Training apparently wasn't that important for the female newbies in the grey room. Hermione's eyes rolled as she approached them without even having to use her auror skills.

"Avis" she whispered.

Anyone would say that at this point, the trainees should be able to notice an attacker with an entire flock flying around, making her look like cinderella's oddest cousin; but of course, their chitchat was always more interesting.

"'Auror Hotter', they should call him" a girl whispered, being heard by the entire room –not remotely as discreet as she apparently thought she was–. Hermione's blood boiled. She guessed that this girl would be the first to die, from the litter.

"Oppugno!"

"Protego!"

The birds crashed against the shield Duham had just invoked, as if against a glass window. The youngest witch hadn't been in the group, but had ran in front of the attacker in no time, managing to protect her distracted colleagues. Hermione and her sister still aimed their wands at each other for another second, and then Hermione stood straight and smiled.

"Well done, Granger" she praised her, not showing how weird she found to speak her own maiden name in second person. "You moved fast." And frowning to the rest of the girls, who had paled but hadn't moved yet, she added: "I remind you that not every trainee become an auror, and there's a reason for that, as it is for all the EE requested to be admitted: if you aren't prepared, you aren't but cannon fodder. Constant vigilance!"

"You should have seen her, back then!" He laughs again, grave sounds echoing throughout the room. "So many years of us, boys, hating each other, and it's her who gets physical. She was splendid. When she pulled out her wand, the guy nearly wetted his pants... Hermione never told you?

Duham, at his side, shakes his head, still laughing without shame. Her drink spills, and she cleans up the mess with an "ups" that sounds like a hiccup.

It's very late. All the guests at the party have been gone for a while, Ron's probably sleeping on some sofa somewhere and Hermione is fighting Kreacher over who cleans the ballroom, perhaps creating an even bigger mess. An hour ago she alternated that fight, with yelling to them for not supporting her. They have taken refuge. That doesn't mean Hermione is less present.

"You must have... real problems ... dating," Duham utters between one hiccup and another.

Harry watches her, calculating how many drinks has she had.

"Why?"

"Don't you have ... a story that doesn't ... include Mia?"

Harry thinks for a moment. Alcohol playing its role, it's without shame that the wizard shakes his head:

"None interesting."

"Come on…! The Chamber of Secrets?"

He nods uncertainly.

"I suppose ... Can you know my life better than I do?"

"That's because she... has the same problem... with you."

"But she wasn't even there."

Duham shrugs.

"So what? Half the stories… she tells come from… books anyway."

They laugh in chorus, of nothing in particular. Harry feels himself floating, as if on a carpet of memories. He remembers, without knowing why, the dates where mentioning Hermione ended up becoming a problem. Especially the first one, with Cho. Hermione had a very big role in that date, mainly since she herself was also the one to point out the problem to him, afterwards. Ginny ended up getting used to it.

"Shouldn't you be at home?"

Duham nods and hiccups again.

"Never mind, I don't think you can apparate. I may be able to apparate myself once, but I don't think I can take both of us without splitting someone. Should I call Kreacher to take you home?"

The fear in the trainee's eyes makes him laugh again:

"You can always stay here, there are spare rooms you know."

This time the girl blushes a little bit. Decidedly, the fear of Keacher drove back the effect of alcohol. Harry shrugs.

"Just for today. Let's not tell Luna."

He stands up and stretches, eyes wandering to his partner. Even with walls in between, he locates her without fail. She's not furious anymore. Her magic sounds as if the alcohol had affected her as well. As if she was humming.

He guides the girl through the house, into the kids' room, which is always pristine. When he turns on the light, the apprentice jumps to the first bed she sees without much thinking, and Harry has to suppress the impulse to tuck her in as he would do with Lily. This girl is much older. And she does not carry his last name.

"Sweet dreams," he whispers as he switches off the light.

She is already asleep.

He thinks that in the morning, Duham will love the bookshelf, and the quidditch posters. No matter which team she supports, there are all kinds hanging in that room. With five children in the trio, it's difficult to keep uniformity.

Hermione's house is much better lit than his, even with lights turned off and at night. Enough windows. The moonlight gives everything a strange look. Harry sits on the kitchen table and rests his head on his arm, gathering strength to climb the stairs.

And he awakens with the bitter taste of a recurrent, impossible dream. Hermione, holding a green-eyed girl in her arms. 'Maybe I've been thinking too much about the kids.' Harry rubs his face with his hands and, putting a hand on the plateau, gets up.

The knocks on the door were slightly louder and abrupt than usual, and Ron hurried to open. The desperate cry spread to the interior. Contagious despair. Harry stormed past him, heading to the bedroom before even murmuring:

"Are you sure it's not a problem?"

"Where one eats, two eat." Ron dismissed. "Let Weasleys say so…"

"Thank you for this, mate..."

"Does Ginny know...?"

"I have finally picked Al up and taken him away, and she hasn't tried to stop me."

"That's bad luck, mate... getting sick right now..."

The boy bellowed impatiently in his father's arms, who held him tightly and quickened his pace as Ron came forward to open the door. Inside, Hermione turned to them at once, wand in her hand, in an almost instinctive gesture in spite of having been an auror for such a short period; the sudden gesture elicited a protest from the cradle's content, over which she had bent until now, but the witch ignored it. Her face, still swollen as her body, lit up, and for a moment the dark circles around her eyes weren't so deep, and the mess in her hair stopped mattering, when she spread her arms to welcome the child in Harry's arms. Her gaze went from son to father, and to the baby again, and she hugged him tightly as with the other hand she sought the chair behind her, and sat heavily, in a strange position, avoiding delivery wounds. The crib levitated and rocked slowly, shutting Rose inside, despite Al's bellowing; Hermione herself had cast the soundproofing spell on the area. Disregarding Ron's repeated attempts to get him back out, Harry watched mesmerized as she worked on the strategically placed folds in her robe, while Al's mouth, now silent, searched desperately, sensing the closeness of the milk, his hands gripping to the cloth in front of his mouth. The wine-colored nipple was barely visible for a moment, before disappearing between his lips. Humming softly, Hermione began to rock the bald infant, her gaze fixed on his intensely green eyes that watched her as if she was the matter of heaven.

"He looks a lot like you," she commented a moment later, interrupting the singing.

The silence, after the crying, was deafening.

Hermione gently stroked Al's cheeks, put a finger on his nose. Harry, who on the other hand had barely seen her since birth, did not remember her being this affectionate with Rose. Something between gratitude and affection gathered in a warm puddle on his stomach. He didn't answer. A slightly frowning Ron finally managed to get him out of there.

From the portrait at the top of the stairs, a version of Ron twenty years younger greets him when he arrives. Harry smiles just as the paper Hermione turns to him beaming herself. He looks at his own reflection, which at that moment straightens his glasses with the same hand with which he holds the wand, confused as always by the prospect of greeting his own self.

The smile on their lips froze somewhat when Hermione, without warning, ran out of the room. Harry and Ron looked at each other and went after her. Ginny protested behind them, muttering something about not needing a procession to go throw up, but it was Ron who looked back, while the auror reached the bathroom where his partner had just magically vanished the contents of the sink. Not for much longer. New gagging shook her, and Harry brushed her hair back from her face as she bent over, her whole body contracted in spasms and braced on the sides of the sink. The husband finally arrived, his expression confused, but a moment later he rubbed his nape, some pride slipping in his posture.

"Don't put on that face," Hermione snapped. "We all know you are to blame."

When she leaned over the sink again, the boys looked at each other over her head. Ron, now, seemed about to retch himself.

"Go to Ginny," Harry asked.

The redheaded boy seemed to hesitate for a moment, but when he heard new gagging, he shuddered and nodded.

It took a while for the discomfort to pass. Harry made a handkerchief appear, wet it, and from time to time he refreshed her forehead or the back of her neck; it relieved her, he saw her close her eyes every time. Finally, still leaning, as if not to be seen like that, Hermione washed her face and rinsed her mouth. His partner released her hair, but didn't move from there. This might not be over.

"You OK? He dared ask, hesitating."

"I'll survive."

She still didn't look at him.

"I don't want you to see me like this."

"Don't be ridiculous. I've seen worse."

He still hesitated before adding:

"Ron didn't want to be a jerk either, you know? He's just proud to be a dad..."

The girl sighed and looked up.

"I know. I do remember he spent a whole day vomiting slugs because he had tried to stand up for me. I guess, grown up as I am, I can take a couple of weeks."

Harry, lying on the bed, hands behind his head, has been watching the ceiling for a while - shadows changing with dawn-. He barely slept. It's still early. Quietly, he turns to the empty half of the bed, wondering why he feels as if someone should be there. Not Ginny. Again he feels that strange impression, warm but confused, as if he had forgotten something, scenes that remain beyond his reach; instead, his mind navigates memories more akin to those of the previous night, as if he had not slept since then.

"I've never witnessed one, mate. Mum says it hurts a lot..." Ron uttered enthusiastically.

"Ron" Harry hushed him, "it's Hermione you're talking about..."

While speaking, he looked at her. The girl was paler than the sheet on which she was sitting and the wall behind, and she was staring at nothing in particular, frowning only when her abdomen contracted. As much as it hurt, she managed to handle it. Ron kept going as if he hadn't heard:

"... but I've heard all sorts of disgusting things: that their bladder empties, that..."

"Ron! I know that you're a bit obtuse, but if you don't realize it by yourself, I'm telling you: you're transgressing.

"I only say..."

"No, it's me who say. You're hurting Hermione, and I don't care that you're the father: if you don't shut up right now, I'll get you kicked out of the room.

Ron was serious right away and seemed about to get all male, when Hermione screamed. A boy dressed in blue, very young, probably fresh out of college, approached; Harry followed him closely with his eyes. He wondered if he should call another doctor when a senior approached. Despite his age, or perhaps because of it, the senior doctor radiated apathy and Harry's gaze went from one to the other without knowing who he would choose if he could.

"I can't work with both of you here," the doctor said in a monotone tone of voice.

Hermione grabbed both of their hands, her knuckles white from the effort, and managed to speak:

"That was not the agreement."

"Do you want a healthy baby, or not?"

Harry wondered if using Confundus would be useful, but quickly decided that it could compromise his knowledge and thereby put Hermione in danger.

"The father can stay. Who is it?"

His gaze went from one to the other. Harry and Ron looked at each other, and Harry almost dropped his glasses when his mate said:

"Both."

The doctor watched him, bored.

"A modern marriage, huh?"

But he seemed to enjoy the idea enough to forget that he had to get one of them out of there.

Hermione barely protested when, a sheet covering her thighs halfway up her legs, they lifted them up to the supports of the gynecological table. When the doctor seemed to disappear behind the sheet, the movement of his elbows made Harry sick; he seemed to have his fingers inside of Hermione, and probably that was the case. The witch was terribly pale but not talking. She kept grabbing Harry with her right, and Ron with her left. The screech at the beginning hadn't been repeated. Apparently, that contraction had taken her by surprise.

"You're 8cm dilated, but I'm going to help you," the doctor said. "When you feel the contraction, push with all you have."

The woman didn't seem to hear him, but she complied, her face distorted. A strange sound escaped from her clenched teeth. The doctor seemed disappointed.

"Do not cry out. You don't use all of your strength if you scream."

Hermione pressed her lips in a line and tried again, and the sound was lessened this time, but Harry saw the doctor make a strange movement, as if opening something with his hands, and a true cry of anguish escaped her.

"You're hurting her!" Ron accused.

It was an echo of what Harry had wanted to yell a moment before, but he had repressed it and even whispered a muffliato under his breath, so neither the doctor nor the nurse reacted to Ron's outburst.

"Sit down," he advised. "You'll only get us out, and Hermione will be left alone."

"She's misbehaving," the doctor whispered to the nurse.

Harry would have risen from Hermione's bedside had she not stopped him, but Ron, who had not sat down, protested again:

"She's trying!"

The spell was still working, fortunately.

Harry saw the doctor take scissors and point it towards Hermione. This one didn't seem to feel it. Ron looked like he was going to faint, but he was holding Hermione's hand, his elbows on the bed. Harry did the same, on the other side.

Something shrill sounding like 'buajaja' made him look up. The doctor and the nurse were working farther away from the sheet. Harry took a deep breath, and felt weakness engulf him. Luckily he wasn't standing. The doctor gave Hermione a ball of wrinkled flesh with tiny arms opened cross-like that trembled with the violence of crying. It didn't look like anyone but Ron. Harry felt lost. For a second, he had expected to see an image of himself.

Ron took the baby from Hermione's arms and played with her little fingers, marveling over the fact that Nature had apparently wished to clone his average being in female form.

"The brother can come in now," the doctor invited.

Suddenly he had become sympathetic.

"Brother?" Ron asked absently.

"Is it a sister?"

"We don't have any more children."

The doctor eyed Hermione, who looked at him blankly, and shrugged.

The new mother looked at Harry, and just then he noticed her blue lips trembling, her absent eyes. Harry had seen Ginny shake after delivery, apparently everyone did, but he had never seen anything like this. That she was traumatized, he held no doubt. There was nothing more awful than the expression of his partner right now.

That's why when, two years later, he arrived at the couple's home, after a frantic phone call from Ron who hadn't managed to say anything useful, he wasn't surprised to find Hermione in a corner of the bathroom, curled in a ball around the mass that was her abdomen, shaking violently and with the same blue lips as before.

"We have to take her to San Mungo's," Ron said quickly.

He was kneeling beside Hermione, his back to him.

"She wants a home delivery," Harry opposed. "We have to respect her will."

"And when she asked for it, you protested as much as I did! Ron turned, blue eyes shooting all the rage he couldn't express in fear.

"You locked yourself in here?" Harry adressed Hermione. "Why?"

She hid her head between her knees. With her bulging belly, she looked pathetic like that.

"You're a Gryffindor!" Ron exclaimed. "You cannot be afraid of obstetricians!"

"Shut up," Harry ordered, leaning down to take her in his arms.

Ron seemed to want to protest, but one look at his wife, and he fell silent.

"She faced Bellatrix cruciatus without that…!"

"Neither of us know how this is," Harry interrupted. "Leave her alone."

He released a terrified moan.

"What if she dies?"

"Shut up, Ron!"

The next contraction was so violent that they couldn't reach the bed. Harry managed to cushion the fall so she wouldn't be hurt.

He looked at her and realized again how odd it was to have her like that. Of course he had seen her scared, during and after Hogwarts; training for aurors had moments designed for nothing else to seem worse, so that nothing would scare you anymore. And yet, this, he had never seen her anywhere near this.

"Isn't there a potion? Something?" Ron asked in despair.

"It could affect the baby."

He had the spell on the tip of his lips.

Hermione shouted again. As much as she controlled herself, it still took her by surprise.

At that moment Ginny's voice was heard at the door. Harry looked at Ron's body, fainted beside his wife's since he had seen the amount of blood that flowed, to her trembling body, and shouted an invitation to his own wife. A moment later the redheaded witch had located them. She stopped at the door, gaze a bit cold on the hand that her husband was still holding, and stepped forward, with the gait of his own advanced gestation. She exchanged a glance with Hermione.

"Can I help?"

She nodded.

Ginny knelt between her legs and lifted the bloody dress.

"I think I see the head."

Looking around, the improvised midwife frowned. She muttered a spell that woke up her brother.

"Go bring hot water and towels."

The redheaded wizard eyed his wife and turned pale but had the presence of mind to attract magically clean towels and go heat water.

"And come back soon!" she added after him.

When little Hugo was born, Ron was again grabbing his wife's other hand. Ginny looked at them -the golden trio, once again together against the world- and decided not to separate them, so she summoned the scissors herself and cut the cord before handing the half-blue kid t his mother. Then she grabbed her husband's other hand and waited for him to stand up and help her do so. Harry looked from one to the other and didn't seem to come to a decision, so in her next contraction, Ginny didn't control the groan that struggled to get out. That sure attracted his attention.

"Come on, Harry," she confirmed. "I'm in labor too."

Harry recognizes his partner's footsteps before she knocks on the door, recognizes the pattern of her magic approaching his as a metal must recognize the magnet, knows she comes to check that he's home, that he's well. In spite of everything, when she comes in, he doesn't know what to say. He keeps watching her intensely, and her smile and words freeze on her lips. He sees her look around. Her gazing around tells him that she, like him, doesn't know how to explain what she feels. That she misses something. Suddenly, on impulse, without even greeting her, he asks:

"Why did you call her Rose?"

Despite the venturesome question, Hermione doesn't ask him to repeat, and barely takes a moment to answer:

"Because I couldn't name her Lily."

Newly bathed, wet hair falling on her shoulders, an absent hand on the door's knob, and that pyjama he knows is wide and unattractive yet cannot see as such, Hermione is the very concept of what he would have wanted for himself. His eyes hesitate on the woman's shape, until she decides to close the door behind her.

Author's note: This chapter was supposed to include more memories, notably those of Harry and Hermione becoming partners, but it's too long already. That's better, it allows me to ask you how do you see that day. I won't settle for sublime because I'm afraid it might look ridículous, what I ask is what moves you viscerally. Review down there to tell me, or PM me. I'm literally hanging from my phone, waiting for your words.