Disclaimer: It's not mine.
***
Hermione's slight form shivered uncontrollably, tears running down her pale cheeks as she lay alone in the sterile white room. She had always hated the cold and impersonal feel of St. Mungo's, from its bare featureless walls to the spell-sanitized odorless air, but never more than in the year since she and Ron had gotten married and had begun trying to have a family.
At the soft whoosh of a door and the clearing of a throat, Hermione scrubbed fiercely at her wet cheeks and turned to meet the sympathetic hazel gaze of Healer Douglas Rubens. "Mrs. Weasley, there's something we need to discuss. I understand your husband is out of the country, but would you like me to contact someone to be with you?"
"No, thank you," Hermione said softly. "Let's just get this over with."
The Healer cleared his throat awkwardly, then sat down in the chair next to her bed with a heavy sigh. "Very well. Mrs. Weasley, as you know, after taking into account your two previous miscarriages this year and your status as a veteran of the second Voldemort war, we decided to run the most comprehensive and thorough tests known to wizardkind and brought in a team of specialists to review the results. I'm afraid I have some bad news."
Hermione swallowed thickly at the undisguised pity in the seasoned Healer's eyes. "Just tell me," she whispered.
The man dropped his eyes for a moment and seemed to gather himself. "I'm afraid your miscarriages appear to result from an unusual substance in your blood that our best people have not yet been able to identify." He cleared his throat again before continuing.
"But whatever it is, it appears to reactivate each time you conceive. Not only is it causing you to miscarry, but it is also causing serious cumulative damage to your reproductive organs for as long as each pregnancy lasts . It's a very good thing that you were here at St. Mungo's for your appointment today, Mrs. Weasley. If you hadn't been able to receive immediate medical care, it's very likely you wouldn't have survived."
The blood drained from Hermione's face as she realised what the man was struggling to tell her. "I can't become pregnant again, can I?"
Rubens met her eyes very seriously. "No, Mrs. Weasley, I'm afraid you can't. I am so sorry, but if you attempt to have a child again, you will most certainly die."
***
Two days later, Hermione was deemed fit enough to return home. The trainee Healer on duty, a pretty blonde witch named Erin, told Hermione that Healer Rubens would be along in a few minutes to see her before she left. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring fixedly at a watercolor painting of nymphs cavorting in a fountain, when Rubens arrived.
The grey-haired Healer watched his patient worriedly for a few seconds, then called softly, "Mrs. Weasley?" She slowly turned her head to face the Healer, and Rubens found himself fighting the urge to flinch as he met lovely deep-chocolate eyes filled with soul-crushing misery.
Normally a rather taciturn man, the Healer found himself pulling over a chair and reaching out to take the young woman's hands in his own. "Mrs. Weasley, I know there's nothing I can say that will lessen the pain you're feeling right now. But I do want you to remember that some of the finest medical minds in the wizarding world will continue to work on your case. There is still hope, my dear."
Hermione smiled faintly. "Thank you, Healer Rubens, but perhaps my becoming a mother was not meant to be."
The Healer squeezed her hands. "Perhaps, but I've always believed that where there's a will, there's a way, as the Muggles say." He smiled gently. "Anyone can see that you would make a wonderful mother, my dear. But until we find a way to fix what is wrong with you, perhaps you might consider adopting? There were so many children orphaned at the end of the war..."
The young witch smiled again, ruefully. "As it happens, I have tried talking to my husband about the prospect of adoption, and he has made it clear that he's not interested. At least, not until after he has a few children of his own. Ron comes from a very large family and I'm afraid he has his heart set on having a Quidditch team of his own, just like his mum and dad."
Rubens frowned slightly. "I'm very sorry to hear that. But there's something else I wanted to talk you about. Shortly after the war, St. Mungo's decided to take a page from the Muggles and began creating support groups for those in need. One of them happens to be a support group for grieving parents. I think it could be most beneficial for you and your husband to attend a meeting or two and talk to someone who has had an experience similar to yours."
Hermione gazed at the Healer thoughtfully for a moment. "I very much doubt if Ron would be interested," she replied quietly. "But I'll consider attending a meeting by myself, if that's alright?"
Rubens smiled gently at his young patient. "Of course it is. The witch who supervises the support group is named Jessamin Whitmore. I'll have her owl you the date and location of their next meeting."
After scheduling her follow-up appointment and taking her leave, Hermione quickly made her way to the nearest exit. Unfortunately, this led her past the St. Mungo's maternity ward, where she was taken aback to see an exhausted, yet radiant Pansy Parkinson Zabini cradling a tiny pink-swaddled bundle and cooing to her newborn as her husband, Blaise, looked on with indulgent eyes filled with love and pride.
As pain stabbed her raw heart anew, Hermione's eyes flooded with tears and she rushed towards the lobby as quickly as she could, darting out the door and nearly bowling over a very startled Severus Snape. The wildly sobbing witch never noticed her former professor, who watched, dumbfounded, as the former Gryffindor know-it-all immediately Disapparated, leaving a single chestnut lock to flutter to the ground in her wake.
