the unexpected visitor
Hermione Granger-Weasley had always prided herself on preparation. She had read exactly thirty-seven books on pregnancy, childbirth, and infant care. She had organized the nursery with meticulous precision. Color-coded charts detailing feeding schedules and developmental milestones adorned the walls of their cozy cottage. She had even created a magical mobile that displayed constellations and recited facts about astronomy in her own voice.
What she hadn't prepared for was this: standing over her daughter's crib at three in the morning, watching the gentle rise and fall of Rose's tiny chest, and feeling absolutely nothing except a crushing weight of inadequacy and fear.
"She's breathing," Hermione whispered to herself, her hands trembling as she gripped the edge of the crib. "She's breathing. She's okay."
It had become her mantra over the past weeks, repeated countless times throughout the day and night. The panic would rise without warning — while feeding Rose, while trying to sleep during the precious few moments the baby slept, while simply sitting in the rocking chair staring at the wall. The certainty that something terrible was about to happen, that she would miss some crucial sign, that she would fail at the most important task she had ever undertaken.
Hermione felt a warm hand on her shoulder and flinched.
"Hey," Ron whispered, his voice thick with sleep. "She's fine, 'Mione. Come back to bed."
"I know she's fine," Hermione snapped, immediately regretting the harshness in her voice. "I just... I needed to check."
Ron didn't argue or point out that this was the fourth time she'd gotten up in the past hour. He simply wrapped his arm around her shoulders and stood beside her, looking down at their sleeping daughter.
"She's perfect," he said softly.
Hermione nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. Rose was indeed perfect — with her wisps of reddish-brown hair, her tiny button nose, her perfect little fingers. That was precisely the problem. How could Hermione possibly be entrusted with something so perfect when she felt so utterly broken inside?
"I'm sorry I woke you," she mumbled.
"S'okay," Ron yawned. "We're a team, remember? Besides, gives me a chance to look at her too."
Another wave of guilt washed over Hermione. Ron had gone back to work at the joke shop with George two weeks ago. He needed his sleep, and here she was, dragging him into her spiral of irrational worry.
"You should rest," she said mechanically. "You have work tomorrow."
"So do you," Ron replied, gesturing to the stack of Ministry papers on Hermione's bedside table. She had insisted on reviewing legislation during her maternity leave, convinced that staying connected to her work would help maintain some sense of normalcy.
The papers remained untouched. Every time she tried to focus on them, the words swam before her eyes, and her mind filled with elaborate scenarios of what might be happening to Rose in the next room.
"I'll get to them," she lied.
Ron squeezed her shoulder gently. "Come on, love. One more hour of sleep before she's up again."
Hermione allowed herself to be led back to bed, though she knew sleep wouldn't come. It rarely did anymore. Instead, she would lie there, listening intently for any sound from the nursery, her body tense and ready to spring up at the slightest noise.
As Ron's breathing deepened beside her, Hermione stared at the ceiling, tears silently tracking down her temples and into her hair.
This wasn't supposed to happen to her. She was Hermione Granger, for Merlin's sake. She had helped defeat Voldemort. She had endured torture at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. She was revolutionizing magical law at the Ministry.
And yet here she was, undone by a six-pound, eleven-ounce baby girl who had done nothing but exist.
The shame of it burned through her, hot and relentless. The books hadn't prepared her for this.