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“Mama,” Hermione says. “Can you say that? Mama. Ma-ma. Mama. Mama. Mama Mama Mama.”
Rosie continues to gurgle away, but there are no actual words coming from her mouth, just soft little baby noises that make no sense to anyone except her parents. “Mama,” Hermione says. “Not Dada. No. No Dada! Mama. Mama.”
“...did I do something? Because I can’t remember doing it, which never usually bodes well, but just in case: I’m really very sorry and humbly beg forgiveness,” Ron says. His sudden appearance makes Hermione jump, which in turn makes Rose squawk in alarm, and they both hold their breath, but she goes back to her burbling and Hermione gives him a genuine smile.
“Hello, love,” she says. “How was work?”
“Fine, fine,” he dismisses, gesturing to the baby. “Why not Dada?”
“Mum was here this afternoon, and she reminded me that my first word was ‘Dada’,” Hermione says. “She said that this is because the ‘da’ sound is easier for babies to produce than the ‘ma’ sound—or at least, that was the theory that was popular in the muggle world when she had me, in the late seventies. But I’ve consulted nine different books so far this afternoon, and five of them say the exact opposite, that that ‘ma’ sound is actually easier for babies so they often say Mama first. So I don’t know what to believe.”
Ron blinks, then notices the large pile of books at Hermione’s feet. Over the years, he’s got used to the stacks she totes around being a permanent presence, sort of like a second shadow, and he almost doesn’t see them anymore. These days, they’re all baby and parenting tomes, although he does see Hogwarts: A History in there too, probably for old time’s sake. “Well, she’ll likely say one of the two first,” he shrugs. “They’re the words she hears most often, except for her own name, I suppose. Or maybe ‘Crookshanks’, but if that’s her first word, we’ll probably have to notify everyone that we’ve got a certified genius on our hands. Not that I have any doubt of that, though.”
“Good to hear,” Hermione says.
“But why not Dada?” he asks, moving some of the books and taking the seat beside her on the sofa. “You want to say Dada, don’t you, Rosie? Dada. Dada! That’s me!”
“Ronald Weasley,” Hermione says, eyes narrowing, and Ron gulps, glad Rose is between them as a sort of human shield. “I did not go through twenty six hours of agonising labour for our daughter to say ‘Dada’ before ‘Mama’.”
“...that’s fair enough, I suppose.”
*
“Can you say that for me?”
Hermione pauses in the hallway outside the nursery. Spying on Ron being all fatherly with Rose, when he doesn’t realise he’s being watched, has become her new favourite thing over the past seven months.
Well, favourite thing that isn’t Rose herself, of course.
And that isn’t more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep.
But it’s definitely pretty up there. As she watches now, Ron points to the mobile above her daughter’s head (a miniaturised Quidditch team replete with Quaffle and Snitch which flit about for the players to catch) pointing out the players to their daughter. “That’s going to be you, one day!” he says, and she stifles a snort of laughter. Nothing like starting her young...
“And who are you going to play for? That’s right! The Chuddley Cannons!” his tone is so enthusiastic that Rosie laughs in delight—or perhaps, thinks Hermione she’s merely laughing in incredulity. Her baby, of course, is capable of polysyllabic emotions even at this tender age. “Can you say that, Rosie? Let’s forget about the first bit for now, that’s a bit of a mouthful I’ll grant you, but Can-nons. Cannons! Can you say Cannons?”
“You can’t be serious.” Her tone is deliberately grave, mostly so she can see the caught-red-handed expression on Ron’s face as he turns around, but she can’t stop her grin spreading across her face. “You cannot be trying to get our daughter say ‘Cannons’ before ‘Mama’ or ‘Dada’,” she says, laughing.
“Why not?! If we manage it, we’ll probably get free season tickets for life when we write and tell them,” Ron replies.
“Oh, well, there’s incentive,” Hermione says.
“I just thought that it would cut out the agro of getting her to say Mama or Dada first,” he explains. “If her first word is something neutral, then neither of us needs to be upset, right?”
“That’s a good point,” she nods, and he looks smug. “Rose? Hello, Rosie.” Her daughter’s head turns towards her when she hears her name called. “Can you say ‘Harpies’ for me? Harpies. Say Harpies!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Ron says, horrified. “Don’t listen to Mummy. She’s lost her marbles. Say Cannons. Cannons!” Rose’s mouth opens, and they both hold their breath, exchanging glances. This cannot possibly work...can it?
She blows a giant raspberry.
It cannot.
*
Four days later, all three of them are sitting on the floor of the living room, having just come back from Sunday lunch at Ron’s parents. Over the course of the meal, it had become clear that little James had learnt a new word since they’d all been together last, because he had enjoyed nothing more than shouting it, very loudly, at everyone and everything.
The word was ‘bum’.
Or, more usually: “Bum! Bumbumbumbumbum!”. Harry blamed Ginny, Ginny blamed Teddy, and although Teddy himself hadn’t been there to pass the buck, it had reminded everyone of the time when “NO!”, usually bellowed, had been his favourite word.
This in turn had dredged up memories in the parents present of other awkward and embarrassing moments from when their children had been learning to speak. Fred and George, Mrs Weasley remembered, had (perhaps predictably) enjoyed shouting “POO!” as loudly as they could in public places, whilst Percy recalled Molly junior’s intense excitement over clocks, which would have been very sweet except for the fact that she routinely forgot to pronounce the ‘l’. Bill and Fleur recalled their horror when their overzealous teaching of Victoire the dangers of strangers resulted in her shouting the word ‘stranger’ at everyone she met, including her own parents, which made for one particularly embarrassing afternoon in the Leaky Cauldron.
Because of all this, Ron and Hermione had decided to stick with only the very basics of ‘Mama’ and ‘Dada’ until they were sure that Rose’s first few words wouldn’t end up being something similarly awkward or embarrassing.
“I’m not sure we shouldn’t just pick one and stick with it,” Hermione says now, passing Rose one of her building blocks to smash into another. “Mama and Dada might just get confusing.”
“I’m not sure,” Ron says hesitantly. “And we don’t want her to start calling everything Mama. If she says it but points to, I dunno, the sofa, or something, it’s not going to be great. A bit of variety might stop that?”
“I suppose,” Hermione nods. “But I’m pretty sure it’s going to be Dada she says first. Have you noticed how her babbles are sort of forming that ‘dah’ sound, these days?”
Ron grins, then reorients Rose as she seems to be crawling towards the fire (which has three guards around it and magical wards, too, but they can’t be too careful, can they?). “I had noticed, but I hadn’t wanted to say. Might’ve cursed it, you know?”
“Ginny said that the same thing happened with James; he made the dah sound a lot in the days leading up to him saying Dada for the first time,” she says. “So, I think that’ll be her first word.”
“Do you mind?” Ron asks, sounding vaguely anxious.
“Of course I don’t,” Hermione says gently. “I was just kidding, the other day. I don’t mind which of our names she says first. It has nothing to do with who she loves most, or anything ridiculous like that. I don’t care what she says, or when she says it. Well. I’d rather it wasn’t ‘bum’, but you know what I mean.”
“I do,” Ron says. “And I will keep pushing for Mama, I just—”
“I know you will,” Hermione says, “but, come on. We’ve nothing to do all afternoon. Let’s see if we can’t get these babbles to turn into Dada before bedtime.”
No matter how much they encourage her, though, her babbles stay just that: babbles. Rose is happy, alert, and noisy, but there are still no real words coming from her mouth, no matter how much they try to encourage her. After around an hour, they give up, deciding that bathtime, then bed, might be on the cards as she’s starting to seem a little crotchety.
Just as they’ve decided this, Crookshanks comes to join them in the living room. “Look who it is, Rosie,” Hermione says, pointing her daughter in his direction. “Crookshanks is here!”
“He’s must’ve been in the airing cupboard and heard us talking about bathtime,” Ron says. “Have you come to hide, mate? Very wise. The bathroom is about to turn into an aquarium very shortly!”
“She’s honestly the messiest bather I’ve ever met; I’m sure she’s part fish,” Hermione laughs. “I don’t know if—”
“Tat!” Rose interrupts, pointing at Crookshanks.
Ron and Hermoine stare at each other in shock.
“Was that—”
“Did she—”
“Tat!” Rose says again, more firmly this time. “Tat.”
“Is she saying ‘cat’?” Hermione asks, barely able to breathe.
“Tat!” Rose says, beaming at them. As if on cue, Crookshanks walks over and deigns to be patted by her a few times, before wandering off again. “Tat,” Rose repeats, waving at him. He bobs along, tail high in the air. “Tat,” Rose says, as though this decides it.
And then her parents’ floodgates open, and they fall over themselves heaping praise on her.
“Did you hear that? Such a clever girl!”
“Our daughter! Her first word!”
“And she recognises who the cat is, it’s not just indiscriminate babble—”
“Genuine cognition, and at her age too, and we usually call him Crookshanks, so she must really be listening to our words—”
“She’s so clever. She clearly takes after you.”
“And I just can’t believe we were lucky enough to both be here when she said it, too, neither of us missed it, and it’s such a momentous occasion—”
“We’ll always remember it, won’t we?”
“Oh, you wonderful, wonderful girl, Rosie!” And so it goes on: Rose seems relatively unaware of what she’s done, but humbly accepts her parents’ praise and joy and kisses.
Until: “I hope you meant it, you know.”
“Meant what?” Hermione asks.
“About her first word not relating to who she loves the most,” Ron grins.
“I did,” Hermione says, but then they both look at Crookshanks, who’s curled up on the sofa and looking very smugly down at them. “But I think maybe someone else should be reminded of it...”