Fic: Mine
Title: Mine
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,064
Genre: romance, family
Ships: R/Hr
Status: Complete
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters, objects, settings, and plots are the property of J.K. Rowling. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise associated with Harry potter. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made from the writing of this fanfiction.
Summary: Ron wakes before Hermione and thinks about the upcoming changes to their lives while admiring his pregnant wife.
Notes: Much thanks to my beta, the lovely and amazing aggiebell90. Written for the rhr_love baby challenge; the original can be found here.
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It’s early when Ron wakes, so early that the sun hasn’t finished rising and the tendrils of light that peek in through the sheer window curtains turn the room a soft, velvety grey. He lays still and quiet for a long, long time, eyes closed, drifting in and out of consciousness, content to enjoy this Saturday morning lie-in, even though he is awake far too early.
He can blame work for that. If he didn’t have to get up so early on work days, he’d be less likely to wake up at the time the clock usually pointed to “time to get ready for work” on his days off instead of “go back to sleep, stupid!”
After a while he wakes up enough to open his eyes. He blinks a few times without actually taking anything in, rubs one eye with the heel of his hand, and yawns deeply. When he opens his eyes a second time, he sucks in a quiet breath.
Hermione is curled on one side in the bed beside him. She has one hand tucked gently against her cheek and the other is curled protectively over the curve of her belly, which is round where their child is growing inside her.
She’s beautiful in her sleep. The room has brightened in the little while he’s been dozing-the sunlight has turned Hermione’s hair into a soft golden-brown halo around her face and given her skin an ethereal glow.
He wants to reach out and touch but is afraid to, afraid to so much as breathe too deeply. Hermione sleeps so badly these days-she has a hard time just finding a comfortable position; apparently babies press against internal bits when they get big enough and that can make staying in one position-or any position-for very long fairly uncomfortable. She needs as much sleep as possible.
Ron worries she’s exhausting herself. Hermione’s still working. She’s determined to keep right on working until she goes into labor, and possibly even right up until it’s time to push, the way she’s been going. And when she is home and not at the office, she’s sat on their sofa reading parenting books, both Muggle and Wizarding. Ron’s fairly certain they have enough to start their own parenting bookstore by now. And somehow she’s still found the time to actually go shopping (he has no idea when) because the house keeps filling with baby things-he thinks she’s determined to buy every bit of baby paraphernalia they can afford.
Come to think of it, maybe that’s why she’s so insistent on working...
He teases her about the books, and sometimes he takes them away and makes her go to sleep instead, but he doesn’t tell her he’s been frantically reading them too when she’s not looking. Ron’s never been a parent before, and babysitting for a few hours is not the same thing as raising a child. He’s terrified he’s going to mess this up.
Hermione though...Hermione is going to be a great mum. Anyone who ever doubted it changed their minds the moment they saw her pregnant. She’s one of those...glowy pregnant women. And she’s so excited about it, and so prepared. Hermione’s good at everything she tries, but this...this she will be brilliant at.
Ron is just not so confident in his own abilities. Excited, yes; confident, no. He’s not as nervous as he would have been if he’d not had some experience playing godfather-the go-to-babysitter-despite the fact that, the first time he’d done it, James was asleep when Ron showed up and he’d spent the entire three hours Harry and Ginny were out sitting on their sofa with the baby cradled in his arms just the way Ginny had positioned him before she left, not moving.
Ginny had come home, frowned at him a little, and then taken the baby up to bed. Harry had waited, biting his lip, until she’d left the room, then looked at his best mate. “You haven’t moved since she gave him to you, have you?”
Ron scowled. “I’d like to see you do any better when someone drops a teensy fragile newborn in your arms and expects you not to break it.”
Harry made a strangled noise as he leaned against the doorway, biting his lip hard enough it turned white and struggling so hard not to laugh that his eyes were watering. He still managed to raise an eyebrow.
“Oh shut up,” said Ron. “I can’t feel my arms.”
Harry had burst out laughing.
Ron has since gotten used to carting baby James around, but James is a bit older now. He is doing that wobbly baby-walking thing. But new babies are so fragile, what with their uncoordinated limbs and their floppy necks, they still sort of terrify him. Especially when they are, you know, his.
Despite his terror, Ron is also really excited. He’d seen how happy Harry and Ginny were when they had James, despite all the crying baby and sleepless nights, and...crying baby. And even though he really is terrified he is going to mess this up, mess his kid up, he is really excited to have that kind of happiness for himself.
Ron stares at Hermione, just inches away, and wants desperately to close that distance. If he weren’t so afraid of waking her, he wouldn’t hesitate.
Hermione thinks she’s unattractive like this. “I’m gigantic,” she says, “like a whale.” Or, “I waddle around just like an overweight dragon that can’t fly.” She also complains about her hair. Something about hormones, frizz, and less time to keep it manageable. Ron’s not exactly sure; he tends to tune out whenever the word “hormones” comes up.
He doesn’t know what she’s talking about anyway; she’s still absolutely the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And he loves her hair, the way teensy ringlets escape whatever bun, ponytail, or chignon she has it scraped up into to hang around her face, soft and lovely. Even now, curling wisps are escaping from her night-time braid, and he can’t help himself. He gently sweeps the loose tendrils away from her face, lets himself brush her cheek gently with one finger, unable to stop himself from touching her skin once his hand is that close.
Hermione smiles a little at his touch and shifts closer in her sleep. Ron slides one hand gently down over her extended belly (because now that he’s started, he can’t stop touching), and feels their baby shift inside her.
“Hush, little one,” he whispers, his thumb sweeping back and forth lightly across the fabric of Hermione’s nightshirt. “Let Mummy sleep a little longer.”
Hermione’s hand covers his, her touch soft and gentle. Ron is a little startled-he hadn’t realized she was awake and a teensy part of him regrets having woken her, but he smiles as she tucks her head close under his chin and interlaces their fingers over her stomach.
“You’re going to be an amazing father, Ron,” she murmurs, her breath a warm caress against the hollow of his throat. “It’s amazing how much you love her already. Love us both.”
“I do,” he says. “I really do.” His free hand comes up and gently cups her cheek, tilting her face up. “It’s unbelievable how much I love you,” he whispers.
He leans in and brushes his lips across hers, once, twice, three times; soft, sweet, sleepy kisses. Teasing kisses. The fourth time Hermione’s hand comes up and tangles in his hair, holding him in place, and he slants his mouth over hers with a soft laugh. Her lips open under his, and he kisses her properly, warm and tender, for long, endless moments. Eventually he pulls away with a last teasing kiss pressed to her bottom lip, and she stares drowsily up at him, eyes luminous and happy.
“I love you too,” she whispers breathlessly, and her smile takes his breath away too. He can’t help but lean in and kiss her again, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her close, the curve of her belly pressed tight between them. This kiss is deeper, slow and wet and helpless-Ron’s favorite kind. It goes on and on until Hermione slides both hands up into his hair and hums softly into his mouth.
This time when Ron pulls away, Hermione doesn’t say anything at all, just tugs gently until his forehead comes to rest against hers. They are pressed close together, breathing the same air and sharing the same space. He teasingly rubs his nose against hers as they rest together, steals another soft, brief kiss. He can feel her eyelashes tangle with his when she blinks and he laughs when her nose wrinkles at the sensation and turns his head away a little. He nudges his nose gently against her cheek, kisses her again because he can’t help himself, nuzzles his face against the soft skin of her throat.
He can feel her smile against his ear when his morning stubble tickles her neck, and it makes him smile too. He drops a line of random kisses across her shoulder and collar bone as he settles against her, content to laze in bed and share a peaceful moment with his wife, maybe even doze off again for awhile.
But then something moves, shoves hard against his belly where it’s pressed against Hermione’s.
“I think your daughter’s feeling a little neglected,” his wife murmurs, laughter in her voice, and her hand drops to cover the one he’s already moving back down and around over her hip, guiding it to the place where their baby is kicking insistently within her, tiny foot pushing out against the palm of his hand.
Ron stills in awe, as he always does, at the proof of life growing within Hermione, a life he helped create, and then smiles to himself (as he always does) at the proof that the tiny little girl seems to have inherited her mother’s stubborn spirit and maybe a bit of his temper.
Then Ron is moving down the bed, twisting and wiggling and shoving blankets and sheets and pillows aside until the bedding is pooled at Hermione’s hips. He teasingly skims his fingers up her sides as he lifts her nightshirt just high enough to reveal her extended belly, and she huffs a quiet laugh because that tickles too. Then he turns his attention to their daughter, framing Hermione’s belly with his hands, big and warm on her skin, and presses a tender kiss to the place where his daughter is still kicking.
“Hush now, Rosie,” he murmurs, face close to Hermione’s skin, voice quiet-this is a conversation just for him and his baby girl. “There’s no need for all this fussing. Mummy and Daddy love you, yes we do, but it’s not time to be awake yet.” His voice adopts a quiet croon, one he’s semi-aware he’s developed over months and months of talking to his daughter in quiet moments just like this one.
(Ron’s never been the sort for baby talk, not even when his godson was born, and Harry’s first born is far and away his favorite of his many nieces and nephews.)
Ron keeps talking in that same crooning voice, murmuring endearments and assurances of love and excitement about meeting her and other silly nonsense until he slips without thought into the lullaby his mum used to sing to him when he was still small. He rubs Hermione’s belly in broad soothing circles and sings until the kicking slows, then comes to a stop. Ron, still humming sleepily, presses another kiss to Hermione’s belly, then turns his head and rests his cheek there, hands sliding up and around Hermione’s hips as his eyes slide closed. Hermione is stroking his hair with tender hands, and her voice has joined his in his humming at some point. The sound is so nice he trails off to listen as he wiggles closer, feeling warm and drowsy with his wife and his child held safe in his arms.
Rose protests one last time, a half-hearted shove against Ron’s cheek with one tiny foot. Ron smiles sleepily and nuzzles into the brief pressure.
Mine, he thinks, briefly tightening his arms around the two people he cares most about in the world, then lets Hermione’s voice and hands lull him into a contented sleep.