It should probably have raised eyebrows, maybe it even had once upon a time, but it seemed as natural as breathing now. Tucked away in one of the darker corners of the Gryffindor common room, on the middle cushion of (as determined by rigorous experimentation) the squishiest couch, sat Ron Weasley, reading a magazine.

Across his lap sprawled a set of legs in red checked pajama bottoms, slightly too long for the witch wearing them as she dozed against the arm of the couch, a copy of Sense and Sensibility left open facedown on her stomach in a way she would never have allowed had she not been dead to the world.

On his other side, head wedged between Ron's shoulder and the cushions, the former owner of said red checked pajama bottoms slept fitfully, one hand curled around Hermione's ankles, the other wrapped tight across his stomach.

There were still two days before the start of the Christmas holidays, and anticipation kept a few students awake, playing cards by the fire or wrapping presents away from the prying eyes of little siblings. One, a fourth year, glanced up for a moment, as movement caught the corner of her eye, and he paused just long enough to hold a finger to his lips, to wink, to smile.

The battered paperback had seen better days, but he pulled a paper insert from his magazine to mark her place and tossed it close-ish to the overstuffed bookbag on the floor. He turned a page of his own reading, absently wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulders, rubbing absently, apparently unaware of the tension visibly leaving the boy's body.

The kitchen was, as it only ever was late at night, quiet, and two redheads sat at the lovingly battered table.

"She's not ignoring your advice, mum, you've been a lifesaver on a lot of stuff," Molly made as if to interrupt, and her youngest son put a hand over hers, "but 'Mione isn't you, and things that worked for you just won't for us. Nobody's saying your advice isn't good, it's just not the right fit."

The fight left her in a sigh, and her hands fluttered as though looking for something to occupy them. "I just worry, darling, you're all so young," it was her turn to wave off her son's interruption, before he could point out she was pregnant with Percy at the same age, "and with Lily and Jean- I just want what's best for you, and for those babies."

"I know, mum, we know, and we love you for it. Just... please let us figure out what works, okay? Without taking it personally if we need something different? They both just want everyone to be happy, and it's stressing them out, and I don't want them upset."

He'd grown up, her baby boy. She'd worried for a long time, that he'd never quite find his footing among so many big personalities, but one day she'd turned around to look for a boy and found a young man in his place. "Of course, darling. Anything you need, I'm happy to help with."

Shell cottage feels like a dream world. Not one of the nice ones, where your pillows are made of candy floss and the girl you fancy is making eyes at you, but the ones where you're running and not moving and screaming but not making a sound and you wake up terrified and sweaty and you have no idea what was so scary.

And so Ron fusses. He is, after all, his mother's son.

Harry spends most of his time in the back parlor, staring at that blue, blue horizon, and Ron is by every hour or so. He brings a snack, more often than not, and doesn't ask questions, just sits on the wicker loveseat by his best friend, breathing in tandem and staring at nothing.

Hermione doesn't let anyone but Fleur and Luna in the room for the first four days, and so for four days Ron helps his sister in law make scrambled eggs, and helps Luna set out potions just so, and waits near the door for them to come out and give him that tight little shake of the head.

On the fifth day, when Fleur nods, he's up like a shot. Hermione is crying when he sits by her bedside, hands still shaky and voice still hoarse. There's a boy in his head, screaming to get out, who wants to rage and shout and tell her exactly how fucked up everything that happened to her was. He'd thought that boy had died already, the day he came back to their campsite and found nothing but a few disturbed leaves, so it's bitter that he has to lock him away into the smallest box he can find.

But he does. And he takes her free hand, the one without bandages covering her up to the elbow, and tells her how brave she is. And together, quietly, they cry for the children they used to get to be.

"I can't do this anymore, 'Mione!" He's yelling, and he hates it, but he can't stop and she won't back down and he's just glad the kids are at his mum's for the weekend so they don't have to see this. "We're not kids anymore, you can't keep throwing yourself into danger like you're fucking immortal!"

She's crackling with temper, and in an hour they'll all be very grateful they didn't have any glassware handy to throw. "I don't think I'm immortal, Ronald, I think I'm very good at my fucking job!"

"Oh, yeah, definitely, you're so good at your job. That's why I got a floo call from St fucking Mungo's earlier, telling me you'd managed to get yourself knocked out with some unknown curse that could've killed you-"

"It wouldn't have killed me, the worst case scenario was that I wind up unconscious, which I knew going into the bloody-"

"That's a bad scenario, Hermione! That's the shit I have nightmares about! I don't care how smart you are, you aren't right all the time, and one of these times I'm going to get a call from goblin fucking HR that you're dead and I can't handle that!"

They're panting, flush with rage, and after a full minute of silence Harry finally decides to add his two knuts, "Nobody is asking you to sit around and do paperwork all day, Hermione, but curse breaking is dangerous, and none of us want Teddy or the girls growing up without their mum. So please, can we discuss a middle ground?"

She sags, like a puppet with her strings cut, into her favorite big comfy chair. It's a start.

She's clearly been up for a while, unsurprising with how bad her heartburn has been since she hit 34 weeks, and he hates that this is all on her. Silently, reverently, he joins her at the bay window facing east. She leans back into him, head on his shoulder the same way she always does, and he breathes in the smell of her, ink and shampoo and lemons.

His hands slide under the swell of her belly, lifting just a bit, and he cracks a sleepy smile as she groans in pleasure.

The same way he always does, Harry shuffles up behind them, hooking his chin over Ron's other shoulder and lacing his fingers in his wife's.

The same way she always does, she snorts. "Ronwich."

The same way they always do, they watch the sun rise.

He's got a daisy crown perched on his head, somewhere down the hall Harry's got a matching one, and that's the least baffling part of the entire day.

"If you'd told me at 16 that my kids were going to be flower girls in Malfoy's bloody wedding.." he trails off, hands thrown in the air in a futile attempt to find words, and she kisses the crown of his head before returning to her lipstick.

"Don't think of it as Malfoy's wedding, think of his as their mum's good friend Astoria's wedding, that Draco happens to be at." There's a great giggling from behind the bathroom door as the bride in question finishes primping her honorary nieces, and Hermione smirks, "Besides, they wouldn't even be here if it weren't for Malfoy in the first place. They don't have those fertility spells sitting around on the shelves at Flourish and Blott's."

They're both saved from further discussion by the tumble of tulle and curls rushing towards them, both girls chattering nonstop and twirling and preening in all their finery.

He's glad they favor their mother, truly, her curls and her brains and her insatiable need to know everything. There are differences, of course, Lily's cloud of copper red nearly brushing her waist, while Rose keeps her riotous, untamable black mane up around her shoulders, but they have the same freckles and warm brown skin and bright chocolate eyes, and they both have their parents wrapped around their fingers, like he always knew they would.

The door to the main hallway creaks open, and Teddy pops his head in to (thank Circe) collect his Ron. On the other side of this was an open bar, and so he beat a hasty retreat.

They're all panting and sweaty and tired, but Harry and Ron are careful not to mention any hint of discomfort to Hermione as she cradles their daughters to her chest. They, after all, didn't just give up everything fun in life for 9 months and also push out two entire human beings.

Ron makes a note to get his mother a very large flower arrangement in March.

Bill and Fleur have the honor of visiting first, Hermione's mentors in both work and Weasley-Marrying, and they bring the expected little gifts of teddy bears for the girls and a tabletop quidditch set for the new big brother.

In Fleur's other hand, though, is a brown paper bag, the stamp of a local cheesemonger smack dab in the center.

"Ron asked me to bring thee camembert, 'Arry mentioned the brie ages ago, and you 'ave very good taste, but I added a few tings I thought you may enjoy. They were quite happy to help, when I told them it was for a new mother."

Hermione, who had screamed and cursed but never quite cried during all 14 hours of labor, looked at her husbands with glassy eyes and a quiver in her voice. "Soft cheese?"

Ron snorted, kissed her forehead, passed Rose to Harry and took Lily for himself, "Yeah love, soft cheese."

AN: I haven't touched FFNet in like, 15 years and 3 accounts, so if something looks hinky it's because it is! But I wanted to crosspost this because I didn't spend 3 hours stuck in traffic ruminating on the Ron Weasley Defense Squad for nothing so please enjoy this domestic nonsense that makes me happy