Author's Note: I have no children and have never been pregnant, so this is all based on imagination and speculation, so please don't judge too harshly! And enjoy!

Worth All The Fat Ankles in the World

I hate being pregnant.

Whoever said that pregnancy is a normal stage in a woman's life was clearly either a man or an idiot. What on earth is normal about having something live in you for the best part of a year? I have studied Ancient Runes and Arithmancy and I still cannot understand the appeal of growing a person inside you. I laughed in my doctor's face when she told me that it was a natural and beautiful thing. I told her that somehow I doubted that me pushing a person the size of a melon head-first out of my genitals would rank very highly on the list of competitors for the "Eighth Wonder of the World" title. At that point, Ron clamped his hand over my mouth and ushered me from her little surgery.

He, naturally, had kittens when I told him that he was going to be a daddy. Admittedly, it probably wasn't the best idea to tell him over dinner, although he did flush a rather interesting shade of blue before I dislodged the meatball in his throat. Oh, he was fine when Harry told us Ginny was pregnant – he couldn't have been happier that his best friend had knocked up his little sister, even when James turned out to be an absolutely enormous baby and Ginny couldn't give birth naturally. He didn't bat an eyelid. But the second I told him I was pregnant he seemed to think I was an invalid, incapable of picking up a dropped fork or opening a door, or even brushing my hair (I hit him for the last one, which he wasn't too pleased about until I informed him that my love stopped me from hexing him. I still haven't told him that the real reason was that my wand wasn't to hand.)

Ron becomes his mother when I'm pregnant. He'd kill me for saying that if he knew, but it's true. He can't help himself. I know he means well and I know he only does it because he's absolutely terrified that something will happen to me or the baby, but he goes into protective-overdrive, feeding me constantly so that the baby won't be malnourished, waiting on me hand and foot so that I don't over-exert myself. And although I know he does it out of love, it irritated the hell out of me. So I took revenge in the only way I could. I stopped arguing with him. He didn't notice at first; he was far too busy making sure that I was completely comfortable and happy that anything I did that would normally annoy him was overlooked. It got to the point where I could actually watch him swallowing down his irritation in the split-second before he would slip his smile on.

But as the weeks passed by, I turned the tables on him, and I stopped arguing with him. I wouldn't bicker at all. At first he didn't notice, like I said, but eventually his natural antagonism resurfaced and he found he wasn't able to bite down his irritation anymore. But every time he responded to me annoying him, I backed down immediately. I wouldn't so much as disagree with him. I even went so far as to start calling him 'dear'. And it drove him absolutely mad, because that has always been the way we've functioned. I can think of only a handful of times in which we haven't argued, and one of them was when he was trying to be nice to me so that I wouldn't laugh in his face when he proposed to me. Which I did anyway, but only out of shock.

So, anyway, I hate being pregnant. I can't stand being treated as though I'm incapable of taking care of myself, especially when I think that when she was carrying James, Ginny fended for herself for six whole weeks whilst Ron and Harry were in Croatia trying to track down a particularly dangerous Dark wizard. And that isn't the worst part, either. I get very fat when I'm pregnant. Oh, everyone else glows, they look radiant. Ginny looked so gorgeous I wanted to eat her. Not me, though, no – I put on weight in the most random places you can think of. My cheeks, for example, or my ankles. Everyone else just gets a swollen belly, but on top of that I get a round face and puffy ankles. And because I can't stand the idea of something living in me, I jump a foot out of my skin every single time the baby moves. I drive Ron mad at night in bed, because I do nothing but squirm and squeal all night. He says it's like trying to sleep next to a ferret at times. There's nothing 'natural' or 'beautiful' about me when I'm pregnant, that's for sure.

I suppose the end result is worth it, though. The first thing I thought when I looked at my baby daughter was that she was worth all the fat ankles in the world, and all the pain and the weird feelings, because she was perfect. Ron, of course, was absolutely besotted with her from the offset. He nearly hexed Harry for not holding her in the specific way he had instructed him to, even though by that point Harry already had a three year old son, and knew perfectly well how to hold a newborn child.

She's nearly three now, and she is still gorgeous, but every so often as I'm cleaning dried-on spaghetti from the walls or brushing her silky russet curls after a bath I'm reminded of what it was like carrying her, the way she seemed to bubble beneath my skin, the way my belly rounded to fit the soft shape of her, the way she swam in the space beneath my heart. And then I think of the way my ankles didn't slim down again for nearly six months after she was born, the deep half-moons I carved into Ron's poor arms during the birth as she seemed to split me in two, and I remember how much I hate being pregnant.

So why have I decided to do this again?

Authors Note:

This is just a random oneshot that popped into my head and had to be written. In case it's unclear, it's meant to be Hermione during her pregnancy with Hugo, reminiscing about her pregnancy with Rose. If you liked this, don't forget to review instead of just adding it to Favourites!