In which a life-changing event occurs and Hermione's husband is not the first person she wants to tell.

Age twenty-five, Godric's Hollow.

"I'm pregnant."

Hermione's hair whipped around in the chill November breeze. Her orange scarf flapped around her neck and she tucked her hands deeper into her coat pockets, glancing briefly up at the overcast sky. Harry's smile faded around the edges as he took in her expression. He must have wondered, in that moment, why she wasn't smiling herself.

"Come in," he said, and stepped back, holding the door open for her. Hermione hesitated. Harry half-shrugged and tilted his head towards the entranceway, saying, "Ginny's over at Francesca's with James. He and Emma are having a play date."

Hermione nodded, a small motion, and followed him inside.

A few minutes later they sat cross-legged facing each other on opposite ends of his couch, mugs of steaming hot chocolate in their hands. Hermione stared into hers, unseeing. Harry gave her a moment or two, and then asked. "You're pregnant?" Hermione nodded, and it was Harry's turn to hesitate. "Do...you want to talk about it?"

Hermione hunched her shoulders as if to ward off emotion. Her mouth started talking without consulting her mind and words spilled out without making sense. "I don't—I feel like it's—it's too, I don't know what to—I can't, I don't..."

"Shh, it's alright," Harry said, putting his mug down on the coffee table and scooting forward on the couch. He gently took Hermione's mug out of her hands, set it down on a coaster beside his, and helped her to lie down. She tucked her feet up onto the couch and laid her head in his lap, shivering. "It's okay," he said. "What's wrong? It is Ron's, isn't it?"

Hermione grinned weakly. "Of course it's Ron's, whose else would it be?" Harry looked down at her. There was a pause during which her insides churned uncomfortably, and she lowered her gaze. "Whose else. There hasn't ever been anyone else." The words came out bitter. She thought of the stories her mother used to tell her about old boyfriends and her dating years, and here was Hermione, married at twenty-two, pregnant at twenty-five, only ever been with one person that she wasn't 100% certain was her soul mate but if she wanted to stay in the family she had to stay with him—and that was the real kicker at the heart of it all, she couldn't bear to leave the Weasley clan behind.

Harry's hands brushed her hair, drew it out of her face. Hermione shivered again and suddenly thought of what had happened three years ago on the night before her wedding, or almost happened—fear gripped her heart like icy iron fists. She was overreacting. The stress was getting to her. She felt wetness on her face and realized there were tears there; Harry murmured calming words to her and held her as she cried in his lap, frightened of her misery and of her inability to determine its cause. She loved Ron. She did. Maybe it was just hormones and shock.

She was pregnant. Pregnant. She was going to have a baby. Nine months of preparation—Merlin, her life was going to change, everything, everything was going to change. Her life from now on would be about the baby. Maternity leave—she would have to leave St. Mungo's for a year after the birth. How difficult would it be to go back afterwards? Did they have enough money to have a baby? They both had steady incomes, but children are expensive and so much responsibility...would Ron expect Hermione to stay home and raise their child? There were so many things they hadn't talked about. They had been trying for a whole year now. How had they not had these discussions? All they had talked about—when they had talked about it at all—was how wonderful it would be to have a baby of their own.

And honestly, it was mostly Ron doing the talking.

"I'm not ready," she whispered. Harry kept holding her and rubbing her back. "I—I know it was fine for you and Ginny but I—I—Ron is so determined, we'd been, he had wanted...we've been trying for so long, I thought, I don't know, maybe we couldn't, but now...it's happening, you know, and it's just so overwhelming, and Harry, Harry...I don't know if this is what I want." She paused then. Harry's fingers, brushing over her hair, slowed, then stopped. Hermione stared out at the room, looking at nothing. "I...I don't think this is what I want."

There was a long silence. She felt the warmth of his hand on her shoulder and was aware of her own breathing, the slight rising and falling of her chest. She became intensely aware of every place their bodies were touching—her back and side, his chest, his legs, her head on his thigh, his hand on her arm, in her hair, both completely still, barely breathing—adrenaline shot through her whole body and sent a wave of feeling from her head to her feet tucked up on the couch and her breath caught in her lungs. She shifted unconsciously and his hand, fingers threaded through her hair, moved a little. Her spine erupted with tingles. Oh, god.

"What..." His voice was raspy and deep, his throat dry. She felt him swallow, she was pressed up against him so closely. How had that happened? She tried to concentrate. He took one long, slow breath. "What do you want?"

"I..." she tried to speak, but her voice shook. Hermione slowly turned her head. He was looking down at her.

The front door slammed.

"Harry?" called Ginny's voice from the entrance hall.

Twenty seconds later, Hermione was sitting in the armchair adjacent to the couch, demurely sipping her hot chocolate as Harry set down a copy of the Daily Prophet on the coffee table, turning to greet his wife with a smile as she walked into the living room. James, only a couple of months old, was balanced on Ginny's hip as she leaned down to kiss Harry. Hermione stood to hug her sister-in-law, exchanging pleasantries, placing a hand on Ginny's belly and asking if she could feel the next one coming yet, said no, she's not quite showing, and laughed at Ginny's tale of how little Emma spit up on Francesca just as she answered a phone call from her boss.

Hermione excused herself. She politely declined invitations to stay for dinner while she was there, no, she couldn't possibly intrude on such short notice, laughed off the ridiculousness of thinking she was ever intruding, kissed Ginny on the cheek and James on the top of his head, and accepted Harry's offer to see her to the door while Ginny disappeared into the kitchen, infant son still on her hip.

He closed the front door behind them and they stood there for a while in silence, looking anywhere but at each other. The wind whipped her hair around her face and flapped her orange scarf. They didn't say anything. She just left.