It had been months.

Hell, it could have been a year and she wouldn't have known.

If you asked her what day or time it was she couldn't tell you.

What was there left to do but grieve?

Hermione's face tingled from her self-medication as she sipped the rest of his whisky. She knew he wouldn't mind where he was now. Her body quaked with constant tremors as she read sentences over and over again in her books, even though she had no idea what they said.

The library Ron had built as a nineteenth birthday present for her became her sanctuary. She moved from her big, red chair only to use the loo and to pick out a new book. He had it enchanted so she would never have to leave to eat. What would he think if he knew that the gift he had given her was being abused so?

Her baby stayed with the Potters so she, selfishly, didn't have to worry about neglecting yet another human life.

Meaning she didn't want to be responsible for that death as well.

Her hand moved slowly to her chest to feel the familiar and irregular heartbeat that now resided beneath her ribcage. Yes, the thumping was still there, she was still alive.

The wrong person died.

He wasn't there to dry her tears. He wasn't there to bring her lilies in the morning to apologize for being a git like always. He hadn't shown up yet to tell her that everything could be okay again and he had just been on a little vacation. Everything was quite quickly breaking her piece by piece, driving her more insane by the second.

At times she found herself at the point of being angry with him for dying. Even now that he was dead he still couldn't please her and that disgusted her.

She never saw that he tried his hardest at everything to make her happy while they were married: changing his tone when he could tell she was in a bad mood after a long day at work, making dinner on the nights she just couldn't find the strength to, taking Aubrey to the park when she was too tired to get out of bed to do it herself. Hermione never recognized any of it. He just annoyed her. He read books to try to make things work. He tried everything. Nothing improved.

Drinking seemed to be the only thing he could control. Her hatred for him seemed to be the only thing she could control.

But he was the one person who never let her down, no matter what she tried to force her warped mind to believe. The only one who could bring her to a feeling of hopelessness and despair and keep her there. The one who completed her like no one would ever be able to even if she tried her hardest. The one who kept her in the blue for months and months at a time. The one man who made her laugh like no other and believe in herself.

The constant ping-pong game of emotions that they played, while taking an obvious toll on Ron, stayed imbedded inside her brain and through her steady downward spiral she managed to forget the good in him that had made her love him for eight years in the first place.

She was constantly reminded of him. Ron's smell could be found on every piece of furniture, every article of clothing. She could see him everywhere she looked.

Slow and unbearable torture.

Could that be why she couldn't bear to look at Aubrey? Because she had his eyes and famous red hair? Another Weasley that made her heart ache.

Hermione closed her eyes and took another swig.

"Do you really want to drink yourself to death?"

"I won't. I've only had a few sips." She replied, her cheeks burning as Harry tried to look into her eyes. She wouldn't give in.

"You have to come out sometime."

"Says who?"

"Your daughter, maybe? Remember her? She's been asking about you and Ron. Don't you care?" The words should have stung more than they did.

What do you tell a two year old? Oh, yes, your Mummy killed your Daddy and now she won't see you because she's afraid you'll reject her as well. Brilliant.

"She'll understand when she's older." Is that what she used to convince herself so she could sleep at night?

"Oh yeah, when she's in therapy?" Harry accused.

She looked up at him and stared into his swirling emeralds, memorizing them as she had so many times before. Fresh tears came to the surface of her own honey eyes, trying to make him understand. How could she make him understand?

Her body screamed in protest as she moved to a shallow stone basin that sat in the corner of the room by itself. Harry knew instantly, of course, what it was and walked over to the shimmery liquid-gas. She nodded her head in approval–it was the only way. He prodded it with his wand and stuck his head in.

She couldn't remember when she last put the memories in, but it would suffice until she had the strength to tell him herself.

His face glistened with tears as he rose from the Pensieve minutes later, holding a newfound understanding that only Harry could get away with. "Oh, Hermione..."

She wasn't sure if this time the help she whispered was in her mind or out loud but he seemed to hear her. His lips found her forehead and they finally seemed to be on the same wavelength.

"I'm taking you to St. Mungo's." he declared. "If I had only known..."

No one could have known, Harry.

--

The next thing Hermione knew she was in a hospital bed, having potions poured down her throat left and right. Harry was by her side, holding her hand as she tried to keep them down.

"I want my baby." She gasped through a particularly nauseous potion to even out her mood swings.

"You can see her in a couple of days, Mrs. Weasley," the Healer told her, pushing her back against the pillows. "For now you need to rest."

She was still Mrs. Weasley.

Her motherly instincts seemed to kick in almost instantly, and she didn't try to hide the relief on her face as the feeling washed over her. She felt like a mother again and it was glorious.

"On her birthday, Harry, promise me I'll get to see her by then."

He nodded and looked at her with pity as she gave over to the Dreamless Sleep Potion, for once not having to dream of her Ron.

--

It was the middle of August they told her.

Hermione recited her newly learned coping skills as she waited for Aubrey, eyes closed in anticipation.

She was getting better. She felt it in her bones. They told her she was getting better. Harry actually saw the improvements. She wished Ron could see how far she had come.

Patience was a virtue that she seemed to lack, her palms sweating while Hermione waited for her. It was beginning to be too much until she heard the pitter-patter of little feet and felt her bed shake as Aubrey scrambled into her arms.

The warmth of her daughter's embrace let her release a great sigh as a weight seemed to lift from her shoulders. The light at the end of the tunnel.

"Mummy's sorry, baby." Hermione murmured into Aubrey's hair, kissing every inch she could touch. Her tears soaked Aubrey's jumper but she didn't seem to mind.

"I still love you." Aubrey said and smiled at her mother.

Hermione pulled back and stared at her two year old.

"Just come home." The innocence of a child. It almost broke her heart all over again.

"I am! I am, as soon as I can. I'm here and I'm not going anywhere."

If Ron could see her now. Hermione tried to control her breathing and held Aubrey close to her. This was the only piece of him she had left. She would hold on for dear life.

She hoped he would be proud of her. She hoped that he would be proud that she found the stores of strength and wisdom that she never knew were there, but he always did.

Hermione loved him. She really did.

--

How we survive is what makes us who we are.

-Survive, Rise Against

--

A/N: My research came to the conclusion that I would add in a ward for natural illness to St. Mungo's, most likely being located on the fourth floor. If Harry took her to a Muggle doctor they would have her committed for probably a long time and that just wouldn't have worked, so, there you go. Enough of my justification. And a special thanks to Ashley for putting her last loving finishing touches on this!

This is dedicated to A- They'll never take me alive.