Nine months of frequent trials and unexpected triumphs elapse before the Healers are summoned and Hermione is rushed to St. Mungo's in a flurry of breathless anticipation. The labor is unfortunately everything her mother described, with the painful addition of the sensations that are actually happening to her - ohmygod - yet miraculously and mercifully quick. She was never one for shortcuts, but Merlin be damned if she isn't grateful for them now.
They name her Rose for her bright red hair and the fact that is indomitably summer, at long last. She is perfectly theirs, and more than one pair of eyes shines with tears at the sheer wonder of their situation. Happiness and relief wash over her in waves so powerful a physical ache makes her clutch her chest in fear she might burst and spoil it all. Sleep comes after the parade of visitors, and it is ever a welcome oblivion.
The first week is an exhausting dream. Ron stays home with her - with them - and a comedy of errors ensues, because who in this world would have cast these two sleepwalkers as parents? It is late-night-or-is-it-morning cups of tea and naps in the shower and breaths held tentatively as Rose's eyes flutter closed. They fall into bed together and are much too tired to do more than hold one another as they sleep.
And almost just as quickly as it began, it has shifted. Hermione spends her days at the flat in a daze of diapers and feedings. She can't remember the last time she ate a proper meal nor the last time she even wanted to. Ron comes home at night with a purple bruise under one eye that she's sure matches the two under her own. She snaps at him with more vitriol than their bickering normally involves, and cries louder than the baby when he isn't around to hear.
The guilt plagues her like a shadow and threatens to swallow her. She had so many plans and ideas for this time; she's read all about what's best to do, how to best bond with your newborn and how the first weeks are crucial to good development. Instead she lies on the couch with Rose aimlessly, vaguely tired and with something that might taste like hopelessness in her mouth. She is not amused by the irony when she worries herself into a state over being a poor mother while her child whines desperately and unnoticed in the next room.
She feels desperate.
The nightmares come back with a vengeance, and every night without fail she is transported back to Malfoy Manor in her mind. Her body shivers despite the muggy warmth of the flat in June and she wakes up drenched in a cold sweat. Once or twice she wanders into Rose's room to watch her sleep in the hopes it will calm her. (It doesn't). Her own screams of pain echo in her ears in the morning and she shields her eyes against the light streaming in through the windows.
Getting out of bed becomes so physically and mentally draining that one morning, in an irritable slump, she refuses to do it, pointedly ignoring Rose's plaintive calls from her crib. Ashamed, she is for once glad Ron isn't home to see. She washes down her toast with another helping of guilt.
She knows (she is logical, she has read) that this is not her. If she were one for poetry, she might believe that her soul is being kidnapped by a parasite who sucks her heart out through her mouth and leaves her vacant and despondent and gasping for air. As it is, she recognizes the symptoms. Listlessly, she opens and closes her book.
And then it is Rosie's one month and her mum is knocking and Hermione has forgotten the date and the last time she washed her hair. She nearly collapses at the look on her mum's face when she opens the door to reveal the flat in such disarray. Hermione could have sworn she was managing just fine, really, thanks, and she's always been a bit too fiercely independent. But her mother's eyes hold no criticism, just gentle compassion, and Hermione is in her arms in an instant. Her quiet sobs mingle with Rosie's, who has yet to be fed.
There is a different kind of butterfly trembling in her stomach as she and Ron head once more to the Healer's. His arm is wrapped securely around her waist, and she rests her head heavily on his shoulder as they wait. He whispers in her ear that he loves her very much and with an all-too-familiar tone of surprise she replies:
"Even in this?" Her fragile voice reflects the hope that bubbles in her chest.
"Through everything," comes his answer, sure as sunrise.