When she fantasized about being a Weasley -- and when Hermione is honest with herself, she fantasized a lot -- it was always Bill, or Charlie, or Ron. Once, back in first year, she'd hazily dreamt about Percy, and studying together late at night, the light playing across his face as the gas lamp flickered. More often, Bill took her on wild Egyptian adventures, explaining the ancient curses and never calling her bookish. Charlie would swoop her up on his broom, and fly in dizzying loops past dragons and wyverns and hold her close when she screamed with delight, and his laughter rang in her ears. Ron, Ron would come home from work to a table loaded down with food, and she would tell him about her job, and he would tell her about his, and they'd cuddle the children (one boy and one girl), and make love in a queen-sized bed and have Harry over on weekends.

Never did she imagine this.

Never did she dream about a house full of prank toys, and desserts that turned you purple, or gave you wings, or left the baby a kitten for an hour.

Never did she picture a home overflowing with children -- twelve of them, and that, she had said, was her limit, though she wasn't sure they'd listened -- and her only job taking care of them, though that was quite enough, thank you very much.

Never did she think of an extra-large bed, bigger even then a king, that on stormy nights held her babies, as they scared each other with ghost stories and clung to her and giggled and how could even twelve be enough when three of them were out of school already, and the triplets would be starting in September? She'd only have Guinevere at home then.

When the sky was clear, and the children asleep, they'd curl up together in bed, and even though it was big, it never felt empty, not with the three of them, Fred and George so beautiful together, and Hermione softening them, and fitting right in the middle.

She'd never come up with this, with laughter and tricks and playing and love so strong she could almost see it, and two men to care for and protect, and be cared for and protected by in turn. But then, as she told them, how could she have known? No one could hope for this future. No one could look at the War Years, the fear and the fighting and death, and know that it would be worth it.

It was.