Balancing Motherhood & Career
Returning to work had been a whirlwind. At first, the structure of it was a comfort—meetings, research, reports, things she could organize and control. The Ministry had welcomed her back with open arms, assigning her to a new initiative in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, a project focused on refining and reinforcing wizarding laws regarding magical creature rights. It was intellectually stimulating, challenging in all the right ways, and for the first time in years, she felt like herself again. It had been so long since she had felt fully engaged in something beyond the walls of her home, beyond the day-to-day demands of motherhood and grief.
But the hardest part wasn’t the work itself. It was what she left behind every time she stepped out the door.
No matter how much she planned—setting schedules, leaving notes, making sure Kreacher had dinner ready, promising herself that tonight, she would be home early—life had a way of pulling her deeper into the demands of her job. There was always another urgent matter, another report to write, another last-minute crisis that only she could handle. Someone always needed her, whether it was a junior colleague with questions or a department head requesting her expertise. And though she had missed this, had longed for the sense of purpose her work gave her, she hadn’t anticipated how deeply the guilt would sink into her bones each time she glanced at the clock and realized she was once again running late.
One evening, Hermione arrived home long after the sun had set, stepping quietly into the dimly lit house. The living room was still, the only movement the slow flicker of the dying embers in the fireplace. The scent of chamomile tea lingered in the air—a sign that Rose had made herself a cup before bed, something Hermione had always done for her in the past. The realization stung more than she cared to admit.
She set her bag down carefully, shrugging off her cloak as she moved through the quiet house. She hadn’t even been able to send an owl to say she’d be late, not with how chaotic the day had become. A part of her wanted to believe the children understood, that they knew she was doing this for them—for their future, for their security—but another part of her, the part that had spent years soothing their scrapes and tucking them in at night, ached at the thought of how many of these moments she was missing.
She made her way upstairs, pausing at Hugo’s bedroom door before gently pushing it open. The room was bathed in soft moonlight, the silvery glow casting long shadows across the walls. Hugo was sprawled out across his bed, his small body tangled in the sheets, one foot peeking out from beneath the covers. His tiny hand still rested on the open pages of a book about Quidditch tactics, his head turned slightly to the side, curls falling across his forehead. His face was relaxed in sleep, the soft rise and fall of his chest the only movement in the room.
Hermione’s throat tightened. She had missed bedtime. Again.
Missed hearing about Hugo’s day.
Missed the moment he would have come running to her, his eyes bright with excitement as he rattled off something he had learned or a new strategy he wanted to try the next time he was on a broom. Missed being there when he stumbled over a tricky word in his book, when he scrunched up his nose in frustration before looking up at her for help. Missed the way he would curl up beside her with a yawn, his voice sleepy but determined as he asked for one more page before bed.
Guilt wrapped around her like a vice, pressing against her ribs, making it hard to breathe.
She stepped forward, moving carefully so as not to wake him. Gently, she slid the book from his fingers, her touch light, reverent. He had been reading about famous Quidditch maneuvers—something Ron had started teaching him before… before everything had changed. The thought made her stomach twist. How many more things had he wanted to learn from his father? How many more questions had gone unanswered?
Hermione set the book on the nightstand, then reached down, brushing her fingers through his curls. He sighed in his sleep, turning slightly into her touch, his small hands twitching as though grasping at a dream. She lingered there, her fingers ghosting over his forehead, memorizing the shape of him, the warmth of his skin, the peaceful expression on his face.
She pulled the blanket up to his chin, tucking it around him the way Ron used to—folding the edges just so, making sure it was snug but not too tight. It had been something Ron had always done effortlessly, something Hermione had teased him about before realizing that, deep down, she found comfort in the small act.
A lump formed in her throat as she straightened, swallowing past the emotion that threatened to spill over. She could still hear Ron’s voice in her head, could almost feel him standing beside her, looking down at their son with that quiet pride he never had to put into words.
She had promised herself she wouldn’t let work consume her, that she wouldn’t let it take away from what mattered most. And yet, as she stood there in the silence of her son’s bedroom, watching him sleep, she couldn’t shake the feeling that time was slipping through her fingers—time she would never get back.
With a quiet sigh, she leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Hugo’s forehead. He stirred slightly, murmuring something under his breath, but didn’t wake.
“I love you,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
In the hallway, Hermione paused, her fingers gently resting on the edge of Rose’s door. It was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of light spilling out into the darkened hallway. Through the crack, Hermione could see her daughter curled up on the couch near her desk, her body huddled in a blanket but still holding her wand in her hand, as though she hadn’t fully let go of the practice session she had started earlier. The wand was wrapped loosely between her fingers, her small hand relaxed but firm in its grip, the kind of unconscious hold only a child would have when caught between the realms of sleep and wakefulness.
Her charms textbook lay open beside her, the pages crumpled slightly where Rose must have drifted off, her face and head too heavy to keep up with the flow of studying. Hermione could even see the faint markings of where Rose had likely rested her cheek against the paper, a small, tired smudge near the edge of the page, as if her mind had simply given up on keeping track of all the charms and spells. The soft golden light from the lamp on her desk cast long shadows over the room, but it was the vulnerability of her daughter’s slumber that pulled Hermione’s heart into a knot.
She sighed softly, her breath catching in her throat. Rose had been practicing late again. Hermione had noticed it more and more these past few weeks, a quiet, determined sort of behaviour. Rose had always been a hard worker, but ever since the end of last term, there had been an edge of urgency in her focus—an almost frantic need to get everything right before the inevitable. The inevitable, of course, was Rose’s departure to Hogwarts in just three short weeks.
Three more weeks.
That was all the time Hermione had left before her daughter boarded the Hogwarts Express for her third year. Three more weeks before the house felt emptier, before the laughter and chaos of two children underfoot would become a singular, quieter rhythm. Three more weeks before Hermione would truly know what it felt like to be the mother of a teenager at Hogwarts, with all that distance and independence in between.
And yet, here Hermione was, struggling to find balance even in these fleeting days. Her heart twisted as she thought about how many little moments she was already losing.
The thought cut through her like a blade. She was losing time. Time with Rose. Time with Hugo.
The quiet of the house was thick, almost suffocating now. She wasn’t the only one who was struggling with the changes. But she was supposed to be present. She was supposed to balance it all—motherhood, career, life. It was supposed to work out, wasn’t it? She had always managed before, hadn’t she? Yet now, with the weight of grief still sitting like a stone in her chest and the pressure of her responsibilities at work creeping into every free moment she had, she felt like she was failing.
She swallowed hard, trying to push away the sharpness of the guilt that threatened to overtake her. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She should have been there to help Rose with her charms homework, to hear about the new spell she was learning, or to offer a simple hug when her daughter needed reassurance. Instead, she had been gone, wrapped up in the whirlwind of work, of meetings, of problems that didn’t stop piling up.
Hermione gently pushed open the door and stepped into the room. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and ink, and the faint sound of her daughter’s soft breathing filled the quiet. She knelt down beside the couch, her movements slow and deliberate, as if not wanting to disturb the fragile peace of the moment. Rose’s wand was still held loosely in her hand, and Hermione carefully eased it from her grip, her fingers brushing against Rose’s soft skin as she tucked it gently onto the nearby desk.
As she reached for the blanket, her heart ached at how quickly her daughter had grown. Rose’s features, though still childlike, were beginning to shift—her face narrowing with the subtle changes of adolescence, her body elongating as if she were already stepping out of childhood and into the young woman she would become. The thought was overwhelming.
She smoothed the blanket around Rose’s shoulders, ensuring it covered her completely. Rose stirred slightly, a soft breath escaping her lips, and for a brief moment, her eyes fluttered open, sleepy and unfocused. Hermione’s heart skipped in her chest, her mind catching up to the present, to the quiet reality of this moment.
“Mum?” Rose mumbled sleepily, her voice hushed by the fog of sleep, but still full of that warmth only a mother could recognize.
“I’m here, sweetheart,” Hermione whispered, brushing a stray curl from Rose’s face. She smiled softly, the act of touching her daughter, of caring for her in this way, felt so intimate—so fragile. She wanted to hold on to it, wanted to keep this small piece of normalcy, even though the world around her seemed to be shifting.
Rose gave a small, tired smile, the corners of her lips lifting before they fell into the peaceful calm of sleep once more.
Hermione exhaled slowly, her breath shuddering as she sat beside the couch for a moment longer, just watching her daughter, watching the way she seemed so at ease, so secure in her own little world. But for Hermione, it was a painful reminder that these days were slipping away faster than she could grasp. The ache of time passing—the small, beautiful moments—felt heavier with each day that went by.
As she rubbed a hand over her face, wiping away the tears that she hadn’t meant to shed, she realized just how much she missed the simple act of being with her children. Of being present for them, in all the little ways that mattered most.
And then, she felt it.
It wasn’t a sudden shift in the air, not a haunting whisper or the creaking of floorboards. There was no eerie presence that made the hairs on her neck stand up, no chill that sent her heart racing. It was just... warmth. A quiet, comforting warmth, radiating from beside her, something she had known so well that it didn’t startle her in the least.
“You’re doing your best, you know.”
Hermione didn’t jump. She didn’t even blink, as though this moment was one she had always expected. A soft exhale escaped her lips, and she turned her head just slightly. And there he was.
Ron.
He stood beside her, as if nothing had changed, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed in that familiar, comfortable way. His hair was still messy, as though he had just rolled out of bed, that endearingly careless disarray that never seemed to bother him. His eyes—those warm, honest eyes—looked down at her with that quiet confidence that had always grounded her. He was real. He wasn’t a ghost in the traditional sense—not transparent, not glowing with an ethereal light. He was simply there. The same Ron she had loved, the same Ron she had built a life with, the same Ron who was always by her side, even now. It was as though he had never left.
Her chest tightened, the weight of the moment settling over her like a blanket. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, her voice barely a whisper as she asked, “Is it enough?”
Ron didn’t hesitate, his gaze flickering over to their daughter, who was still sleeping peacefully on the couch, her body curled up in a way that was too mature for her age. His expression softened as he looked at her, a mixture of pride and something else—something quiet, something knowing. He turned back to Hermione, meeting her eyes with that same steady assurance that had always steadied her when she wavered.
“Yeah,” Ron said simply, his voice full of warmth and certainty. “It is.”
Hermione exhaled shakily, her chest tight with emotions she couldn’t fully name. “She’s leaving soon,” she said, her voice wavering despite her effort to keep it steady.
“I know.” There was a slight hitch in Ron’s tone, a sadness that only a father could understand, but there was also a quiet pride. He wasn’t as consumed by the weight of their daughter’s impending departure as Hermione was. He could see the bigger picture, even when she couldn’t. “She’s brilliant, ‘Mione. Just like her mum.”
Hermione’s lips twitched into a sad smile at his words, the familiar ache of missing Ron sharp in her chest. “She’s growing up so fast,” she murmured, as though she were speaking aloud to herself, trying to hold onto this moment, this time before everything changed.
“She always was going to,” Ron said with a small chuckle, though it was a bittersweet sound. “But she still needs you.”
Hermione shook her head slowly, feeling the weight of all the missed moments pressing on her shoulders. She glanced over at Rose, still sleeping so peacefully, unaware of the heartache swirling inside her mother. “I keep messing up,” she whispered, the guilt surging again, harder than before. “I work late, I miss dinner, I—” Her voice cracked, and she closed her eyes, exhaling sharply as though she were physically trying to push the feelings away. “I should be here more.”
For a moment, Ron didn’t speak. Hermione felt the silence between them, thick and suffocating. It was as though he was taking his time to let the words settle before offering the comfort she so desperately needed. Finally, he nudged her shoulder with that familiar, lopsided grin—the one that always made her feel like everything would be okay.
“You are here,” he said simply, his voice warm and gentle.
Hermione turned to him, searching his face for any hint of doubt, but there was none. His eyes were clear, steady—like he always had been for her. Like he always would be.
“You’re here every time you tell Hugo a bedtime story, even when you’re tired,” Ron continued, his voice softening with each word, as though he were reminding her of things she already knew, but somehow had forgotten in the rush of everything else. “You’re here when Rose needs advice, even if it’s at some ridiculous hour of the night. You’re here every time you remind them that they’re loved.” He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost a whisper, filled with tenderness. “You’re here, ‘Mione. And they know it.”
Hermione blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears from welling up, but they wouldn’t be held back. Her throat tightened, and she had to swallow hard to clear the lump that had lodged itself there. “I just…” She closed her eyes briefly, a breath shuddering from her lips. “I don’t want to let them down.”
Ron’s voice was steady and sure when he responded, without a moment’s hesitation. “You won’t.” His gaze softened, and he took a step closer, his presence a comforting anchor in the midst of her swirling thoughts. “You never could.”
Hermione nodded, her chest tightening with emotion as she met his eyes. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe him, to believe in the truth of his words. She was trying. She was doing her best. That had to be enough.
When she looked back at him, his face was still there, still present, watching her with that familiar, unwavering support. But then, as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone.
The space beside her was empty. The warmth, though, remained—like a gentle, lingering reminder that he was still with her, in some way, in a way that transcended the physical world. It was a comfort, more than she had known she needed. She stood there for a moment longer, taking in the silence, trying to etch it into her memory.
The ache of missing him never truly faded, not in the way she had hoped. But for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel so heavy, so suffocating. It was there, but it wasn’t consuming her anymore. She could breathe through it, could accept it as part of her new reality.
With a final, lingering look at Rose’s peaceful face, Hermione bent down and kissed her daughter’s forehead, whispering a soft “I love you” into the stillness of the room. The weight of everything wasn’t gone, but she had a renewed sense of clarity. Tomorrow, she would try again.
She would leave work a little earlier. She would make sure she was home for dinner. She would take the time to listen to Hugo’s excited stories and help Rose with her charms homework, even if she was exhausted. She would make the effort. She would find the balance, even if it took time.
Because Ron was right. She was here. And that had to be enough.