"Ron, I think it's time we tell Rosie. About... about you-know-what." I'm shocked to hear the words leave Hermione's lips. I don't want to have the talk with my baby girl. She's only a baby.
"No," I respond. "She's too young."
"Honestly, Ron!" Hermione says exasperatedly. "She's nine years old. She deserves to know. Besides, she's visiting her cousins next week. Would you rather have her hear it from us, or James and Albus?" She makes a point, but I don't let on.
"'Mione..." I groan doggedly. "We-we can tell James and Al not to tell her. She's still my baby!"
"Ronald, you're being so..." She never finishes her sentence. Rosie barges in through our bedroom door in her pink pajamas and bunny slippers.
"Mum? Dad? Is everything all right? I had a scary dream." She looks so small and innocent. I can't tell her, I can't. Hermione glances at me. I shake my head softly, and I scoop her up into my arms.
"It's okay, Rosie. I'll put you back to bed, and read you the story of the hopping pot." She smiles at the mention of her favorite story. I carry to her room and read the story, putting on funny voices for each character. I then conjure bubbles to change colors all night and amuse her until she falls asleep, and then walk quietly back to the room Hermione and I share. Once I get there, Hermione gives me a look that would send Voldemort running for his Mummy.
"Honestly, Ronald. She's old enough to know that there's no Santa Claus!"