Title: Almost Wish

Warning(s): Angst, death, brief mention of blood.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, 'Child burial' by Paula Meehan, you should go read it!

Spoilers: None that I noticed

Note: A while back I had to study 'Child burial' for an essay. It's a really sad poem but it's now one of my favourites, and about a week after my essay was finished I was inspired to do a D/Hr, since I've yet to read any story I like of them as parents.

Please note this piece is inspired by the poem 'Child burial', and I only hope to how much I love it, and how it touched me. I include a link to the original poem.


Almost Wish

The sky was a perfect baby blue, and the blossoms in the tree, stirred slightly, the breeze scattered the petals across the pale coffin covered in white flowers. 'It looks like a wedding cake' Hermione thought as she stared at the casket. She could not tear her eyes away, even the empty words of the priest, the teary eyes of her family and friends, even the grip her husband had on her hand, she just stared at the grim confection. White, tiny angels in their cheerful engravings.

A few days ago, she and Draco had sat in their son's cheerful room to pick out his burial clothes. They chose his Christmas outfit, blue trousers and a simple white shirt with a navy tie. It was Johnathon's favourite, he said when he put it on he looks just like daddy, all grown up. Hermione had later picked up Johnny's soft jumper from the nearest drawer, and held it close to her face, inhaling deeply. It smelt of him, of talcum powder, biscuits, and lollipops. He would be so cold down there, so she decided he should wear the jumper as well.

After the after-funeral gathering, after receiving well-wishes from her guests as they left, and even a rare smile from Narcissa, she went to her husband's study. His back was towards her, facing the fire, but she could see him holding a half-empty glass that glinted amber. As she entered, a picture caught her eye, for she had not seen it in such a long time. It herself, heavily pregnant and very naked. A non-magical photograph taken by Draco in that very study. Lying on the couch by the wide window, one hand and arm covering her full breasts, and her other hand splayed across her belly. Draco's hand taking hers made her start, but as she looked at him she understood the tired look in his eyes. To sleep.

In their lavish bedroom, as she undressed, she could not remove the image of the portrait out of her mind, the full belly, the dreamy, blissful look in her eyes. So naive. Now, she almost wished she could reverse the three years with her son, would take her baby back into her body, and watch the swollen ripeness flatten back to a firm stomach. She is almost certain, if she knew then watch she knows, of the pain and anguish of a loss of someone meant to outlive you, she would shake away the memory of Johnathon's baby smell, his silver-blond hair and beautiful brown eyes. If she knew, she would push Draco away on the night of their son's conception, and then, a week or so later, would let the egg of maybe-Johnathon drip away in red.

When she gets into bed Draco is already in, his back is turned to her again, but as she settles in she feels his roll over so his front is now pressing against her back, in the vast bed. Not a word is spoken, but as his hand rests on her empty stomach she knows he is crying, although he is silent. She does not want to cry either, as hot tears roll down her face, but her heart feels heavy, because he almost wishes that time would go back too.