A/N: This is officially a disclaimer. I don't own much of anything, let alone the whole world of Potter :) And please, do review! Always nice for some feedback! With out any further ado, though... :)
I lean against the fireplace. I just got home, and Hermione is so preoccupied with what she's doing she did not even notice. About time for some intervention, I think.
"Hermione, love, relax!" I look at my wife, harried yet as beautiful as the day I met her.
"Oh, hello! But, really, George, I just have to do this one more thing and I'll be almost done—"I cut her off with a hand to her mouth.
"No, no, no. Absolutely not. It can wait for tomorrow! In fact, all of this can." And with that, I fold her bureau up and sort all of her papers into neat little stacks with my wand. "There. Feel free to start exactly where you stopped- tomorrow, that is." I drag our two armchairs towards the window, and continue talking. "Now I want you to sit right there—" I indicate her favorite worn chartreuse reading chair—" Read this"—Now I hand her current read—"And watch the evening roll by." She grabs the book, and finally sits. I take the chair next to her, the crazily striped armchair that she can't stand (She calls it chaotic and gross, I think it has character) and loosen my tie. We both loose ourselves in the comfortable silence that follows.
It was a long day at work, but I don't let that faze me. Even during the hardest days, I still manage to find a smile when I think of everything I have to work for. My wife, my children, - she cuts off my though by grabbing my hand. Softly smiling, I look into her eyes. All this time, all these trials and we still love each other with a passion that would surprise me if not for Hermione. Because that's just what Hermione is- passionate, loving, intelligent… the list could go on and on. Instead of listing off her many attributes, though, I instead choose to lean over and give her a kiss.
Just as our lips whisper against one another, though, a sudden and loud BOOM ricochets across the room, followed by the unmistakable wailing of a little girl. We freeze, and then break apart. Hermione then calls out with a good natured smile and the faintest note of exasperation:
"Gideon, perchance, was that you?" She asks in her sweet mom voice—too sweetly, really. WE both know it was him. At this point, asking is merely a formality.
"No, mum! I swear! It was the… um... cat! Dunno even why Jane's crying, I don't!" a voice carries back.
"Yeah, likely", I say to Hermione, shooting her a look. She looks back and reiterates a phrase used so often in our household that it's almost lost meaning.
"Hey, don't look at me. They're clearly you're children" And with that, she heads up the stairs to investigate.