Deep within Godric's Hollow, two cozy cottages stood side by side, less than five hundred feet apart. Less than half a mile to the east, a small graveyard was present among the trees of the large forest the residents lived in. Inside the smaller of the cottages, Ron Weasley swore loudly as he tripped over a toy broomstick, which lay abandoned in the middle of the Weasleys' living room.

"RON!" His wife's voice yelled reproachfully down from the second level, scolding him for his language. Ron only rolled his eyes and grumbled darkly as he bent to pick up the broomstick and place it on the table. Hermione never used to mind his language as much, especially after the war. It didn't seem as important when they were mourning the loss of so many people. But now, since their children Rose and Hugo had made their way into their lives, Hermione was very conscientious about what her children were allowed to see and hear. This was difficult, because she had married a Weasley, and the Weasleys tended to be questionable influences at times.

Despite his wife's feelings, Ron was sure he was doing a good job in his duties as a father, and he was sure that Hermione felt the same, even if he did swear once in a while. The other day, she had caught him telling a story to Rose and Hugo before bed, a story about a witch being rescued from a horrible banshee who tortured young wizards and witches for fun, by a handsome wizard. Rose, who was much cleverer than most six-year-olds, asked after Ron had finished the story, "Daddy, what did the wizard look like?"

Ron, who had grinned at her knowingly, had answered, "Oh, I'd say he was tall and redheaded."

Rose didn't ask any more, but she smiled at the thought of the story being based off of her parents. Her father had told them to go to sleep, kissed them both, and turned around, almost walking straight into Hermione. She had smiled at him and after saying goodnight to both her children, she had led him back to their bedroom where she questioned him about his choice in stories.

"So the young wizard was tall and redheaded, was he?"

"I'd say he was, yeah." She had looked away, beaming to herself, and the conversation was over. Ron had smirked, proud of himself and the family he couldn't imagine his life without.

Today, Rose was sick with a high fever that seemed to only spike higher when Hermione tried to give her the potions that were supposed to bring it down. Hermione was sending Ron back and forth between Rose's bedroom and the kitchen to retrieve new potions, while she checked her daughter's temperature every five seconds. This was the reason Ron had tripped on Hugo's toy broomstick; he had run down the stairs to stir up another potion for Rose. Hermione was becoming more panicked by the second, and, for the first time in her life, had no idea what to do.

Ron raced back up the stairs with the newly-stirred potion, entering his daughter's room. Hermione sat at Rose's bedside, her forehead creased with worry as her eyes raked over the six-year-old's white and sweaty face. Ron kneeled down next to the bed and handed the potion to Rose. "Here you go, Rosie." As she drank and pulled a face at the nasty-tasting mixture, he stroked back her vividly red hair to feel her forehead: still burning hot.

"You need sleep," Ron told Rose. "My mum always said that's the best medicine for this kind of thing." Hermione still looked worried, but when he shot her a meaningful glance, she nodded in defeat. She leaned forward and gently kissed Rose's forehead, followed by Ron doing the same. They left the room reluctantly and shut the door quietly so as not to wake the already-dozing Rose Weasley.

Once downstairs, Hermione finally burst out, "Ron, what are we going to do? All those potions we gave her were supposed to bring her fever down immediately! What's going to happen –?"

"Hermione, you need to calm down," said Ron, grasping her shoulders firmly. "If her fever hasn't gone down in the next couple hours, we'll take her to St. Mungo's, and they'll see what's wrong with her there."

Hermione pursed her lips, still looking extremely worried. Ron leaned forward and gently kissed her lips, wrapping her up in a tight embrace. When they broke apart, he tilted her chin up so her eyes met his. "It's going to be fine. I told you when she was born that I wouldn't let anything happen to her, to any of you."

She smiled a little at the remembrance of his six-year-old promise (which he had yet to break) but it soon evaporated. She looked up at him again and said, "Her life isn't always in your control, Ron. None of ours are."

He hugged her tighter to his own body, stroking her curly brown hair. "That's not going to stop me from trying."

Within an hour, Hermione had gone up to Rose's room to check on her once more. Ron, who had remained downstairs, was scared out of his wits when she came bounding back down the stairs, announcing that Rose's fever had finally broke. He laughed and hugged her, knowing that her worries and constant checkups had paid off and practically saved Rose's life.

Rose slept through the rest of the day, so Ron and Hermione spent three hours controlling Hugo, who was four years old and quite a handful when he decided to fly his toy broomstick around the house. The two chased their son around the house, while still trying to keep things quiet for Rose.

Later that night, Ron and Hermione finally collapsed into bed after feeding Hugo, getting him to bed and fixing the three vases and two lamps he had broken. Hermione sighed next to Ron and laughed slightly. "This isn't going to get any easier, is it? This parenting thing."

Ron turned on his side to face her and propped his head up on his elbow, grinning faintly at her. "After watching my parents for seventeen years, I'll have to say no, it's probably only going to get harder. 'Course, I always thought my parents were mental for taking on seven kids, there was more chaos than harmony between us most of the time."

She smiled. "Yes, but if your parents hadn't had seven children, I wouldn't have you. Remind me to thank them next time we go to the Burrow." He grinned at her and gently kissed her, feeling like he was falling in love with her all over again. They slowly broke apart but made no attempt at withdrawing any further; Ron had leaned forward to touch his forehead to hers.

"You know," said Ron, his lips inches from Hermione's, "I don't think I could've picked a more brilliant, beautiful wife." She smiled and kissed him once more. "Well, I don't think I could've picked a more loving, protective husband."

He grinned as he snuggled closer to her, whispering into her hair, "I love you, Hermione."

Just as he was dozing off, he heard a soft voice vibrate under his chin, "I love you, Ron."