He couldn't get her to talk. She just lay there on the bed, her eyes dull and blank. It was only when they were told that her milk had dried up did she allow a single tear to fall down her cheek.

Ron Weasley was stunned. He was from a huge family after all, the idea of a child disappearing from them was an unknown concept to him. But Ron knew that he couldn't greive for too long, his wife needed him. She needed him to be strong.

He left Hermione with Ginny by her bedside and returned to their home. Slowly, his foot dragging on each step he made his way up to the nursery. Thankfully, Ginny had had the sense to scourgify the place of blood before her brother turned up. The nursery was unnervingly pure and gleaming. Ron let out a deep sigh and slowly moved over to the cot in the middle of the room. He had insisted on constructing it himeself. He wanted to impress his new in-laws really, to show them how he didn't need a wand always to do the work for him. He remembered how carefully he had put it together, gently stroking the wood to make sure that it was smooth enough for his child, was safe enough to protect it. Now there was no child to go in the cot, but he just couldn't bring himself to take it down. It was too final.

In the cot, there was a small fluffy white lamb looking up at him. He'd bought the toy with Hermione when she announced that she was pregnant, they'd gone shopping in Diagon Alley and were arguing over a miniture Chudley Canon figure or an Owl for their baby, when they'd both clasped eyes on the lamb. It was the first thing that they'd bought for their child, and now, Ron picked it up.

It was soft. Much softer than he'd initially expected. But it wasn't right. A baby's toy should smell of sick, milk, wee, poo, sweat, tears and talculm powder. This was going to have that shop-brought smell for ever. Yet, that it didn't stop him from holding it.

Harry came in to find Ron with his back against the wall, his knees brought up to his chest, and his eyes bloodshot as he clutched the little toy lamb.

Without saying a word, Harry sank down next to his best friend, just to let him know that he was there when he wanted to talk.

'Dad's are supposed to protect their kids.' Ron said in a hoarse sort of voice, as if he wasn't quite used to using it. 'That's what they do. They sort them out after scraps. They hold their hand when they cross the road. They don't-' he tailed off.

Harry swallowed. 'Don't blame yourself, mate. It happens sometimes.'

'But why?'

Ron looked like that anxious eleven year old again. The one who was unsure about disturbing Harry in his train's compartment. He looked to him as if The Boy Who Lived held all the answers.

'I don't know.' Harry said finally. 'I'm sorry. I don't know.'

The pair fell silent again. Looking without seeing the room in which that small life had been so cruelly snatched away from them.

'Maybe, they were needed somewhere else.' Harry said finally. 'But we're still unaware why.'

'Harry,' Ron said slowly. 'Do you think that everything happens for a reason?'

'Yeah.' Harry frowned. 'Everything's planned, been set in order. I think we change some things that weren't supposed to be – but we can't change the things that were. But that makes no sense, because this was supposed to happen – it was a given. She was supposed to born.'

He'd said too much, in thought he had let his mind tail away and run away from him.

'Harry.' Ron's voice was suddenly sharp, cutting through his thought progression. 'What are you talking about? She was supposed to be born. What do you know that I don't?'