Ron and Hermione froze mid-sentence. It wasn't a particularly long pause, and it was somewhat dissolved by his mother's humming and oddly enthusiastic dish washing, but it managed to communicate shock nonetheless. After giving them a proper few second to gape, the cheered older woman shooed the young couple from her kitchen, patting their stiff shoulders in congratulations.

"Oh yes, I remember this, too," she said tersely. "Once the idea has sunk in, you'll be singing in delight, just you wait. Though I think you two are due for a tough talk."

This prediction of melodious joy must happen much further in the future, Ron felt, as it certainly wasn't likely in the stunned silence of the back patio. Hermione, unusually slow to recover, could only close her mouth and sink into one of the mismatched and abused lawn chairs. He watched her move, brain in search of a thought to cling to, and noticed it was the chair with the formerly green and vaguely orange stripes. Funny how she'd chosen that one, he thought, as his mother had also favored that chair before Ginny.

Then Ron, never having been one for clairvoyance past taking the odd piss, experienced a vision. The vision itself was accompanied by a sense of displacement, of a world shifting sideways and overlapping with a similar universe; and in it, Hermione was bathed in pale, warm light—sweating from it, actually—and swollen with his child.

Let it be known that the two would have decided to part ways the night before, if not for Ron's insistence to speak with his parents. She was well quit of him, romantically, though perhaps more so than he was of her. They had moved in together after the war, after their eighth year at Hogwarts, after he had entered the Auror training program and she, an intern for magical law. She would return to their London flat at all hours, weighed down with books and folders crammed with busy work; she complained about his poor timing, because it was usually on those nights that he hazarded a chance at intimacy.

"It's just insensitive to do that when I follow a fairly regular schedule. You should know," she frowned, "when I have time for fool around."

"You never have time!" He hadn't realized he shouted until she paled and turned away to hide her watery eyes. It was a move she pulled often, more often as their relationship advanced; she'd never liked for him to see her cry. At first, Ron figured it was something about appearing strong and unfazed. Only lately, on a night out with Harry after training, did the idea of her hiding from him really come to light.

"She doesn't want you to win, mate. Or rather, she hates the thought of losing. Always has. That's just Hermione." Harry wrapped his hands around his mug as if preparing to swig, but stopped to stare into the froth. When he turned to him again, he took on a tired weight, of having been burdened with responsibility of some terrible news. Irritated, he quaffed half his beer. He had very little tolerance for Harry's resigned savior act.

It's just a rough patch with 'Mione, not the end of the bloody world. When will he get over himself?

Ron felt guilt for having that thought, at that time, when the conversation was casual, one friend sharing insights with another. He blamed him orneriness on the alcohol and asked Harry to repeat his last line again.

"I said, you've made her cry since first year, Ron, ever since you met. She'll hardly tell you now when she's at a loss, after years doing otherwise. She'll just keep calling you an idiot and waiting for you to see why."

"Why is it that you sound so tired of all this? Are you bored with us, mate?"

Harry's head snapped up fast enough to make him wince. For a second, he felt the prickly heat of another person's irritation run all along his skin. Then it was gone, and a sigh escapes his

There had been a tension, then, between the world Ron experience and the one his friends might be living in. He experienced it as a trembling in his gut. "But how would you even know that, with her? I mean, does she talk to you about any of this? About us, me?"

Hermione proved unfathomable at the best of times, and he lived with her, knew her intimately. That Harry would know more about her than her own boyfriend agitated many old fears. Except that matter was settled years ago, when she chose him, and now, it was a problem of maintaining his happy ending.

He took in Harry's lack of nervousness with the hawkish intensity that their mentor complimented n every other session. Harry held his gaze. "Well, yeah. Sometimes. We're friends, same as you and me, so it's pretty much par for the course, don't you think?"

"What, talking?"

"Yes, Ron, friends talk. Even now, we're engaging in this most ancient ritual."

"Talking about me?"

"Well, she can hardly come to you about, can she?"

The pub became incredibly warm and Ron, flushed, suggested they change the subject. He knew the conditions for a row when he saw them, and dodged as was necessary. He was well sick of fighting. He regretted asking anything at all. An image of Harry and Hermione, alone, talking about him, agitated old fears; the idea of Hermione at war, again, but this time with him...there wasn't a fear he had to rival it.

The smells from the bar and Harry's words clung to him on the trip home. He brought those words into the flat where they lived, into the bed where they slept—and mostly just slept, as of late. He suffused the atmosphere of their relationship with one thought, narrated over and over in his best mate's voice.

"She'll just keep calling you an idiot and waiting for you to see why."

Ron went to the Burrow that weekend wanting peace. He only wanted an end to the madness of wondering if Hermione was hurting, if he had unknowingly hurt her. He needed advice: not from books written by certified strangers, as Hermione liked. He needed the insight of a couple that knew them personally.

His first thought was to avoid going to Harry or Ginny. They had broken up months before, shocking everyone except, apparently, each other. While his little sister enjoyed the luxury of casual dating, Harry threw himself into training, and all in all he doubted theirs would be a great help. Besides, the most successful couple he knew was his parents. The argument to speak with them lasted the better part of a week, as the overworked witch claimed, loudly, that she resented his mother's "omnipresence in their private affairs."

"I'm dating you, Ronald, not your mother. I love Molly, but I'm not going to air out our relationship in her living room while she knits Christmas jumpers, and that's that." Bristling, he shouted that she could stand to learn to knit things outside of "roughly hat-shaped house elf head cozies." Their conversation went reasonably poorly after that.

Still, the near constant fighting only pushed him harder, until finally, exasperated, she agreed. Determined, he Apparated them both to Ottery St. Catchpole, and it wasn't until he knocked on his door and kissed his mother that he realized his lack of preparation.

His parents had been happily married for almost thirty years. When confronting that level of cohesion, his own relationship troubles were embarrassing. Frankly, watching his mother housewife so effectively made it worse. She took the sense of impossibility out of being in a relationship, making it seem natural, effortless. Why couldn't they be the same?

Ron spent the first few minutes of small talk going a painful shade of red around the ears. His parents enjoyed a solid marriage. The same couldn't be said for his girlfriend's. She told him, last year, that her parents filed for divorce soon after their return from Australia. Apparently, the stress of the magical world was too much. Ron didn't know until she came from work early one day, crying about being sent home. It was months after the news had broken, but it had taken that long for her to bring it up.

How long before Harry knew? Day of? He shivered and shoved his fists into his jeans pockets. He tried to let the whispers of jealousy go, but they returned and multiplied. It wasn't altogether fair that he stood, battling insecurities, while his mother hummed away over the sink. Hermione sniffed pointedly at his side.

"Molly."

His mother smiled over her shoulder. "Yes, Hermione, dear? What has our Ron done this time?"

His whole body blushed. "Bloody hell, 'Mione, do you talk to her about it, too?!"

She reared back, hurt, then furious. "I have no idea what you're yelling about, Ronald, but it can't my mistake, because thiswas your idea!"

"First, you go blabbing to my best mate and now my mother? What, am I always the last to know anything?!"

"Ronald-"

"What are you talking about, Ron? It's like you're having a completely different conversation!"

"Hermione-"

"Everyone else is saying I'm doing so much, but I have no idea of any of it because you won't tell me what it is I am doing. You'd tell your boss before you told me. Probably already have!"

"Do you really want to do this now? Really? In front of your mother? Are you honestly so chronically incapable of understanding timing or is it just something I do to you?"

"I-"

"Enough!" The loud clang of a wooden spoon hitting a metal pot cut him off. They turn almost in unison to his mother, who stood there with her fists on her hips and soapy spoon hovering behind her. "I'll not have anymore of this bickering in my kitchen. Hermione Jean Granger, I expected better from you." Hermione looked down at her hands. "And Ronald Bilius Weasley, I know your father raised you better than to carry on like with a woman in Hermione's condition."

Hermione looked up and frowned. "'Condi-'"

"She didn't need to tell me a thing, in any case," his mother continued. "I've had enough children myself to know the signs when I see them. There's no need to act cross with her about something I could sniff out from a mile off, upwind."

It was nearly half an hour of silence before either of them moved. Ron, still standing, had taken to leaning against the supporting beam of the awning and glaring accusingly at his crotch. He couldn't see Hermione, but rather heard her approach him from behind. Then her hands landed, lightly, on his back, and he felt her breath through the fabric of his shirt when she leaned her forehead against his shoulder-blade.

How could this have happened? Or more importantly, what were they going to do?

"Ron...," she trailed off, swallowed. He still couldn't see her, even with her standing so close. He supposed he didn't have to, really, since he could feel her fingers shake. She tried again to catch his attention, not knowing that she'd never lost it. "So, Ron. Ronald."

"You don't need to do that," he murmured. It was hardly the time for posturing or war faces; that much he knew. "I'm right here with you, 'Mione. There's no need for that."

"Are you here, really? I'm being very honest with you, Ronald, that I don't think I can do this alone. I really don't think I can."

He reached behind him and swatted her in the leg, affectionately, to say she wouldn't have to. When she jumped and hiccupped of all things, he rubbed the spot in apology, and realized she must have cried. He was still facing away so she couldn't see his face, but channeled as much comfort as he could through his hand on her thigh. They stood there for a while, and he finally unraveled when she snaked her arms around his stomach and held him as tightly as felt she could. She was too close not to feel him shaking from head to toe.

"A baby?" She mouthed the question into his back, and he nodded, whether or not the question was aimed at him.

He used his shirt to wipe his nose, and rubbed furiously at his eyes, trying to look more put together. Not trusting himself, he just kept nodding. After the shock wore off, he found himself feeling suddenly, indescribably overwhelmed. She wanted their baby. She wanted a baby with him. They were going to be parents. They were in it together.

Merlin, he hoped could get away with crying just this once. It wasn't singing, of course, but he never could carry a note.

"Ron, turn around."

"Uh-uh."

"Honestly."

"I'm fine. Don't look."

"Don't look because you're fine?"

"Yeah, don't." Sniff. "We still need to talk to my folks."

"I know."

"We have to come back tomorrow, okay. Promise you'll ask for the day off."

"I will. I promise."

"We also need to get married. I mean it, 'Mione, we need to. At some point, before they're born, y'know?"

"Mm-hmm, I understand. We can talk about it later."

"But really, I'm fine, you don't need to hold on so tight. Everything's fine-well, not everything, but-"

"Oh, no, I'm an absolute wreck. You're fine, I can see that, but oh, I am a wreck."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Really, though?"

"Yes, Ron, really. Just look at me, I'm a mess!"

"You're not. Well, you are, but you aren't. I see you and you're perfect."

"...Thank you, Ronald. That'll do."