"A man like me is dead in places
Other men feel liberated"

~Elton John, "I Want Love"

The Owl post had been waiting at her window for at least a half hour., she realized, peeking her eyes out from under the covers. It was a tawny owl, one that she did not recognize, that, frustrated, pecked at the window nonstop for the last fifteen minutes, rousing her from her sobbing-induced sleep. She begrudgingly got up and opened the window, allowing the owl to enter and hand her a cream envelope with some logo embossed on it.

It had been two weeks of Hell for one Mrs. Hermione Granger.

Her husband refused to see her at the hospital, any news she received from about his well being came second hand from Ron or the rest of the Weasleys, whom Harry had no problem seeing.

"He's doing fine, Hermione," Ron had told her comfortingly on the first night she'd been banned from St. Mungo's. "Things are different, and I don't know that he's ready to discuss what's happened yet. He will see you soon, though. Soon."

"Soon, my British arse," she muttered quietly, opening up the message with "Fallman, Vidigal and Skablatsky: Wizard Solicitors Extraordinaire," on its front. "He hasn't wanted to see me yet, he may never want to see me."

She walked to her dressing table and picked up a stray tortilla chip from the unfinished bag, handing it to the owl whom took it thankfully and flew straight out the window.

There was an informal note attached to the official looking documents.

"Ms. Granger:

My name is Parnell Fallman, solicitor-at-law, and I am handling this case on behalf of your husband, Mr. Harold James Potter. By his request, along with that of Professor Albus Dumbledore and Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge, I am attempting to make it as unobtrusive as possible due to extenuating circumstances regarding Mr. Potter's status in wizarding community.

Please do your husband a favor and respond as soon as possible. Any questions may be directed to me at my Muggle offices in London, or my branch offices in Birmingham, Hogsmeade or Calandbury.

Sincerely,

Parnell Fallman, Esq."

Hermione scanned the ivory piece of "official" parchment silently for a few seconds before her eyes settled on the title of the document, seven key words that astonished her so much, she needed to read them a few times:

"Petition for Divorce and Child Custody Agreement."

*****

Not even the guards Harry had specifically requested Percy put in front of his hospital room could keep Hermione out when she Apparated to St. Mungo's.

She brushed passed the MediWitch's Station on the third floor, catching Madam Bocagrande by surprise. Bocagrande attempted to pause Hermione with a terse, "Ms. Granger, you are not allowed to see your husband."

Hermione eyed the ashen woman in front of her, waving the papers around like a mad woman. "Do you see these scraps of parchment? Do you see these scraps of parchment?" Hermione nearly shouted in the hospital corridor, as patients of all shapes and sizes waited their turn to see a doctor.

Bocagrande weighed possible answers – she did not want to be subject of this obviously unbalanced woman's Killing Curse – before settling on a safe, "Yes, I do see those pieces of parchment. They do exist."

"I know they exist, Madam," Hermione replied sarcastically. "I'm not so nutty that you need to secure me a place in your insanity ward."

Oh, hospital security, please come soon, Bocagrande prayed silently as she talked with Ms. Granger.

The guard stationed in front of Harry's door walked to them immediately, noticing Mr. Potter's wife's bushy hair as described by Percy Weasley. Other than the Weasleys and the Longbottoms, and other names as added by Mr. Potter himself – and only Mr. Potter himself – no one else was allowed in the room. For goodness sakes, no one else knew he was alive! And the guard was happy to take a break from Azkaban duty. This was a ride on a broomstick compared to that job.

Assuming his most authoritative tone, he asked the MediWitch, "Madam, is there a problem?"

"No, there's no problem," Hermione snapped. "I just want to see my husband."

Bocagrande smiled her most angelic smile at Ms. Granger before nudging Carl and whispering, "Seems he won't be her husband for long."

She knew! Hermione thought. How did this nosy MediWitch know about this? No matter. I just need to see Harry.

"Is there a problem?" Carl asked again, this time directed towards Bocagrande.

"Yes, Ms. Granger would like to be let in to see a special patient. She does not have the patient. If you would please remove her from the premises. . ." Bocagrande started, deriving a certain pleasure at seeing intelligent Hermione Granger humiliated and thrown out of this establishment.

"What's going on here?" asked Dr. Boonyfetter, looking up from his chart as he passed the trio in the corridor. Upon recognizing Hermione, he exclaimed, "Ms. Granger! Fancy seeing you here."

Tears welled up in her eyes as the desperation surfaced. Her lips trembling, she said simply, "I can't see my husband."

"I know, Ms. Granger. A particular person has not added you to their list of guests," he acknowledged. "Bloody daft move, in my opinion, but I do not create his list of visitors." He focused on his determined and dedicated nurse, who was a professional in her job, if terribly, not in her life. "Madam Bocagrande, Carl, I think I have a handle on the situation. If you'll excuse us. . . Carl, you are welcome to take an extended break with my permission as primary physician."

Carl looked flummoxed for a moment as Bocagrande, beaten, returned to the desk and Gladys. "You don't have such authority, Dr. Boonyfetter," he said with utmost respect.

"My responsibility is to my patient, and I will do nothing that will put his security at risk. Please, do take an extended break with my permission. If anything should happen, you will be summoned at once. Now, please," Boonyfetter said, leading Hermione to Harry's room. He opened the door for her, prompting, "You'll have fifteen minutes. Go ahead," before shutting the door behind her.

*****

"Harold James Potter, you get up this instant," Hermione whispered venomously to her husband, this man, the center of her world who no longer wanted her in his.

Harry's head jumped off the pillow before he could even react, reaching for his wand lying next to him instinctually with his right hand. He rubbed his eyes as his wand was pointed firmly at her, "Hermione?" he asked, shocked.

"Yes?"

"Get out of here. Now. There's supposed to be security at my door."

"There was," she stated matter-of-factly.

"What's going on? How'd you get in here?" he questioned quietly. "Damn incompetent prison staff. I'm going to have Percy's ginger head on a platter when I see him again."

"It's not Percy's fault, darling," Hermione was disturbed when Harry flinched at the last word.

"How did you get in here?" he repeated again.

"None of your damn business." She shook the papers in front his face. "What is the meaning of this?"

Harry concentrated on the blurring words for a second before responding in monotone, "Look like divorce papers to me, Oh Bright One."

"Don't get cheeky with me, Harry. What is the meaning of this? What is the meaning of all of this?" she said, throwing her hands in the air. "I find out your alive, and then I can't see you? Why did you do this to me? What did I do to you?" The tears fell quite clearly as she questioned him.

He seemed to lose function of his voice for a moment as he attempted to explain himself. ". . .I. . ." he started. When that route didn't work, he reverted to the old argument: "You aren't supposed to be in here. Don't me make summon Percy and hospital security."

"What did I do to you, Harry?" she asked again. "I. . . you're my husband. What is it about me that repels you so, when you can see the Weasleys and the Longbottoms without consequence?"

"It's not you, Hermione," he stated simply.

"Then what is it?" she queried, unconvinced.

"It's not you," he repeated steadfastedly. His eyes moved to the parchment now on the side table. "Do me a favor, Hermione. If you love me, just sign those documents. Please, just sign those documents now. As your husband and father of your child, just sign them, I beg of you."

She picked them up and leafed through them, sitting on the bed, unbearably close to Harry when he uttered those words. "What did you just say?" she asked.

"Sign the documents? It's a simple request, 'Mione. Please."

"No, no, about the baby." She looked him straight in the eye. "You don't know about the baby, do you, Harry? I just assumed that since the Weasleys had been around. . ."

He looked confused. "What about the baby? Have we found out the sex yet? It's a little soon, I guess, but with you and your charms, I'm sure you could fathom out some way. . ."

"There's no baby, Harry."

He hands flew to his forehead, absentmindedly caressing the scar that lay on his forehead as he lay against the pillow. "What do you mean, there's no baby? Of course there's a child. You were pregnant, I remember that much very clearly."

"I was pregnant, you're right about that, Harry, amongst other things." She took his hand, but this time, in contrast to that last time two weeks ago, he did not pull away. "I'm not anymore."

"What? I don't understand. You can't just stop a child's gestation, Hermione."

"You can if you miscarry." She smiled compassionately as she gave him time to process the information. "I miscarried, Harry. S-see, the thing was, I thought you were dead. We all thought you were dead. It wasn't a case of you going missing, all of the wizarding world assumed – assumes – you are dead. I miscarried the child when I found out. I was at the Weasleys. . . Due to stress, my doctor said, and not uncommon in first pregnancies either."

"I. . . Hermione. . . I didn't k-know. I am so sorry you had to go through that yourself."

"I wasn't by myself really. I had Ron and the rest of his family, and my parents, and Mrs. Hopkins – she was great about giving me time off when I needed it. I was never really alone, but gods, there were so many times right after the miscarriage that I couldn't even find a reason to get out of bed in the morning." She touched his face. "So many times I wished, bargained, pleaded with whatever was upstairs to let me do this to you one more time." She laughed. "And look at this, I am. I am actually touching you." She pulled closer to him, his face inches from hers. "Gods, do you know how much I love you?"

His body went rigid under her hand, and he pulled his face back. "I'm sorry about the baby, Hermione, I really am, but do yourself a favor. Sign the papers. Don't come back. Let me rephrase that, there will be no problems with security next time. You won't get in."

Today was a lost cause, she could see it in his eyes. For a moment – for a moment – he had let her in again. A glimpse of her husband, not this guarded shadow of a man that lay in a bed with a chart labeled "Potter, Harold James."

"Fair enough, Potter," she replied silkily, "but you know how I respond to a challenge."

With that, with the upper hand, she exited the room, quite intent on seeing the interior of this hospital – of this room – again with little trouble.