Hermione sits in a Muggle diner, somewhere in the backstreets of London where it seems like most of Europe has immigrated to. She traces patterns on the fake wood whose knots look like eyes staring at her in all her shame. The waitress, a heavy-set blonde woman with grey eyes, comes over and asks her something in a foreign language.
"Вы хотите кофе," she says, and Hermione looks at her in utter confusion. She can't use a translation spell, not here in the Muggle world, and what sounds like Russian isn't one of the languages she speaks.
"I'm sorry," she mumbles, hoping to get the woman to understand that they don't speak the same language, and the woman accommodates.
"You want coffee, da?" Her English is heavily accented, and the phrasing sounds more like a statement than a question, but Hermione nods all the same.
When the woman returns, she presents Hermione with not only a steaming cappuccino, but also a large plate of a cream and chocolate pastry confection.
"My boss Italian. He say bring to you."
Hermione's eyes well up, and she whispers a thank you in the hopes that the woman will leave before she breaks down.
The woman surprises her and slides into the booth across from her.
"My name Katya. Why you sad?"
Hermione contemplates lying, then decides to tell her the truth. What harm will come of telling this poor, Muggle immigrant who's working the graveyard shift at a diner? She's not going to mock the fallen war hero, is she? So she swipes at her tears and the story comes spilling out-what little story there is to tell.
"I miscarried," she says in as much of a matter of fact as she can muster. The woman gives her a blank look. Clearly, this English expression is outside of the woman's rudimentary grasp of the language. She forces herself to tell it in the cold, scientific reality that it is. Saying the truth won't make it any worse.
"My baby died."
This does elicit a response from the woman; apparently, those words are sad in any language. Of course they are, she berates herself, in what world wouldn't they be-
"I know how feel. My cousin Hugo, he fall through ice in river when little. Never found."
So this woman does understand how she feels then.
"Did his mother..." she leaves the sentence hanging.
"Da. She all right. Took her long time but she okay now. Has grandbabies."
Hermione smiles and nods, but in her heart all she can think of is that she will never have more children. She couldn't put herself through that again. Katya seems to sense that her presence is no longer welcome at the table and quietly leaves Hermione to her coffee and her pastry. She eats and drinks very little, but she leaves a generous tip. She considers leaving a note and then thinks better of it.
By the time she gets back home, it is nearly four in the morning. Ron's still up; the lights are on in the kitchen and she can hear him listening to the late night (or is it early morning now?) stereo, probably for Quidditch. When she walks into the kitchen, she's expecting one of his long rants, endless screaming about "where were you" and "do you have any idea how worried I've been" and "in your condition no less." But instead, as soon as he sees her, he puts an arm around her and guides her over to the sofa. He clears away some old Daily Prophets, books, Auror reports and other general clutter. He hands her his half finished cup of tea; it has too much milk for her liking, but she drinks it anyway. She leans her head onto his shoulder and lets herself drift. Ron smells of sweat and chicory smoke, and she knows he's been working with Charlie again. He finds the labor therapeutic. The warmth is comforting, and just before she falls asleep she hears Ron say "We'll floo Harry and Ginny in the morning, love."
For the first time that night her dreams are not full of the child she never bore screaming out for help, nor are they perverted by war memories she thought long buried but resurfacing under the new trauma. Instead, they are of her and Harry and Ron back at Hogwarts, staring out over the grounds in one of those golden moments just before summer truly begins. Both of their arms are around her. She does not smile, not yet, but she looks out over the setting sun and the Black Lake in peace, and she lets go.