Yet another Fremione fic, for the Houses Competition (yay?). I hope you all enjoy!
House: Ravenclaw
Category: Themed
Prompt: "We need to talk about this"
Word count: 2662
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Pregnant.
Preggers.
Growing a baby.
Oh God.
Shocked? Yes. Terrified? Yes. Scared? Absolutely.
I turn over the little white stick between my fingers, trying not to think of when Ron used to twiddle his quills back in fourth year. Instead, I am staring at the two pink lines which reveal the truth. I focus on those two pale pink lines in horror. The ones that explain my sickness and absolutely foul moods of late. Panic begins with the tingling in my fingertips and heart, eventually spreading through the rest of me. The old tremor in my hands comes back. I try to focus on something else, anything else.
I peed on this stick.
Yeah, that's good. That's pretty disgusting. I'm now touching something I have peed upon and will need to thoroughly sanitize afterwards. Gross. At least I don't feel nauseous right this second.
A low grumbling grunt from the bedroom disturbs my slightly erratic thought processes, coming from through the open door to the ensuite.
Fred's awake. My living-with-me boyfriend, who happens to also not be prepared for a pregnancy. Quickly, I stash the pregnancy test and box into my "feminine drawer". Then I wander casually back into the room, as if I am half asleep, which is not the case at all. One hand placed upon my aching belly, and the other lightly touching my hair, uncertain of what to do.
Am I supposed to tell him? That's sort of a given. Of course I'm supposed to, but that doesn't mean I'm not bloody terrified as to how he's going to take it.
His bright red hair is just visible, tucked beneath the all-too-comfortable duvet. He mumbles something unintelligible, swiping a freckled hand at the offensive amounts of light in the room. From between the white sheets, his whole body turns over, reaching for me in my spot. I'm not there. The surprise of it, maybe, makes him slowly shuffle into a sitting position, tousled red hair sticking out unceremoniously in every direction. Nevertheless, it makes me smile - too tense to laugh. I sit on the corner of the bed, just out of reach. Bleary-eyed, he blinks away the remnants of sleep and yawns. Like every morning, he stretches against the headboard before making his usual proclamation.
"I had such a strange dream," he laughs. "Heck knows what it was about, though." He pauses, trying to think back. "You were there… We were in this big, old mansion. A rabbit featured pretty heavily, as well as this rickety old trampoline Dad used to have." He chuckles to himself. "I am fairly certain the building was made entirely out of gummy bears – I must be craving them."
"The rabbit didn't eat the gummy bears?" I ask, appeasing both him and myself with the questions.
"Surprisingly not," he notes, grinning at me despite his tiredness.
"A very odd dream," I conclude.
He stretches out again, clicking his back and glancing towards the chink in the curtains, where the light is brightest. He winces. Meanwhile, I am sat thinking about what my belly will look like in another three, four, five months time. And babies. Cute and ugly babies. But a baby that's going to be inside of me, nonetheless.
"Are you alright?" he asks. "How come you're awake before me? I'm supposed to be making you a cup of tea in bed!" I laugh in response. It doesn't matter to me to get a cup of tea in bed when I'm feeling ill, but that's what he does anyway. He hauls the sheet from his pyjama-bottomed body and climbs out, still grinning playfully. "Come on, back to bed with you."
"Fred, I'm fine –" I start to laugh properly too when he reaches for me, throwing me over bare shoulders and placing me on top of the newly-squashed duvet.
"Ah! But, but, but!" he calls out. "I said I would take care of you."
The duvet is thrown over my legs and chest, with Fred laughing as he heads straight downstairs and clicks on the kettle. I know he's trying not to be noisy, but his attempts are fruitless. Fred Weasley has always given off an aura of bright, mismatched colours, and loud, raucous noises. Our contrasting natures are exactly what allow us to fit so well together, and certainly why I love him. It's also why I don't want to lose him. Even if, at the moment, he is in the white zone of blissful ignorance.
"Are you feeling any better this morning?" Fred sets the steaming mug of tea on my bedside table and crawls over me, back into bed. I shuffle closer to him, a little subconsciously, and murmur my response.
"Much, thank you. No icky-ness just yet."
"What d'you reckon it was?"
"Probably just a stupid stomach bug or virus. It'll go away in a few days."
I hate lying to him.
"Alas," he cries, "I scared it away!"
The rest of our languid morning is a mixture between utterly wonderful and utterly horrible. It leaves me painfully stressed out. My entire body cramps with tension after every light touch, feeling as though my hormones are protesting every movement. It's foul, but I smile my way through it, enjoying being with the man I love. Plus, any thinking beyond our tumble and laughter in the sheets makes me feel as though I am lying with every heartbeat and every whispered word. Even the thought of lying causes the familiar scalding, toilet-water bile to rise in my throat, as the pressing uncertainty crushes my spirit like a hydraulic press.
Fred is one of those people who should never be lied to.
Tuesday morning, three days later, and I'm heaving at the toilet again, knowing I will not be able to go into work. There's no food in me, leaving the taste of bitter bile to churn through my mouth. Every breath is painful. It doesn't help that Fred is tantalisingly there, his warm hand on my sweaty back, comforting me, the liar who is supposed to love him.
"Maybe you should go to the doctors? Or St Mungo's?" he suggests.
"I'll be fine… In a few days," I say, breathing heavily. The words are barely out of my mouth before I am hurling again, coughing against the basin and feeling utterly vile (and probably looking it too). I do try my best to sound convincing. "I probably ate something Fred, just go to work. If I need you, I'll call."
He frowns, rubbing my back and holding my hair out of the way.
"You know, I can let George know you're still ill. He's got Verity and Ron today. He won't mind if I don't go in just for today."
"No, go." I pause, feeling suddenly nauseous again. "Today's your big inventing day with George. He needs you."
"And you…?" he asks, tentatively, stopping all motions in that moment.
"I'm fine."
I smile, for good measure. I must look awful.
He kisses me on the forehead before leaving, tipping his fun-hat-of-the-day in farewell.
As soon as the door clicks shut and I am able to crawl back to my hovel of a bed, nausea having subsided, I call Ginny. She picks up on the second ring. I speak before she can call me out on any engaging conversation.
"Gin, I need to talk to you."
I get the words out quickly, too afraid that I'll blubber my way into a mammoth explanation and conversation over the phone. I can't let that happen, because I need to talk to my best friend properly. Because I am scared. I'm scared. Scared because I'm young and in love, but so unsure of what might happen if I let a child come in between me and Fred. I'm terrified he won't want this life with me, and especially not right now. Why would he? It's understandable if he doesn't want to be tied down to me.
"Okay – are you alright?" Ginny asks. "Is this a phone or face-to-face talk?"
"Face-to-face," I reply shortly, feeling the familiar sting behind my eyes. I blink it away.
"I'm on my way. Love you." Then she hangs up.
Within seconds, she's opening the front door and I'm traipsing downstairs, having thrown on my baggiest pair of jeans and an old Doctor Who t-shirt. I know I look like rubbish, but Ginny is in sports leggings and one of Harry's old shirts. We talk vaguely for a few minutes, about our morning so far, and plans we have made of the day. Whether I'm feeling better; if Fred went to work today. Eventually, we're shirting into comfortable positions on my couch. Unfortunately, this very comfort causes the words to spill as a confession from my lips.
"I'm pregnant."
The very words seem to contaminate the air itself, making it heavy and suffocating. Ginny, to her credit, looks completely shocked rather than disgusted. I feel like shouting me too, ME TOO, but instead wait for her verbal response, for several long seconds.
"Okay," she says slowly, measuring her words. "Okay. Have you told Fred?"
Ever so slowly, I shake my head, because the tears are there. Eyes stinging, chest aching, and mind spinning. The salty water is suddenly running down my cheeks. I can't stop them. I can't lose Fred. It just can't happen. But I feel so stupid. There is this pivotal moment in my life, and there's this chance that he won't want this; that he won't want me. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"It's okay, you don't have to tell him yet. We don't know for certain, right?" Ginny hops closer to me, curling an arm around my shuddering shoulders. "I'll pop out to Tesco, get three or five more tests, and then you can pee on lots of different sticks? How's that?" I laugh and nod, the tears streaming down my now-smiling face, and feeling like a red and blotchy idiot.
Almost a week later, I am ill again, meaning Fred chooses to take the trash out instead of me - he let me off the hook, but only when I bribed him for cake.
A resounding crash echoes from outside. For a moment, I wonder what on earth has happened. Seconds later, I am faced with a Weasley twin staring down at me from the open doorway to the living room, holding a pregnancy test box and not saying a single word.
"Fred, I –" I begin, but words fail me. "Oh God, I'm sorry, I –" And again. "Please say something." The last of my words come out quiet, as I stand up to face him. His eyes wander between me and the box, piecing things together.
"Is… Is this yours?" he asks, his words coming out rough, not quite accusatory. "Were you planning on telling me?"
I nod, silent, my heart pounding like the engine of a freight train. He takes several more moments to stare at the box, and back at me, flummoxed. I don't want him to get the wrong idea. It's impossible to not try and imagine every emotion which must be racing through his head. Suddenly, I have to speak before his mind rationalises anything ludicrous.
"I should have told you as soon as I knew. I never meant to keep it from you. I'm just terrified, and I understand that you are too." I stumble over every syllable. Fred is still frozen, as if uncertain as to what's going on around him. "I am so sorry. I understand if you're done, if you're going to leave. I know that we're still young, and maybe this wasn't supposed to be forever. I love you, Fred, I do. I can't get rid of a baby, though. I just can't do it." I pause, catching my breath, letting the tears fall again, and hating myself for them. "You can leave," I tell him. "I won't judge you. I love you, and I'm not going to force you to be with me because I'm carrying your child. That's not how it works. I'm not –"
"Hermione?" Fred asks quietly, interrupting my inane word diarrhoea. "This… Baby. It's mine?"
I frown at him.
"Who else would it belong to?" I say, confused at his confusion. "Of course it's yours. But you don't have to stay out of obligation - or anything else. I know you could go back to the flat, and just forget me. Maybe we can see each other at Weasley dinners, or –"
"Hermione!" he bellows, dragging me from the deep end, back to him.
I'm stunned into silence.
"We need to talk about this! We need to just talk. So, please, just… Stop for a second," he says more gently, running an agitated hand through his hair and setting the box on a nearby cabinet. He breathes out heavily, gesturing to the sofa. "Okay, let's just sit."
I can see that a million things are running through his mind, but all I can think of is 'we need to talk'. Talk. Talk. Talk is bad, no? Talking can't be good. That means there are more things that need to be said. What more needs to be said other than "yes" or "no"?
"Fred…" I start, but he interrupts again.
"No, let me speak." He runs a hand over his face, tired, stressed. "How long have you known?"
"About a week."
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks, sounding pained.
"I thought you would say that it's too soon, and tell me that we can't do it. I didn't want that yet. I know we don't have the money, and you're too busy," I murmur, voice cracking. He takes one of my hands, squeezing it. "We're still young, and it's not the right time for a child. I know you might not get it, but –"
"I want this baby."
My entire brain and body slams on the brakes.
"You're just saying that."
"No, Hermione," he smiles. "I'm really not."
"I don't want to steal time from you, Fred. It's not the right time for either of us to become parents. I'm not going to spoil your future with a baby and pull you away from everything you know." I try to reason with him, feeling the same ache as before that claims me cowardly and scared and lonely; lonelier than I have felt for a long time.
"That's ridiculous," he laughs. Ouch. "There's no difference between you and me here." He gestures between us, then to my stomach. "We made that, together. Heck if I don't remember it." I almost blush. "I love you, and am fairly certain you love me too."
"Of course, I do," I huff.
"Then stop fighting me on this."
Tears well in my eyes again. I hate myself for feeling vulnerable.
"Fred, I'm scared."
"I am too, but it's okay," he shushes me, pulling my body into his side, and seeming to wrap his world of comfort around me. "How could you not think I wouldn't want this with you? I love you so much. So much," he adds, chuckling. "I've grown up having an enormous family. I love kids. They love me. Heck, I even own a joke-shop!"
"I know, I know," I mumble.
"We need to talk about this properly, and about how everything is going to work out. But, please, don't ever think that this is a way of pushing me out." He sighs and plants a kiss on my forehead. "This is the most spectacular news I have had since I found out that George fell into a vat of glitter while I was out." I laugh, remembering the influx of photos that had come through the post.
"And you're sure you want this?" I pull away to look at him, seeing his entire face lit up brighter than the sun.
"Yes. I'm bloody ecstatic."
No traces of sarcasm.
From then, my face splits into an excited grin to match.
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Thanks for reading!