It had been cool for August, that she remembered almost as vividly as the event itself. She remembered his weight on her with his ribs digging into the spaces between hers where he had collapsed onto her body to catch his breath. Both had heaving chests, breathing hard with Goosebumps littering their sweaty skin.
Hermione had brushed a branch of bushy hair out of her face, looking into the blue eyes of the young man who had just taken her virginity.
She, with blushing and feelings of great embarrassment, had known this was what she wanted since her first kiss with Victor Krum. One of the girls – she didn't remember who – had mentioned next steps and she could remember the feeling of dread. Victor was larger, muscular and older than Ron. She could imagine he had experience, and she had prayed that his experience would not be forwarded to her.
Now she had succeeded. There had been no embarrassment, he had been sweet and gentle and they had laughed, yes there had been discomfort but it was short lived and she had known that he had meant every bit of his words.
Now, as he pulled himself up on his arms, balancing briefly so he could flick hair from his eyes, he grinned. The smile was honest, pure and loving.
Ron dragged himself off to collapse on his side next to her, reaching up with the back of a shaking hand to stroke her cheek. She smiled, feeling suddenly more conscious about her imperfect and not totally hairless body.
She had moved closer to him, using the warmth of his alabaster skin to warm her own. They were sharing a moment, confirming a feeling and cementing a future.
Minerva McGonagall had not held a newborn baby for a very long time, she supposed it had been seventeen years since she had held a baby and even then, he had been just over one. This baby, this small frog-like thing with the purest white skin which looked almost transparent as it wailed in her hands, it was the freshest new baby she had ever encountered.
Glancing at Molly, a frequent visitor to the Maternity unit herself in her younger days, and one of her own students huddled on the blanket-strewn floor of the headmaster's office, she almost felt Professor Dumbledore would have been proud. She would have asked had he, and his fellow portraits not insisted on giving the young girl her privacy.
Hermione's skin looked just as pale as the infant's though her cheeks were burning red and her fingers multi-toned where she still clutched Molly's hand.
She had always been determined, always been strong and usually sensible but a friendship with Dumbledore himself had shown Minerva that a person overcome with young love is usually blind to right and wrong.
She gently rocked the scrawny thing, which – being a touch on the early side – looked almost like a baby pixie or gnome.
A little boy it was, carrying on the Weasley tradition she supposed, but she saw more than that in the situation; it was dripping with irony.