Eight Years and Three Months Later (ish)
Ron sat by his wife's bedside, clutching her hand for dear life. He was fairly certain he'd need some Skelegrow afterwards—several bones in his fingers felt decidedly out of place.
Hermione gasped and released his hand. "Sorry for squeezing so hard," she managed, her voice tight with effort.
"Don't apologise. Pretty sure this is worse for you," Ron quipped, reaching for the damp cloth on the bedside table and gently patting her forehead.
"You're doing great, Hermione," came a calm voice from the foot of the bed. "I can see the head now—just a few more pushes, and you'll meet your baby girl."
Eilidh, the healer, smiled encouragingly. Ron knew Hermione had met her during her final year at Hogwarts, when she'd gone back to complete her education—a year he hadn't been there. Eilidh had been a shy first-year, often tucked behind books in the library. Hermione had chosen her specifically, wanting someone from the younger, post-war generation, untouched by the scars of what they'd endured. Ron knew all too well how deeply the war had broken people. Himself included.
His thoughts flickered to his brothers, who'd been all too eager to share their wisdom when Hermione's pregnancy was announced. Even Fred and George had set their jokes aside long enough to tell him, sincerely, how much fatherhood changed you. Then, of course, they'd suggested he might need a refresher on the birds and the bees before Hermione found herself in this .
Hermione's breathing shifted, and her grip on his hand tightened again.
"It's alright, love, you've got this," Ron murmured, watching determination flare in her eyes. He'd always admired her resilience, but this was something else entirely.
She had insisted on giving birth at home in their bedroom, avoiding a clinical setting. With magic, it made sense—healers could bring everything they needed to them, and she'd been adamant about staying in a familiar, comfortable space.
A trainee healer flitted about, handing Eilidh towels and supplies as Hermione bore down once more. Ron stayed close at the head of the bed, just as she'd asked. He didn't think he could've moved even if he'd wanted to; seeing her in pain anchored him to her side.
"The head's out!" Eilidh announced, snapping Ron from his thoughts. "One more push, Hermione, and you'll meet your baby."
Hermione turned her head and smiled weakly at him before another contraction overtook her. She cried out, her body trembling with effort, and Ron held her hand tightly, murmuring quiet encouragement.
Then, a tiny, piercing cry filled the room, followed by a second, louder wail.
"She's got a good set of lungs," Eilidh said with a laugh, carefully placing a wriggling, pink baby onto Hermione's chest. "And ten fingers and ten toes."
Ron quickly helped arrange the baby against Hermione's skin, pulling a blanket over them both. Hermione had been insistent on skin-to-skin contact—something she'd explained in great detail, though most of it had flown out of his mind the moment he saw their daughter.
He stared at the tiny infant, taking in her auburn-tinged hair and delicate features. "Bloody hell, Hermione," he breathed.
"Language, Ronald," Hermione murmured, though her glowing smile softened the rebuke.
He leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips before brushing an even softer one against their baby's head. His daughter. Their hell.
The healers worked quietly in the background, dealing with the placenta and tidying the room, but Ron barely noticed. He was rooted in this moment, watching Hermione cradle their child as though she'd done it a thousand times before.
Eilidh approached with a kind smile. "I'll check back in a few hours, but for now, you're all set. Congratulations."
Ron managed a quiet "Thanks," his voice thick with emotion. After filling a glass of water for Hermione, he climbed into bed beside her, wrapping his arms around her and the baby. Hermione hadn't taken her eyes off their daughter, but exhaustion was setting in, and Ron felt her relax into him.
As his girls drifted off, Ron stayed awake, keeping watch. His thoughts turned to the other Ron—the one who had lost this moment, who had watched Hermione die instead of holding her as she held their child. The thought twisted something deep in his chest. Back then, he thought he'd understood the weight of what that other Ron had endured. But now, as his heart overflowed with love for the woman beside him and the baby on her chest, he realised he hadn't even come close.
A tiny squeak broke through his thoughts, and he noticed the baby starting to stir. Carefully, he slipped out of bed, gently prying her from Hermione's arms. Hermione's eyes snapped open at the movement, her arms instinctively tightening.
"Hey, it's just me," he whispered. "I think our girl's hungry. Let me get a nappy on her, and I'll bring her back, yeah?"
Hermione relaxed and nodded, her eyes fluttering closed again as Ron cradled the baby against his chest.
"Come on, Rosie," he murmured, a grin spreading across his face as the name left his lips. "Let's get you sorted. We'll figure it out together."
With one last glance at Hermione, peaceful and radiant in her sleep, he left the room.
In that quiet moment, Ron knew he'd do it all over again—every hardship, every sacrifice—just to have this. To have her. To have their family.