the visitor
Rain lashed against the windows of the cottage, driven by a fierce October wind that rattled the panes and sent the occasional droplet down the chimney to hiss in the fire. Hermione sat in the rocking chair by the hearth, Rose dozing against her shoulder after her mid-morning feed.
Outside, the weather was wild and threatening, but inside, Hermione felt a rare sense of peace. It had been a good morning. She had managed to shower and dress before Rose woke, had eaten a proper breakfast, and had even replied to an owl from the Ministry about her eventual return to work—all small victories in her ongoing battle with postpartum depression.
The sound of the floo activating in the next room startled her slightly, but not enough to disturb Rose. A moment later, Harry appeared in the doorway, looking windswept despite having traveled by floo rather than braving the elements.
"Sorry to drop in unannounced," he said, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "I was at the Ministry and thought I'd check if you wanted some company. I can come back another time if it's not convenient."
"No, it's fine," Hermione assured him, genuinely pleased to see her old friend. "Come in. Would you like some tea? I've just put the kettle on."
Harry nodded gratefully, shrugging off his damp cloak and hanging it by the fire. "Thanks. Nasty weather out there."
They moved to the kitchen, where Hermione carefully transferred the sleeping Rose to the small bassinet they kept downstairs. Harry watched the gentle way she laid the baby down, his expression soft.
"She's getting bigger," he observed.
"Almost four months now," Hermione confirmed, busying herself with the tea. "She's starting to roll over, which is terrifying and wonderful all at once."
Harry chuckled. "I remember when James started doing that. Ginny and I spent about a week just watching him like he was performing some incredible feat of magic every time."
"Exactly!" Hermione said, setting two mugs on the table and taking a seat across from Harry. "It's such a simple thing, but it feels momentous."
They sipped their tea in comfortable silence for a moment. Harry had always been good at that—sharing quiet moments without feeling the need to fill them with talk. It was one of the things she appreciated most about him, especially now when her energy for conversation was sometimes limited.
"So," he said eventually, "how are you? Really?"
The question was asked with such genuine concern that Hermione found herself answering honestly, without the reflexive "I'm fine" that had become her standard response to most people.
"I'm better," she said. "Not completely back to myself yet, but better. The therapy is helping, and the support group. And Ron has been..." She paused, searching for words adequate to describe Ron's unwavering support over the past two months. "He's been wonderful, actually. More patient and understanding than I ever gave him credit for."
Harry smiled. "He's grown up a lot since we were sneaking around Hogwarts under my invisibility cloak."
"We all have," Hermione said softly.
Harry nodded, his green eyes thoughtful behind his glasses. "I wanted to apologize, actually. For not noticing sooner that you were struggling. I should have seen it."
Hermione shook her head firmly. "Don't. I didn't want anyone to see it, Harry. I got very good at pretending everything was fine. Even Ron didn't realize how bad things were until I completely fell apart."
"Still," Harry persisted, "I'm your friend. I should have paid more attention."
"You're here now," Hermione pointed out. "That counts for a lot."
Harry reached across the table and squeezed her hand briefly. "Ginny told me about the support group. She said you were brilliant."
Hermione felt a flush of embarrassment. "Did she? I hardly said anything."
"According to Ginny, you gave some very Hermione-like advice about organizing a system for tracking baby milestones that apparently had half the room taking notes."
Hermione laughed softly, remembering. One of the witches in the group had been distraught about missing her son's first smile because she was too exhausted to remember the date. Without thinking, Hermione had described the enchanted journal she'd created for Rose—a simple charm that recorded the date and time whenever she noted a milestone, and could even capture a brief magical image, like a condensed Pensieve memory.
"It wasn't anything special," she demurred. "Just a basic memory-capturing charm combined with a self-indexing journal."
"Only you would call that 'basic,'" Harry said with a grin. "Ginny's already asked if you could make one for James."
"I'd be happy to," Hermione said, feeling a small glow of satisfaction at having created something useful, something that helped not just her but potentially other mothers as well.
The conversation drifted to other topics—Harry's work at the Auror office, news from their various friends, Ginny's recent return to Quidditch training with the Holyhead Harpies. Hermione found herself laughing at Harry's impression of Ginny trying to mount her broom for the first time after months away, only to discover that her center of gravity had shifted significantly after pregnancy.
It was the most normal she had felt in a long time, just sitting with an old friend, talking about everyday things. The constant background hum of anxiety was still there, but muted, manageable.
"I've been thinking," Harry said after a slight lull in the conversation. "James is about ready for some socialization with other babies. Maybe once the weather improves, we could bring him over to meet Rose properly? Or you could bring Rose to Grimmauld Place, whichever you prefer."
The invitation was casual, but Hermione recognized it for what it was—a gentle way of encouraging her to venture out more, to begin expanding her world again beyond the confines of therapy appointments and support group meetings.
A few months ago, the suggestion would have sent her into a spiral of anxiety. The thought of disrupting Rose's routine, of exposing her to potential germs, of having to manage her needs in an unfamiliar environment, would have been overwhelming.
Now, though, it sounded...nice. Challenging, yes, but nice.
"I'd like that," she said, surprising herself with her own enthusiasm. "Perhaps next week, if the weather improves? Rose is generally happiest in the mornings."
Harry beamed, clearly pleased by her positive response. "Brilliant. I'll tell Ginny. She'll be chuffed."
Rose began to stir in her bassinet, making the small, mewing sounds that preceded full-blown crying. Hermione rose automatically to check on her.
"I should probably get going anyway," Harry said, standing as well. "Got a mountain of paperwork waiting for me back at the office."
Hermione lifted Rose, who was now fully awake and beginning to fuss in earnest. "Thanks for stopping by, Harry. It was good to see you."
Harry stepped closer, looking down at Rose with obvious affection. "She really is beautiful, Hermione. You're doing a great job with her, you know."
The compliment brought unexpected tears to Hermione's eyes. "Thank you," she whispered.
Harry hesitated, then asked, "May I hold her before I go? Just for a minute?"
"Of course," Hermione said, carefully transferring Rose to Harry's waiting arms.
Harry cradled the baby with practiced ease, smiling down at her. "Hello there, Rosie," he said softly. "Your mum is the cleverest witch I've ever known, did you know that? Saved my life more times than I can count. You're very lucky to have her."
Rose gazed up at Harry with wide, curious eyes, apparently fascinated by his glasses or perhaps the famous scar just visible beneath his tousled hair.
"And I'm your Uncle Harry," he continued in the same gentle voice. "Not by blood, but your mum and dad are as good as family to me. Which makes you family too. And that means I'll always be here for you, just like I am for them."
Hermione felt a lump forming in her throat at Harry's words. After all these years, after everything they had been through together, the bonds between them remained unbreakable. It was a comforting thought—that Rose would grow up surrounded not just by the extensive Weasley clan, but by this chosen family that had formed during their years at Hogwarts.
Harry looked up, catching Hermione's emotional expression. "Sorry," he said, looking slightly embarrassed. "Got a bit sentimental there."
"Don't apologize," Hermione said. "It was lovely. And true."
Harry handed Rose back to her with a slightly sheepish smile. "Right, I really should go. See you next week, then?"
Hermione nodded, adjusting Rose in her arms. "Next week. And Harry—" She paused, searching for the right words. "Thank you. Not just for today, but for... for being you."
Harry's expression softened. "Likewise, Hermione. Always."
After he had gone, Hermione stood by the window, watching the rain continue to batter the garden, Rose contentedly snuggled against her chest. She thought about Harry's words, about family and friendship and the connections that sustained them through the darkest times.
Her darkness hadn't fully lifted yet. There were still difficult days, still moments when the anxiety threatened to overwhelm her. But she was no longer facing it alone, no longer trying to hide her struggles behind a mask of perfection.
And that, perhaps, was the most important lesson of all—one she hoped to pass on to Rose someday. That strength wasn't about handling everything on your own. It was about knowing when to lean on the people who loved you, and allowing them to help carry the weight.
As if sensing her mother's thoughts, Rose made a small cooing sound and nestled closer. Hermione pressed a kiss to the top of her daughter's head, breathing in her sweet scent.
"We're going to be okay," she whispered. "Both of us."
And for the first time since Rose's birth, Hermione truly believed it.