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Ron caught Hermione by the hand as she passed the sitting room, tugging her toward the back hallway.
“Come on,” he said, exasperated. “I want you to see this.”
She let herself be dragged, grumbling. “Honestly, Ronald, I’m perfectly capable of—”
He pushed open the nursery door, lips pressed tight in accusation. Half the walls were painted a gentle yellow; the other half still raw plaster. He tugged her down the hall to a second room, much the same, roller abandoned in a bucket. One eyebrow arched pointedly. Then across the hall to a sitting room draped in dropcloths, fireplace half-finished in grout. At last he crossed his arms, wearing a patient, condescending expression.
“You said you wanted to be in charge of these,” Ron reminded her. “Meanwhile, you’ve spent the last week alphabetizing spices, painting daisies on the bureau, enchanting drawers to hum lullabies, and knitting half a blanket the size of a tea towel. Lovely efforts, Hermione, but not exactly habitable space for my goddaughter.”
Hermione folded her arms over the curve of her belly. “I knew it was a mistake to ask you to coordinate this project.”
Ron snorted. “Yes, well, you did. So, tell me…where am I going to crawl with her? Read her books? Rock her to sleep?”
Hermione’s expression softened momentarily then snapped back to indignant. “Harry hasn’t finished his rooms either.”
“Difference is,” Ron shot back, “Harry’s actually doing them.”
Harry, standing sheepishly in the doorway, raised a hand in surrender, specks of paint on his glasses.
Hermione huffed. “I’m gestating, Ronald. I’m producing things you can’t see!”
For a moment, the hallway hung in silence. Then Harry crossed to her side, leaned down, and kissed her temple. “She’s right, mate,” he said gently, putting a hand on Ron’s shoulder. “When the big reveal happens, we’ll all be suitably impressed.”
Ron groaned, muttering something about siding with her out of pity, but his ears went pink as he stomped back toward the stairs.
Hermione smirked up at Harry, eyes glinting. “See? Perfectly reasonable priorities.”
Harry chuckled, brushing paint flecks from her sleeve. “Drawer liners, lullabies, tea-towel blankets first—roof and walls later. Got it.”
He grinned at his wife and dropped a kiss on her nose, three times in a row.
“Perfectly.
Reasonable.
Priorities.”