31 October 1980

Windows rattled in the small London flat, startling Emma awake. Her eyes snapped open on reflex, but months of training kept her from sitting bolt upright. Although her light and sometimes frantic sleep habits had never woken Dan in the half-dozen years they'd been married, she was convinced that even the merest twitch of her eyelids would wake their infant daughter. Would, and regularly did.

Determinedly, she shut her eyes again, willing herself to perfect stillness, to picture in her mind something soothing that would calm her agitated nerves, slow her pulse rate, lull her back to sleep. No sooner than she had begun to drift off again, the casements shuddered with another bellowing gust. Emma stared forlornly at the ceiling. So far, Hermione had been able to sleep peacefully on throughout the gale, a trait Emma was certain the child had gotten from her father, and which she frankly envied.

She risked a glance at the bedside alarm - 02:41 - and closed her eyes in resignation before letting out a small huff. There was absolutely nothing for it.

Emma rolled stiffly onto her side, gingerly slipping her feet out from under the duvet that was (just barely) keeping out the chill. She drew her big toe along the edge of the carpet, delaying the inevitable moment, debating whether to take to the kitchen the case studies she'd been reading the previous evening, or to just make herself some tea. With that thought, a rumpled black curl slid down her face, tickling her nose. It wasn't a sign from heaven, certainly, but she could take the hint. It wasn't like she got much chance to just relax by herself anyway.

Buoyed by the prospect of a quiet cuppa, Emma pulled herself upright. As if on cue, a wail rose from the next room. Cursing quietly to herself, she tugged on the still-plush (if slightly snug) dressing gown on the hook opposite the door, looping the sash around her middle. She padded through the doorway into the adjoining nursery, where her beloved sleep-interrupter was standing in her crib, staring at her balefully with red-rimmed eyes. Hermione's bottom lip quivered, as though uncertain whether to release another howl, relax into a pout, or open up into a smile.

Emma's mouth wrenched up in a wry, lopsided grin, which blossomed into an adoring glow when her daughter responded with a bubbly giggle. Crossing the room in two quick strides, she hoisted her little girl up onto her hip and cuddled her softly, her fingers following the curve of the sparse dark ringlets that lay flat against her daughter's head. The child's breathing slowed and deepened as she snuggled into her mother, head resting just below the dip of Emma's shoulder as she slowly swayed, back and forth, half-humming a soft tune under her breath.

Outside, the storm was dying down, leaving the room completely still, save for the slight squeak of the floor as Emma shifted her weight as she rocked. When at last Hermione's eyes began to droop, Emma laid her back down in the crib. The child stirred, looking confused and ready to complain again. Emma felt around in the crib until her hand closed on a small stuffed toy, a floppy ginger cat. She tucked the toy under her infant daughter's arm and cooed, coaxing the child's hand into grasping it. When a tiny fist closed over one slightly ragged ear, Emma wiggled the toy cat as though it were real, even making a slight purring noise in her throat for it. Hermione's sleepy eyes fluttered closed with a light sigh. Gently letting go of the toy cat, Emma turned and walked carefully out of the room before wandering into the kitchen and putting the kettle on.

In the pale glow of the nursery light, Hermione opened one bleary eye. Her gaze fell on the toy cat in her hand, which she pulled close to her chest and hugged. It gave a reassuring half-purr, and Hermione slipped back into dreamless slumber.