spring, but her still eyes burned after leaving the dark cocoon of the nursery. She wondered how much longer she might have slept if he hadn’t woken her. "Why does it matter where I fall asleep? I’m hardly there anyway."
"There are spelled cribs that would—"
"I know," she snapped, hot and sharp because they had had this argument so many times before. She tried again, softer. "I know. But I want to be there when she needs me."
Her husband shrugged, stirring honey into his tea, which steamed temptingly in one of the Gryffindor red mugs someone had gifted them for their wedding. His eyes were already skimming over the morning’s issue of The Daily Prophet that lay on the light wooden countertop. "If that's what you want."
It was normal for Percy to not make her tea in the morning, but today it rankled. Of course, he was used to her saying, "I'll just make it at the office!" as she ran out the door, brushing him off when he offered otherwise. She remembered overhearing Mrs. Weasley comment on it once when they'd stayed at the Burrow for Christmas ("Goodness, Percy, aren't you at least going to offer your wife a cup?"), and Hermione vividly recalled his response: "My wife is quite capable of preparing herself any beverage she can imagine." At the time, she had liked the sentiment, worn it with a bit of pride even. She didn't need to be doted upon, and she enjoyed his belief in her own competence, with this and everything else.
Now, though, with sleep coming in at an average of forty-seven minute stretches (she really shouldn’t be tracking that…the knowledge did nothing for her mood or overall constitution) and her eyelids so heavy that she was one long blink away from falling right into unconsciousness, it occurred to her that it might be nice if there was a hot cup of tea ready for her.
As if on cue, there was a wail from down the hall that indicated Elodie had woken. The groan slipped past her lips before she could swallow it. Percy gave her a knowing look over his glasses, and she waited to see if he would go to the baby first.
"Well, I'm off," he said instead. "Early meeting."
He was nearly to the foyer to collect his briefcase when he wheeled back around. "Oh, I meant to tell you. Charlie's coming tonight to stay for the week."
Hermione had only just gotten her feet under her again when she lurched to a stop halfway to the hall.
"What?"
"He's in town for a visit. I told him he could stay here."
"Why isn't he staying with your parents?”
"They've got Ginny's whole brood there this week while she and Harry go see that exhibition match in Turkey." He tutted. "Not very maternal, that one. Always off-loading them on my parents."
"It's probably the only time she sleeps," Hermione pointed out, but he was already spinning away.
***
The last time Hermione had seen Charlie, it was at her wedding to Percy three years prior. There, lined up with all the other Weasleys that she knew as well as her own family and alongside so many of her dearest friends, he felt like a stranger. She remembered attempting polite conversation with him when they’d been making the rounds to socialize with the guests. She’d asked him a silly question about dragon cross-breeding, something she’d read about during a bout of stress-induced insomnia in the weeks leading up to the event that had inspired academic curiosity. She remembered his wry grin, the tilt of his head as he massaged his trim beard with long fingers as he considered what she was saying.
He’d ducked his head close to her ear to respond.
“I don’t know if this is the venue for that discussion,” he’d replied, his tone low and amused, and only then had she realized that the question had been borderline inappropriate. He had winked as he’d pulled away, a move that would certainly have appalled her if Percy had tried it, but she’d felt herself go splotchy with embarrassment under the high neckline of her gown.
She flushed at the memory.
To have him in the house? Staying here? It was just like Percy to make these kinds of plans without consulting her.
The two of them had married after several years of dating. She and Ron had never made a go of a relationship after Hogwarts, both determining that they were better as friends. But she’d remained tangled up with the Weasleys, and eventually she and Percy had found their way together. He began making regular appearances at weekly Weasley family dinners, which Hermione often attended. Their Ministry jobs rarely overlapped naturally, but she suddenly found him meandering through the halls of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures with unusual frequency.
He was smart and serious, and it was refreshing to be around someone who shared her interests, who could keep up with discussions about literature, who had strong opinions about what her department at the Ministry did and loved to argue about it until the heat of the disagreement led them to bed.
Elodie had been planned, part of a thoroughly outlined life strategy on which they’d both been in agreement, the product of scheduled sex during ovulation windows and only a few months of disappointment. A nearly perfectly executed plan, really. Perhaps the last of their plans to be so seamless.
Now, she scooped the wailing infant out of her crib and pulled her up to her shoulder, reflexively taking a deep inhale of milky sweet scent.
“Now, now,” she murmured, bouncing the little one in place, Elodie’s short auburn curls tickling her nose. “Let’s have breakfast. We’ll both feel better.”
Time had become nebulous since Hermione had become a mother, the days endlessly long and repetitive when she was in the midst of them, but when she looked back on the week she could hardly remember what she’d done.
She nursed Elodie on the couch while eating granola out of a brown paper bag, an activity that she preferred to do out of Percy’s watchful gaze. His preferences about where she slept was not his only particularity. He also had strong feelings about where one ate (at the table, with proper silverware regardless of the meal), nursed a baby (behind a closed door), and had sex (in a bed, ideally in the dark, although he was occasionally willing to make allowances for international travel due to time zone variations). Hermione suspected this was his way of regaining a sense of control after so many years in the chaotic Weasley home, and while she too was a fan of a structured existence, his restrictions sometimes felt excessive.
Granola crumbles fell on Elodie’s brow, landing in the creases above her nose that made her look permanently concerned. She brushed them away, imagining Percy’s look of disapproval if he’d witnessed the mishap, and earning a fussy snort in response from the little creature in her arms.
After breakfast, the day passed in a blur of chores and errands. She pushed the pram around Diagon Alley while the baby dozed, the sound of the wheels on the cobblestone lulling Hermione into a trance that made her wonder if one really could fall asleep standing up.
They windowshopped at the bookstore, then stood in line at the bakery while Elodie continually screeched in agitation at being made to wait instead of continuing their walk. Hermione bought a cinnamon bun, repeating her order twice over the sounds of Elodie’s rage. She hoped the sugar would help stave off her exhaustion, but by the time they’d gotten through the queue she felt her tiredness had multiplied tenfold.
Was she supposed to prepare meals for Charlie? Should she stop at the grocer? She tried to remember what they had in the cupboards at home and drew a blank, the sounds of Elodie’s displeasure crowding out any practical applications of her brain. She knew nothing about his food preferences or his plans for his stay, and once again her agitation at Percy grew. They passed by the grocer without stopping. Surely her husband could run by on his way home from work if necessary?
She took Elodie to her three month healer check-up, fielding a barrage of questions about the child’s feeding habits. Hermione brought a color-coded chart that outlined the duration of every nursing session, which the healer gave only a cursory glance while taking notes on the baby’s weight, her quill punctuating with all the severity of a gavel.
The fact that Elodie was on the small side was a topic of constant strife in their household, aggravated each time they visited the Weasley grandparents. Arthur would announce, “Here’s the string bean!” when he took Elodie out of her arms, dangling her in the air as if to emphasize how skinny her little legs were in their ruffled stockings. Molly would monitor exactly what Hermione put on her own plate at dinner, then suggest that it was her nutritional choices that were preventing the baby from gaining weight properly. For days afterward, she could feel Percy assessing her at mealtimes, clearly trying to determine whether the foods she’d chosen were nutrient dense enough to prevent Elodie from simply wasting away.
“Be sure you’re feeding her in the night,” the healer said, as they wrapped up the appointment. “If she’s sleeping through then you’ll need to wake her up to eat.”
“Sleeping through?” she scoffed, which caused the healer to raise her eyebrow and make additional notes in the chart.
How strange, Hermione thought, that she could spend the whole day desperate for excuses to get out of the house, and then find herself wanting nothing more than to go right back home.
***
Dappled afternoon sunlight had fallen across the sitting room when they returned, drawing Hermione toward the sofa as if she were bespelled. She rocked Elodie until her arms went numb, watching her baby’s brown eyes grow heavier, the efforts to fight the nap growing feebler. When the eyelids finally dropped, she wasted no time in easing Elodie against her chest and stretching out along the cushions. She watched the pink flowers of the cherry tree outside the window flutter in the breeze until she couldn’t keep her eyes open a moment longer.
***
It was Percy’s voice that woke her, a distant murmur that nudged her from her dreams, and, soon after, the high-pitched screeching that Elodie always favored when she had been disturbed from a particularly deep sleep. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut tighter against the noise.
“You’re early,” she mumbled, though it was hard to tell if he could hear her over the shrieking. “I didn’t expect you for a few more hours.”
How unfair of him to wake her up again, to steal from the meager minutes of sleep she’d managed to cobble together. Elodie writhed in agitation, equally distressed by the interruption.
“Ah, sorry about that, cricket,” his voice came again, and then warm hands had slipped around Elodie’s body, drawing the heat away from Hermione’s chest. That wasn’t Percy, she realized with a start, the voice rumbling with a low amusement that was only distantly familiar, the air smelling not like her husband's favorite cologne, but like pine and burning.
Her eyes flew open.
There, with a fussy Elodie tucked in the curve of one muscled arm, a worn navy suitcase at his feet, was Charlie Weasley.
Hermione scrambled to a seated position, blinking away the sandy feeling in her eyes and trying to get her vision to completely focus. Hadn’t Percy said that Charlie was coming tonight? How long had she been asleep? The light through the windows had taken on the honey-gold quality of late afternoon, and she felt nearly delirious, like she was coming up for air after holding her breath underwater for too long. She had apparently been sleeping so hard that she hadn’t heard the floo.
Charlie’s full attention was on Elodie, bouncing her rhythmically in place while he murmured what sounded like nonsense platitudes to Hermione’s drowsy brain. The cries, which had been soaring toward the pitch that was responsible for at least ninety percent of Hermione’s jaw pain, began to ease.
“Is that it, then?” Charlie said, waggling his eyebrows at the baby while Hermione stared shamelessly, trying to make sense of the scene before her. “Got it out of your system? Want to try a few more sounds, just to be thorough?”
He spared a glance in Hermione’s direction, offering an apologetic grin, presumably for appearing in her living room so unexpectedly, before resuming his conversation with the child. He seemed too big for the space, his head too close to the brass light fixture that dangled from the ceiling, his form blocking out light from the window.
Cricket. Had he been talking to her or Elodie?
“I’m sorry,” she said, cringing at the way her voice croaked as if she too had recently been shrieking at the top of her lungs for hours. “Sorry, Percy didn’t tell me what time you were arriving.”
He gave an easy shrug, shifting Elodie up to his shoulder so that she could peek overtop. Hermione could already see the baby’s fingers creeping their way up to explore his hair, which was tied back in a knot at the nape of his neck. She wondered if she should warn him (Percy’s reaction to this hair pulling behavior was so theatrical that she usually tried to run interference before it started, and Charlie’s hair was much longer, which meant the untangling process would be much more complicated).
“I didn’t realize you’d be resting,” he said, before she could offer the warning. “I would have waited until later.”
She waved him off, a disoriented flop of her hand. “I shouldn’t have been asleep on the couch anyway.”
“Best to get it when you can,” he replied, checking to ensure the baby had settled comfortably, and smiling at the mouth gumming wetly on his flannel shirt. He was apparently unfazed by how her tiny fingers were burrowing toward his scalp. His hand was splayed across Elodie’s back, and it looked so large on the tiny body that Hermione couldn’t stop how her brow contorted in worry. Perhaps the healer was right about her size.
“Are you all—” Charlie started to say, an eyebrow raised in her direction, but then there was the distinct pop of apparition from the hall, startling her, and then Percy was striding into the sitting room.
Percy’s dark robes were as tidy and precise as they’d been that morning, but his hair was askew like he’d been raking his fingers through it. It was a sure indicator that he’d had a bad day at the office, one that she expected she’d be hearing about in detail very soon.
He blinked around, confused.
“You’re here already,” he said to Charlie, looking affronted. He adjusted his glasses, as if clearer vision would change the occupants of the living room.
“Good to see you too, Perce,” Charlie replied good-naturedly, tilting his head so that he could begin the process of extracting his hair from Elodie’s fist. She gave a squawk of annoyance, and the sound drew Percy’s eye.
“Why do you have the baby?” he asked, as if it was baffling that someone might want to hold her.
“Just giving her mum a minute to wake up.” He clucked at Elodie as she continued to fuss, using his other hand to free her fingers.
Percy’s gaze shot over to the sofa.
“What were you doing sleeping there?” he said to Hermione, exasperated.
“It was a long day,” she began, but he was already speaking again.
“Wasn’t it just the healer appointment?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Did you fall asleep with the baby on you? I certainly hope you remembered to put a cushioning charm down this time in case she rolled off.”
She glanced beside her, trying to remember if she’d brought her wand over here at all or if she’d left on the kitchen counter when she got home. Perhaps it had fallen into the crevice between the cushions?
“Everyone was safe and sound,” Charlie said, shaking the last of his hair free from Elodie’s tiny grip and giving her an indulgent smile when she wailed in response. Percy narrowed his eyes.
“Listen to her,” he snapped. “Clearly she wants her father.”
He reached out for the baby, pulling her impatiently to his chest the moment Charlie tilted her in his direction. He bounced her in place, his arms straining awkwardly, as if not used to handling the baby with an audience. He scowled.
Father was his preferred parenting title. Hermione had always found it a bit silly, though there had initially been something charming about the formality. As time went on, she had begun to feel like it suited him, a realization that she wasn’t sure she liked.
She thought, with a sort of vague, sleep-addled confidence, that Charlie was almost certainly the kind of man who would want to be called daddy.
“Why don’t you go get cleaned up?” Percy said, interrupting her musings. His tone made it sound like he was bestowing her with a gift, but then he gave her a deliberate once-over, his eyes landing on her face with a slight grimace. She realized that she probably had creases on her cheeks from the couch cushions, that her hair was surely in tangles. “I’ll show Charlie to his room.”
“I can take Elodie,” she offered, clearing her throat to shake the last of the sleep from her voice.
“I’ve got her,” he replied curtly, shaking his head as he turned away from her. “Come along, Charlie.”
A half-smile played across Charlie’s lips as he made an after you gesture, an older brother used to placating a younger sibling. Percy stormed out of the room with Elodie writhing angrily in his arms, leaving Hermione on the sofa, flushed hot with the sense that she’d done something terribly embarrassing.
At the last moment, Charlie glanced back at her. He winked.