"Daddy, I don't feel so good."

Ron peeked up from the newspaper and sighed when he saw a five year old Rose looking rather pained as she clutched her left hand. Her brownish-red hair fell in little ringlets around her hurt expression. He put the paper down and held out his hand. "Yes, Rosie? Why do you look like you've just seen a boggart?" He asked, holding out his arms.

Taking her cue, Rose clambered toward her father, crawled up on his lap and burst into instant, uncontrollable tears. "Hugo bit my hand!" She wailed sadly, waving her palm in Ron's face. "And it hurts a lot, Daddy!"

This was the tough part about being a father when Hermione was asleep, thinking on your feet and doing it alone. He glimpsed around—they were out of pain potions and Ron was about as good at Potions as Harry was. If he attempted to make one, Rose would be complaining about a whole lot more than an aching hand. Then something clicked in his head.

"You know what, Rose? You're in luck! I went to hand college, did you know that?" Ron said, not able to help the ridiculousness in his voice. "Now let me see that hand of yours." He took her left hand and examined it. It was certainly red and there were bite marks around the finger tips. "Yep, mmm, typical case of a two year old biting his sister…I've seen it loads of times!"

With big glassy eyes, she looked up at her father and clutched her hand. "Really?" Rose replied hopefully. "I won't die?"

"Oh no! Don't be silly, all you have to do is put your hand on top of your nose and close your eyes…now, what colour is the pain?" Ron asked, feeling as stupid as was wizardly possible. He was doing a damn good job improvising though.

"It's sort of orange, I guess," Rose replied, eyes closed and a faint trace of a smile spreading across her distinct Weasley features.

Ron patted her back reassuringly and went on. "Sort of orange?" He repeated in a high-pitched voice much like Rose's own. "Are there any other colours, how about some polka dots? Any polka dots?" Ron asked, just to make sure.

"Two polka dots. Yellow ones."

Ron gave a deliberate sigh of relief. As if a problem had truly been solved. "So no stripes? Because stripes are dangerous!" Ron noted and stifled an inward chuckle. Her tears had subsided and she was down to sniffling.

Rose shook her head. "No stripes. Just polka dots."

"Alright, that's good," Ron said to his daughter, who was all smiles at this point. "Now this can easily be diagnosed. Nine out of ten healers will agree that you can solve the pain by taking your hand off of your nose and opening your eyes."

Rose giggled and scrutinized her hand meticulously. "It's as good as new, Daddy! I don't even feel the pain anymore!"

Ron shrugged triumphantly and let his daughter down from his lap. "Eh, what can I say? I'm a natural," He said proudly as she bounded up the stairs, undoubtedly to tell her sleeping mother all about the miracle that Ron had worked.