Maybe Baby by mysterium26

Rating: PG
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 16/08/2005
Last Updated: 06/09/2005
Status: Completed

Epilogue up! Okay, THIS is seriously the final chapter! Independent, unattached Hermione
discovers a gaping hole in her carefully constructed plan for Life. In typical Hermione fashion,
she attempts to rectify the problem, but instead finds out what she's been truly missing after
all. Reviews greatly appreciated!




1. Something's Missing
----------------------

Hello again, all. I’m not entirely certain where this little plot bunny came from, but it was
somewhat inspired by a *Friends* episode which you will probably recognize in later chapters.
Let’s see, I have the beginning and the end written for this sucker, but not the middle, ha, so it
may be a bit before the whole thing is up here! Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and please leave a
review if you have any constructive criticisms for me.

Disclaimer: I forgot to put one of these on *A Connection* so I’ll just cover my tracks and
have it apply to that one too—I don’t own Harry Potter or any of JKR’s brilliant universe, and,
let’s face it, if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself!

Maybe Baby

Chapter 1 “Something’s Missing”

Hermione Granger woke up once again with her hand massaging her stomach. As the last vestiges of
sleep left her and she became aware of her actions, her contented smile slipped from her face.

“Not *again!*” she groaned, rolling out of bed and standing in front of her full-length
mirror. A disgruntled Hermione frowned back at her. How many times in the past few weeks had she
stood there pondering her unpleasant wake-up calls? Upwards of ten, she calculated. But what did it
all *mean?*

She sat down on the foot of her bed feeling around for her slippers without taking her eyes off
of her reflection. The backwards numbers of the alarm clock on her bedside table told her it was
nearly 5 AM. *Well, losing a few minutes sleep isn’t a total loss*, she told herself. But she
still couldn’t ignore the undeniable fact that these “few minutes” were adding up, and eventually
her loss of sleep would take its toll on her daily life.

With that thought she grabbed her dressing gown off the hook on the back of her door and made
her way to the kitchen. The tea kettle was already issuing steam and a stack of buttered toast lay
on the table near a disheveled and exhausted looking young man.

“Mmmmornin, Hermione,” he yawned. “Tea’s on already.”

“Good morning, Harry,” she replied dully, seizing a slice of toast from the stack, “What are you
doing up so early? You don’t have to go in for a few hours I thought.”

He rolled his eyes. “*Someone* forgot to put Silencing Charms up on his room last night. I
finally fell asleep about three hours ago, but I think my body thought that I’d oversleep so I’ve
been up for a half hour now.” He shrugged at her as she tended the now whistling tea kettle and
busied herself pouring cups for both of them.

“That Ron. What’ll we ever do with him?” she smiled shaking her head. At Harry’s glare she said,
“Hey at least *I* didn’t hear them. I doubt he would have appreciated me bursting in to tell
him to pipe down, even if it is in all of our best interests.”

Making her way back to the table, Hermione handed Harry his steaming up and settled down in her
chair. Harry had been returning late almost every night from his job as an Auror, explaining that
Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Head of the Auror Division in the Ministry of Magic had insisted that
each new Auror be assigned double shifts in the field to get more first-hand experience. Although
Harry felt that he’d had enough “first-hand experience” fighting Dark wizards to last him a
lifetime, he wasn’t one to claim special treatment for being the Boy-Who-Lived or the victor
against Lord Voldemort at the tender age of seventeen. Nevermind that he had accomplished all of
this several years before he even qualified to become a full-fledged Auror.

Hermione studied his appearance, realizing that he looked almost identical to his former school
self, complete with the beginnings of dark circles beneath his eyes and that same untamable hair.
Even she could hardly believe that he was a twenty-four-year-old grown man who hated mornings
almost as much as she did. Well, she didn’t *hate* all mornings really, just the ones like
this that left her with this new unfamiliar feeling.

“I mean, I’ve been having sleep issues as it is,” she stated with only a trace of the concern
she really felt.

“Really? In what way?” Harry asked with a furrowed brow.

“Well, I don’t know what it is, really. I keep having these odd dreams. And then when I wake up
I’m always rubbing my belly, but the second I realize I’m awake I keep forgetting what I’m dreaming
about. I honestly have no idea…” she trailed off. She had great difficulty putting it into words.
It surely wasn’t anything bad that she was dreaming about, because she always felt so content in
that twilight between dreaming and waking, before the feelings of confusion rushed in.

“Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly, forgetting it was still the wee hours of the morning and causing
Harry to jump slightly in his seat. With an almost triumphant air, she said, “Is it possible that
I’m ill? I’ve read about how your subconscious can give you clues to inform you when you have some
kind of undetectable disease—”

“I don’t think you’re sick, Hermione. It might just be what you said, weird dreams,” Harry
interrupted with a small chuckle. “But if would make you feel better, why don’t you go see Madame
Pomfrey when you’re at work?”

She instantly forgot that he had laughed at her idea initially and considered his suggestion.
*Well, if it’s something to be worried about, Madame Pomfrey can just sort me out right then. If
it’s nothing, then it’s nothing and I can make do,* she thought.

“You know what, Harry? You’re absolutely right. She’s patched you up more times than I can count
for sure, so she’s more than able to take me and my trivial little case on. If anything, she can
just ease my mind,” she stated.

“Yeah, I wonder if they’ve removed my brass nameplate off of Bed #4 yet,” Harry queried as he
rose from the table to refill their cups.

“No, and I doubt they will. Ron said he’d put a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of it,” she
replied absently. Now that she had settled on a course of action, Hermione was feeling much more
relieved than when she had woken up. She was just flipping through the previous day’s post when
they heard a shout from the living room.

“Hermione!” yelled Ginny from the fireplace. “Are you awake?”

Both Hermione and Harry removed to the living room, tea and toast in hand, to answer the Floo
call. It always struck Hermione how hilarious Ginny looked surrounded by flames with her already
flaming red hair and she barely repressed her chuckle as she sat on the sofa beside Harry.

“Yeah, we’re both up, no thanks to your lousy prat of a bother,” Harry answered grumpily.

“I don’t even want to know,” laughed Ginny. Then, turning to Hermione, she asked, “Do you think
we could go to work together? I hate riding on those carriages to Hogwarts alone.”

“Sure, Gin,” Hermione replied. “I have to meet with the headmistress at quarter to eight though.
Does that work for you?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll meet you at the Apparition point at seven then, okay? See you! Bye Harry!”
waved Ginny, as well as a person’s head in a fireplace could wave anyway.

Harry laughed. “Does that girl convert oxygen directly to caffeine or something? How is anyone
*that* awake this early?”

Hermione smiled and began to collect their dishes and placed them in the sink as they returned
to the kitchen of their flat. Harry joined her at the sink and they wordlessly finished up the
washing and drying, each noticing but not commenting on the fact that many dishes had accumulated
in the sink since dinner the previous evening, no doubt due to Ron. Hermione sighed as she heard
the clock chime six and stared out at the windowless side of the adjacent building, noting not for
the first time that it blended in exactly with the sky of an unremarkable, gray February
morning.

Noticing her pause in their work, Harry looked over and studied her profile. “You know,” he
said, “I’ll never understand what you find so fascinating about the side of a completely blank
building.”

“Do you think anyone would notice if we painted a mural on it?” she wondered by way of
reply.

“Hermione, I think that’s the fourteenth time you’ve said that since we moved in to this flat,”
he answered with a chuckle and snuck a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. He had learned
his lesson many times that if Hermione was preoccupied with something, it was a customary part of
their friendship that he would probably hear about it before the day’s end, at the very least in
vague and mysterious mutterings. However, Harry doubted that this time *she* even knew what
was bothering her, so he wondered if he should dare ask. An annoyed Hermione was not included in
his list of all-time morning favorites, let alone an annoyed and very sleep-deprived Hermione.

But because he wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing, Harry delicately posed his question, “Um,
Hermione, is all that dream stuff the only thing that’s on your mind?”

“What? Oh yeah, that’s the only thing,” she answered as nonchalantly as she could, but she
doubted that Harry was fooled. She internally debated whether she should tell him where else her
thoughts had frequently come to dwell lately, but the entire idea seemed ridiculous even to her.
Though it wasn’t nearly as ridiculous as the thought of her being unable to confide in Harry.

“No, it’s not the only thing,” she said suddenly, startling herself. Harry turned to her,
surprised, and she finally looked away from the window and at him. “The truth is, for these past
few months, I’ve been anticipating something.”

“What were you anticipating?” he asked.

“That’s just the thing,” she replied, shaking her head, “I have no idea. But it’s enough to
bring with it this feeling of…emptiness, like my life is missing something. But that can’t be
right, can it? I mean, I’m happy, aren’t I?”

He wanted to agree with her just to clear up her expression of desperation, but images of
Hermione’s behavior from the past few months crossed his mind, and he could only shrug.

Shortly after Harry had defeated Voldemort, he was examined and treated for post-traumatic
stress disorder, and Ron had undergone some similar kind of therapy to help him grieve for his
fallen brother, Percy. Ron, Harry remembered, with his obstinate nature had not forgiven the
prodigal Percy as his parents had, and so had difficulty dealing with the guilt associated with
Percy’s death in the final battle. Hermione, on the other hand, seemed to the outside world to only
regard the vanquishing of Voldemort as a checkmark on the To-Do list of her life, and required only
minimal medical attention.

However, Harry suspected that she had simply done what she always had, and buried her sorrows
and pain deep beneath her normally functioning surface. Of course there would be something missing;
Hermione had never fully gotten closure after the end of the Final Battle. To Harry this was the
only plausible possibility—what else could a twenty-five-year-old woman with a successful career,
caring friends and family, and loads of admirers be missing? Harry thought it inevitable that this
need for closure would resurface and vowed that when it did, he would be there for Hermione as much
as she had always been there for him.



2. Tick-Tock
------------

A/N: Hey there! Chapter 2 of around 6 is up and running! Please leave a review if you have
anything at all to say. Oh, and I pre-apologize for my utter lack of creativity when it comes to
pronouns later in the chapter.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or anything as remotely awesome, but if I did, you could be
sure I wouldn’t be nearly as worried about tuition rates increasing!

Chapter 2: “Tick-Tock”

Hermione didn’t know what to think about Harry’s answer—or rather, his *lack* of answer—to
her quandary. He clearly seemed to have an opinion on the matter, but she couldn’t for the life of
her think of why he wouldn’t divulge it. Figuring it would not be productive to overanalyze the
situation until she had more answers—chiefly, after her visit to Madame Pomfrey—Hermione set her
mind to the task of getting ready for work.

When her bedside clock indicated it was nearly a quarter to seven, she collected her bag and
traveling cloak and left her room, shouting for Harry as she went.

“Harry, get a move on, we’ve got to go!”

As she rounded the corner from the hallway to the living room, she was surprised to find that
Harry was expectantly tapping his foot, his own cloak folded in his arms. As they’d have to travel
partway through Muggle London, neither could leave the flat in visible wizard attire.

She laughed at his poor imitation of her impatience and hurried him out the door and down their
building’s many staircases. Opting to live together in a flat near the main hubbub of central
London, at a brisk walk they reached their destination a few minutes shy of seven.

“Here we are, dear friend, the Leaky Cauldron,” said Harry solemnly, gazing at the gilded
crud-covered sign which, before their very eyes, transformed to reveal the name of the famous pub.
“Many a good time we’ve had in these four walls, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Indeed, good sir,” replied Hermione, chuckling at Harry’s abrupt demonstration of his weird
sense of humor, “C’mon, Harry, let’s go inside, I’m freezing and I’m going to be late to meet
Ginny.” She pushed open the heavy door and immediately felt the rush of warmth from within the pub.
Though early in the day, the Leaky Cauldron was already crowded with morning commuters such as
Harry and Hermione. While making their way through the throng of said commuters, Harry waved a
cheery hello to Tom, who was partially obstructed behind a leaning tower of drying dishes.

“Remind me again, why you’re going in so early?” Hermione asked over the din.

Harry grimaced as though reminded of something unpleasant. “I really didn’t want to be there
when Marathon Man woke up this morning. I mean, I love Luna as much as the next bloke-- ”

“Except Ron,” Hermione interrupted, smirking.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, except Ron. I just didn’t want to deal with all that morning-after
mushiness,” he explained.

Hermione laughed at the image of Harry sitting at the breakfast table scowling back and forth
between Ron (also known as “Marathon Man” to Harry and Hermione, so named for his enduring
nocturnal appetite) and Luna as they fed each other food from their plates. Harry glanced at her
curiously and as his serious façade broke, joined her in her laughter.

At last they reached the back of the pub and approached the brick wall separating the two
coexisting worlds. Harry fumbled in his robes concealed beneath his traveling cloak for his wand to
activate the portal, but was beaten by Hermione who promptly tapped the specified brick and shook
her head at him.

“Some Auror you are,” she tsk-tsked at him. “What if there was a band of mad Dark Wizards beyond
this brick wall?”

Harry mumbled an incoherent reply, but was interrupted by an enthusiastic greeting from Ginny
who had arrived a little after them at the Apparition Point. The line to enter the designated area
stretched nearly a quarter of the way down Diagon Alley, composed of mainly Ministry witches and
wizards who also lived in or near the Leaky Cauldron. Some, however, were employees in Hogsmeade
or, as in Hermione and Ginny’s case, professors at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As
they neared the head of the line and loud cracks joined the multitude of other noises heard in the
alley, Hermione waved goodbye to Harry as he branched off toward the line reserved for those
heading to the Ministry of Magic, and she and Ginny followed those heading to Hogsmeade.

Some minutes later the two witches arrived in the village and immediately set a course for the
gates where the queue of carriages would be waiting. While many professors opted for living
quarters within Hogwarts, Hermione and Ginny were exceptions. Hermione required the comforting
presence of her two best friends in Muggle London, neither of whom wanted to battle the mad hordes
of teenage witches that seemed to detect the guys’ presence in less than five minutes. Ginny, on
the other hand, had been delighting in the independence that living solo could offer, especially
when compared to the sometimes stifling atmosphere of the Burrow. For these reasons, both Hermione
and Ginny had to make the same excruciating commute every instructional day or special Hogwarts
occasion.

Hermione had always loved the village of Hogsmeade, appreciating its welcoming beauty and
friendly populace. Even now as she looked around, men and women were out of doors beginning their
day directing shovels to clear the paths to their homes with their wands while their children drew
designs on the fogged-up windowpanes. She smiled to a little girl in bright pink foot pajamas who
waved at her from the open doorway of her home.

It was only then that Hermione noticed most of the crowd around her consisted children hanging
off the arms of their parents as they conducted morning business. She frowned, wondering how this
detail escaped her attention for the several years that she’d traveled the Hogsmeade route at this
time of day. It was also puzzling to her that this detail seemed noteworthy.

Ginny caught her expression. “What?” she asked, her eyes excitedly scanning the crowd. “Did you
see someone we know?”

“No, I was just—”

“Well come on then, or you’ll be late for your meeting with McGonagall!” Ginny cried, now
positively dragging Hermione by the arm through the rest of Hogsmeade until they reached the gate
where the thestral-drawn carriages were lined. Seeing these carriages always reminded her of Harry,
and how horrified she was with herself back in fifth year when she expressed the wish that she
could see the creatures. She could see them now all right, but the price she paid for this ability
was more than she thought was worth a satisfied curiosity.

Nevertheless both women climbed aboard and watched as the Hogwarts castle grew nearer. They rode
in silence as each went over their lesson plans for classes that day and struggled to avoid
thinking about exactly why they both knew every visual detail of the creature leading their
carriage.

Ginny, who had finally completed her servitude as assistant Charms professor, had just this year
taken over the department when Professor Flitwick took his well-deserved retirement. Still
practically bursting with raw energy this far into the school term, Ginny studiously pored over her
notes for that day’s lesson. And, on the other side of the carriage, anyone who didn’t know
Hermione would probably have said the same. However, Hermione’s mind was elsewhere, again dwelling
on her recurring dream, try as she might to banish the thought for later.

The carriage stopped abruptly and Hermione was startled from her musings. She stumbled onto the
cobbled stones of the Hogwarts steps less gracefully than Ginny, whom she quickly followed through
the castle’s great doors.

Ginny pulled her gold timepiece from her robes and after examining it for a moment, turned to
Hermione and said, “Mmm, smells like kippers. You wanna grab a bite before lessons? Hey, look!
Hagrid’s there too, haven’t seen him in a while. It looks as though he might have gotten a new
coat—”

“Ginny,” Hermione began.

“Would you include the counterspell of hiccups in your instruction of cheering charms? Because I
seem to recall—”

“*Ginny*.”

“Yes, Hermione? You know, you seem very quiet today. Is anything the matter?”

Hermione waited a moment before answering in case Ginny started talking again. Shrugging her
shoulders at Ginny, she replied, “Nothing a little trip to the Hospital Wing can’t fix.” She looked
away and considered casting a cheering charm on herself before her meeting with the
headmistress.

Ginny still looked concerned but hid it when Hermione turned to face her. She looked down at her
watch and jumped.

“Hermione! It’s a quarter to eight, it’s time for your meeting with McGonagall!” She grabbed
Hermione by the shoulders and began pushing her through the throng of students toward the nearest
staircase. With the air of a mother sending her child off for the first day of school, Ginny waved
her goodbye and yelled just audibly, “Let me know how it goes, won’t you? Must run, I have those
third years next lesson!”

Hermione chuckled to herself as Ginny was whisked away. On days like this one, Hermione was
especially glad that Ginny was around to lighten the atmosphere.

Hermione stopped just outside of the entrance to the headmistress’ office. Even while gazing at
the stone gargoyle, she acknowledged that no matter how many years went by, she still had
difficulty thinking of it as anything but Dumbledore’s and had to mentally restrain herself from
reciting all the sweets she could think of.

“Professor Granger?” came a voice from the side.

“Fizzing Whizbee!” Hermione blurted as she spun to face the speaker. Immediately she felt a
blush creeping up her cheeks as she gave a small, apologetic smile to Professor McGonagall. The
woman simply nodded and sniffed so that her nostrils contracted.

The pair made their way to McGonagall’s office where they spent the next quarter of an hour
updating the Transfiguration syllabus. Luckily, Hermione had several alternate plans constructed
for this very meeting, one which the headmistress would be holding with each Hogwarts professor.
All in all, it served as a good distraction from the thoughts that had been plaguing her all day
long.

When their meeting was adjourned, Hermione forced herself to walk at a sedate speed down the
many halls toward the Hospital Wing. Her nervousness had concentrated itself into a tight ball in
her stomach. After an appraisal from Madame Pomfrey, she would know for certain if her nocturnal
disturbances were trying to tell her something. With a deep breath, she pushed open the heavy oak
door to the room that had become somewhat of her second home during her education at Hogwarts.

Early morning sunlight filtered lazily through the east windows of the hospital ward, bathing
the entire room in a welcoming glow that dulled the sterile smell of antiseptic. It also reflected
off a particular brass nameplate bearing the name ‘Harry J. Potter’ and the term of his years at
Hogwarts. A quick glance around the room showed the nurse already administering a Pepper-Up potion
to several older students, no doubt to the nasty bout of February flu spreading throughout the
school. Hermione’s trepidation lessened slightly as she perched herself on the end of bed number
four.

Madame Pomfrey, resident nurse at Hogwarts, had changed little over the years. She was both a
woman hard as nails and yet strangely compassionate. Hermione found the nurse’s tut-tutting and
rigidity about the rules more endearing than most.

Hermione’s gaze wandered the room as she recalled each and every reason why this ward felt so
much like home to her. Aside from the numerous times that she frequented the place as a visitor to
Harry or Ron (or both), she’d also gained personal familiarity with the Hogwarts healer herself on
more than one occasion.

Hermione was just wondering how she could get her linens so crisp when Madame Pomfrey’s brisk
voice called to her.

“Ah, Miss Granger—or should I say *‘Professor’* Granger? What brings you in today?”

Hermione smiled at the change in address. For a moment she’d felt thirteen again, approaching
the nurse with an ailment she couldn’t quite explain. But at least she wasn’t covered in hair or in
possession of a tail this time. Her smile widened at the memory and she replied, “Please call me
Hermione. Well, Madame Pomfrey, to be honest I don’t really know why I’m here, other than that I’ve
been having some odd dreams and everything lately. Harry suggested I come here to be checked out,
since I know he trusts you more than he’ll admit, but I just wanted to…make sure. That everything
was all right, you know.”

She was beginning to ramble and Madame Pomfrey seemed to sense this, so she chose that moment to
insert a popsicle stick into Hermione’s mouth. Peering down into the young woman’s throat, she
instructed Hermione to say ‘Aaaawww.’

“Ah ohn’t hink ut’s ay thoa,” she sputtered instead. (A/N: Translation—“I don’t think it’s my
throat.” And yes I really did hold down my tongue with a popsicle stick and see what sounds
actually came out. I just have easy access to a lot of Popsicle sticks, as I eat like a bazillion.
Anyway.)

The nurse wore a puzzled expression as she removed her wand from where it had been tucked in her
sleeve. Muttering an intelligible spell, she waved the wand over Hermione’s body, much like a
security guard. The wand showed no visible color change in any area.

Madame Pomfrey looked up at Hermione quizzically. “What exactly brought on your suspicions of an
illness, Prof—I’m sorry, Hermione?”

Hermione launched into a detailed description of her troubled mornings and vague feelings of
loss, as well as her theories about her subconscious informing her of any decline of health, while
the nurse listened patiently. Finally Hermione finished and regarded Madame Pomfrey with an
expression mingled in both fear and expectation.

When the nurse finally spoke, it was to voice a question that Hermione had not anticipated.

“And how old are you now, Hermione?” she asked delicately.

“I’ve just turned twenty-five last September. Why, is that relevant? Do you know what the
mat—”

“I know nothing, yet. However, there is a test that can be done. It is not often used in witches
so young, but I believe that perhaps your Muggle background is allowing the symptoms to make
themselves known at a much younger age. We shall see, if you are interested?”

A small kernel of hope rose in her chest. If she knew the problem, she was that much closer to
finding the solution. She could barely keep her heading from falling off as she nodded
vigorously.

The older witch screwed up her eyes in concentration, muttered a rather long incantation, and
performed a tricky wand movement which cast a pale blue glow around Hermione’s body. As the pair
watched, the glow brightened until its intensity caused Hermione to squint as well. Madame Pomfrey
nodded to herself once and cancelled the spell.

Breathing heavily with excitement, she asked, “I’ve never heard that spell used before, Madame
Pomfrey. *Utumqua preferus refero?”* She paused briefly, the cogs in her head working
furiously. “But, doesn’t that mean—”

“Simply put, it is the Optimum Reproduction Test, used to determine just what it says. The
intensity of the light indicates the degree of fertility in the patient. Now as I’ve said, this is
especially rare in a witch of your age, but not unheard of,” Madame Pomfrey explained.

Hermione shook her head and blinked several times. Reproduction? Fertility? Intensity of light?
Her normally sharp-witted mind was still working to catch up.

“So, what the test is saying is that I am, well, *extremely* fertile?” she blushed
slightly.

The older woman seemed to be contemplating her answer carefully. “Yes, that’s what the test
indicates. But it’s more than that. Basically, it’s telling us that you’re biological clock is
ticking, and at a rapid pace. I can’t say for sure, but you may only have as many as ten years
before your fertility levels drop. That’s uncommon even for a Muggle woman, but like I said, it’s
not entirely unprecedented. Now, this doesn’t mean that you will be unable to bear children in ten
years, it just means that the likelihood of conceiving decreases.”

*Ten years. Ten years. Ten years….* What seemed like plenty of time could quite possibly
pass by in what may feel like a week. Suddenly she was very frightened that with all the energy and
time she put into her career and other involvements, she would miss this ten year window. Like the
nurse said, she was young, and her career here at Hogwarts wasn’t as developed as Hermione would
prefer.

She raised her eyes to the older woman. “Madame Pomfrey, I’m not married. Hell, I don’t even
have a *boyfriend.* And, well, with the way things are going, that is unlikely to change. What
should I do?”

Childless and uninvolved herself, the Hogwarts nurse gave the young woman a sympathetic look.
“There are other ways around that, Hermione,” she said gently, “if that is the direction you want
to take.”

Comprehension dawned on Hermione’s face and she began to get up from the bed and make her
goodbyes. But, as was her nature, she would not allow herself to make any major decisions before
thinking her options over thoroughly. After she had shaken the nurse’s and thanked her for the
final time, she turned and head toward the door. Suddenly, she stopped, remembering something that
the Hogwarts nurse had said earlier in the conversation.

She whipped around. “Madame Pomfrey?” she called curiously, for the nurse had returned to her
office. When Hermione saw her head peek around the corner, she asked, “You said that my situation
wasn’t entirely unheard of. Did you, if I may ask, know someone else with similar results to the
Optimum Reproduction test as me?”

“Oh yes, just one. And, like you, she was also Muggle-born,” Madame Pomfrey smiled slightly.

Hermione raised her eyebrows expectantly. “Who?”

“Lily Potter.”

A/N: Ah! I’m not trying to make the point that career women can’t have kids or anything, so
don’t hate me! In fact, it touches upon the argument against that in the next few chapters. Oh yes
and the Latin is total crap. And, um, I wrote the majority of this while I was half-asleep, so if
it sucks, there’s something you can mention in a review! Yay, reviewing!



3. Nothing Out of the Ordinary
------------------------------

A/N: Ridiculously short chapter, but it serves as a bit of a transition. I have the day off
today (thank God, if I have to smile at a customer one more time, my face is going to fall off) so
I think I’ll bust out the next one today as well.

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing Harry Potter related, except like, a poster, a few
soundtracks, DVDs, and that’s it. Yay, run-on sentences!

Chapter 3 Nothing Out of the Ordinary

*“Lily Potter?”* Hermione breathed, her brain reeling, but Madame Pomfrey had already
returned to her office. Hermione stood there several moments, shifting her weight between her
feet.

This was certainly a day of revelations. Not only was it made known that Hermione had only ten
years to meet someone, fall in love, get married, and make little Hermiones and Whoevers, but that
this rare condition of having a clipped window of opportunity was shared by none other than her
best friend’s mother, a fellow Muggle-born.

Sighing, she wondered if Harry knew he was probably conceived in a hurry, but couldn’t wrap her
mind around trying to bring *that* up in a conversation. She stopped abruptly, coming
face-to-face with the wood grains of her office door. The sound of approaching footfalls roused her
further from her reverie.

“Hermione!” shouted Ginny breathlessly, having run the entire length of the corridor. Hermione
rolled her eyes skyward— she didn’t feel like discussing anything that had transpired in the last
few hours, but couldn’t seem to muster the energy to put of a cheerful front.

Hermione held the door open for the younger witch and ushered her in half-heartedly. Ginny
flopped on one of Hermione’s dark brown leather couches and regarded her carefully.

“You look tired,” she stated matter-of-factly. Hermione shrugged and kept her eyes fixed on the
leg of her desk. Ginny seemed to sense her disinclination to speak and changed tact.

“How was your meeting with McGonagall then?” she asked as she pretended to pick the lint off her
robes. When Hermione didn’t answer, Ginny continued, “Because, you know, mine is next week. With
McGonagall, that is. Er, have you any pointers for me?”

But Hermione was miles away. *Ten years could go by in the blink of an eye,* she thought.
*Hell, ten years practically* is *the blink of an eye to most wizards.* The ironic thing
was that now that she knew why her subconscious had suddenly become obsessed with children, it did
nothing to alleviate the dull ache in her chest. And suddenly her use of the time-turner in third
year and her preoccupation with time in its abstract form seemed laughable. Not that a time-turner
could help her right now anyway, because it only alters the course of time and the not the age of
the traveler. Then again, she *could* attain one and go back to warn herself to get a move on
early so that maybe she wouldn’t be in this sticky situation now. But no, she reminded herself,
that would be breaking the cardinal rule of time traveling—*you must not be seen.* Then again,
if she *had* somehow managed to communicate with her past self, she would remember it already
and probably wouldn’t even be here to begin with. Ugh, she thought as she buried her face in her
hands, even her thoughts were too jumbled to navigate.

Ginny’s voice cut gently through her thoughts. “You know, you never go out anymore,
Hermione.”

“What?! Of course I go out,” Hermione responded indignantly.

Ginny snickered dubiously and readjusted her robes so that she could sit cross-legged on the
couch. “Sure, Miss Popularity here. I could Floo your flat any night of the week; you’re in.”

“Ginny, it’s school time!” Hermione got up and began pacing around the room. Even if she didn’t
want to admit it, Ginny had struck a chord within her, and sometimes it was the truth that hurt the
most.

“So what?” Ginny answered airily. “School time is on, there’s hardly any free time or single
wizards, and I still managed to dress nicely and catch one of them. How do you expect to get a
boyfriend if you never tear yourself from your work?”

Hermione paused in her pacing and looked Ginny square in the eye, her expression hostile. “You
sound like my mother,” she accused. “And your boyfriend escapades are quite beside the point. We
both know that you and I do things a little differently.”

Ginny shrugged, not looking away. “I’m only trying to help. You’ve seemed so unhappy recently,
don’t you *want* to go out and have fun?”

But even through her indignation, she acknowledged to herself that Ginny did have somewhat of a
point. How *was* she supposed to have a baby if she didn’t at least start seeing someone? And
how was she supposed to do *that* if she didn’t start leaving the flat once in a while, or
maybe go out with Ginny and her girlfriends rather than her own two overprotective best friends?
Suddenly, something Madame Pomfrey said rang in her ears—*“There are other ways around that,
Hermione, if that is the direction you want to take.”*

Hermione gasped with this startling realization. “Ginny!” she shrieked, causing the young woman
to jump in her seat. “Ginny, you’re right!”

“Of course I—wait, what?” Hermione didn’t answer right away, but pulled Ginny up from the couch
and pushed her toward the door.

“I’m sorry Ginny, I can’t talk right now. No, there’s nothing wrong,” she said before the other
woman could ask, “I just need to think right now, and I need silence to accomplish that.”

She shut the door in Ginny’s concerned face and leaned back against it, fighting the grin of
triumph from creeping up on her face. There was nothing quite like the high she got from the new
accumulation of knowledge; and based on her most recent epiphany, Hermione was soaring. Now all she
had to do was crack open a few books, check out a few facts and figures, and formulate a cohesive
plan—nothing out of the ordinary for her. Yes, she was well on her way to having some little
Hermiones of her own.

A/N: Okay, if you have any suggestions to make, make them now, because I’m in the process of
writing the next chapter riiiiiiiigt NOW and if I need to make any changes I need to know ASAP. And
I’m sorry for being so vague, but that’s the way it needs to be. Don’t worry, next chapter will
clear up most stuff. Thanks for reading, I really appreciate it!



4. Well, That Went Well
-----------------------

A/N: I think this is my favorite chapter so far—maybe because it was the easiest to write. And I
know this doesn’t appear to be going in a favorable direction, but please don’t give up on me yet!
And PLEASE review with any suggestions or criticisms you may have.

Disclaimer: Oh my, I own zero stock in JKR’s Harry Potter, but if they sold real shares, I’d be
heading up the queue!

Chapter 4 Well, *That* Went Well

Harry and Ron had company over when Hermione arrived at their flat, which was just as well, as
it would save her the trouble of announcing her decision multiple times. After depositing her cloak
and briefcase on and near the coat rack, she followed the sound of laughter to the living room
where her two flatmates, Ginny, Luna, and surprisingly, Neville were seated on the various
armchairs and couches around the roaring fire.

She found herself in such a good mood that she even laughed at Ron’s joke about the hag, the
Healer, and the *Mimbulus mimbletonia*, even though she was sure he’d told it at least twenty
times by now. Her chortle rang throughout the room long after the others’ laughter had died. All
five other heads swiveled in her direction and she smiled and nodded her greetings to everyone.

She flopped languidly onto the vacant cushion nearest Ginny, who appraised her carefully and
remarked, “Wow, someone’s happy. What’s the deal?”

The others’ gazes were still fixed on her as she fought to suppress her growing smile.

“Wait,” said Ron suspiciously, “I know that look. You’ve—you’ve *learned* something!” His
eyes narrowed and he pulled back from her suddenly fearful.

Neville placed a restraining hand on Ron’s shoulder to keep him from leaping away from her.
“Ron’s right though, Hermione—”

“For once,” muttered Ginny quietly.

“Hey!” cried an indignant Ron from his spot in the armchair.

“No, really,” said Harry, ignoring the interruption, “You have that knowing smile. You’ve got
some big news, haven’t you, Professor?”

“Ooh! Is this about your meeting with McGonagall? I heard Sprout talking today about McGonagall
wanting to elect a new Deputy Headmistress, is that it?” Ginny gushed eagerly.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at this tidbit, but shook her head in the negative.

“Gulping Plimpies?” asked Luna hopefully.

“Why don’t we just let Hermione tell us,” suggested Harry diplomatically.

Hermione smiled gratefully at him and took a deep breath, putting her thoughts in a logical
order. “Babies.”

Unexpected silence greeted her statement. Startled, she looked from face to face for a reaction,
*any* reaction that might give her a clue as to how to proceed. She had prepared for an
onslaught of objections and had a counterargument to any dissentious opposition, but the roomful of
silence planed away at her confidence. Finally someone spoke.

“Babies?” asked Neville uncertainly.

“Yes, I want to have a baby,” stated Hermione clearly. Her eyes found Harry’s in the group and
silently pleaded for him to say something. For some reason, she was most anxious to hear his
opinion on the matter. He held her gaze for only a moment before becoming suddenly very interested
in the hem on his jumper.

“Well aren’t you forgetting something?” asked a confused Ron.

Hermione ran through her mental checklist of details, and finding nothing unaccounted for, she
shook her head and replied, “No…I don’t think so.”

Ron chuckled in a rather apprehensive way, obviously treading lightly lest he set her off,
“Well, I mean, you’re not married or anything, I just—”

“Oh Ronald, you don’t have to be married to have a baby,” supplied Luna rationally, effectively
saving Hermione from the same argument herself. She was about to continue, when Hermione
interrupted.

“Look, I had a meeting with Madame Pomfrey today because I’ve been feeling a little…under the
weather,” she explained, again seeking out Harry’s gaze. She was troubled to find that he again
wasn’t looking at her but at his left shoe, though she noted he giving that shoelace a rather
concerned look. “And anyway, she told me that my, erm, biological clock is ticking, and that I need
to get a move on if I want to have kids.”

Neville’s and Ginny’s mouths dropped open. Ginny put up a hand to cover it. “Oh Merlin, and I
just lectured you for ages about getting yourself a proper boyfriend! Hermione, I am so sorry!”

“It’s okay, Ginny,” Hermione reassured the younger witch. “You actually were the one who
reminded me of something Madame Pomfrey told me. In fact, I’m going to take her advice. I did a
little research—”

“That explains the look,” mumbled Ron.

“Lips moving, still talking,” glowered Hermione, indicating her moving mouth with a finger. She
sighed, exasperated by how long it was taking to explain herself. “So I did some research and
decided that the best way to go about this is artificial insemination.” She paused again and gauged
her friends’ reactions.

“She doesn’t need an actual man, just a couple of his best swimmers,” came Luna’s blunt response
as she nodded in understanding with Hermione. Hermione was rather taken aback with this view, but
couldn’t deny its straightforward accuracy. *One down, four to go,* she thought.

Ginny was still blinking in surprise at Luna when she posed her next question, “So, now that we
got that covered, how does this whole thing work? I mean, do you just order, you know, the
*stuff,* like a pizza, or what?”

Hermione laughed, grateful that Ginny had lightened the mood somewhat. She settled back in her
usual expositional nature, and began, “Well, it’s not all that complicated really. You select a
donor, pick up a frozen sample, bring it home and defrost it, insert it, and—well, that’s all.”

“In—insert it?” gulped Ron.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. “Yes, Ron. *Insert* it. How else could I get
pregnant?”

Ron colored and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Firewhiskey.” Neville snorted
but was silenced by a look by Ginny.

Ron spoke again, now very clearly trying to get a handle on the situation. “Hermione, this
doesn’t seem like something you would do. I mean it’s so…impulsive.”

“Good word, Ronald,” praised Luna, causing Ron to redden again.

“Ron’s right though, Hermione,” said Ginny. “I don’t understand though. This is the kinda thing
a girl does if she’s very ugly or a lesbian. This is not the act of a beautiful, intelligent girl
who could have any bloke that she wants!”

Harry looked up and opened his mouth as if to say something, but seemed to think better of it,
and closed it again.

“Ginny, you never liked any of my boyfriends anyway, and the rest of that is most definitely
*not* true. Listen, I know it’s not the *ideal* way to do this, but I’m just examining my
options. You don’t understand, I see children every day and I want one of my own. And this want,
this *need* makes me ache for it. Last night I dreamt that I was dangling off the minute hand
of the Hogwarts clock tower while Madame Pomfrey’s voice taunted me about the ticking of my
biological clock! I can’t take it anymore,” she implored the group earnestly.

Nobody said anything following such an honest proclamation. Hermione wasn’t the sort of person
to repress her emotions, but even Harry couldn’t remember a time when she had bared so much of her
soul. She looked at the faces of each of her friends in turn and analyzed each of their
expressions. Luna, Ginny, and Neville were nodding at her, but Ron was gaping at her like a fish
out of water and Harry, she was disappointed to see, was now contemplating the throw rug.

“Look, Hermione, we know you’re capable and everything—you don’t need to do this to prove
anything,” said Ron in what he obviously thought was an understanding tone.

Ginny, Luna, and Neville’s mouths once more dropped open, Ginny looking back and forth at Ron
and Hermione, waiting to see who would speak next. Harry had a pained expression on his face,
bracing himself for the imminent fight.

Hermione had barely registered that all the blood had rushed to her head when she answered Ron
in a low, dangerous voice that obscured no amount of venom. “*You think that I’m doing this just
to prove something to you all?* Is that what you *all* think, or just Marathon Man here!”
she demanded of the group, three of which at least had the decency to look ashamed for their
tactless, red-headed friend. But Hermione wasn’t finished. “You think this is about you, Ronald
Weasley?! Because this has nothing to do with you! For once I am doing something for *me* on
my own, and I would appreciate it if you could find it in your pitiful, self-absorbed little mind
to keep your idiotic thoughts to yourself and stand by your best friend!”

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this angry, but had the vague inkling that it had
had something to do with Ron then too. But more than the feeling of anger was the cognizance that
neither of her best friends had voiced any support for her. That more than anything else was the
cause of the tears welling up in her eyes right now.

Ron stood up, seeing red as well, and blundered, “Hey, I’m just trying to look out for you, all
right?! Having a baby Hermione, are you mad?! I realize that you’re very good at mothering,
Hermione, as you’ve done it to me and Harry for the past, what, *thirteen* years, but do you
realize how much things will have to change? You can’t work, therefore you can’t help with the
rent, not to mention buying all those baby things like prams and—and blankets and all that. And
what about Harry, did you ever stop to think about him?!” From the couch, Harry’s head shot up.

Hermione faced off against Ron and looked him square in the eye, and despite her deficiency in
height, a wrathful Hermione Granger was one of the highest forms of intimidation. Her bushy hair
cackled with energy and her dark eyes glittered dangerously. “What *about* Harry?”

Finally he spoke, “Could you leave me out off this please?”

“SHUT UP!” shouted Hermione and Ron simultaneously before turning their attention back to each
other.

Luna placed a hand on Ron’s arm to hold him back, while Ginny and Neville just watched the
developing altercation with trepidation. Ron pulled away roughly and brought his long nose within
inches of Hermione’s. “For someone so always wrapped up in Harry’s needs and wants, have you ever
stopped to consider what it might be like for Harry with a baby in the house? How he might feel
sneaking birds in at night without running into you on your way for your 2 AM feeding?”

She gulped; no, she hadn’t thought of that. Stubbornly, she replied, “Well, maybe I’ll just move
out then, and you guys can get a nice, third, *bachelor* flatmate, so that the Pregnant and
Hormonal Rampaging Hermione won’t cramp your style!”

Ron took a step back, not having foreseen this reply. His attempt at talking her out of it had
just backfired miserably so he fell back on what he termed ‘logic.’ “Well, that still leaves the
question of money! You won’t be able to work once you have it, and—”

“*Excuse me?*” she sputtered. “Did you just say that I can’t work and raise a child at the
same time?”

“Of course not, not if you want a proper home—”

Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Ginny made shushing noises to Ron and Luna
frowned up at him, but Hermione had already launched into a whole new tirade.

“Well, Weasley, just because you were raised by a stay-at-home mother, doesn’t mean we all were!
My mother has a *thriving* dental practice and, if I do say so myself, I turned out quite
nicely, thank you very much!” she yelled.

Ron raised an eyebrow as if doubting her last statement, causing Hermione to splutter in
indignation once more. Her hands itched toward her wand but Harry leapt up from the couch and
placed a calming hand on the small of her back.

“Listen, Ron, let’s just leave it there for the night, all right? I think we all need a little
sleep and tomorrow we can discuss this further, okay?” he asked, making eye contact with Hermione
for the first time since her announcement.

Hermione felt emotionally drained, but had to have her last say. “Look, I’m tired. I’m tired of
waiting for something or some*one* that isn’t going to happen. This is me taking control of my
life and being the rational, responsible woman that I *am!* I know I can do this, but I was
*hoping* to have the faith of my best friends! Thank you, Ginny, Luna, and it’s nice to see
you again, Neville, but I think I’m going to turn in for the evening. Good night.”

She wiped the remaining tears off with the back of her hand and hugged Ginny and Luna goodbye.
Shooting glares in her flatmates’ directions, she headed back to her room to change for the
evening. Fifteen minutes yielded her a virtually empty flat and two inaccessible flatmates—one
because they couldn’t talk for five seconds without an ensuing argument and the other because he
had suddenly developed a case of muteness that troubled her more than she could admit.

Sitting down on the couch, she gathered her dressing gown more tightly around her and aimed a
new flaming spell at the fireplace. She watched as the orange flames transformed into the brilliant
bluebell ones she’d so often conjured throughout her time at Hogwarts. (A/N: Where have these
bluebells been? I mean seriously, have we seen them since CoS?) Mulling everything over, she
concluded only three things: that her confidence had taken a major beating that evening, that she
was tired of trying to convince everyone that she wanted what she deserved, and that she was even
more tired of trying to convince herself that she deserved what she wanted. *They’re not the same
thing, you know. Oh Merlin,* she thought as her eyelids grew heavy, *I’m beginning to sound
like the Cheshire Cat. Oh, but they’ve changed the boundaries haven’t they, so it’s really the
Unitary Authority on Warrington Cat, or maybe The Cat Formerly Known As Cheshire…*

Hermione didn’t notice the added weight to the other end of the couch where she had curled up,
nor did she feel Harry’s gaze warming her more than any fire. She would have been keen to know that
he was now watching her as studiously as he had been his shoe earlier in the evening. He noticed
her bluebell flames and once again marveled at her ability to perform spellwork at a time like
this. Sighing, he surrendered to whatever was his opposition in his internal debate, and turned
back to study Hermione again. Quietly he walked over to where one of Mrs. Weasley’s knitted
blankets lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, picked it up, and draped it tenderly over his best
friend.

“Good night, Hermione,” he whispered as he leaned over to kiss her forehead, lingering there as
long as he dared. Those three little words words fell far short of the ones he longed to voice, but
they would have to do for now. She stirred a little in her sleep, but otherwise gave no sign of
acknowledgement. He pulled out his wand and quietly cancelled Hermione’s fire charm, dousing the
room in darkness. With one last look back to where he could just make out her sleeping form, Harry
headed off to bed, not looking forward to the conversation that he knew he would be having with
Hermione in the morning.

A/N: Well, I borrowed a bit for this chapter, some of which you may recognize. There’s a bit
from the movie *Look Who’s Talking,* which I adored as a kid, and now fully understand, which
makes it that much funnier. (Gotta love run-on sentences) There are also a few phrases from the
Friends episode, “The One with all the Jam.” And the Cheshire bit was actually from the Thursday
Next book series by Jasper Fforde, which I highly recommend by the way. The first one is called
*The Eyre Affair* if anyone is interested! Please leave a review!!!



5. The Morning After
--------------------

Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter, all right?! Just let me cry to myself in peace…Oh, and I
don’t own the references to Friends or When Harry Met Sally either. But without further ado…

Chapter 5 The Morning After

Hermione unlocked the door to the flat she shared with her two best friends and entered without
announcing her presence. As she headed purposefully toward the kitchen, her mind was too
preoccupied to notice her traveling cloak join Ron’s on the floor in a rumpled pile near the base
of the coat rack. Seating herself at her usual place at the table, she removed the neatly clipped
stack of sealed manila envelopes from her briefcase and placed it gingerly on the placemat in front
of her as though it were an armed bomb due to detonate at any moment.

*This is it,* she told herself. *The point of no return.* She stared intently at the
first envelope, aware of its contents and how irrevocably it could change her life. Hermione was
never one to do things by halves; it was either all or nothing, and after a lifetime of denying
herself, she felt this was a long time coming.

Down the hall, Harry was distracted from his perusal of his Defense books when it occurred to
him that no greeting had followed the closing of the front door. Convincing himself that he was
only taking a well-deserved break, Harry cautiously approached the kitchen. He cringed remembering
their incomplete morning conversation—even with all the hours he’d had to prepare for it, he was
still unsure of what to say. It had gone a little along the lines of…

“Good morning, Hermione,” he said, attempting to mask the hesitancy in his voice with some false
cheeriness. He winced knowing that she would see through him in a heartbeat; no one would believe
for a second that he had suddenly become a morning person. “Er, sleep well?”

She shot him a dirty look, thinking that he was teasing her. Then she replied, “Like a baby,”
putting great emphasis on every word and watching for his response from the corner of her eye.
While the description wasn’t entirely accurate, she was still a bit miffed from her argument with
Ron the night before.

He choked a little on his tea but otherwise gave no indication that he’d heard her. This was
honestly the most awkward morning-after discussion, or rather *lack* of discussion, he had
ever experienced, and there hadn’t even been any sex. *Bad luck, mate,* Ron’s voice seemed to
say from within his subconscious. He ran a hand through his mutinous morning hair and stared at his
best friend’s troubled profile at where she stood gazing out the kitchen window.

With a deep but inaudible breath, he took the plunge. “Ron says he’s sorry.”

There, he’d brought up last night without any unplanned or embarrassing declarations. He was
mentally patting himself on the back, or rather, sighing in relief, when he realized Hermione
hadn’t answered. He tentatively walked up and stood beside her.

She angled her head toward him and smiled slightly. “It was probably good that you stopped our
argument when you did. Two more words out of his mouth and he and Luna would have to be looking
into artificial insemination.”

He returned her smile, but said seriously, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that angry. Even
that time Ron threw that party and used your room as the, er, *coatroom*.”

She wrinkled her nose in disgust and muttered, “My wand was temperamental for days after all the
cleaning charms I put it through.” Hermione looked suddenly weary as she said, “The funny thing is
that Ron had a point, in all that waffle he was letting out.”

“That’s a first,” said Harry, feigning offhandedness as he poured himself a cup of boiling
water. He was rummaging in one of the cupboards for tea bags when the penny dropped.

“I never did ask you specifically how you felt about all this,” she said, watching him steep his
tea bag with greater care than was necessary. When he didn’t answer immediately, she said, “I’m
sorry for that—I hadn’t thought about how me having a baby would affect your personal life, or
should I say, your dating schedule.”

He closed his eyes and paused in the stirring in of his sugar. He turned around to meet her gaze
and told her sincerely, “Don’t apologize. You and I both know that there’s practically no dating
schedule to speak of.”

She shrugged a little and again faced the window. “But I should have been more considerate of
your feelings,” she pressed. A few moments passed where only the faint hiss of the tea kettle was
heard. She mentally rolled her eyes at herself. *Just ask him,* her conscience urged. “And,
erm, what *are* your feelings?”

“Well,” said Harry, thinking fast, “I—”

“Potter!” came a voice from the living room.

Harry, who had whipped out his wand at the sudden noise, replaced it in the pocket of his
dressing gown and looked apologetically at Hermione. He fled the kitchen, knowing that he was only
postponing the inevitable conversation, and entered the living room to find Kingsley’s head
floating in the fire. He sighed; it looked like an early shift again. Hermione was not going to
like this.

And now, hours later, he struggled to contain the waves of uneasiness pulsing outward; things
like that were an automatic tip-off to his ultra-sensitive best friend.

If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t expected Hermione’s announcement at all. He mentally
kicked himself for thinking she’d needed some counseling over some resurfacing trauma she sustained
while helping to defeat Voldemort. But a baby? He knew without understanding quite how that she’d
be an excellent mother—caring, compassionate, kind. Hell, she’d probably already started knitting a
whole supply of shapeless woolen booties.

Harry’s thoughts were interrupted when he reached the doorway to the kitchen. Sunlight poured in
from the windows behind Hermione, bathing her in a strangely ethereal glow. At that moment, Harry
thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful.

Movement from the doorway startled Hermione from her reading and she looked up to find Harry
regarding her sadly. When he noticed her eyes on his, his expression clouded over to be replaced by
something unreadable. Harry looked down at the three stacks of paper in front of her and quirked an
eyebrow.

“They’re divided up into yes, no, and maybe piles,” Hermione explained, breaking the silence.
She forced a smile and beckoned Harry to take the seat across from her. He slid into his chair and,
with her unspoken permission, picked up the paper that Hermione had just discarded. His features
gave nothing away as she observed him carefully.

“So, you’re really going to do this, huh?” he asked finally.

She felt her apprehension of Harry’s reaction gather rather unpleasantly in her throat,
restricting her speech. It wasn’t clear to her why Harry’s opinion was of the utmost importance,
but she tried to write it off as his being the only one of the few people she’d told that hadn’t
clearly expressed his view. And to be honest, her confidence was still smarting from her argument
with Ron the night before. Though Harry hadn’t defended her, he had stepped in and prevented her
from quite possibly putting Ginny’s Bat-Bogey Hex to shame, so no one could say he was completely
uninvolved.

But as her best friend, she trusted him to be honest with her—to tell her if she was being
ridiculous to want this now with so many other opportunities out there for her, or to encourage her
to do what she believed in and maybe even accompany her on shopping excursions to load up on baby
necessities. Grinning at the image of Harry surrounded by large, fluffy stuffed animals, she
replied, “Yes, I guess I am,” before returning to the paperwork.

Some silence passed while Hermione methodically worked, reading and making some notes on each
file before placing it in the properly designated pile.

“So these are the profiles on each of the donors?” Harry asked with an assumed air of
nonchalance. Hermione nodded but didn’t say anything. “Well, who’ve you got so far?” He leaned
toward the pile of what appeared to have passed the first inspection, struggling to bury his
feelings of hurt and disappointment deep down.

On the other side of the table, Hermione was fighting to maintain a natural exterior. Inside she
was screaming at Harry to give her some indication of what he was thinking, but no, he was
intentionally closing himself off. *But why?* she demanded of her conscious. *Why is he
keeping quiet on this?*

She passed him the contents of the ‘yes’ pile. “I haven’t been through all of them yet,” said
Hermione with a hint of weariness. “Their profiles are simple, just basic details: height, weight,
siblings, hair and eye color, and minimal background information. It’s almost a resume, I
suppose.”

“Hermione,” began Harry uncertainly, “Are these wizard or Muggle, er, donors?” He choked on the
last word, but Hermione didn’t seem to notice. She had paused and made quite a business of
straightening the ‘maybe’ pile, stalling for time. Her anger was building but she wanted to be sure
that she had understood Harry’s question correctly.

“They’re wizard. Do you think that sort of thing matters?” She fought unsuccessfully to keep her
voice even and her eyes on the table.

“Well, no. It’s just, I don’t really know how all of this works. You know, biologically. If the
baby’s father was a Muggle, wouldn’t it increase its chances of being a Squib?” Harry knew before
he’d finished the question that he might have touched a nerve. Hastily he tried to backtrack. “But
you’re right, it wouldn’t make a difference. We would love the kid just the same, magic or
Muggle.”

Hermione was seething, her heartbeat quickened and her breathing rapid. Never in her life would
she have believed that Harry of all people would hold a child’s heritage against them. Hadn’t she
put up with that almost her whole life? Hadn’t seeing her constantly battle prejudice for being
Muggle-born teach Harry anything?

It was his next comment that halted her thoughts. He hadn’t meant anything cruel at all. She
berated herself for jumping to conclusions, wondering if this new emotional streak was just
practice for how she would be once she was pregnant. Damn hormones.

Bringing her gaze up to meet his, she asked, “ ‘We?’”

“What?” he asked, confused. He sighed in relief at what was obviously a crisis averted.

“You said ‘we would love the kid,’” she pressed.

He smiled widely and reached across the table for her hand. “Of course we would. You, me, Ron,
the Weasleys, everybody.”

She blushed and pulled her hand away. That was not the way she’d interpreted it, and felt
embarrassed and strangely disappointed by his answer.

“You know,” Harry said, a small smile gracing his lips, “I always pictured you with a
dark-haired bloke myself. It says here that this one is blonde,” he stated, waving one of the
passing profiles. He felt slightly drunk on his own daring, hoping simultaneously with every fiber
that she would and would not pick up on his conspicuousness.

She blinked a few times before asking with a smirk, “You pictured me with someone?”

He laughed quietly as she placed her elbow on the table so that her hand could support her head.
Looking into her sparkling eyes, he told her seriously, “Yes, it was sort of a therapeutic exercise
to help me through the war. I can’t remember who put me onto it, but it really helped me deal with
some issues during some of my lower points.”

He paused, invoking the details of exactly how he visualized Hermione’s bright future. “I
imagined everyone’s lives after the war, to give me something to look forward to when I thought I
might not make it. Their jobs, their marriages, their kids. All of it. Fuel for the fire, you
know?”

This time it was Hermione that reached across the table, taking his hand in hers.

“Can you tell me about mine?” she asked quietly.

They locked eyes for a moment. Her eyes glittered with the same sort of light as when she would
carry an armload of books back from the library during school—the light of possibility, of
potential. Any one of them could hold the answers she was looking for, just like how the insight of
a best friend could aid her in her quest.

“Of course,” he whispered. He closed his eyes, knowing that they would betray his true feelings
with their transparency, that with every detail of his hopes for her future, he secretly harbored
the same ones for himself. Standing at the kitchen counter, he gazed out the window at the
blankness of the adjacent building and used it as a backdrop for his mind’s eye on which to project
his ideas of Hermione’s life.

Slowly he began to describe it, trying to retain as many details as possible.

“You fall in love,” he started, “I don’t think I ever decided if it was someone at work or not,
because I think I had you pegged for entering the Ministry and taking S.P.E.W. further.”

Hermione’s laugh came from only a few feet away as she joined him by the window. Harry turned to
her and continued, her eyes misting over as she too pictured his words.

“You get married. Small wedding and too much publicity for your taste, but you look beautiful,
and I know Ron really enjoyed the crab cakes. You move out into a great house in the country, where
Ron and I continue to bother you with frequent visits. You like to sit by the huge pool in your
backyard. And you have one of those signs that says, ‘We don’t swim in your toilet, so don’t pee in
our pool.’”

Hermione laughed and playfully swatted his arm, “We do *not* have one of those signs!”

“Of course you do, it was a house warming gift from Ron.”

Shaking her head at his silliness, she looked back at the table where the blonde’s file had
caught her eye. Her smile faded but she did not tear her eyes away from it. Harry frowned and
watched her facial movements with concern. Eager to distract her, to make her laugh again, he kept
talking, “Then you get up from your lawn chair to hand your husband a towel. Instead, he hugs you
to him and you shriek about getting wet. So he turns around and uses the towel to scoop up all
three of your kids at once, swinging them around in circles while you watch.”

There was silence when Harry was finished and he realized with a pang of guilt that Hermione had
tears coursing down her cheeks. She tried to compose herself before ripping her eyes from the
file.

“Oh Harry, am I doing the right thing?” The trace of loss and desperation was clearly evident
not only in her voice, but in the pleading of her eyes. He stared into them a moment before
answering.

“Only you can decide that, Hermione. This may be the easy thing to do, but the wrong time. Or
the right time, but you’re going about it the wrong way. I can’t be the one to tell you what to do.
Sooner or later, we all have to make this choice.”

She still looked uncertain and her eyes began to tear up once more. Harry pulled her to him in a
rare initiation of affection.

“Hermione,” she whispered into her hair. At her grunt of acknowledgement, he pulled away and
looked down at her. He treaded lightly with his next question, not wanting to upset her more. “Are
you only doing this because of what Madame Pomfrey said?”

A storm cloud seemed to pass over her face and she stepped back a few paces. She answered in a
shrill, defensive voice, “I’ve already told you this, Harry. This is the only way to fill that
gaping hole in my life, to be happy! Do you want me to continue on as I have been, distracted by
families of children passing by in Diagon Alley or plagued by odd dreams that disrupt my sleep
patterns?! I’m not getting any younger, Harry—I’m going to be forty!”

“In fifteen years!” Harry shook his head in confusion.

“Yeah, so? It’s still there, isn’t it?” But she was less certain of everything now. Harry’s
vision had sparked a new, unfamiliar feeling within her. She didn’t know what she wanted, but she
knew that she couldn’t stand her life staying the same.

Harry watched her the emotions wrought of her inner struggle play across her face, approaching
her cautiously.

“It’s not the only way to be happy, Hermione,” he told her.

Their eyes met and held for several moments before he spoke again.

“I just wish I knew how to tell you what is.”

And with that enigmatic admission, Harry strode passed her and out of the kitchen.

A/N: Just one more crazy chapter left! This was actually the second chapter that I wrote, so I
had to tweak it a lot to have it fit in with the others. I was really tired after work yesterday (
I stopped keeping track of the number of shirts I folded after fifty. If you are ever a customer at
a clothing store, I beg of you, don’t mess up every single shirt in a pile just because you
can—someone always has to fold them! Just a little suggestion, hehe), so if this is crappy, there
is my ready-made excuse.

Please leave me a review to point out any inconsistencies or make some suggestions before the
final chapter. Thanks for reading!



6. The Way of Things
--------------------

A/N: I think I should have called Chapter 5 something else that alluded to the choice between
what is right and what is easy. I dunno. Oh well, too late now! So…last chapter, but I think I
might add a little outtake or something, cuz I have a little inkling but it doesn’t fit anywhere.
Sorry, babbling.

Disclaimer: No own HP (not Hewlett Packard). Shucks.

Chapter 6 The Way of Things

After his conversation with Hermione, Harry left the flat, seeking solace in the bright city
lights of London. Several questions were rampaging chaotically throughout his brain, but one stood
out more definitively than the rest: why was she rushing this? He knew the answer before he’d even
finished forming the question. Hermione wasn’t impetuous, but she was unhappy.

Looking back, he realized with a heavy sigh that her behavior of the past few months was clearly
indicative of a lost and desperate woman. And it was true that lately her gaze had been drawn to
the laughter of children playing whenever they’d been out together, even if she wasn’t aware of it.
Of course, he’d been a fool not to see this coming. Her wistful smile should have been enough of an
indicator for such a gifted Auror.

“But I’m in love with her,” he emphatically declared to the parking meter.

*Then why aren’t you the one volunteering your best swimmers?* came Ron’s voice from within
his head.

Of course, the real Ron had been aware of Harry’s feelings for Hermione for some time,
undoubtedly why he brought up Harry as one of his counterpoints in his and Hermione’s little spat.
Poor, tactless Ron. Harry couldn’t be angry with him—he had meant well after all. Of course, he’d
also planted the idea of moving out into Hermione’s head as well. The prat.

Harry smiled grimly at his conscience’s suggestion. Sure, Hermione would gladly take up that
offer, especially when she had Unspeakables and professional time-travelers as options. Who was he
kidding? At least she would be happy. And then maybe, by chance—because Fate so often loved being
cruel to him—she’d meet the frozen pop himself, fall in love, and his vision of her future come
true.

He screwed up his eyes and ran a hand through his messy hair in frustration. This wasn’t the way
things were supposed to be! The country home, the pool, Ron’s stupid sign—they were supposed to
exist, yes, but they were meant to be *shared.* His and Hermione’s. Not Hermione and the
Spermsicle.

Why had he waited so long to tell her? Well, the time had never been right. And what if she
laughed in his face? He knew she wouldn’t, but she might shuffle her feet and avoid his eyes and
say, “Sorry Harry, but I think we’re much better off as just friends.” And then she’d start coming
home later and leaving earlier and starting to stay at Hogwarts over weekend “to shorten the
commute.” He knew that he was being paranoid, but he couldn’t help torturing himself.

And then she’d go to Ginny or someone else for dating advice and all that-- not that he’d ever
particularly enjoyed giving her dating tips. He preferred messing with her dates instead. Of course
that was easier with wizards, because they were automatically intimidated by the Boy-Who-Lived and
the Chosen One, but there was that time that he and Ron managed to convince some bloke Hermione was
seeing that she was a very, *very* liberated woman who hated when men picked up the tab or
opened doors for her. Naturally she found them out though—if he squinted hard enough, he could
still make out the hex mark.

So up until this point, he’d used the fear-of-losing-her-friendship excuse. But what about
now—was telling her now too risky? He shook his head to clear the instant onslaught of voices
telling him what to do. *Merlin,* he thought, *even in my head Ron and Hermione argue.*
He weighed his options carefully, imagining a scale in his mind’s eye.

What if he took the chance and told her, just like that?

The scale tipped in one direction.

And if she wasn’t completely revolted, but actually felt the same way?

The scale tipped a little more.

And if their friendship wasn’t negatively impacted, but got even better?

The scale was hard over.

Suddenly he stopped. Passers-by jostled roughly into him from behind, looking curiously back at
the young man with the widening grin. No, he didn’t have to tell her—but he could show her. Swift
and determined, he turned back the way he came, heading not for the flat but for an alternate
destination. And all the while he was pleading fervently to whatever particular deity felt inclined
to listen, *Please don’t let me be too late. Please,* please *don’t let me be too
late!*

Hermione stirred with the first rays of morning, glad to have dreamt of nothing unpleasant. She
lingered in bed watching patches of pale sunlight creep across her bedspread and thanking the
creator of Saturday. Though she’d only slept a few hours, it had been the most restful sleep since
before Voldemort regenerated.

Throwing the covers back onto her feet, she sat up and stretched thoughtfully. She rose from the
bed and padded to her full-length mirror, scrutinizing her reflection carefully. The logical part
of her expected that some sort of glorious transformation would have taken place—some tangible
evidence of the previous night’s happenings that would somehow grace her features. She was not
disappointed; Hermione glowed with a radiance she felt in every movement.

She quickly dressed and shut the door behind her, making her way to the kitchen. As she passed
both of the boys’ doors, she noted that neither of their beds appeared to have been slept in. Ron’s
absence could be explained away as his having camped out at Luna’s flat, but where was Harry?

She found her answer at the kitchen table, the young man looking in much the same way as every
morning, ruffle-haired and puffy-eyed as always. He showed no awareness of her presence, so she
hovered in the doorway a few moments studying her best friend. He looked a little worse for wear,
as though he hadn’t slept much either. Her brow knit with worry as she too noticed that he appeared
not to have changed his robes from the previous day and that they were now wrinkled beyond belief
and covered in some thick, colorful substance that she couldn’t identify.

Putting it all together, she asked him concernedly, “Harry, did you stay out all night?”

He jumped a little at the sudden sound of her voice, but relaxed when he found the source.
Giving her small and rather mysterious half-smile, he nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving her
own.

Any other day and she would have assumed that it was only her natural propensity to protect him
that caused her to worry over him, but almost a full night of deliberation can yield realizations
that otherwise might have gone unnoticed.

It was a moment later that both simultaneously remembered that no one was speaking, and yet they
were still staring at one another. Hastily, both looked away and pretended to busy themselves.
Hermione kept her back to him as she went to the counter to pour herself a cup of water and tried
the evidence of her abrupt nervousness. It was no good; the rattling of the tea cup in its saucer
was a dead giveaway. She forced herself to breathe deeply several times before turning to face
Harry.

Perhaps he could sense her tenseness because he chose then to break the silence. “I had to take
care of some business that couldn’t wait.”

She nodded as kept her eyes on her cup on the pretense of cooling it to a drinkable temperature
with her breath. Even from across the room, Harry could feel the anxiousness pulsing rapidly from
her body.

A thought occurred to him that filled him with dread. Had she already selected a donor and was
afraid to tell him because she thought he’d be angry? *Of course,* he though, *that’s why
she looks different. She’s practically glowing, aside from her nervousness. What else could it
possibly be?*

The news settled into the pit of his stomach as though he’d just swallowed a bag of ice and
looked down at his hands hopelessly. He’d gotten them horribly dirty in the construction of his
project, but as he gazed at them in his lap, he couldn’t help but think that it had all gone to
nothing.

Across the kitchen, Hermione was having similarly negative thoughts. Perhaps she had made a
mistake or misinterpreted the signs? Divination had turned out to be her least favorite subject
after all. There was only one way to find out.

Summoning the Gryffindor bravery she suspected had lay in waiting for this very moment, she
cleared her throat and said, “I thought a lot about what you said yesterday, about a baby not being
the only thing to help me achieve happiness.”

Excluding the hissing of steam from the tea kettle, the absence of sound made her voice ring
throughout the room. Harry made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, but Hermione knew
that he was listening carefully. The seconds ticked and Harry wondered whether she would add, “But
I decided to do it anyway.”

To his surprise, Hermione cleared her throat again, and continued, this time a little less
certain of what exactly to say. “In fact, I stayed up half the night thinking about it. What you
said about my future, it—it unsettled me. But it comforted me too, to know that you cared about
each of us enough to imagine for us a future. You literally gave us, and yourself, a reason for
living, something to look forward to. And I’ve gone and botched things up for myself.”

She smiled a little sadly at his inquisitive expression and slumped into the chair across from
his. “There’s a way to things,” she went on, gaining direction, “A way that things progress
naturally. And it’s different for every person, because it is our choices that shape us, that show
who we truly are.

“Last night, I sort of re-evaluated my actions from the past few days, but this time in a new
context. I was afraid that if I blinked my chance of having children would be gone, or if it was
left up to me alone I wouldn’t be able to tell if I was really in love or if I was deluding myself
into thinking I was so that I could hurry the process along or something. That scared me more than
anything, the possibility of my life spinning out of control. *That’s* why I chose artificial
insemination, because it was something that was completely mine and completely in my control.”

Harry found that he had nothing to say, so he just nodded dully, believing that she was only
preparing to tell him that she was pregnant. If he left now, he could probably remove last night’s
project before she noticed it. But her words had him glued to his chair. It would be torture to
hear those words from her lips, knowing that his chance had been there for so long but he’d
hesitated and missed it, but he couldn’t tear himself away.

“Harry, I didn’t go through with it,” she confessed.

He went through several emotions—relief, hope, doubt—before settling on confusion. His face must
have been some indication because she further explained, “It’s true that my window of opportunity
so to speak has been limited. But I’ve got ten good years left. Ten years to let the chips fall
where they may. And while I would hope to be a very responsible and reasonable parent, the future
you envisioned for me planted the seed of doubt—”

“Hermione, I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to—it wasn’t supposed to—” Harry stuttered uncertainly. He
stared into her eyes and told her sincerely, “Hermione, you’re going to be a wonderful mother.”

She once again smiled sadly. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “But I alone am not enough. My child
will need a father, even if I’m scared to death of putting myself out there. If I am capable of it,
who am I to deny my child a father?”

“You need more than just a profile,” he said, reaching for her hand as he had several times. But
this time was different, and they both sensed it. He was reaching across more than just a wooden
surface, but she would always be there to accept his hand when he got there.

A lump grew in her throat at the gesture, but she forced her words past it. She felt she owed
Harry this for some reason. “Harry, there’s something else you should know.”

She perceived the sudden coldness of his hand and hastened to clarify herself. “It’s nothing
bad, but it is important. When I went to see Madame Pomfrey, she told me that there was one other
Muggle-born witch that shared my condition. Your mum, Harry.”

She gave a small smile and squeezed his hand in a comforting manner. “Don’t you see, Harry, I
was never alone! I was in good company. But, I think, if she had never met your dad, she would do
the same thing I am doing now in waiting.”

*Wow,* Harry thought to himself, *she certainly did have a lot on her mind.* Although
he’d always just assumed that his parents hurried things due to the war at that time, somehow this
new information didn’t faze him. He returned Hermione’s smile and nodded in understanding, his eyes
shining with something that heartened her considerably. She’d been right in reading the signs after
all.

“So what were you up to last night?” she asked, smirking at the playful grin that had just
appeared on his face.

His intense gaze was burning into her but she refused to look away. “Do you really want to
know?” he asked quietly in a deep voice. She sensed that this was more than a mere question but a
confirmation of something neither of them were brave enough to address. Strangely, her nerves from
earlier had practically evaporated and had been replaced by an unfamiliar fluttery feeling that
made her smile widen. Feeling no fear where Harry was concerned, she nodded resolutely.

Harry rose from the table and walked around to her side, never releasing her hand and gently
pulling her from her chair. He guided her slowly through the kitchen and delighted in seeing the
blush creeping up her cheeks. Stopping by the sink, she looked at him confusedly, then down at the
sink, expecting to find a dirty dish and wondering why Harry had wanted to show it to her.

After a moment, she looked back up at him and saw that he was looking out her window. She
followed his gaze and her breath caught in her chest.

There, painted on the side of the windowless building nextdoor, was a beautifully intricate
mural. Images of Hogwarts, dragons and what suspiciously looked like a three-headed dog next to an
unconscious mountain troll seemed to chase each other around the crude canvas, though they weren’t
actually moving.

She turned to Harry, beaming broadly. “Did you do this, Harry?”

He gave her a lop-sided grin and replied, “I told you I’d been out all night.”

Closer examination of his robes revealed splotches of what turned out to be paint. She was just
wondering how long it had taken him or if he had done it by hand, when he squeezed her hand a
little and interrupted her thoughts.

“Hermione? Did you look at the whole thing?”

Without answering she turned back to the mural and let her eyes roam it, eager to see more
glimpses of their past. Then, there, next to a depiction of an annoyed-looking Ron shielding his
head as Pig flew over, was what Harry had obviously been waiting for her to catch.

Written in Harry’s boyish scrawl were the words “Harry loves Hermione.”

The declaration swam in her vision as she gasped and held her other hand to her mouth, trying to
analyze her reaction. A warm elation was bubbling within her, seeming to envelope her from her head
to her toes.

“Hermione?” asked Harry, a little unsure. Doubt was growing as the silent seconds ticked by,

She faced him, trying not to reveal her feelings just yet. “I slept very well last night. No
confusing dreams or sudden awakenings,” she stated with only a hint of a smile.

“You—what? Er, that’s great, Hermione—” Harry stammered.

Hermione continued on, seemingly oblivious to the interruption. “In fact, I dreamt of your
future. Your house in the country, your wife rising to meet you from her patio chair, you hugging
all of your children at once in a beach towel…” She trailed away wistfully, telling him with her
eyes what she couldn’t put into words.

Harry was trying to curb his rising hope, but couldn’t keep the grin from growing on his face.
“Are you saying—?”

“Yes, Harry. I’m so sorry it took me so long to realize, Harry! It’s always been you, that’s why
I’ve been so unwilling to take dating further. I guess I just thought you’d never feel the same.
I’ve only just started recognizing the signs,” she implored earnestly. “I love you, I think somehow
I’ve always loved you. I’ve never felt as whole as I do at this moment.”

Harry’s mouth broke out in what was unmistakably the widest grin she’d ever seen as he scooped
her up and swung her around the kitchen. They were both laughing like they were ten years younger
when he placed her back down, looking into her eyes and cupping her cheek gently with the palm of
his hand.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear that, Hermione,” he told her seriously.

“There’s nothing missing, Harry,” she answered.

Harry laughed a little. “Oh yes there is,” he replied, his eyes fixing on her lips.

Though somewhat confused for a moment, she leaned into him longingly as he brought down his lips
to meet hers in what resulted in a very passionate first kiss.

Things were progressing naturally indeed.

A/N: There! Done! Just in time for me to head off to work, yay work. Hmm, what do I have to say
for this piece? Other than the fact that I am the Run-On Sentence QUEEN, it’s been a lotta fun to
write. I’m more of a reader, which is why I had to borrow so much for this fic, but I think it
turned out all right. And thank you all for reading! There will be just one more addition to this
story, but it will serve as an insert/outtake scene that I hadn’t thought of until after I wrote
this. And thanks to those who offered to be my beta, I appreciate the thought even though I didn’t
take you up on it. I need the instant gratification of immediate posting. That being said, all the
typos and grammar errors are my fault! So, yeah, please review and let me know what you think!



7. Chudley Canons Rule!
-----------------------

A/N: Hey guys! So instead of making this an outtake, I treated it a bit like an additional
chapter. I may do an epilogue as well if it inspiration strikes. This is my first try at fluff, so
if it’s lacking in any way, please let me know! Oh yeah, and a slight oversight on my part: in all
the chapters, I mentioned that the profile thingies were written on paper, but let’s pretend I said
parchment, okay? Okay.

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Harry Potter. Sigh.

Chapter 7 Chudley Canons Rule

“Hermione? Hermione, are you home?” called Ginny from the living room of Harry, Ron, and
Hermione’s London flat.

A muffled cry and the sounds of scrambling could be heard. Ginny smiled to herself, speculating
on what exactly she had just inadvertently interrupted. Moments later, Hermione rounded the corner
from the hall, her ruffled appearance confirming Ginny’s theory.

Ginny playfully raised an eyebrow. “What have you been up to, Miss Granger?” she asked
mischieviously.

Hermione fruitlessly attempted to smooth the wrinkles in her corduroy pants and fight the mad
blush rising on her cheeks. She failed on both counts, but managed to squeak out, “Erm, nothing.
Just cleaning, you know.”

Struggling to maintain her composure, Ginny cast a dubious look at her fellow professor and said
casually, “Well, cleaning is most definitely an enjoyable activity. It was nice of Harry to help
you. You’ve missed a button, by the way.”

If possible, Hermione’s blush deepened as she reached down and did up the offending button on
her blouse.

“Why so shy, Harry? Come out and join us,” called Ginny toward the hallway. The Auror emerged
from where he had been trying to furtively steal into the kitchen unnoticed and shot an apologetic
look to Hermione.

“Hi, Ginny,” muttered Harry, rather nettled at having been found out. He shuffled his bare feet
to stand near his new girlfriend.

Hiding a smirk at her friends’ behavior, Ginny turned toward the coffee table. A stack of manila
envelopes caught her eye. Forgetting that she was supposed to be teasing them, her curiosity took
over and she pointed a finger at the pile and asked an already Hermione, “Aren’t those—”

“Yes, those are the file of the potential sperm donors that I had been considering,” huffed
Hermione exasperatedly. Harry put a calming arm around her shoulders and she subconsciously leaned
into him. They began having a silent conversation in the sort of unspoken language that they alone
were fluent.

When Harry and Hermione had started dating a little more than a week ago, Ginny was only mildly
surprised. Though she hadn’t been privy to Harry’s developing feelings for Hermione like her
brother, she had sensed the growing connection between the two stemming all the way back to their
Hogwarts days. And while there would always be a small pang of pain whenever it was concerned,
Ginny understood that Hermione belonged to the true Harry and not the superficial life he had tried
to create for himself. Now a week after they had begun dating, it was apparent that the pair had
simply built on top of their foundation of friendship and created what promised to be one of the
strongest relationships to which Ginny had been witness.

Ginny observed them with a pleased smile for a few moments before asking as sweetly as she
could, “Do you reckon I could have a look? Just for a laugh, you know?”

Ginny had secretly admired Hermione’s courage in devising such an unconventional means of
attaining her goal and had wanted to tell her so on the night that she had announced her decision
to her dearest friends, but was prevented in doing so by the tactless yet well-meaning prat with
whom she was forced to share a gene pool. And since that night she’d become increasingly curious
about the process, not that she was up to raising a child right then. But just in case Neville
never came round…

Hermione waved a hand impatiently, and without further ado, Ginny swooped down upon the stack of
envelopes. Each profile contained the same statistics: height, weight, hair and eye color, ethnic
background, number of siblings; as well as some personal information such as occupation, hobbies,
educational background and perhaps a comment.

Ginny set about skimming a few when she heard a key jangling in the lock of the front door.
Harry and Hermione must have noticed as well, for they both angled their heads toward the sound
from where they sat comfortably on one of the couches.

“Hello, all!” came Ron’s voice from the entryway. He had one foot in the living room when
Hermione scolded, “Ron, hang it up!”

The foot vanished as Ron headed back to the coat rack to hang up his cloak which he had just
dropped on the floor, grumbling about Muggle keys and overbearing flatmates.

“I heard that!” called Hermione, though she had a smile on her face. Harry smiled back and
rolled his eyes at his flatmates’ nightly banter.

A moment later, Ron had returned fully to the living room and plopped unceremoniously in one of
the armchairs near Ginny. He heaved a heavy sigh and kicked his boots off, putting his feet up on
the corner of the coffee table. Hermione’s mood must have improved since Ginny’s little
interruption, for she only raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

Ron’s eye fell on the papers in Ginny’s hands. “Whatcha readin’, Gin?”

He leaned nearer to look over her shoulder and she replied casually, “These are just the
profiles of some of the blokes Hermione was considering to get her knocked up.”

Ron colored and Hermione and Harry looked indignant, but she smiled to show that she was
kidding.

Ginny turned her attention back to the paper in her hands. *5’11”…150 lbs…brown hair, blue
eyes…blah, blah, blah…*

“Wow!” she exclaimed suddenly, drawing the attention of the three others. “Hermione, this guy is
an Unspeakable! That’s just like James Bond, right?”

Hermione bewildered expression softened as she replied, “Not quite, Gin, but good guess.” Harry
and Hermione’s unofficial mission of imparting knowledge of Muggle culture to Ron and Ginny was
still in full swing, and Hermione was rather adept at treating the pair like students in one her
classes. That being said, she was generous with praise where it was due, believing encouragement
was a far more effective tool than penalization.

The mention of Unspeakables attracted Ron’s attention and he reached toward the table to grab a
profile. He leaned back in his chair, skimming it for the interesting bits. Finding none, he set is
aside and grabbed another. Harry chuckled at Ron and held out his free hand toward Ginny. She
directed a silent question toward Hermione, who nodded slightly, before handing the nearest profile
to Harry.

“They’re pretty interesting anyway, Ron,” said Harry, resting the profile on his knee and
flipping through the pages. He sneaked an almost imperceptible sideways glance to Hermione, who
caught on and added, “Yeah, they incorporate a lot of useful information.”

Both were fighting back grins and Ron regarded them suspiciously.

Hermione was feeling less discomfort than she thought she would knowing her friends were finding
humor in examining these files, when she herself had been searching through them only a week
previous. She couldn’t regret her actions, not when she was so happy with the outcome. If the
consideration of artificial insemination and sperm donors had helped her open up her eyes to her
feelings toward Harry, she wasn’t sorry it happened.

She looked over at the object of her thoughts. His face was contorted in a deep frown as he
studied the parchment in his hand. Giving his hand three small squeezes, she noted his frown was
the sort he only wore when he was concentrating very hard and began to read along with him.

Realization simultaneously hit both of them. Hermione stifled an enormous gasp and turned
toward, whose shocked expression mirrored hers exactly. She used her free hand to cover her mouth
and the grin that was threatening to emerge there, while Harry hid his amusement by flaring his
nostrils and pursing his lips tightly. Now when to spring it on the other two?

A few feet away, Ron and Ginny had noticed nothing, so engrossed in their reading were they.
Once in a while, they’d read aloud the intriguing parts for entertainment.

“How ‘bout this?” said Ron, laughing before he’d even revealed what he found funny. “This bloke
helps research for the cure to sexual impotence in male wizards!”

“He’s got his work cut out for him, that one,” muttered Ginny, winking conspiratorially at
Hermione.

“Hey!” cried Harry and Ron in unison, causing the women to laugh. Harry gave an exaggeratedly
pouty look to Hermione, who made pretend cooing sounds and pressed a kiss to his forehead. He
seemed mollified by this and squeezed her closer to him on the couch, giving her a conspiratorial
wink of his own. She blushed prettily.

“It says here that this one is over seven feet tall!” marveled Ginny, leaning over to show the
physical description to Ron.

Harry raised his eyebrows at Hermione and she nodded once to show her agreement. Identical
devilish smiles broke out on their faces.

“These are pretty interesting anyway, you know,” said Harry, resting the profile on his knee and
flipping through the pages. He sneaked an almost imperceptible sideways glance to Hermione, who
caught on and added, “Yeah, they incorporate a lot of useful information.”

Both were fighting back grins and Ron regarded them suspiciously

“Oh how about this one,” Harry’s voice rang out. Hermione feigned interest in the parchment in
Harry’s hand while watching for the reaction of the two Weasleys. Ron and Ginny for their part
waited with genuine interest for Harry to continue. He did not disappoint, but spoke each word
clearly and with an air of nonchalance that implied that the information was new to him as
well.

“Let’s see, number 6183201. ‘Pureblood wizard of English descent…6’2” and 175 pounds…ginger
hair, blue eyes.’ Wow, big family—seven children, and he’s the youngest boy….” Harry trailed off as
all eyes turned to Ron. He appeared not to have been listening, as he was struggling unsuccessfully
to undo a sweet that he had found wrapped in his pocket. Ginny’s mouth hung open as she stared at
her brother in shock.

At Harry’s side, Hermione had just noticed something else. “Dear, Merlin. Under personal
comments it says ‘Chudley Canons rule!’”

“Yeah, the Canons rule!” affirmed Ron, having caught the last bit as well as popped the candy in
his mouth.

“Oh my goodness, Ron, that’s *you!*” shrieked Ginny, pointing at the parchment that Harry
was holding.

“Yeah, so?” asked Ron with the beginnings of embarrassment tingeing the tops of ears red.

“When did you do this?” asked Hermione curiously.

“Just before Christmas,” answered Ron, shrugging. “Remember that jumper I gave you?” he asked
Harry.

“And *that’s* how you bought it?!” exclaimed Harry, disgusted.

“No, that’s what I was wearing when I donated,” he replied, as though this was obvious and of no
consequence. He jerked his thumb toward Harry and rolled his eyes at Ginny, not noticing that she
was still too shocked to share in the moment with him.

Harry and Hermione’s little joke on Ron had just backfired tremendously. Harry made a mental
note to never wear that jumper again. In fact, he would burn it, tonight, in this very fireplace.
Ugh, that’s the one he was wearing when he and Hermione had first…

Hermione intertwined her fingers in his own, stroking his thumb and redirecting his thoughts to
less troubled waters. He gave her a wan smile before Ron announced his going off to bed and Ginny
began gathering her things. She’d definitely gotten more information out of those profiles than she
had bargained for. With a short bid of good night to her friends, she headed home to her flat to
contemplate the reasons why she felt she needed to ever satisfy her curiosity.

Ginny’s Floo departure diminished most of the fire, leaving only the dying embers for Harry and
Hermione. Hermione thought that Harry was still hung up on the jumper, so what he said next
surprised her.

“I’m glad you didn’t go through with it,” he told her sincerely, massaging her palm with his
thumb. Looking into his eyes, she saw more promised there than words could convey. She smiled back
lovingly and nodded her agreement, never breaking eye contact. Slowly he leaned down to kiss her
and she felt her pulse quicken watching his face loom closer. Their passion play had only just
begun when she broke the kiss abruptly, much to Harry’s consternation.

“Hold on one second,” she said, holding a finger to his somewhat swollen lips. She untangled
herself from Harry’s embrace and moved across the room to where the stacks of files were strewn
across the coffee. Wordlessly she gathered all of them in her arms and tossed them into the
fireplace. Looking into Harry’s eyes, she threw him a daring smile and conjured a roaring fire.

Harry grinned, joining her by the mantle. He put an arm around her shoulders and breathed in the
scent of her hair, once again giving his thanks to whomever was responsible for helping him earn
the love of the woman beside him. Together they watched the parchment burn, and with that, the
shedding of the past where profiles were thought to be needed.

Turning to Harry, Hermione whispered seductively into his ear, “Now, where were we?”

A/N: There we go! Any need for more of an epilogue? Or more fluff? Or better-written fluff?
That’s not a word, but oh well. As you can see, there were more references to Friends here, so
yeah. Oh yeah, and anyone spot the line from Phantom of the Opera? Mwahahaha!



8. Epilogue
-----------

A/N: Okay! So THIS is it! It, I tell you, it! Sorry it took so long, but I was stuck. I think
there may be something about flying and unraveling writer’s block, because “A Connection” was
written on a plane ride to New York and this chapter came out of a flight from Vancouver! This
chapter, the epilogue chapter, is a bit different from the rest of the fic. I was trying out a
little first person perspective and kept it exclusively in Hermione’s pov (which I admit was a
little odd during the more fluffy parts). Please let me know what you think!

Disclaimer (this is my version of French, since I just got back from Canada): Non tendrois Harry
Pottereaux, merci voe koo. Hehehehe!

Chapter 8~ Epilogue

The love that Harry and I grew to share did not come on gradually, like the warning symptoms of
a fever or the foreshock tremors of an earthquake. Instead it lay peacefully dormant within us,
hoping that we would someday take the time to notice. Which we did, eventually, *finally,*
after nearly fifteen years of denial and near-misses. And while Fate proved herself capable of
doing some good in regards to Harry and brought part of the story together—a toad, a troll, and a
mad wizard bent on immortality—I’m proud to say that Harry and I handled the rest, thank you very
much.

Six years have passed since that memorable morning in the kitchen of our flat. Ron moved out
soon after, declaring Harry and I too “mushy” to live with, but our suspicions were confirmed that
Ron was simply creating an excuse to move in with Luna when the news of their engagement was
announced barely two days later. Now Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Weasley live only a few houses away from
Mr. and Mrs. Harry Potter.

I sit and muse these things in my favorite room in the house. The young sun’s rays shine in at a
steep angle and for a while I watch it expand slowly about the room, each minute revealing new
detail. I drink them in along with my morning tea and lament the one regrettable feature about this
room: there was nowhere to relocate Harry’s first token of affection—a massive mural declaring his
feelings in Harry’s endearingly boyish script.

With that thought I sigh and remind myself of my study’s positive attributes. I magically
modified all four of my rosewood bookcases to fit side-by-side in the hexagonally shaped room,
leaving one complete wall for the door and a few photographs and another for a floor to ceiling
picture window. Although it took significant, ahem, *persuasion* to convince my lawfully
wedded husband to install a window seat beside this picture window, it has become my little
sanctuary and the best spot in the entire house to do any serious thinking.

But my heart is light on this fine June morning and I glance fondly at the gently sloping hills
with a small smile. Inevitably my gaze drops to the simple gold wedding band on my left hand and my
smile widens of its own accord. It’s been nearly five years since we were married and somehow I’m
certain that this smile will never fade. My thoughts dwell briefly on our wedding day, possibly the
best day of my life, although the doors of the Great Hall at Hogwarts were practically bursting due
to the amount of reporters that had sneaked in.

And then it strikes me: *this* day is perfect. On this pleasant morning, I sit here
alone—well, not entirely alone. For a moment I entertain myself with the idea of giving Harry a
proper morning awakening, but a glance at my watch tells me to get a move on. No, seriously, it
actually tells me this—a present from Ron, no doubt he thought it was humorous. Which it is,
usually, except on occasions such as these when I am reminded that Harry and I are having he and
Luna over for lunch today and I can’t offer my wonderful husband any *lingering* wake-up
calls. Apparently, this watch is supposed to be some mysteriously astute piece of magical machinery
that informs whomever is holding it that which is most crucial to know at the time. I’m still
waiting for that to happen.

With a sigh I rise from the window seat and exit my study, tidying up a little as I make my way
up to our bedroom. The room is completely dark being on the west side of the house and I stumble
with some minor cursing across the remnants of yesterday’s attire, which due to last night’s
activities were not properly folded, hung, or otherwise disposed. I reach the nearest window with
minimal injury and dramatically throw the shade, coaxing in what light there is, and expecting to
hear stirrings of protest from the bed. However when I turn, I do not see my husband, and neither
rumpled sheets nor squashed pillows could hide him.

The sound of running water gradually penetrates my worry and my slight frown is replaced by the
sort of mischievous grin that would have elicited a brilliant blush had I worn it six years ago.
Back when our relationship was still new, Harry delighted in my ever-constant blush, referring to
it as my “companion.” He insists that it is my most valuable accessory, although his favorite
outfit of mine, as he is keen to remind me, is nothing but a smile.

For a moment I consider joining him, but the watch has grown adamant. Annoyed, I unclasp it from
my wrist and tuck it in one of Harry’s socks in his drawer. With the drawer closed the sounds fade
to a dull hum, further pronounced by the absence of running water from the bathroom. I curse
quietly to myself and sit on the bed to wait for my husband.

Harry emerges a few moments later and starts at first when he notices my presence. The room is
still dim, save for the meager light from one of the windows and that from the bathroom, and it
takes him a second to identify me without his glasses. I quirk an eyebrow at this.

“Do you have so many women in this room that it takes you this long to figure out who’s sitting
on our bed?” I tease.

He crosses the bedroom in two strides and promptly pins my upper body to the mattress. I’m
trying to maintain my playfully stern expression, which is difficult enough without the stealthy
approach of the object of my desire’s lips, but I surrender and it’ll probably be another twenty
minutes before either of us are presentable for company. At the back of my mind is the vague
registering that there is now a second layer of clothing on the floor, and that eventually we will
have to hire an archaeologist to properly excavate the site of our bedroom.

I roll on top of Harry and am rewarded with his roguish grin and another good morning kiss. “You
know, that was your best reply to anything I’ve said yet,” I say with a sigh, settling in on his
side.

He peers down at my face and laughs quietly, warming my heart with the sound. Today is perfect.
Definitely. Why wait?

“Harry, I need to tell you something,” I begin a little nervously.

“What is it?” he asks with a hefty amount of worry and concern.

I mentally smack my forehead with the palm of my hand for being so tactless—that phrase is
hardly ever followed by good news. I hastily try to explain myself, but the doorbell from
downstairs interrupts me.

Harry and I freeze as we realize the full magnitude of the situation. Simultaneously we both
dive off opposite sides of the bed and practically scurry inside our respective wardrobes, emerging
seconds later fully and appropriately clothed for a luncheon with two of our dearest friends. In
addition we both wear identical guilty looks, but Harry waggles his eyebrows at me when he thinks
I’m not looking. I counter by removing one of my lacy bras from where it adhered to the back of his
shirt with static cling and send it to the floor to become the newest archaeological artifact of
our bedroom.

“Let’s hope they don’t want to see our room for any reason,” says Harry, grabbing my hand and
dragging me to answer the incessant rappings on our front door. Neither of us has forgotten the
last thing I said, but we know full well that it’s impossible to bring up now.

Harry swiftly pulls open the door, much like a magician deftly removes a tablecloth without
displacing the glassware, and Ron gracelessly pitches forward with the momentum of his pounding. An
instant before his long nose might have met an ill fate, he freezes in place, still completely
prone, inches above the wood floor.

Harry and I look up to see a dreamy Luna with her wand out. Wow, quick reflexes, I can’t help
but think. With a calm air of one who does it this on a daily basis, (which she probably does, what
with that dolt of a husband), Luna sets Ron back on his feet with a steady hand and approaches to
greet us.

“Hello, Harry, Hermione. Wow, that’s a lot of H’s,” says Luna as if she’s never noticed that not
only there is no shortage of H’s in our home, but Harry and I share the same initials as well.

The silent spell is broken and we all break out in a chorus in “hellos” and “all rights” that
carries the four of us through to the outdoor patio. The weather is cooperating at the moment so I
return to the kitchen to retrieve our first course. Luna is quick is accompany me and I’m grateful
because I’ve been wanting to ask her something for some time.

I hold open the sliding glass door for her and shut the screen behind her. I contain myself for
the next few feet, waiting until I’m certain to be out of earshot of Ron. Shutting the refrigerator
door behind me, I place the four salads on the counter and round on her so quickly she widens her
eyes in surprise. Oh no, her eyes are always like that. Whatever.

“Luna, what is going on with Ginny and Neville? Ginny’s been late to lessons nearly every day,
and as Deputy Headmistress, I can’t show favoritism. She knows that, so why is she suddenly
shirking her duties?” I demand, hoping Luna knows enough of the facts to illuminate this particular
quandary.

Luna waits patiently for me to finish and smiled serenely. Her protuberant eyes seemed to pierce
through me the way Dumbledore’s sometimes did, examining me from within. But on Luna, I know that
look. And I know that whatever comes out of her mouth next will test my ability to keep my eyes
from rolling.

I’m so wrapped up in trying not to scoff that I misunderstand what she says.

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” she asks with the barest trace of excitement in her voice.

“Wha-at?” I splutter.

“Hermione, you’re *glowing,*” Luna says in the most matter-of-fact tone I’ve heard her use.
“And unless you’ve been mishandling some Prussian Phosphorescent Plinglewoods, there’s no other
explanation.”

She pauses, waiting expectantly, as I decide what to do. I’ve dreamt of telling Harry this news
for the past six years, and as the father, I should tell him first, but I can’t announce it in such
a public setting and I’m going to positively *burst* if I don’t tell someone soon…

With my mind made up, I hand Luna hers and Ron’s salads and nod my head vigorously, biting my
lip to hold back tears. Luna does an odd squeal thing and jumps up and down, salads and all. Oddly
enough I join her and we hug each other for a moment before a sobering thought settles in my
brain.

“Luna,” I plead, panicking ever so slightly, “You can’t tell anyone, all right?”

“You mean Harry doesn’t already know?” she asked with wonder, trying to remove the salad
dressing from my t-shirt with her wand.

I ignore her ministrations; there are much more pressing matters. “No, he doesn’t. I’ve only
just found out,” I explain. “Promise not to say anything, Luna, will you? I’m just waiting for the
right moment.”

She seems to consider it. “Well, I can’t just stop talking, can I? I mean, I will still have to
speak, so I can’t promise not to say *anything*,” she says by way of reply.

I hold back a sigh of frustration. “No, Luna, don’t say anything about me being pregnant all
right? All right?”

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are trained on a spot just past my shoulder, and with a cold sense
of foreboding I turn expecting to find Harry there, having just overheard the last bit of our
conversation and possibly hurt to not be the first to know. Instead, I turn and see…nothing.
There’s nothing there. SHE’S STARING AT NOTHING AND I’VE NEARLY JUST HAD A HEART ATTACK!

“I’m all right, Hermione, why wouldn’t I be?” responds Luna serenely. “And, yes, I promise not
to say anything about that.”

I sigh in relief, wishing for a split second that I had a time-turner to go back to Harry this
morning and tell him before he got in the shower of something. Wait, maybe I *did* do that! I
wouldn’t know, I had been downstairs…

We grab the fours salads and Luna levitates a tray with our drinks on it ahead of us. I peer at
Harry after I shut the screen door again and scrutinize his expression. Completely unaware. Well,
it had been a good idea, though Merlin knows where I would have laid my hands on a time-turner.

“Wait, Luna!” I say, just realizing something. We take our time reaching the table. “You never
answered my question about Ginny.”

“Oh it’s nothing. Ginny and Neville are back together again, and this time it looks pretty
serious,” Luna replies.

“It *always* looks pretty serious,” I say, a little crestfallen at the idea of having to
use “excessive shagging” as the reason why my fellow professor has been late in the report that I
will undoubtedly have to draw up. I hate checking that box on the questionnaire, even if she is
also my friend.

“Yes, but this time it’s seriously serious,” says Luna seriously.

I laugh as I set down my and Harry’s salads, leaning in for a brief kiss. Gagging noises from
Ron’s end cause up to break apart, each of us rolling our eyes and probably wondering how old Ron
really is, because he can’t possibly be thirty.

The meal commences and the companionable silence is punctuated by compliments to the chef (moi)
and mild small talk. It’s during the men’s Quidditch conversation that Luna offers me the rest of
her salad. I politely decline, slightly puzzled. Did she not like it? No, she probably would have
said so, or suggested an exotic spice or body part of a nonexistent animal to liven it up.

She smiles tranquilly at my furrowed brow and says, “I just thought you might need to more to
eat.”

I panic and look sharply at Harry and Ron, but their talk has not yet derailed from sports. And
she makes comments like that throughout the meal and I swear I’m only about two seconds from
strangling her. Somewhere beneath my paranoia is an appreciation for her care, but it has yet to
surface, and I don’t fully relax until the meal is over and Harry suggests we all go for a
swim.

Luna and I shake our heads and the men head into the house to change. The bubble of panic within
me deflates as Luna and I move to the reclining patio chairs and bask in the warmth of the mid-June
sun.

“I’m so glad you and Harry moved out into the country, Hermione. You two really brighten up the
neighborhood, but soon there will be more than just two,” Luna says, winking at me. Her eyes mimic
the blue of the pool water. “And thank you for having us over today.”

I laugh at her sudden show of sincerity. “You don’t have to thank us, we do this every Sunday!”
I pause a little, getting lost in the memory that brings yet another smile to my face. “And Harry
and I have sort of always known that we would end up in the country.”

Luna turned her head, cocking it to the side in curiosity. “What do you mean?”

I’m about to answer when the screen door slams shut and Ron stomps heavily past, diving into the
pool and dousing Luna and I in a huge wall of water. Harry’s wave soon follows and now both Luna
and I are on our feet, shouting obscenities for all the neighbors to hear. Harry and Ron try to
look innocent by giving surprisingly identical playful grins. These quickly fade when I whip out my
wand and point it in their direction. They give each other a sideways glance, both wary of any use
of my wand.

Careful consideration yields the ideal incantation. With the wave of my wand, the pool water
vanishes and both men wobble precariously at the sudden addition of gravity to their bodies. Ron,
who had been standing on a deeper part of the pool’s slope than Harry, lunges sideways unsteadily,
but before he can do any harm, I restore the water in the pool and he comes up, sputtering
indignantly. The rest of us, Harry included, are laughing by now, and, rather reluctantly, Ron
joins in.

These are hardly the jokes of our Hogwarts days, and aren’t nearly the same caliber as Fred and
George’s pranks, but they are enough for these warm, summery afternoons.

A few hours later, the sun begins to set and Luna hurries Ron out the door, winking at me
conspiratorially. I can hear Ron protesting about having to walk home still wet and carrying all of
his clothes in a bundle.

Having been the good hostess and sent the guests to the door, I return to my husband in the
backyard. The waves in the pool are calming and I see Harry casting about for a towel. I spot one
on my chair and walk over to hand it to him, a feeling of de ja vu strengthening with every
step.

I realize what Harry is about to do only a fraction of a second before he does it and am thus
helplessly swept into Harry’s soaked arms. I offer weak protests to his strong hold, and suddenly,
as realization strikes us simultaneously, we freeze and pull back somewhat to look at each other.
Harry, without glasses, squints slightly to see me better, but I’m fairly certain that my look of
shock is perfectly mirroring his own.

How often in life does a dream literally come true? ‘We’ve done it!’ I want to scream, but my
vocal chords are on holiday at the moment. And it’s true. Harry and I have come a long way from our
unsure, insecure selves of the past. We have our country house, we have our pool, we have each
other, but now we have even more. I want to cry with the sheer simplicity of life, and I realize
that this is the moment that I’ve been hoping for since I learned the news.

Harry is still looking into my eyes and seems to be getting alarmed that I’m crying. ‘What’s the
matter, Hermione?” he asks concernedly, wiping some of the fallen tears with the pads on his thumbs
in a familiar endearment.

I shake my head, not bothering to hide the grin that seems to be taking up permanent residence
on my face. Not even minding that my words are coming in gulps or that I’m beginning to sound like
a blithering idiot, I say, “No, Harry! Don’t you see? *Nothing* is the matter!”

Now Harry just looks confused. Tentatively he asks, “Are you all right, sweetheart?” while
putting the palm of one of his hands on my forehead.

“Never better,” I answer articulately, despite the onslaught of tears. Harry smiles in relief
and holds my gaze. Adopting the sort of instructive tone I normally save for my lessons, I
carefully steer him the right direction. “Harry, I know you’re thinking of the same dream as me.
Now tell me, what’s missing?”

Without dislodging our embrace, he swivels his head in every direction as though it will
identify itself if he looks hard enough. His eyes alight on an area near the pool and when he turns
back to face me, I spot a glint of something like triumph in his eyes and I think he’s got it.

“Ron’s sign about peeing in the pool?” he asks, expecting praise for his perceptiveness.

“No—well, yes. Anything else?” In my head I fervently plead for Harry to see where I was going
with this. Please, please, please, *please.*

I allow his thirty seconds of an earnest search before I interrupt. I’d like to just say it, but
I want him to figure it out on his own. I want to watch his facial expressions change as he
realizes that he’s a father. “No, Harry, search *here.*”

I placed my right hand over his heart and he closes his eyes.

“And *here*.”

My left hand reaches down to grab his right and I hold it a few seconds before placing it
carefully on my abdomen. The muscles in Harry’s face tense slightly as he tightens his jaw, but
then he relaxes completely. Opening his eyes, he asks the silent question and I answer with a nod
and a hopeful smile. I can tell he is torn between squeezing me profusely and kissing me tenderly.
He opts for the second and we stand there in the backyard, the backyard only wanting of some
certain signage and the laughter of children. We stand there, in our dream, in our beginning.

And as the sun sets on this perfect day, we lay beside one another and give our thanks for all
the circumstances that brought us together. Together we’ve made it happen.

That night as we dressed for dinner, Harry reaches for a pair of socks from his drawer, coming
away with something extra.

“Honey,” he calls to me in the bathroom. “I’ve found your—” He stops, peering at the words on
the face. He shakes the watch a bit and holds it up to his ear, as though checking that it still
works. This was how I find him when I exit the bathroom, struggling with the stubborn earring in my
favorite pair.

“Harry, what’s the matter?” I ask with concern, for he has gone paler than I’ve seen him in many
years.

Soundlessly he holds the watch out to me, as if I could verify its authenticity. As I reach to
take it from him, one of the watch’s phrases rings out, filling the otherwise silent room.

“Happy Father’s Day!” it shrieks in its mechanically shrill voice.

Harry and I look at one another, and just like that, we begin to laugh. We laugh until we’re
clutching our sides and crying with mirth, every once in a while stopping to make sure that we’d
heard it correctly.

Harry stands and draws me into a firm embrace, cupping my cheek with his palm. “Thank you,
Hermione,” he says quietly but with a startling intensity. I can feel my cheeks beginning to burn.
I place my palm on his cheek and wish him a happy Father’s Day for the first time.

The watch lays forgotten as we relax into each other. We never did make it to dinner that
night.

A/N: So? Like the new style? I’m a little torn on it I suppose. Not used to writing in so much
present tense. I keep catching little bits of past in there and having to fix it. Anyway, thank you
to all those who took the time to read and review this little bugger of mine. Anyway, I have
another little plot bunny stuck in my head. Maybe I can write it on the drive down to Los Angeles
tomorrow? Luckily, school has yet to begin and I’ve finished working, so I’m FREE! Vacation!
Reading! Reviewing!