Chapter 147: Picking Petals

That Fiona had been being disciplined cycled them back to her own magic going haywire while she was emotional, and the very solid argument that blowing oneself up just didn't happen with childhood magic. The impassioned debating went on for a while longer, travelling in circles, digressing time and time again into unhelpful outbursts.

If someone had gotten past the Order's defences on Fiona's home, that meant someone was on to what the Order was doing. It was something able to be checked, however, and when Lee came in with the news that, as far as he could tell, the anti-magic ward on Fiona's house was intact, it just made even less sense what had happened.

'Check it yourself in the morning,' Lee said to Sirius. He rubbed his forehead and went on, 'Could we have missed something? Maybe Fiona's not the only magical child in her house? One of her siblings could've been angry with her?'

It was a wild and horrible suggestion – if Fiona's mother was feeling bad about her child dying that way in front of her while doling out a lecture, if a sibling ever learned they'd been the cause of Fiona's death due to some childish fury…

But there was nothing to substantiate it. That their records of Muggle-born children was incomplete was well known. Were one of Fiona's siblings magical as well, though, they'd have been unable to get past the wards that let only Muggles and Fiona through. Not to mention it would be exceedingly rare for such young children to actually blow a sibling up with their magic. And as far as Hannah and Molly were aware, none of Fiona's two siblings had been upset at the time.

On and on, and around and around the debating went. Hermione headed up for bed as the first of their group trailed out and home, taking their departure as permission to leave those still headstrong with discussion in the kitchen. Extra watches were being posted for the foreseeable future, the aim to gain a better idea of what might have happened by keeping eyes on all the homes of Muggle-born children, Fiona Turnbull's included. Hermione wouldn't be asked to serve on any of those watches.

Feeling impotent, on top of everything else, she turned out the light and got into bed, making herself provide Crookshanks a few little pats before shutting her eyes and begging for a clear mind and sleep.

She wasn't asleep by the time Sirius came up to bed. Hermione felt his side of it sink as he sat down and leant over to stroke her side.

'How're you holding up, Sweets?'

Hermione's eyes squeezed more tightly shut. She couldn't take his tenderness. She couldn't take the feel of his touch. It didn't feel right – nothing felt right.

She rolled over so her back was to him.

'Please, Sirius,' she whispered, her throat painful and constricted, 'not now. I'm sorry…'

Unmoving, through ongoing seconds that had Hermione wanting to leap out of her skin and scream, Sirius's hand stayed resting on her waist. He let go finally, not saying anything, and provided Crookshanks the affection Hermione wasn't. Then he got up and shut himself in the bathroom. When he got out, he said not a word, just climbing into the other side of the bed.

The added burden of terrible guilt and shame kept Hermione awake for a good while longer. She could feel, deeply, just how much she was hurting Sirius – his unspoken indictments against her.

When she did find sleep, it was to horrible dreams of children blowing up, Flint's and Rowle's faces dancing with glee… as Umbridge giggled her revolting, simpering laugh.

Hermione roused from restless tossing and turning before first light and didn't stick around, not even to shower. She didn't want to spend time with Sirius – she couldn't deal with him right now.

She got into the kitchen before even Kreacher, grabbed her elixir, stocked up on several of the pre-packaged snacks Sirius had bought for her – trying to ignore his sweet thoughtfulness – and closed herself once again into the library.

For a while, Hermione could concentrate on her textbooks. It was almost a relief to be in their impersonal pages.

But then, with the house awake and moving about beyond the doors of her sanctuary, Hermione realised she hadn't touched a single one of the craving foods staring at her from the armchair. It was the third day, now, that she hadn't experienced a single craving. And despite using it as an excuse, she hadn't had a real hot flash in about as long.

It was stupid to worry that meant there was something wrong with Monkey. She was nearing her second trimester, Hermione told herself. It was usual for things to get better about now.

And she knew, too, that anxiety wreaked havoc with her body. It always had. All nausea she'd had over the past couple days could definitely be the product of anxiety – and maybe that was fulfilling her morning sickness quota for each day.

But when she'd been terribly anxious, in that tent with Harry and Ron, she'd ended up with hormone levels low enough that she didn't have a period…

That was largely lack of food, Hermione reminded herself.

And stress…

Which made a mess of normal hormone levels…

And then, the heavy book she'd been holding falling from her limp hands to thunk onto the floor, Hermione had an even worse thought.

Would it be so bad, really, if she lost the baby? She could pretend to the Ministry she was still pregnant – it wasn't as though they were checking too closely on that. It would free her from… obligations…

No! Hermione's mind screamed, a shudder ricocheting through her. No! She wasn't going there!

She shot to her feet, her mind on those pregnancy notes she'd compiled – sure she could find something in them about what her anxiety could be doing to her ability to sustain Monkey. Or, at least, something about whether or not the disappearance of pregnancy symptoms as early as the eleventh week was a bad sign…

Furious with Sirius for persuading her not to memorise those notes, Hermione ran for the door. She'd have to go find them – they were either in her trunk or on top of it, she couldn't remember which.

No idea what time it was, Hermione judged by Harry's partially open door. It meant he'd left for watch. So Sirius was probably out running about the Devon countryside.

Staying quiet in case anyone was about, Hermione ran straight up and through the unlatched door, stopping in the middle of her and Sirius's bedroom.

Where she froze. The bathroom door was ajar, the shower on…

Sirius hadn't been in there long. Hermione could see his back right through the unmisted glass. His forearm was on the wall in in front of him, his head bowed, forehead resting on his arm.

He wasn't… upset. One step to the side confirmed what Hermione thought.

Sirius's back was tense, his shoulder moving… because it was moving with his hand.

She couldn't pull her eyes away. For a moment in utter abstraction, she watched him shudder, pause, then resume pleasuring himself.

Hermione turned, notes forgotten, and fled straight back to the library.

She barely got the door shut before collapsing on the sofa and staring at her hands. There were sparks shooting the length of her arms, colliding with her fingertips in bursts.

What? She thought. Just… what?

There wasn't anything wrong with doing that. She was definitely not in the mood. Rarely had been, lately. And was far from in the mood now. Sirius wouldn't need to ask to know that.

It was just… as far as Hermione was aware, he hadn't done that – at least, not for the time she'd been with him.

Or, even if he had… Even a couple weeks ago, if Hermione had walked in on him doing that then…

She could imagine she wouldn't feel the way she did now about it. Now – now it did feel like there was something wrong with it. Or – wrong with them.

'Oh – oh no!'

Panic hit Hermione like a speeding lorry, rushing through every inch of her, head to toes.

Was she sure – completely sure – she loved Sirius?

It was a horrible question. And a very valid concern – a very, very valid concern. If she didn't, she'd messed everything – absolutely everything – up.

'Oh – ohmygod!' Hermione slipped off the sofa, her backside colliding with a corner of her textbook. 'What have I done?'

Her hands shook, hard. They were in her vision, propped on her knees, the palms open in front of her.

Everything had happened so fast – she'd let it happen! Sirius had been wary – she hadn't! She'd taken his heart in her hands and promised to keep it – even as he'd warned her she could break it.

What – a month and she'd decided she needed him! Another month and she'd promised to stay with him forever. A couple months later –

And he was the father of her child – the child she couldn't deal with!

It was insane! What had she been thinking?

What –

'Oo-oh…' Hermione warbled, feeling sick.

What if… what if she'd been relying on him like… like some sort of – of protective dad figure? A substitute – who could give her everything she needed – look after her, keep her company –

Fix it when things went wrong.

The thought circled, and circled back, over and over, tying Hermione's mind into knots, new thoughts feeding into the vicious cycle.

It had been when she'd started to find him attractive she'd thought she loved him. She had Sirius Black – any teenage girl would fall over backwards to say the same! He'd called her a silly little girl before, and maybe that was exactly what she was: a silly little girl – besotted, not in love.

Every little moment she'd felt love flare up for him had been accompanied by thinking him downright gorgeous.

Or tragic.

The romance novel fabled allure of turning the tragic hero – a bad boy – into a loving partner. It was so predictable – so many women fell for that!

The earth was crumbling away from where Hermione sat, pathetic on the library floor. Earth, rocks, bricks, mortar – her life – cascading away under her backside, falling into a deep abyss.

They said a heart attack felt like an elephant sitting on your chest. And then there was that irregular heartbeat she'd had a couple nights ago – and stress made you more likely to have a heart attack –

For long, terrifying minutes Hermione was sure she was dying. Just there, on the floor, her heart struggling to beat under an elephant. She couldn't breathe. Stars swam in her open eyes, the light around them going dark.

She couldn't breathe!

It's a panic attack Hermione! she shouted at herself. Just a panic attack! You've had them before!

But this one didn't feel like those panic attacks. This one felt like her heart was truly about to stop, dead in her chest. This one felt like the doom of the utter end squashing down on her.

A loud cry of a meow. Crookshanks forced himself between Hermione's chest and raised knees, pushing under her arms, purring incessantly.

Only Crookshanks there to help break her out of it. Hermione's heartbeat was rushing in her ears. Her hands had gone cold.

She breathed through pinched lips. Sobbing, shaking like mad, her lips pursed – dropping her head back on the sofa seat behind her, and wanting to scream for it all to just end!

How could she? The thought repeated again and again in Hermione's head. She was a horrible person! What she'd done to Sirius was unforgivable!

And all utter self-loathing did, somehow, was add to the panic.

On and on and on it went, as unforgiving as it should be – Hermione's cheeks cooled by sluicing tears slipping over them to puddle on the sofa cushion; hot, shaking and sweating like mad, alone in a wood-panelled library but for the fuzzy ginger cushion keeping up a steady reverb of purrs on her lap. And it seemed a heart that felt ready to give up and die on her wouldn't, it beating away and beating away in her chest even as she railed and sobbed against it.

But it did let up. Even after Hermione had given up on bothering to get it to stop, it did finally let up. Because she was weak and useless, and she hadn't enough energy in her body to feed an endless panic attack.

And there was Crookshanks, staring up at her when Hermione gave in to the ache in her neck and lifted her head. Purring. For all she'd barely brought herself to pet him for days now. For all she'd shouted at him or told him off.

She petted him, for his sake. Gave him a reassuring rub and scratch, though his fur was far too soft on hands that felt numb and weird. He was a good boy, really. Such a heartbreakingly good soul. And he let her stay there, slumped on the floor, her petting hands shivery and unsteady. Just sitting there with her. Purring for her sake.

But the cat's adoring gaze was too loving. Too trusting.

Hermione stared at the far wall, not seeing it, just staring, a hundred thoughts and memories filling into her mind in support of just how horribly she'd screwed everything up.

She stayed there. For a long time. All the way up until the library door opened behind her.

And the kind, low baritone she couldn't bear to hear called, 'Hey, Mione –'

'GO AWAY!' Hermione shrieked, crazed, a frightened Crookshanks leaping off her lap. 'LEAVE ME ALONE!'

There was a silence, then the door clicked quietly shut.

Hermione scrabbled to her feet, a hand clutching her stomach. She barely made it across the library, let alone to the bathroom. Nothing in it to vomit up, Hermione retched spittle, mucous, and bile onto Sirius's nice, newly-polished floorboards. Her head swimming terribly, the smell overpowering, she stumbled to the window and yanked at the latch.

It didn't open. Thumping and yanking with ferocious fury, Hermione got the window open – it swinging out so quickly she swung with it, grabbing hold of the frame just before she tipped, head-first out of it on onto the alley pavement three storeys below.

Then she fell, hard, onto her backside on the floor. Her body curled instinctively into a ball, arms crossing over her whining head.

How could she tell Sirius? Tell him – tell him she regretted everything?

Her jaw hurt. Hermione's hands balled up, tight, squeezing at her fingers – and she let loose. Beating at her stupid fucking legs, throwing her fists into her flesh – trying to find swings, after so many that felt weak and rubbish, that delivered enough force to really feel that pain. Beat them to a goddamn pulp – feel it.

And then she dropped her hands, hard, to the floor, so her knuckles would smack into the floorboards.

She couldn't even run to her parents – she had nowhere to go.

And, Hermione realised, she didn't want them to see her anyway – even if she could go to them. How could she go back? After everything that had happened – pregnant by a man whose heart she'd broken.

After what she'd done to them? Betrayed their trust –

Betrayed Sirius's.

Better he hated her. Much, much better if he would hate her.