The first sound is beeping.
An irritant, fading in along with a dozen strange sensations.
A pinch on her finger.
Plastic around her wrist.
A box noodling with wires and an elastic band, hitched around her belly.
The scratchy cotton of something that has replaced her clothes. It doesn't cover her ass.
Her eyes flicker open in a slow, puzzled waking.
Swallowing feels crackly. Oh right, she was screaming.
She finds her other hand, palm-up on the side of the half-raised bed.
His fingertips thread lightly through hers, his head propped on folded arms.
A night vigil given way to fitful sleep.
Dusky lashes fan against his high cheekbones, waves of his hair spill innocently onto the white sheets. His brows draw, as if his worries have followed him into his dreams.
Hermione could almost touch him. She could just lift her hand and graze the back of her fingers down the carved-marble slope of his face.
The muscle in his firm jaw ticks. He stirs.
He opens his eyes.
Blinking, he pulls up stiffly onto his elbows.
The first look on his face makes her feel like a sailor come home from war.
Involuntarily, her heart soft-kicks.
He takes up her hand, pressing it to his lips. His gaze aching, pouring with sweet fierceness.
"Angel," he murmurs, his voice gravelly with sleep.
A lump tightens in her throat and his face blurs in her vision.
She whispers, her chest cleaving,
"Did they save it?"
His hands tighten around hers and he makes a shipwrecked sound.
"Yes."
She blinks up at the ceiling, moisture tracking down her cheeks. A sob dredges up from her chest and she bites it back, the iron of her tough facade crumbling.
"Cry for me, cherished," he says. "Let it go."
So tender.
Her eyes well up but she shakes her head, no.
He's kissing the paper skin of her wrist.
"Don't carry it anymore."
Her shoulders shake, her chest stuttering.
The dam buckles: pain and stress and fucking disappointment bursts out with a mighty rush.
She wails.
Ugly. Hideous and broken and real.
She wails, and he bears silent witness.
No platitudes.
No words to try and pluck her out of the torrent. Only the quiet presence of someone who's known too, the drowning depth of that black, lonely night.
It might have been minutes, or an hour.
He climbs onto the hospital bed with her, an anchor for her trembling, sob-wracked body. She clings to him while the cortisol, the adrenaline, the raw, animal fear slip out of her like a vein draining of poison.
He doesn't speak until her sniffs and hiccuping slow; until she rests her sweat-matted head against his wrinkled dress shirt and shuts her eyes.
"Brave girl," he says, stroking her hair.
"Where are Ron and Harry?" she sniffles.
He takes in a slow, patient breath, like she's brought up a tiresome chore.
"I can bail them out if you ask," he says.
She frowns.
"Well, consider this asking!"
A knock echoes off the door and as the latch clicks open from across the room. Hermione starts to straighten up, out of Tom's arms. Just to appear more decent and put together.
But Tom makes no move to let her go.
Too spent to resist, she stays curled up against him as the doctor walks in.
"Miss Granger? My name is Doctor Pomfrey," she says. "I've been keeping your husband updated."
Wait. What?
She continues before Hermione can react,
"First of all, your baby is fine. You had a fairly significant bleed related to a condition called placenta previa. The edge of your baby's placenta is partially covering your cervix, which can cause major contractions to pull the tissue away."
Hermione's heart drops to the linoleum floor. Panic starts to swelter across her skin.
Tom senses her change, replying with a squeeze that's almost painful.
"I fell yesterday… and then I fought…" She swallows. "I caused it."
Tom's breath rustles her hair.
"No."
"It's no one's fault, Miss Granger," Dr. Pomfrey says, "and fortunately in your case it will likely resolve itself. I'm recommending complete bed rest for two weeks and then no lifting anything over eight pounds."
Hermione makes a scoffing sound.
"I can't stay in bed, I have school! I go back tomorrow!"
"Placenta previa is extremely serious, Miss Granger. You lost a lot of blood today and an additional bleed could result in preterm delivery and even death."
Tom tangles his fingers in Hermione's curls, his hand grazing, gently perilous, along the back of her neck. Her skin prickles with danger.
"She'll follow orders, Doctor," he says, his voice warm with that charismatic glow that melts young and old alike. Pomfrey smiles obsequiously.
Hermione grumbles.
Dr. Pomfrey leaves a file folder with informational printouts.
"One last thing." She turns around at the door. "You two will need to refrain from intercourse. And no orgasms, Miss Granger."
"What?" Tom snaps.
Pomfrey nods, the laugh lines around her eyes deepening slightly.
"It should only be a few weeks."
The doctor closes the door, leaving Tom and Hermione each to contemplate their bitter prognoses. But they don't get the time to glower.
A nurse steps into the room a moment later.
"Miss Granger," he says. "We've been contacted by child protective services."
Oh shit.
Shiiiit, shit shit shit.
"A social worker is on her way to sign your discharge papers. We'll be releasing you into her custody."
The nurse keeps talking but he sounds underwater.
Hermione listens to the beep beep beep of the fetal monitor.
She doesn't have the money to emancipate herself. None of her friends can even spare a couch.
Bellatrix Lestrange.
She's going to take Hermione away. There's not even time to fill a garbage bag with her clothes and books. What will bed rest be like in a group home?
Fuck.
Lestrange is going to take her baby away.
Beep beep beep.
Tom's bassy drawl pierces the fog.
"That won't be necessary."
Hermione swivels around so she can see his face. The nurse pauses, confused.
Tom's mouth curls with oh-so-casual triumph.
He pulls something out of his back pocket and lays it out like the winning hand of the world poker tournament.
"Miss Granger is in my custody," he says.
Hermione's blood stops mid ker-thump.
The document has her signature.
"She's married to me."