Burning Down the House

The sound of breaking china, followed by a stream of frustrated invective woke Ron one morning in late September. Alarmed, he leapt out of bed and ran headlong into the kitchen, only to be stopped by Hermione's hissed, 'Protego!' Ron bounced off the Shield charm Hermione placed over the kitchen door. 'I dropped a plate. Two of them, really,' she explained breathlessly. 'Wait until I clean it up.'

'Okay.' Ron stood near the door. 'Can I ask happened?' he asked, wrinkling his nose. The acrid smell of burnt toast hung heavily in the air.

Hermione released the Shield charm and waved her wand at the mess on the floor. 'I was making breakfast,' she sighed. 'And I was reading a case study on master-servant breach of contracts and the kettle whistled and I wasn't paying attention to where I pointed my wand, and I hit the toaster, and it burned the toast. When I realized what I had done, I rushed to get the toast out and turn the stove off under the kettle.' Hermione took a deep breath. 'And I knocked the plates and cups off the counter.'

All of a sudden, she burst into noisy tears. Ron, after a glance at the floor to assure himself no broken shards of china remained on the floor, padded to Hermione. 'It's just toast, hen.'

'I'm going to be rubbish as a mother,' she wailed. 'I burnt the toast...'

Ron looked at her blankly. 'It's just toast,' he repeated bemusedly. 'You're going to be a brilliant mum.'

'You have to say that,' she sniffed. 'What if the baby grows up to be a Quidditch player, like Ginny?' Hermione wiped her nose with the sleeve of her dressing gown. 'I don't even get Quidditch!'

'Hermione, that's years away.' Ron had no idea what else to say.

'It's five months away!' she corrected shrilly.

'And years before Quidditch will be an issue, hen.' Ron massaged the back of Hermione's neck. 'Besides, Angus may not even like Quidditch.'

Hermione snorted. 'In this family? Are you mad? Of course the baby will like Quidditch. And who the bloody hell is Angus?'

'The baby. Can't keep saying "it" all the time, can we?'

'Do you seriously want to name our child Angus?'

'No. Just for now.'

'Why Angus?'

Ron shrugged. 'Dunno. Just seemed like a good idea last night.'

'Angus...' Hermione muttered. 'Angus,' she repeated, shaking her head. She glanced at the clock on the wall. 'I need to go.'

'Still want breakfast?' Ron gestured to the blackened toast in the sink.

'I...' Hermione hesitated. 'I should, but I'll be late...'

'The last time you skipped a meal, you fainted, Hermione,' Ron pointed out.

She started guiltily. 'I know. But Harry's arranged for a few of the Hogwarts' elves to come talk to me at ten. I need to get ready for them.'

Ron rubbed his temples. It was barely eight-thirty, and his head was already pounding. 'I'll fix something for you to take with you. Go get dressed.'

When Hermione left the kitchen, Ron Vanished the burnt toast, and rummaged in the bread box for some scones he had made the other day. He added a few pieces of fruit from the bowl on the table, and found the vacuum flask in the back of a cupboard behind a large stock pot. He made himself a cup of tea and read the morning paper while he waited for Hermione to finish getting ready for work.

Hermione came back into the kitchen, fastening her watch on her wrist half an hour later. Ron handed her a small paper bag. 'Blueberry scones, an apple, and a banana.' He handed her the vacuum flask. 'Orange juice. And your prenatal stuff's in the bag, too.' Hermione blinked and tears trickled down her face. Ron silently handed her the tea towel he'd slung over his shoulder. He didn't know what to say when Hermione cried when she wasn't pregnant. Now, it seemed as if she cried over everything. 'You're going to be late,' he reminded her gently. Hermione wiped her eyes with the towel and dropped it on the table.

'Mum's coming over tonight,' Hermione said, as she walked into the sitting room. 'She's taking us out for dinner.'

'Right.' Ron nodded absently. 'I'll be home by six.' He kissed Hermione on the cheek, and she Disapparated to the Ministry.

Ron quickly performed his own ablutions and threw on some clothes. He Apparated to the shop and began to set up for the day. Hermione's behavior was baffling. He knew it was due to rampaging hormones, more than anything else, but he wasn't prepared for the swiftness at which her emotional balance turned. Anything could set her off - from the lack of tomato sauce on a chip butty one day to the lack of progress on the baby's room. They could do it by magic, but Ron wanted to do it the Muggle way. Of course, I could get something done if she'd pick a bloody paint color already, he sighed to himself. She changed her mind about it nearly every other day, it seemed. 'Only five more months,' he informed the Pygmy Puffs. They softly trilled in response. This particular group liked to be talked to. Ron dropped a few handfuls of assorted rubbish in the cage. 'Just twenty more weeks. One hundred and forty days. But who's counting?'

'Talking to yourself?' George walked in the front door of the shop.

'No. Talking to the Pygmy Puffs.' Ron absently used his wand to set a duster over the Wonder Witch shelves. He glanced at George out of the corner of his eye. 'Were you ever afraid to go home? When Katie was pregnant with the twins?'

'Absolutely. If she wasn't going through wine gums like they were the only thing keeping her sane, she was crying over something like her belly button popping out. Or cleaning the house without magic. I think we went through a case of Mrs. Scower's Magical Mess Remover.' George paused, counting mentally. 'In three weeks.' He ran a hand through his hair a few times. 'I was really scared during her fifth month.'

Ron paled and his freckles stood out in his alarmingly white face. 'Why?' he asked tentatively.

George began to restock shelves. 'Katie kept ambushing me,' he confessed in a low voice.

'Ambushing you?' Ron's eyes widened.

George cleared his throat a few times. 'I enjoy making love with my wife as much as the next bloke,' he admitted, not meeting Ron's eyes. 'But every bloody night...' A deep blush slowly crept up the back of George's neck. 'I couldn't keep her off me. Got to where I almost tried to wait to go to bed until she had fallen asleep.' George coughed a few times. 'Then again, in hindsight, maybe I shouldn't have done that. It was months after the twins were born before we could do anything again.'

'Why?' Ron was really starting to think he should have been reading that book Hermione had left on his night table.

'Why don't you go ask Harry any of this?' George asked, clearly uncomfortable.

Ron unlatched the Pygmy Puff cage and took one out, and began to absently stroke it, making it hum in pleasure. 'Ginny.'

George looked at Ron, and cocked an eyebrow. 'Excuse me? What does Gin have to do with the price of tea in China?'

'Because when I think about asking Harry about any of this, all I can think about is him doing that with Ginny.' Ron shuddered dramatically.

'Fine.' George sighed and looked at his watch. 'After the baby's born, the last thing Hermione's going to want to do is let you shag her, much less let you see her naked. She's going to look different. She's going to think she's fat and unattractive. It's going to be a few months before either of you will get more than a few hours of sleep at a time, so believe me, neither of you is going to be in the mood.

'Being a parent... It really changes you. Things that you thought were important before aren't such a bloody priority.' George went into the back to fetch his robes. He shrugged them on. 'I can't imagine my life without Katie and the boys. I'm not sure I'd want to. And that's saying something considering all the mayhem a baby will add to your life.'

Ron put the Pygmy Puff back in the cage with the others. He was unusually quiet for the rest of the day. George had given him a great deal to think about.

*****

Ron had Apparated to the door of the flat. He stood on the doormat, his hand resting on the doorknob. He had been standing there for some time when he heard Jane come up the stairs. 'Ron?'

'Oh, hi, Jane.' He leaned down to kiss his mother-in-law's cheek.

'How long have you been standing there?'

Ron looked at his watch. 'Ten minutes.'

'Why?' she asked curiously.

'I'm trying to figure out who's on the other side of the door,' he stated calmly. At Jane's perplexed look he continued, 'She's been a little... Emotional lately.'

'Ah.' Jane nodded sagely. 'The mood swings.'

'Those aren't mood swings,' Ron retorted, his voice cracking slightly. 'They're more like seismic events.' He slowly inhaled, steeling himself for whatever he found on the other side of the door. 'Shall we?' he asked, opening the door, and motioning for Jane to precede him into the flat.

Ron was surprised to not see Hermione waiting impatiently for him and Jane to come through the door. He glanced down at his watch again. It was a quarter to six. Hermione's bag sat next to the door, next to the shoes she'd worn that day. 'Make yourself at home,' Ron told Jane. 'She's probably asleep. I'll go wake her up.'

Jane settled on the sofa, pulling a book from her handbag. 'Take your time. I'm early. Reservation's not until seven anyway.'

Ron started to go into the bedroom, but doubled back into the kitchen for a pumpkin pasty. It's not a bribe, he told himself as he took one out of the refrigerator and cast a Warming charm over it. It's a peace offering. Ron snorted to himself. Not much of a difference... He could hear Jane's snicker follow him back to the hallway. The bedroom itself was shadowed in darkness, but a band of light showed under the bathroom door. Ron knocked softly, and pushed the door open. 'Hermione?'

She lounged in the bathtub, bubbles up to her chin, hair piled on top of her head. One of Ginny's fluff novels rested on the rim of the tub, a forlorn scrap of parchment marking her place. Ron frowned. He did know she wasn't supposed to be soaking in hot water. He dipped a hand into the water to test the temperature. It was only warm. Hermione cracked open an eyelid. 'It's only a bit warmer than body temperature,' she informed him. Both eyes opened and she brightened at the sight of the pasty in Ron's other hand. 'I love you,' she said in honeyed tones, drying a hand on a towel next to the tub, and reaching for the pasty. 'You look tired,' she commented, around a mouthful of pastry and pumpkin filling.

'A little,' Ron admitted, sitting on the edge of the tub. 'Long day.'

'You could join me.' Hermione grinned, tugging on Ron's sleeve. Ron wasn't balanced very well on the tub's rim and half-fell into the bubbly water, redolent with the scent of lemons and oranges. 'Oh my,' she giggled without a hint of remorse. 'You'll have to take those wet clothes off, then.' Hermione reached for the buttons of Ron's shirt.

Ron's mouth dropped open. 'Hermione!' he hissed. 'Your mum's in the sitting room!'

Hermione gave a thoughtful look at the open bathroom door. She pulled Ron's wand from the pocket of his jeans and flicked it at the door. It silently swung shut and locked. She pointed it at the door and murmured, 'Muffliato.' She let Ron's wand drop to the floor with a clatter. 'There. All better.'

Ron looked down at Hermione. He wanted to peel the rest of his clothing off and dive into that tub. Jane did have a book. And they did have time. 'I don't know,' he said uneasily. He was still uncomfortable kissing her in front of her mother.

Hermione rose to her knees and began to deftly unbutton Ron's shirt. 'What about all those times it was too cold to go out to the tree house on Sundays before we moved into the flat over the shop, eh?' she scoffed. 'Where were we then?'

'My room,' Ron choked. For hours with Silencing charms on the bed and the door and everything else in between.

'And the whole family was downstairs,' Hermione murmured.

Ron ground his teeth, trying to maintain his self-control. He mentally counted the weeks since mid-May. Eighteen of them. Eighteen weeks and absolutely nothing between the baby's conception and now. The first couple months of the pregnancy, Hermione had either been asleep or eating something so disgusting it put Ron off his appetite. She had been feeling better lately, but it had been so busy at the shop, he'd been worn out by the time he got home.

He couldn't think anymore. All the blood had left his head.

******

'You're an evil, evil woman,' Ron informed his wife. He hauled himself out of the tub, dripping water on the floor.

'Yeah, but you love me,' Hermione said, stretching languidly.

'Yes, I do. Wouldn't want you any other way.' Ron bent to pick up his wand. He ruefully regarded his soggy clothing lying in a heap. Sighing, he dried them as best he could with his wand before he slipped into his clothes. He handed Hermione her dressing gown. 'Come on, hen, we're going to be late.'

'I suppose.'

Ron tapped the doorknob with his wand. It swung open slightly. He peered around the door, fearfully. 'You don't think she heard anything, do you?' he whispered.

'No, but she will if you keep talking about it.' Hermione nudged Ron in the small of his back. 'Go on, then. We both need to get dressed.'

Ron reached back for Hermione's hand and grasped it tightly. They tiptoed down the hall to their bedroom, Hermione stifling giggles the whole time. Hermione shrugged the dressing gown off, and draped it over the foot of the bed. Ron paused in the act of removing his jeans and got a good look at his wife's body for the first time in a month. The room tilted dangerously as he took in the perceptible curve of their child. He sat down hard on the floor and put his head between his knees, gasping for air.

He felt Hermione's hand on his head. 'Are you all right?' she asked, worriedly.

'Yeah.' Just keep getting punched in the gut with the idea that we are having a baby, is all. He looked up and tried to smile, but knew it was coming off as more of a grimace. 'Fine. I'm all right, hen.' Ron pushed himself to his feet and stripped off the rest of his clothes. He quickly pulled on dry clothes and went into the sitting room, where Jane still sat on the sofa, seemingly absorbed by her book. 'Hermione'll be out in a bit,' he said gruffly, perching on the edge of an armchair.

Jane gave him a look over the top of her book. It reminded Ron uncomfortably of the looks Hermione gave him when she could tell what was going through his mind. Ron shifted slightly as he felt a slight flush creep up his neck. Damn, he thought. She knows! How????

'You might want to do something about that mark on your neck,' Jane said idly, turning her attention back to her book. She gestured vaguely toward a spot under her left ear. 'Right about there,' she said in an unconscious echo of her daughter fifteen years earlier. Jane turned a page.

Ron gaped and sprang up from his chair. He dashed to a mirror on the wall next to the fireplace and stared in horror at the small, dark purple spot under his left ear. 'Bloody hell,' he breathed. He pointed his wand at his neck, muttering, 'Episkey.' It slowly faded, leaving only a faint shadow. Ron gulped and threw a look at Jane over his shoulder. She seemed to be struggling not to laugh, biting her lower lip.

Thankfully, Hermione came into the room just then, saving Ron from any further embarrassment.

*****

Hermione wove her hair into a tight plait and pulled on a pair of jeans she had bought the previous week. They were two sizes larger than she had normally worn. At least she could button these. She pulled one of Ron's Cannons t-shirts over her head and added an older sweatshirt, emblazoned with the magenta triple 'W' logo of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

It was well into October and the roses needed to be prepared for the winter. Ron was at the shop in Hogsmeade for the Hogsmeade weekend at school. He would take care of the roses in their plot in the garden behind the building.

She was going to take care of her father's roses. That was an all-day project. Ron would meet her there and help Apparate her home. She had more and more difficulty with Apparition these days. Especially if she was tired.

Hermione had her own reasons for wanting to do the roses alone. She needed to talk. She didn't really want to talk to anyone in particular. Not anyone living anyway.

Jane wouldn't be at the house. She hadn't retired after Richard died. She kept the office open for a few hours on Saturday, for the parents who couldn't manage to bring their children in during the week. Just as well. Hermione had a few things she needed to say, and didn't want anyone else to hear them.

She picked up her small knapsack, with a change of clothes and a book and headed for the Underground. Hermione didn't feel like Apparition today. The hour-long trip on the train gave her some time to herself. She had been meeting with the Hogwarts' elves nearly every day over the past few weeks. They had been more than willing to talk to her, once Harry had assured them she wasn't going to try to convince them to take clothes, but to make sure all house-elves were treated as well as the school elves were. It had been something of a shock to Hermione to find out the elves at Hogwarts had the freedom to leave, if they wanted to. But none of them ever did, for the most part. A few of them were descendants of elves that had been given clothes by their families when they fell on hard times. Or the family had died without a direct heir. It was not going to be an easy task to codify a standard of treatment modeled after the school. Some pureblood wizards and witches who worked in Magical Law Enforcement had said it would take years for any kind of change to take effect. Maybe not even in her lifetime. Hermione didn't care. She just wanted to try.

*****

Hermione carefully cleaned fallen petals and leaves and other debris from under the rose bushes, as well as the mulch Ron had patiently spread over the beds in June. The ground would freeze soon, and they could put a new layer over the beds.

The monotony stilled Hermione's mind. 'Hi, Dad,' she said quietly into the chilly October wind. She used her dirty hands to push the sleeves of the sweatshirt up a bit. The cuffs kept falling down. 'I'm scared, Dad. Not just that the baby - Ron calls it Angus, by the way - will be thicker than William, although you can't get any thicker than he is.' Hermione scraped a small pile of mulch from around the stem of the rose bush. 'I'm just scared I'm going to be a terrible mother.'

Hermione sat back on her heels. 'I work too much. And compared to Ron, I can not cook. I can't even do toast lately without burning it.' She scooted to the next rose bush. It was a little too tall and should be pruned a bit, lest the wind cause damage. Hermione carefully stood up. Her balance was shifting as she got bigger. The pruning shears were in the shed.

'I never was much of a child, Dad. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do. It's different with Teddy or the others. I interact with them, sure, but having a baby. It's permanent. I mean, I know I'm supposed to feed it, keep it warm and dry. But then what?

'I used to watch Harry play with Teddy when he lived at the Burrow after the war. Baffling. Like how did Harry know that Teddy wanted to build castles out of blocks? Or how did he know to charm the stuffed dragon so it flew? How did he know Teddy liked that without being told?

'I'm not feeling very maternal right now. When James cried as a baby, Ginny knew exactly what to do based on how it sounded. The one that told her he was wet and needed a change was different from the one that said it was time for her to feed him. Frankly, they all sounded the same to me.'

Hermione dropped a handful of shorn canes onto the pile of rubbish she had made. 'What if the baby doesn't like me?' she asked in a low whisper. 'I can't talk about this with Ron. He has to tell me the baby will like me. He's married to me. Like he's going to say, "You know, Hermione, you're right. I don't think the kid will like you very much." I've read every book I can get my hands on. And for once in my life, Dad, books have failed me.'

Hermione came to the trellis arch, and began to bind the stems of the climber together, before she covered it with burlap. She traced the outline of the back of the bench with a dirt-smudged finger, remembering. Hermione fetched the vacuum flask of mint tea she had brought with her and huddled on the bench in the weak October sunshine. She was about to take a sip of tea when she felt an undulating movement, like the ripple of the pond behind the Burrow when she threw a stone into it.

One of her hands dropped to rest on the curve of her abdomen, fingers spread over the arc of the baby.