A/N: With many thanks to remedialpotions for running the exchange. As always, do please read and comment; I love to hear what you liked, disliked, etc!
Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all!
It's hard at times being thirteen, and having terribly uncool parents.
Especially when everyone knows who they are.
In the Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Rose Granger-Weasley shuffled her scrambled eggs around morosely with her fork, contemplating the pros and cons of the Christmas holidays. Then, because genes will out, she took two big bites and began buttering her toast. Curse you, Weasley stomach, she thought angrily, I'm trying to be a moody teenager, what's the bloody point if you can't even let me sulk and skip breakfast properly?
"That's right, Granger, get those eggs down," said Jess Kaur cheerily, parking herself opposite and helping herself to sausages. "Beef up that throwing arm of yours, and we'll win the Quidditch Cup for sure!"
"Morning, Captain," muttered Rose. She winced as Jesminder 'Jess' Kaur concocted her usual breakfast of oat porridge, butter, pepper, and brown sauce, and mentally added one more point in the plus column of hols: not having to witness the Gryffindor Quidditch Team Captain's daily atrocities against food.
While compounding the offence with happy slurping noises, Jess opened up the newspaper. "I heard Brocklehurst's going on a vegetarian diet, it's like the Hufflepuffs don't even want third place... Gosh, Granger, your mum's running for Minister?!"
Rose groaned as every head in the Hall turned round, and a buzzing of gossipy chatter arose. "Shout it a little louder, Jess, I don't think they heard you in London!" she snapped.
"It's in the Daily Prophet, Rose, I don't think it's much of a secret," Jess pointed out reasonably. "Well, tell her I said good luck, hope she gets the job."
Rose didn't feel like eating anymore. No, more accurately, she didn't want to be in the Great Hall, and be stared at. "Tell her yourself," she said, and practically ran out of the Hall.
But not before quickly slapping marmalade on toast to make up a couple of sandwiches.
Damn, damn, damn, DAMN! fumed Rose as she made her way back to Gryffindor Tower. It was always like this. Mum always had to go and do or say something that would get in the paper, become the talk of Hogwarts, and embarrass seven shades of shit out of her. Had the woman no thought at all for her children? Did Mum know what it was like not being able to go about classes, eat, or even bathe in peace without everyone talking about her? And not for something Rose herself had done either!
So what if Mum was trying to be Minister for Magic? Mum was still Mum. She went to the office to do officey things – Rose wasn't clear on this, probably it meant writing and reading boring reports about Flobberworm imports and stuff – but she also went shopping, and came home, and made Rose eat sprouts (ugh), do her homework, and tidy her room, and all the other usual Mum things everyone else's mums did. Why did everyone fuss so about it?
Well, at least she wasn't Dad, the joke shop manager. Ohhh!
Rose stuffed in the last of her sandwich, said "Pfoffypfock!" to the Fat Lady, ignoring the tsk the portrait gave her, and went up to the third-year girls' dorms, chewing. Today was the last day of term, tomorrow the Hogwarts Express would send them all back to King's Cross; there were few lessons today and everyone was in such a holiday mood, the professors would probably do something fun in class. But Rose needed to pack. And hopefully her best friend Siobhan would finally be awake.
She was, and reading the paper.
"You've seen that, have you?" said Rose, throwing herself on the bed. "My life is ruined! Why does Mum always do this to me, why?!"
"Well, so you'll be the Minister for Magic's daughter," said Siobhan Finnegan slowly, in her lilting Irish accent. "That's something."
"Only if she gets the job. I hope she doesn't. Merlin knows what I'd have to put up with then!"
"It's not so bad, is it?" said Siobhan. "Your parents are rich." Siobhan's dad was a farmer, and her Muggle mum was an accountant. Sometimes people teased her for that, for having a non-magical mum. 'Muggle mum' was a catcall that had in the past reduced her to tears.
Rose made a frustrated "uhhh!" and kicked her heels at the carpet. "Yeah, they're weird, I know, thanks. God, why is everything so complicated! I just want an ordinary life."
"No, you don't," said Siobhan. "It's no fun being ordinary. You have to worry about Mooncalf rustlers, bills, and whatever the Government," she said the word with all the venom of a swear word, "will come up with next to make life hard for you."
"Yeah, well," Rose hugged her pillow, "It's something else to have a Mum who always does stuff like this…"
"She'll have to suck up a bit more now if she wants to win anyway," said Siobhan, not looking up from the paper.
Rose didn't like that phrase, or the way Siobhan said it. If there was one thing Mum wasn't, it was a suck-up. "Mum's not the kind to try and be popular. She's always doing stuff people hate. Like, I dunno, getting more pay for house-elves and stuff."
"Well that's how you win votes and get to be Minister. 'In her speechannouncing her intention to run for Minister'," Siobhan read out, "Mrs Granger-Weasley spoke mainly of revitalising the British economy, a campaign policy that seems at odds with her Ministry career focusing on Being rights and law enforcement, often to the detriment of the magical business-wizard. Clearly she intends to backtrack on her previous hard-line stance against so-called 'exploitation', in order to win the support of the business community'. There you go," said Siobhan.
"That can't be what she said," said Rose. "That's not like Mum at all. She loves her elves and she'd never let people go back to making them work for unfair wages!"
"It's right there and the paper reported it," said Siobhan obstinately. "So you don't have to worry, your ma will just toe the Establishment line from now on."
"Stop saying that! You're being a – an armchair wiseacre!"
"You're in denial!"
Rose threw her pillow at Siobhan, who rolled up the paper and threw that at her. It hit her on the arm painfully – but not more painfully than the tears already spilling out on her cheeks. She ran out of the dorm, sobbing.
Next year he would be forty, Ron Weasley knew, but to him, Christmas was still Christmas.
Now older and perhaps just a little wiser, Ron understood a little more about himself and why he loved this time of the year. A holiday with lots of gifts, lots of food, and lots of fooling around in the snow well-suited an active young boy growing up in a big family with the cares of household economising drummed into his head from an early age. Christmas meant more treats, more of the little things a boy just had to have, and more time spent messing about with the older brothers he adored and a parent, he tried his best to recreate this particular magic of his youth, partly for himself, mostly for his two beloved children; and usually, he succeeded.
This year, however, his daughter was not playing along.
As always, in the week running up to Christmas, the entire extended Weasley clan had descended on the Burrow to pay homage to 'Granny Weasley', as she was now known to most of the family. Supposedly, this was to prepare for the big Christmas bash on the 24th and 25th. Actually, people dropped off the kids to spend time with Mum and Dad and play with each other, put up a couple of decorations, and then hung around grazing on holiday treats and gossiping.
Butterbeer in hand, Ron wandered round to the broom shed with a vague notion of looking for some Christmas knick-knacks which might have been stashed away in there. Instead he found his wife and daughter in the middle of a heated telling-off.
"There you are! Have you any idea what your daughter's been up to?" said Hermione, her hands on her hips in full Mum mode. "She's been a real little miss princess today. Barely said a word to Mother, turned up her nose at playing with Hugo and Albus and Molly, and pulled her wand and threatened to duel James!"
"He was being mean and rude!" snapped Rose, stamping her foot.
"He called you out for your bad behaviour, young lady," returned Hermione. To Ron, she said, "Rose called him a 'hypocritically sententious pontificating braggart' and said she'd use a Stinging Hex on him!"
Rose and Hugo had acquired their mother's facility with words and also the Weasley temper. In Rose, this manifested as a tendency to use long and complicated words when she was angry, backed up with ready resort to force. A sort of 'confound and destroy' strategy, thought Ron, hiding an irreverent grin.
Rose interrupted his thoughts. "You're all being unfair to me!" she snarled. "You don't understand me at all!"
"I've given you every chance to explain yourself!" said Hermione, crossing her arms. "Well? What have you to say? What's the matter with you?"
Rose stood there glaring furiously at them, her shoulders hitching in half-sobs. Then she gave a kind of strangled cry, clutched at her hair, screamed "You're the matter with me! Just leave me alone!" and ran back to the house crying.
"That girl!" fumed Hermione. "There's no reason why she should be acting up like this. And during the holidays as well, of all times."
Ron put an arm around her and gave her a half-hug affectionately. "She's thirteen. She doesn't need a reason. Remember how we were, when we were her age?"
Hermione looked sideways at him. "I was trying to study everything under the sun using a Time-Turner, and you were being mean to me over a traitorous Death Eater posing as your pet rat. What are you saying? Should I be worried about Jabberwock?" she asked, referring to Rose's owl.
"No, Harry and I already did the Antimagus Charm on him," said Ron loftily. Hermione made a scandalised noise and slapped his chest lightly; Ron sniggered. "It didn't hurt him, you know that. We checked all the children's pets." Not, he reflected, before a shot of Firewhiskey each first. Just in case Vincent fucking Crabbe came back from the dead before their eyes.
"Paranoid bloody Aurors," muttered Hermione.
"I was thinking more about fourth-year anyway," said Ron. "Remember that one? You had the brilliant idea of hoping to get me to notice you by going to the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum, and I was too stupid to see your feelings or mine both, and just went round getting angry and ignoring Padma." He grimaced. "Oh, Merlin, poor Padma. I still buy her a drink every time I run into her, even now, to make up for what an arsehole I was."
"Oi! I did not go out with Viktor just for that reason!" protested Hermione. But she was turning that tell-tale faint pink.
"Come off it," said Ron, grinning. "Think I haven't put it together over the years? You gave Ginny more or less the same advice about Harry."
"Viktor and I had a good time," was all Hermione would say, smiling a tiny little private smile to herself. "Besides, what are you complaining about, Mr Granger-Weasley?" She circled her hands around his waist, pulled him close to her. "You got the girl."
"What indeed," murmured Ron, leaning down to nip lightly at Hermione's lower lip.
Hermione let out a tiny moan, deep in the back of her throat. "Any minute now James or Freddie or Molly's going to come round looking for brooms," she warned. "I'm not sure you want to shatter any innocent childhood illusions about sweet Uncle Ron."
"So what? I'm the fun uncle. It's illusions about you that's going to break hardest."
"You wish you were the fun uncle, that's George forever and always," said Hermione as she smoothed herself down. But the look she turned on him was sparkling. "Tonight," she promised with a grin that, indeed, promised.
And only I get to see this side of Hermione, reflected Ron. What an amazingly lucky bloke I am. "I'll talk to Rosie," he said, as they walked back to the house hand-in-hand.
"Why does she listen to you more than she does me?"
"Because it's you she wants to be the most, deep down," said Ron. And savoured the look of utter bafflement he could still occasionally put on his brilliant wife's face.
Another tradition during the Christmas holidays was that the kids had a big old sleepover at Granny Weasley's Burrow. Usually they occupied their parents' old bedrooms; sometimes they camped out in the Burrow's back yard.
Tomorrow night was Christmas Eve. It was just after dinner, and the adults were sitting round the table with drinks. All the other kids were playing some kind of board game up in Aunt Ginny's old room. But Rose wanted a bit of peace of quiet, and in any case had squabbled with practically everyone, even cousin Molly with whom she usually got along most well with. So she sat in her bed in Dad's room up at the top of the house reading and feeling sorry for herself.
That was when Dad knocked on the door and came in. "Hey, Rosie," he said softly.
Rose, who was expecting to be punished, said quietly "Dad", clamped her lips in a thin line, and tried to look carelessly engrossed in her book.
"D'you want to go get a drink?"
"A what?!" said Rose, flabbergasted. She suddenly registered that Dad was dressed to go out, in a heavy jacket and hat.
"A drink," Dad repeated, smiling slightly. "Ever been to the local pub?"
"The where?!"
"Ah, you'll see. I reckon you're about old enough to see some of the world," chuckled Dad. "Go on, get changed and I'll show you. It'll be just the two of us – our little secret adventure."
Dad drove them down to Ottery St Catchpole humming a Christmas carol off-key to himself. Rose was too eaten up with curiosity to complain.
She'd of course been to the Leaky Cauldron, and this year to the Three Broomsticks with her friends, and to various gastropubs around London with her family. But there were pubs and there were pubs, Rose knew – many were the 'not at all family-friendly' kind. No children allowed, and all sorts of naughty goings-on. And this place, tucked away down a side road off the town square, looked to be everything Mum had warned her about.
And Dad too, come to think of it. Yet here was Dad, actually here, actually negotiating with the barman for a totally illegal drink for her, Rose!
The pub looked a little old and down-at-heel, furnished with scratched and worn wooden and plastic furniture. The walls were adorned with faded photographs of footballers and prize cows. There was a small Christmas tree in a corner, tattered plastic garlands, and a string of multicoloured fairy lights that were switched off. And indeed, there were no children. Rose was the youngest person in the place by far.
Most of the customers were big, florid, hard-looking men, many of them middle-aged with beer bellies and ancient tweeds; others in football jerseys, worn shell jackets and the edges of tattooes poking from their sleeves, and all with aggressive seemingly-permanent scowls on their faces. The few women around looked either as hard as the men themselves or like the kind of women both her Grandmums would tsk, look sideways at and make comments like "do you see that skirt!" about. There was a strong smell of tobacco, underlaid with a fainter smell of stale beer, old oil, and cow manure.
Rose shrank back a little into her padded brown overcoat. This doesn't seem like such a great idea after all. She edged closer to Dad.
"Come on, Jack, just this once, we're having a bit of a dad's night out," Dad was saying. "Look, just get us a shandy, and we'll sit in the corner and no one'll notice." He gave the barman what he probably thought was a charming grin. "Where's your Christmas spirit, aye?"
"Out the back, on the crapper," said the barman. He threw up his hands dramatically. "Alright, just for you, Ronnie, but you disappear sharpish if the plod comes round." Barman Jack looked at Rose now as if she was just another customer. "What'll you have, little missy?"
"Cider and 7-Up will do," said Dad. "And a pint of Palmer's for me. Thanks, mate."
Dad carried the drinks over to an unobtrusive corner, Rose scuttling in his wake. Along the way, a couple of those hard-looking, broken-nosed men actually greeted him, to Rose's utter shock. Dad gave them a big smile, and said things like "Catch up with you later, Al, I'm with Rosie" and "Tell you about the chickens some other time, mate". To one table of scarred men talking about cows he said, "Charlie's in town, he might come in later" and they broke out in craggy, gap-toothed grins.
Rose couldn't contain her curiosity a second longer.
"Dad, how do you know all these Muggle men?" she asked. "And did I hear you mention Uncle Charlie?"
"This is one of the places your uncles and I used to drink in when we were lads," said Dad. "These people are mostly farmers and shopkeepers from around Ottery. They know us Weasleys as about the same thing really – well, they think Uncle Charlie's a zookeeper who's mad for very violent crocodiles. Go on, have a sip, I'll order some snacks."
Rose tasted her concoction gingerly. The drink was mostly a kind of Muggle soda; it tasted fizzy, appley, lemony, but with an underlying bitter flavour that somehow tasted good, like coffee does. Rose felt herself grow warm, like when she drank Butterbeer, but this drink was not nearly as smooth as Butterbeer was.
Granny Weasley would be scandalised, thought Rose. And Granny Granger would mutter something darkly about underage drinking. That made her feel excitingly grown-up. The waitress dumped massive baskets of chips and onion rings on the table, what Rose and Hugo very – and Mum quite a bit less – enthusiastically called 'fried stuff'. And then Rose's stomach took over with all the dignity and self-control of a five-year-old.
Dad sniggered, but he was getting well stuck into the onion rings himself.
When the edge was taken off and already feeling salt, vinegar and grease coursing through their systems, they leaned back, and Dad said casually, "So, how've you been Rosie? How's Hogwarts?"
"So so," shrugged Rosie.
"Learn anything interesting? How about Transfiguration?"
"Well... Professor McGonagall turned herself into a cat."
"Ah, the high point of her whole year, I think."
It started slow, of course. At first, Rose only talked about normal school stuff – things they'd learned, funny incidents, play-by-play of the last Quidditch match, what the other Weasleys and Potters were up to. When Rose found herself tongue-tied she would flush, stop, drink, and pick at the chips. She didn't fail to notice that whenever she did, Dad would break the silence with a story of his own. And he didn't pull his punches either – even when the story involved himself.
"And that's when I said, 'Eat slugs Malfoy, you poncy twat!' And I cast a pretty decent Slug-Spewing Jinx, non-verbally I might add. Except my stupid broken Spellotaped wand backfired, and I was the one hurling slugs instead!" Dad chortled, although Rose couldn't see why – she'd have been horrifically mortified if that had happened to her.
Drink and fried stuff also apparently loosened up her Dad around his daughter considerably. Poncy twat, thought Rose, savouring the word. Unfortunately she must have unconsciously mouthed it, for Dad put down his glass and said "Don't, er, don't use words like that around Mum or me, okay Rosie? It's for grown-ups."
Rose was going to protest vehemently at this high-handed hypocrisy, but saw the look in Dad's eye and thought better of it, so she just nodded. It seemed like she somehow passed a test, because Dad immediately grinned and said "Good girl. Just humour me a little, or pretend to when I'm in earshot, any road. Pretty damn soon you'll be all grown up and saying bad words and going out with manky gits and ignoring your poor Dad." His tone was light, but he looked down at the table and didn't meet Rose's eye.
Looking for something else to talk about, Rose blurted out suddenly, "I had a fight with Siobhan. It was about Mum."
"Oh?"
It all came pouring out then, seeing Mum in the paper again, Siobhan's reaction, Rose's own doubts and uncertainty. The looks and whispers the other kids at Hogwarts gave her. The strange angry feelings inside her... and the guilty thought from deep down that maybe she should be defending her Mum more than she had.
(The only thing she held back was the boy she thought seemed rather nice, and the flutter in her stomach whenever he took notice of her, and smiled. That, she wasn't prepared to tell anyone in the family.)
Dad smiled understandingly, and didn't interrupt or say 'You should have' or 'I told you so', even when he could well have. Finally, Rose said, "Come on, Daddy, say something. I just... I don't know what to think, what to do."
To her surprise Dad shrugged and said, "Me neither. I've never had a Minister for Magic candidate for wife. And all these years, her crusades for Being rights, it's made trouble of course, even for myself. Though maybe not quite as much trouble as my old job used to kick up," he chuckled self-deprecatingly. "We thought we'd shielded you from these things as much as we could, but I guess we were wrong."
"But what should I do?"
Dad considered the question. "Just be nice, and be yourself, I think. Your mum won't thank you for duelling your school-mates on her behalf – quite the opposite. Try and be understanding, but without looking like a smart-arse or a goody-two-shoes. Don't get drawn into politics, and policy debates," he grimaced, as if reminding himself as much as Rose. "Maybe tell them this: your mum means well, just like most everyone else, even her rivals, and everyone is just trying to get along together and figure out what's the best way to do things."
Rose nodded.
"That should cover the basics. Oh, and try not to bother about the rubbish they write in the papers." Dad smiled ruefully, "I know it's hard. It was hard for me too. Still is. Ah well, we'll all muddle along, won't we? As for your school-mates, well, you'll learn to detect who has good intentions, and who's mean-spirited, and the latter you can just forget about knowing."
Rose gulped. "Even – even Siobhan?"
To her relief Dad chuckled. "Siobhan's just as confused as you are, probably. Did I ever tell you I know her dad? We were dorm-mates, and good friends. She's a good girl, she'll come round. Give her time. And Rosie," said Dad, looking her straight in the eye, "your mum knows exactly what it's like to be attacked simply for being friends with someone famous. Both when she was in school, around your age, and – when she was older."
His voice turned serious. For a moment, Rose could believe that her Dad had once been an Auror – a wizard who investigated Dark magic, hunted down and fought Dark wizards.
"But that's really her story to tell," shrugged Dad, taking a sip from his drink. "You should ask her. I think she'd like to tell you. It has a happy ending, I promise." And he grinned like it was a big old joke.
Rose nodded. "I should also say I'm sorry, right? To her, and – and you, Daddy?"
"There's my clever Rosie," Dad said, and gently clinked his glass against hers.
Looking around the pub, Rose had a sudden insight into her dad's life as a young man. She imagined him coming in here, with Uncle Bill, Uncle Charlie, Uncle George (and maybe even Uncle Percy), and having drinks, and laughing and joking like that huddle of over-loud young men in the corner. He had just confessed to being as confused as she was about Mum's new job, and told her a lot of stories he had never told them before. She thought he must have loads more – and imagine what tales Mum was hiding up her sleeve!
"Dad," said Rose, "could you tell me more some time about what it was like, being an Auror? And," she hesitated, "about Voldemort and all?"
Dad smiled, a little sadly, thought Rose. "Yeah, sure. Maybe when you're a bit older. In fact, maybe I'll even bring you round to the Auror Office some day. They won't mind – Uncle Harry'll love it. So, how do you like the place?" he said, jerking a thumb at the bar.
"It's not bad. Not at all what I thought it'd be," said Rose.
"Can still get pretty rough, when people are hammered and start arguing and picking fights," said Dad. "And you have a couple of bad eggs around, there's always someone, isn't there. And you're only allowed in here cause you're with me, remember that. But they're generally a good lot, deep down. Come on, let's go, it's gone eleven."
As they left, an embarrassed-looking man in working overalls emerged from the toilet and said to Jack the barman, "Sorry, Jack, must've been something in the curry. Right, I think your Christmas lights've got a blown fuse. I'll sort it out in a jiffy."
Christmas turned out alright after all, thought Ron.
Everyone had a good time, eating and drinking and talking and laughing. Rose was a model of good behaviour for the rest of the holidays, and made up well with her mum. Ron knew that when he walked past them, and saw them whispering some secret or other over mugs of cocoa, clamming up just a little too obviously when he came near. He smiled, and didn't worry. Sooner or later, Hermione would tell him.
All too soon it was time for the children to go back to Hogwarts.
On Platform 9 & 3/4, the Finnegans were there, Mr Finnegan and his Muggle wife, Fiona, and their children. Seamus and Ron exchanged hearty handshakes and loud blokish back slaps. To Hermione, Seamus said, "Heard the news, of course. Grand, just grand. Always knew you had it in you, Hermione. Go on and get them!"
Rose and Siobhan sidled a little way off from the others, and stood there by the train. Siobhan looked down at her feet, scuffing at the tile. "I'm sorry for, y'know, what I said about your ma. Me dad... he said she's got a tough job, and I wasn't right to believe all the things they write in the paper..." She trailed off, flushing.
"That's alright." Rose couldn't help herself; she flung her arms around her once-more best friend and squeezed her tightly. "Oh, Siobhan, I've so much to tell you about all that happened these Christmas hols!"
Siobhan brightened. "Me too!" Her voice lowered. "Did you get a letter from you-know-who?"
"I did!" squealed Rose. "But shhh... I'll tell you about that in the dorm."
Seamus and Ron stood together for a moment, watching with fatherly pride as the children fussed about with bags and brooms and owls.
"Had a word with Siobhan, did you?" said Ron out of the corner of his mouth. "Owe you a pint."
"Aye, reminded me of old times, it did," said Seamus, grimacing slightly. "I set her straight, don't you fret. But gently. Ach, is that what children do? Make us feel like a bunch of right morans for what we did when we was kids?"
Ron knew exactly which school year Seamus was referring to. "I feel the same," said Ron. "But it's a wonderful thing, mate, being their dads. Best job in the world."
"That it is. Shane, lad, you've left the door open, your owl's going to... ach!"
Rose and her friends were busy finding a compartment and putting away all their things. As the Hogwarts Express blew the whistle for final boarding, she paused at the doorway, and said to Siobhan, "Wait, I'll be back in a mo."
She ran back to say goodbye and hug first Mum, then Dad. "I had the most wonderful Christmas holidays. Thanks for everything," Rose said, looking up at her Dad. She wrinkled her nose mischievously. "And the drink."
Ron felt rather than saw Hermione roll her eyes in mock exasperation. Of course he had told her about their pub adventure, and a quick summary of everything he and Rose had discussed. He had glossed over the part about Rose's underage drinking, however, and Hermione had noticed the omission, but hadn't pressed the issue at the time.
"You're buying the next round," said Ron, grinning. He ruffled her hair fondly. "Your friends are waiting. Off you go then."
Rose regarded him with a shrewd look that for just a moment looked like Hermione had at her age, only with wavy, copper-coloured hair, instead of her mum's brown bushy curls. Then she threw her arms around Ron again. She barely has to jump up now to do that, he reflected sadly, she's getting so tall.
"I love you, Dad," she said.
Ron had to force himself not to clasp her tightly to himself, and never let go. "Oh Rosie," he said. "Don't grow up so fast."
"I won't, Dad," Rose promised. "I won't."
Ron and Hermione waved as the Hogwarts Express chugged away. A thought entered his head – that there would come a time when he wouldn't be doing this on September 1st, when his Rosie wouldn't be on the Express any more. He pushed it away and told himself there were many years yet till then.
"Rose seems to be a lot happier," observed Hermione. "Did you talk to her about what was troubling her?"
"Her, and some others," said Ron, nodding at the Finnegans. "I'll give you the blow-by-blow at home, love."
"You took her to that place you and your brothers always go to in the village, didn't you?" Hermione accused.
"One of them," Ron grinned. "Wouldn't do to give away all our secret watering-holes."
Hermione humphed, but she was smiling. "You should be ashamed of yourself. Playing 'good Auror bad Auror' with your daughter, and plying her with alcohol to loosen her up."
Ron shook his head. "She had maybe a half of cider. Hardly any alcohol, really. Well, I'd have taken her out for a drink sooner or later anyway. And I wasn't 'bad Auror', and neither are you; we're both her parents. Hermione, she's starting to ask questions about us, about herself, and we'll need to answer them, talk her through. We can't treat her like a little girl any more, and just send her off to play." He nudged his wife playfully. "It'll be your turn next. I expect she'll have loads of stuff to ask you."
"Oh, Ron," sighed Hermione. "She's such a big girl now. And Hugo's such a big boy. They're all growing up."
Ron took Hermione into his arms. "Just enjoy every moment of it."
They did.
May she become a flourishing hidden tree,
That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,
And have no business but dispensing round
Their magnanimities of sound;
Nor but in merriment begin a chase,
Nor but in merriment a quarrel.
Oh, may she live like some green laurel
Rooted in one dear perpetual place.
- "A Prayer For My Daughter", W.B. Yeats -