Two days had passed since Hermione had given birth to her stillborn daughter. The paper had even gotten wind of it somehow, toting "Golden Trio Members Suffer Great Loss." Hermione had been discharged from the hospital, but refused to leave her room. She had not gone to the small funeral for her daughter, and she had refused all visitors outside the family. She banished all tokens of sympathy from the house. No flowers, no condolence cards, no food. The house was void of all signs of a grieving family.
Ron had been granted a small leave from the Auror Academy to attend to Hermione, but she wasn't receptive to him. He tried desperately to comfort his wife, but when they slept at night, she wouldn't allow him to hold her. The once seemingly small bed was now enormous, void of the extra flesh that had consumed it when Hermione was pregnant.
Many nights, Hermione had awakened frantically, hearing the sounds of a baby crying, a cold sweat covering her. She'd make her way to the nursery, taking hold of the baby blanket, that Molly had made, and sitting in the rocking chair. Her breasts would leak, and she was ashamed. She was told that she would stop lactating within a week, but a part of her didn't want to. A part of her held onto it, relishing the fact that she was not as she thought she was, empty and void. She usually slept in the rocking chair, finding it nearly impossible to be in the same bed as her husband, who she believed to resent her. The cries were bleeding over into her waking existence, and she couldn't empty her head of her crying child.
Nobody could understand that her daughter was haunting her, blaming her, taunting her. If only she hadn't taken that bath, pleaded with God to grant her a good night's sleep. Now she felt that she would never sleep again, though the healer had given her a sleeping draught. She didn't want to take it. She wanted to hear her baby's cries, she wanted to be punished for killing her daughter. She deserved it.
As the weeks wore on, Hermione was beginning to reclaim some sort of routine. She and Ron existed in silence, but they were finding a way back to each other. Ron would take her on long walks, down by the riverbank, where she would allow him to hold her hand. They walked in a sort of comfortable silence, each grateful to the other for not speaking of that which held them silent. Hermione spent most nights in their bed, finally allowing Ron to hold her again, but some nights she would still creep into the untouched nursery to sit in the rocking chair and listen to her daughter cry.
One day, on one of their many walks, Ron broke their comfortable silence. "I'd like to take you somewhere, if you'd allow me?" Hermione nodded and allowed her husband to lead her to a secluded place by the river's edge that she'd never been to. It was an Eden of sorts with trees offering shade from the spring's newly bursting sun. A stone pathway led to a bench, and a bench faced a rock. Ron escorted Hermione to the bench and sat her down. He conjured some flowers and placed them at the rock's front, where Hermione could make out the slight markings.
She soon realized that Ron had brought her to her daughter's grave, and she was strangely amused at how peaceful it was. She read the markings, and had only for the first time realized that someone had given her daughter a name. The stone read:
Bella Grace Granger-Weasley
Beloved Daughter
b. Feb. 17, 1999 d. Feb. 17, 1999
Hermione spoke, "Beautiful Grace…Ronald." She was overwhelmed with emotion, never having thought to give her daughter a name. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, as she finally allowed shock to leave and grief to overcome her.
She made her way to the stone and traced the lettering with her fingers. "I'm so sorry Bella. I'm sorry I killed you. I'm sorry I wasn't a better mother, a protective mother. I should have held you…should have cradled you in my arms…should have…I should have loved you." Ron stepped behind her, sitting down and pulling Hermione into his arms as she wept.
"It's not your fault 'Mione. It was never your fault. You were a perfect mother. Our daughter was perfect. Let it go…just let it all go." He pulled her closer to him, willing his strength to hold.
"I…I'm so sorry Ronald. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, that I couldn't help you…that you grieved alone…that you saw our daughter by yourself…that I couldn't…that I couldn't. I didn't want to see her. I should have seen her, held her, told her she was perfect…now I'll…I." Hermione couldn't continue, and buried her head in Ron's shoulder as she felt him shift into a different position. He pulled her away from him slightly, forcing her to look him in the eyes, as he mouthed the words 'I love you.'
"It isn't much, but here…" Slowly, Ron produced a photograph from his jacket pocket, and setting it in his wife's trembling hands. She saw a moving Ronald, his body shaking with emotion and tears cascading down his cheeks as he held a still, unmoving bundle in his arms. She could barely see the tiny face, but it was clear enough that she saw the stilled blue eyes and soft brown hair. It was her daughter. She had seen her daughter, and a gush of relief washed over her, cleansing her of the regret she had in not seeing Bella when she had been born. The still newlywed couple examined the photo through tearful eyes, bonded by a grief that was too great for a young couple to have to experience, but Ronald spoke through the grief again.
"'Mione, you have to let her go. We have to move on. Life goes on. It happens to fast to spend it grieving. Ginny will be graduating soon, which means she and Harry will wed. Ginny needs you. She needs someone who's been through it to help her. She doesn't want Fleur as her matron of honor. She wants you. And for that to happen, you have to get past this. We'll never forget our daughter, but we can't continue to thrive on the grief. Move with me Hermione. Let's make a life together. Come back to me…please." Ron spilled his heart, which had been aching for weeks.
"I…I can't go through this again Ronald. I need you to know that. I don't want any more children. I won't risk it. Please don't hate me. If you want me to move on, then you have to realize that I can't go through this again…the risk is too great and the pain is too much." Hermione said through her own tears.
"I think I'm okay with that 'Mione, and I don't hate you, but please…please don't close out the idea. Someday, when it's not so raw, you may want another baby, and we can go through it together."
Hermione was disgusted with the thought of having another baby, but didn't protest her husband. She knew he needed to cling to something…some hope, even if it was a fruitless hope. They returned to their home, no longer two separate, grieving people, but a couple, mourning the loss of their first child. They were moving on, even when they didn't feel they had the strength. When one was weary, the other would hold them up, and visa versa. It was a painful and difficult process, one which no couple should be tried with, so newly introduced to the world of matrimony, but they were dealing.
Ron completed his auror training in early summer, a few months after Harry, and Hermione returned to her work at the ministry. People, even her own family, still looked at her with sorrowful eyes, feeling sorry for her, and being afraid of saying the wrong thing. But Hermione pushed through it, and began to focus on Ginny and Harry's wedding, immersing herself in the planning. Molly allowed Hermione to help more than she would have, had the circumstances been different. Ginny would be a beautiful bride, and Harry a wonderful husband. Life goes on, and eventually, you have to move with it, or else everyone leaves you behind.
Hermione wanted to move on, and she was progressing fine. She couldn't bring herself to pack the nursery away, so she just locked the door, and she pretended it didn't exist. She still woke every so often to the sounds of a crying baby, and she would whimper. Ron would pull her closer and run his hands through her hair, offering a silent comfort. Yes, they would make it with the comfort of one another.