As a thank-you to the lovely folks on the HPRomione discord who made my job organizing the inaugural Secret Santa gift exchange so easy and delightful, I wrote this toothache-inducing fluff. Special thanks to al-in-the-air for schooling me on how to *properly* make a cup of tea; I will never speak the words 'fire kettle' in your presence again.

Ron yawns and stretches his arms up over his head, revealing a sliver of pale skin below the hem of his shirt. Hermione likes him like this, bedraggled, warm from sleep, peaceful. In these pre-dawn hours, having been coaxed from the warmth and comfort of his bed, he is the most natural, authentic version of himself.

"Remind me again," he says, sitting down next to her on the carpet. "Why couldn't we have done this last night?"

"Oh, we could have done," replies Hermione briskly as she taped a piece of wrapping paper into place around a box, "if you and your brothers hadn't got so invested in your game of charades-"

"Erm, have you forgotten that George cheated at one point and we had to redo it? We may be business partners, but I couldn't just stand by and let that happen-"

"-then we could have left at a reasonable hour."

"Ahh, well," Ron chuckles. "Worth it to see Percy trying to mime 'The Wizard and His Hopping Pot'." He stretches his long legs out before him and surveys the scene beneath the lowest branches of the tree. "Looks like you've got most of this done already, have you been down here a while?"

"Oh," says Hermione as she picks up a gift tag and a quill. "Yes, I woke up a bit earlier than we planned." At the tilt of his head - he's clearly about to ask why, since they didn't Floo home until well past one in the morning - she quickly adds, "but everything we left out for Father Christmas is still over there. You've got your work cut out for you."

"Right!" With remarkable energy for such an early hour, Ron jumps to his feet and retrieves the tray they left near the hearth the evening previous, which bears a plate of biscuits, a few carrots, and a small glass of whiskey. "This is the best part of being a dad."

Halfway through addressing the gift tag - to Rose, with love from Father Christmas - Hermione looks up and quirks a skeptical eyebrow at him. "Eating stale biscuits at seven in the morning is the best part of being a dad?"

"Maybe not the best, but definitely a perk." Ron sits himself back down on the carpet beside Hermione, tray in front of him. "It's a bit too early for the whiskey now, though, innit?"

"You can probably just leave it," agrees Hermione. "I don't know that Rose will really notice it's different."

"Yeah, I suppose she's not even two yet," says Ron as he snaps one of the biscuits in half and pops it in his mouth. "But I'd like to at least try to keep up the illusion."

Hermione affixes the gift tag to the box and sets it under the tree. "Do you know how I figured it out? That there wasn't a Father Christmas at all?"

"I assume you did the maths and realized there's no way some bloke in a sleigh can make it round the world in one night," says Ron with a grin.

"Close, but no." Hermione helps herself to a biscuit - then quickly realizes it's the last thing she wants to eat, and sets it back down. "Actually, I realized that Father Christmas and my mum had the exact same handwriting on all my gifts."

"And were you gutted to find this out?"

"Not particularly. I was a bit relieved, actually, it always seemed rather unsafe to let a strange man break in through the fireplace and eat our food."

Ron lets out a deep, delighted belly laugh and leans over to press a kiss to her cheek. "Only you would worry about that."

"So how did you figure it out?"

"Oh, the twins spilled the beans before I had the chance," says Ron flippantly. "Not that it mattered much anyway, he usually only brought like, new socks and things like that." His features turn pensive. "I hope Rose doesn't cotton on to it for a long time."

Hermione nods. She's suddenly acutely aware of every tiny detail: the hush over their sitting room, the ever-present twinkling of the fairy lights adorning the tree, the knowledge that their daughter is sleeping soundly upstairs. She is not often one for sentimentality, but things right now feel perfect, just as they are.

"I hope so too. But," she adds, more businesslike as she unfurls the roll of wrapping paper, "it'll be quite a long time before we have to worry about that."

"Is this the last one?" asks Ron, picking up a box containing a toy dragon that breathes warm, kid-friendly fire upon command. "I can do it."

"Oh, I've got it under control."

"You've done nearly all of them though." Carefully, he prises the wrapping paper out of her hands. "You could have woken me when you got up, you know. I don't actually mind."

"I know you don't, but it's fine. I supposed at least one of us should get some sleep." As Ron used his wand to sever the paper (he was missing out, Hermione thought, on the glorious sliding sensation that comes only when using scissors to cut wrapping paper), she hauled herself to her feet. "Do you want some tea?"

"So we're not going back to bed after this, then?"

"There isn't really time, Rose is going to wake up soon."

Ron's gaze shifts toward the sitting room window, where the first vestiges of grey winter light are just streaming through the curtains. "She does rise with the sun these days," he agrees. "Yeah, tea sounds great, cheers."

Hermione pats him on the shoulder as she walks to the kitchen, where she sets the tea kettle to boil. As the water heats up, she opens the cupboard below the sink and peers into its dark and disorganized depths. There, among bottles of cleaning solution and spare sponges, is a small parcel wrapped in shiny gold paper. She retrieves it from behind the drain pipe, and as she does, her stomach flutters with nervous excitement. It's been doing that a lot the past few weeks, and now that the moment is upon her, she finds her hands trembling as she drops tea bags into mugs and pours the hot water.

It feels different than it did the last time. This time around, she knows how this is going to go, and she can't wait.

In her eagerness, she scoops probably too much sugar into one of the mugs (which, considering Ron's standards, is really saying something), and carries both back to the sitting room with the parcel tucked under her arm. Ron's just taping the corners of a box closed when she reaches him.

"What've you got?" asks Ron, extending an arm up to take his tea from her.

"Oh, erm." Hermione deposits herself onto the carpet beside him. "This is for you, actually."

She places the box onto his lap. With his mug of tea halfway to his lips, Ron frowns at it, then looks up at Hermione.

"We said we weren't getting each other gifts this year."

"I know, but can't you just say thank you and open it?"

"No, I feel bad now, I'd have got you something if I knew - I even had ideas-"

"If it makes you feel better, it's really for both of us. And Rose, actually," she adds. "So just open it."

Ron's brows knit together in confusion. "How could it possibly-"

"Will you just open it already?" Hermione blurts out. "For God's sake, you are impossible sometimes."

"All right, all right," Ron relents with a laugh,"I'm doing it."

Breaking through the tape, he pulls the gold paper away from the box. It's just plain white, a garment box, which Ron turns over in his hands to pull off the lid. Hermione's heart thumps wildly in her chest as his hands push away the tissue paper and pick up an impossibly tiny jumper: retina-searing orange, with black interlocking Cs on the chest.

Quiet falls again; seconds drag on like hours.

"This is for a baby," says Ron softly, and Hermione sees that his hands are shaking too.

"Right."

"And… this won't fit Rose."

"Right."

Their eyes meet. Ron's eyes widen almost imperceptibly in a silent question; Hermione's grateful he can't find the words, because she can't either. All she can do is nod… but it's enough.

His arms engulf her, pressing her face against the soft fabric of his shirt and flooding her senses with the scent of his skin and his hair, everything about him that makes her feel safe and loved and whole.

"I can't believe it," he breathes, lips brushing the side of her neck as the words tumble out.

Hermione pulls back just enough to look at him. His blue eyes are shining. "Why can't you believe it? It's not like we haven't been trying."

"I know, I just-" He leans in and kisses her, soft and sweet. "I still can't believe this is my life. I can't believe I get to have this life with you."

Without the words to properly express just how much she agrees, she simply kisses him again. Even with eyes squeezed tightly against the tears now threatening to fall, she can sense the new light filling the room. Rose will wake soon, to tear through wrapping paper and eat biscuits for breakfast and spend the day in her pyjamas, but Hermione hopes to cling to this moment for just a few seconds longer.

"So, all right." Ron's smiling at her, so broadly that his cheeks must ache. "When did you find out? How did you - I mean-"

"I've known a couple of weeks," Hermione confesses, sheepish. "That's why I was up so early today. I've had horrible morning sickness."

Ron shakes his head in amazement. "You're barking."

"You're not angry, are you? That I didn't just tell you?"

"What - no - why I would be - it's perfect, it's all perfect." Ron lips find hers again, working their way over to her ear. "I love you."

"I love you."

Hermione settles contentedly into his embrace, but hardly has a chance to appreciate it when a small yet insistent yell sounds from the second floor.

"Dada!"

"Oh, that's me," says Ron cheerfully, releasing Hermione and clambering to his feet. "Shall I go get her? Are we ready?"

"Yes, we're ready."