She is small, petite and her precense has silenced all those present in the great dining room.
Ginny's neck crackles as she turns her head sharply in search of her brother. Harry's gaze has long been fixed on Hermione. . . when the silence is broken.
One moan fills the room. A groan that comes from the deepest side of the heart, which thrill the blood of the listener, not out of fear or awe, but because it is filled with a feeling that cannot longer be contained. No right now… no more.
And after the moaning, the sob. The sob that's the prelude to crying. A cry so intense, so heartbreaking, that it would move the stones. A cry that sounds like the release of a soul. A cry that tries to be drowned by the small hands that seek to cover a mouth whose lips begin to shake uncontrollably
And Ronald Weasley, the insensitive Ronald Weasley, the weasel, who-is-the-teaspoon-emotional-range-of, jumps over the table and rushes over the owner of that mouth. Of those hands that cover the lips that he dies to kiss. From the only one whose cry he is able to recognize in all time and place, in part perhaps, because he has provoked it many times, too many times, he thinks. But, above all this, because if there is one thing he knows about this world, it is that he cannot bear to see her cry, no, without being with her, no, without at least trying to console her, because each tear of her is a dagger directly nailed to his soul and, at that moment, becomes fully aware of it over him. If at any time or place he has to come between her and a killing curse, he will do so without hesitation. It's a fact. An absolute and incontestable truth that is not open to debate and, like if it were an essay of that human shield that, he now knows, he will always be for her, he surrounds her with his arms while attracting her to himself by lovingly wrapping her when he feels her sobs, her uncontrollable cry against his chest.
-Hermione, please, what's wrong? -And his voice is filled with agony. Agony for her mostly, but he also distresses about his secret fear that those tears will be of her grief and dissatisfaction in the face of a future he craves above all things in this world. Agony that turns into absolute happiness, when she lifts her head and under her tear-stained eyes he sees a radiant smile that says to him "Everything is going to be fine".
And for once, Ron knows he's on the same page, at the same timing, in the same knowledge and in the same feeling as her. Because the chess master in himself had already resolved this game almost from the moment he saw her, the new arrival girl on the dais of the teachers a few meters from him. The strategist had already discovered the truth. His fingers reach the chin tightly against his chest and delicately, with reverence and almost devotion or, perhaps, there is not "almost" but simple adoration. He narrows the embrace over her shoulders and rests his own head on one of them closing the embrace and in a whisper, like in a caress-"Everything is going to be bloody okay.
Hermione nods on her chest and lifts her head to, for the second time, to face the little girl again as the little smile on Hermione's face grows.
Because she's recognized those features. Because she's able of recognizing that thick curly hair. Because she is able to recognize this red-haired tone of it, but even if she were not able to recognize all of this, she would always recognize those eyes. Those sapphire blue eyes that are his last thought of the day and the first at morning.
Then the little girl's mouth half-opens.
-My name is Rose Jean Weasley. . . Granger.