"Ron?"

Ron felt his head snap so fast to the side it could've broken off. Bill stood in the doorway, he didn't look serious-serious, just normal serious. Something wasn't right, he had known it wasn't the second Hermione had slumped in his arms, totally unconscious.

They had just got her inside when Fleur had a lightbulb moment, her expression changing completely. She took charge of the situation instantly, deciding it was 'women's matters' and that she would manage on her own.

Ron had been confined to the kitchen. He had sat at the table for what felt like days, watching Fleur come and go- grabbing some towels and pyjamas and that horrible rub Molly has always put on their really good cuts so that they didn't get infected. It had smelt terrible, worse than the stench of Fox that often surrounded the Burrow. Harry hadn't come in- he needed time. Time to dwell on Dobby, on all that had happened at the manor. Ron knew his best friend didn't always cope with comfort, he had been alone most of his life where as Ron had been surrounded by a family where at least one person would have a sensible answer to his problem.

Ron knew also that Harry's thoughts didn't lay with Hermione. He knew only his own felt this strong, he would never forget those sounds, the sounds of Hermione's screams as her arms were bitten and the crutiatus curse laid upon her time after time. He felt sick, the second she had dropped in his arms as they buried Dobby he had felt his breath stop, his heart go into overdrive. She had been harmed so much, she was bleeding from her arms, her face. She had appeared white and had said nothing until the funeral. A simple and soft 'Ron' was all that came from her mouth before she had dropped in his grasp.

Now she was upstairs, and he wasn't allowed to see her. What sort of women's problem could be causing her to collapse so suddenly and to look so ill.

He looked back at his eldest brother, rising in his seat before Bill could utter anything more than his name. But Bill beckoned him forwards, leading the way up the stairs. His face was solemn, "she wants to see you" was all he said. On the landing they met Fleur, she carried a large basin covered by a burnt orange towel. There were tears in her eyes. Ron felt his throat tighten.

Bill led him to the end of the corridor, knocked on the door and turned to follow his wife down the stairs.

"Ron?" Hermione's voice was soft and croaking- she didn't sound like herself, sounded like she had been crying. He felt his throat squeeze along with his heart. He felt more sick than he had downstairs.

Slowly he turned the door handle and let himself in. The room was small and quaint, there was a fire burning with blue smoke, a glass vase of flowers on top of the white dresser and an old looking single bed with a cast iron frame. Hermione sat in the bed, her back supported by pillows in a reclined position. She had her knees up and a patchwork blanket covered her from the waist. She was very pale, her complexion almost matching the white of the pillows but now the cuts had been washed on her face, her arms bandaged. He could smell fox from across the room indicating the rub had been used.

Her face was tear stained and she still looked close to tears although emotionless too. Something was wrong.

"I didn't even get the chance to tell you," she sniffed tears running down her cheeks once more, tell me what?

She crunched forwards on herself, clutching her stomach with both hands, wincing momentarily before she straightened again.

"Hermione, what is going on? I didn't think your monthlies could do so much harm, I mean Ginny gets in some mood but she's never fainted." The whole time Ron spoke his best friend shook her head slowly, he eventually gave up and tapered off- aware he was probably blushing.

Hermione sniffed delicately.

"It's not that- quite the opposite in fact."

The opposite, what on earth did that mean. Bloody hell it didn't mean, she couldn't be- Hermione interrupted his thoughts with the truth.

"I, I've had a miscarriage Ron."