Chapter 11
For all the fuss that her mum had raised in the weeks leading up to Rose's arrival, Hermione found that she wasn't the least bit afraid of childbirth. Not that she necessarily looked forward to the hard work of bringing what increasingly appeared to be quite a large baby into the world.
She reckoned her extraordinary sense of calm — well, extraordinary to Eleanor anyway — owed itself to three factors: One, she had survived a bloody wizarding war, hadn't she, including goodness knows how many Crucio curses. Hermione figured if she could endure that, she could endure practically anything. In fact, that confidence in her own powers of endurance was one of the memories she leaned upon most during those dark years in Cornwall. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," Hermione had said to herself more than once during those lonely times.
Second, she knew what Eleanor didn't: That witches have enormous advantages over muggles in the realm of childbirth, what with Esmerelda de Mago's development of the Maternitatis charm back in 1652, a magical breakthrough that spared witches much of the pain that muggles experienced in bringing babies into the world. It also helped that she'd read every magical maternity book she could get her hands on, from the dog-eared copy "What Witches Should Expect When They're Expecting" that Ginny had kindly lent her to her own edition of "The St. Mungo's Guide to a Healthy Magical Pregnancy." So she felt as prepared as any book could make her be for what lay ahead.
But the third factor, and far and away the most relevant, was that she had been pining to lay eyes on her Rose again — pining for nearly four years, in fact. And she reckoned she would put up with whatever pains and privations she had to endure in order to make Rose a reality once again. In the weeks leading up to her due date, her mind continually drifted back to the memory of what Rose looked like on that fateful day when Harry had handed the infant to her in that wicker basket. But she reckoned Rose was several weeks old by then. She was beyond curious to see her darling girl in her newborn state — and to hold her in her arms, perhaps never to let her go.
What Hermione hadn't necessarily counted on, however, was that Ron would be equally as prepared for the big moment. He'd been the soul of maturity in the time since they reunited. In fact, on their wedding day, she had been surprised and profoundly moved by how serious and sober he was throughout the ceremony. He had looked at her, his gaze penetrating deeply, all throughout the bonding ritual, as if he understood in his bones the responsibility that he was taking on and had lived all his life to fulfill it. And as a husband, he'd been the intensely loyal fellow he had always been, forever looking out for her and tending to her needs before she'd even had a chance to reckon what they might be. The childhood Ron that she first fell in love with was always there, of course, just beneath the surface, ever ready to crack a joke or make her blush when she least expected it. But he'd grown into a man in the fullest as General Ronald Weasley, the inner kid functioning as the animating engine beneath an outward hull of steel.
So it was with a bit of shock and a fair dose of amusement that Hermione found what she thought of as Hogwarts-era Ron rising to the surface — at least for a few decisive moments — when she padded her way from the loo to the lounge and tapped him on the shoulder as he listened to that evening's Cannon's game on the wireless while ostensibly perusing a new book on chess, a gift from his father-in-law.
"Ron," she'd murmured, resting her hand gently on his shoulder.
"Hmm?" he replied, before blurting "Oh, damn!" at the sound of Puddlemere scoring yet another goal. "Sorry, love, what's that?" he continued, finally tearing his attention away from the radio.
"I think it's time, darling."
"Time?" he replied absent-mindedly. "Time for what?"
But then, almost as quickly as he'd spoken those words, he sat up, dropping Hugh's chess book to the floor and wheeling around to look Hermione up and down with a look of outright panic in his eyes.
"Wait, you mean —"
"Yes, I mean," Hermione replied, barely able to contain her mirth.
"Are you — I mean — is she — can I — do you —" he sputtered, jumping to his feet and gripping Hermione by the shoulders. "Are you about to — you know — uh —"
Hermione chuckled at this, even as she rubbed away a strong pang that coursed through her lower abdomen. "Well, I may not be *about* to," she said. "But yes, we'd best be on our way to St. Mungo's. That is, unless you'd rather transact this bit of business right here in the lounge."
"Holy Dementor dung," Ron said, his tone betraying his utter shock. "Where's the go bag? We need the go bag."
"It's where we left it," Hermione said calmly. "In the bedroom next to the bureau."
"Right," Ron said officiously, turning on his heels to sprint into the bedroom. A second later, there was a loud crash. "Sorry!" she heard him shout from the next room. Returning to her side, he was panting as if he'd run a mile. "Just knocked over the vase in there. I'll fix it later," he said, tilting his head toward the room he'd just left.
"No worries."
"OK."
An awkward pause followed in which all Ron seemed able to do was to look down at the little suitcase in his hand.
"So …" Hermione said slowly.
"Oh. Yeah. Right," Ron replied hastily. "So, uh, let's call — "
Before he had a chance to finish his thought, a mighty contraction rippled through Hermione's middle. "OOOOOOH!" she moaned, hunching over slightly as she grabbed her bulbous tummy with both hands.
In a flash, the boyish nerves that had animated Ron up until that moment evaporated, replaced by the steely glare of a veteran Auror. "Right, that's it," he said with a determined set to his jaw. "Hang on love."
And with that, he extracted his wand and Levitated Hermione, leading her through the front door of the flat and down the stairs outside, whereupon he created a temporary opening in the protective wards and Apparated them both to the Maternity Ward reception room at St. Mungo's.
It was almost eight hours later — at roughly 3 o'clock in the morning, by Ron's reckoning — that the moment he'd been waiting for since he'd watched his older self carry Rose away all those years ago would finally arrive.
"It's all right to push now, Mrs. Weasley," Simmons, the midwife, barked out in the chipper tone she somehow managed to maintain even in the dead of night. "Push, my dear. We're almost there."
Hermione, leaning against Ron's chest in much the same way she had come to do each night on the magically extended easy chair, huffed in near-exhaustion, groaning as she pushed yet again. The Maternitatis charm was certainly taking the edge off the pain, but the effort it took to bring this baby out into the world was proving almost overwhelming.
"You've got this, love," Ron whispered against her temple as he wrapped his arms about her shoulders a bit more firmly. He Accioed a cool washcloth from the basin nearby and once again dabbed it against her sweaty forehead. "You're so brave. You're so strong," he added. "Just a few more pushes and she's here."
"Mmm," Hermione said, smiling despite her fatigue. "I can't wait."
"Atta girl."
Another great wave of pressure crashed over Hermione just then, and with Simmons' encouragement, she pushed with all her might, alternating between moans and near-laughter.
"We're crowning!" Simmons exclaimed and, despite his worry for Hermione's sapping strength, he couldn't help but feel his heart race with joy at the thought that Rose was that much nearer to being with them.
More pushes ensued, with Simmons barking out good-natured commands all along the way, until shoulders emerged. And then, with surprising speed given how difficult it was to get to that point, Rose emerged in full, sliding out and into Simmons' waiting hands with a wiggle and then, after a brief pause, with a mighty, eardrum-rattling cry.
"Thar she blows!" Simmons bellowed, capturing Rose in her arms, bundling her in a receiving blanket, and administering a quick series of cleansing and diagnostic charms.
"Oh Ron," Hermione breathed, a look of rapture washing over her face. "Look at her. Just look."
Ron, for his part, was already looking. In fact, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight: A bloody and quite messy little bundle of a person, who under Simmons' ministrations was rapidly drying and spiffing up and becoming, quite miraculously, every bit the Rose he remembered — though, somehow, the infant version, ice-blue eyes wide open, hands tightly coiled into fists, a tuft of shockingly copper-colored hair adorning her head. She looked, Ron thought, every bit like herself — utterly beautiful, utterly brilliant, utterly *Rose.* He was so overcome with emotion, he couldn't speak over the lump in his throat.
Instead, he satisfied himself with watching as Simmons severed the umbilical cord, wrapped the squirming baby in a fresh blanket, and laid her with a gentle smile into Hermione's waiting arms.
"Oh my goodness," Hermione said, tears streaming down her cheeks. The feeling of Rose settled in her arms again after all this time — Hermione couldn't have described it if she tried. It was as if the previous eight hours never happened. She felt as if she could climb a mountain, run a marathon, wrestle a Hippogriff. She wanted to run and dance and sing. The joy that coursed through her veins was even greater than the feeling that overcame her on the day she and Ron were married — a day she had, up until then, regarded as the peak experience of her life. "Here she is. She's here, Ron," Hermione whispered as she tucked a finger beneath the baby's chubby chin. "It's Rose. Our Rose."
oooOOOooo
Another rather short chapter. But we're making progress!
Please review, won't you?
Holly.
