Not a week later, they were deep in a dark, hidden corner of Knockturn Alley, seeking out Healer Locke's offices.

Luckily Scabior had mostly kept his distance for much of the time leading up to the appointment. They ate together sometimes, sitting across from one another in silence. They were both angry at the other and with little ability to fix it. So many questions had to be answered, and neither of them knew how. It was depressing.

As they made their way towards the office, the day rang as dull and dreary as any other.

"Stay close to me," he muttered under his breath and she nodded back at him. She didn't want to end up alone in Knockturn, no matter how much she disliked this man.

They approached the building. Seemingly shoved between two equally wretched dark shops, it bore a sign for "Locke's Locks". But everyone knew what went on here.

The front of the shop was a lock store; all manner of magical locks adorned chests of various sizes. A single man, young, stood at the front desk.

"Can I help you?," he asked to neither of them in particular.

"Yeh. Have an…appointment…," Scabior said, letting his voice trail off suggestively.

The man grew flustered for a moment, and then said simply, "Ah, yes." He motioned to a small door at the back rear of the shop.

"You'll want to go through that door. You'll find what you're looking for."

The young man's eyes scanned the both of them. Hermione dropped her eyes to the floor, suddenly feeling shame from his heated gaze. She resented it. This man probably saw all manner of people coming here, to this back alley establishment.

Scabior gave her a knowing glance and the pair of them headed back and through the door.

The inside of the offices were as nondescript as the outside. Dark, cold, a reception desk in the front, and nine dark wood leather seated chairs sat empty. Black and white chequered tiles paneled the floor and a long hallway ended at a large wooden door at the back.

As soon as they'd crossed over the threshold, Hermione felt an uncomfortable sensation. Scabior seemed to pick up on her hesitation. He pulled her in closely to him and whispered in her ear.

"I know it 'ent St. Mungo's, but 'es the only one who'll do it so far along."

"Name?"

The voice of the receptionist rang out. She was a short, old crone of a woman with a hooked nose and yellowed teeth who could barely see over the desk.

Hermione opened her mouth to speak and then stopped, unsure of what to say. She turned to Scabior who had made the appointment.

He started speaking. "Penelope Clearwater. We spoke earlier."

'Penelope Clearwater?' She almost smiled in spite of herself. He gave her a stern look and wrapped his hand around her wrist which made her catch herself.

The woman looked towards Hermione with disdain and spoke.

"Yes, I'm familiar with your situation." She then turned her attention to him. "I have a consent form here for you to sign." She nodded towards Scabior.

She reached down and pulled out a form, placed it on a clipboard and passed it across the large desk to him.

He looked it over for a moment, and then at Hermione. He thought he saw a brief flash of hesitation in her eyes before he looked back to the document and then signed it. Once he signed his name, it momentarily glowed gold.

"Wait here," she told them and waddled her way with the clipboard to the back, opening and closing the heavy door behind her.

Hermione looked around. She could feel dark magic in this place. It did not feel good.

"This way", the old woman called out from the back.

Hermione turned towards Scabior once more and to her shock his hand traveled down to hers and gave it a quick squeeze. Surprised, she gripped his hand tighter.

He could see worry written all over her face. He wanted to say so many things to her. He was unsure why this moment felt so unsettling to him.

"Go. You'll be fine."

He nodded to the door at the end of the hallway and she looked at him for a final moment.

"I," she started but her voice caught.

His brows knitted together.

"What is it?"

She shook her head, licked her lips and nervously threw her shoulders back.

"Nothing. It's nothing."

She walked down the hallway and entered the room at the end as the old woman shut the door behind her.

Scabior sat.

And waited.

And waited.

Picked up a copy of Wizard Weekly and absently thumbed through it but he couldn't concentrate on any of it.

He realized he was worried; he was unsure exactly why, and he was utterly unable to find a way to deal with the emotion.

Hermione had changed into the dressing gown as instructed and sat at the edge of the examination table.

Healer Locke came in a few moments later, looking down at a clipboard. He wasn't that old…fifties perhaps? He wore glasses with horn rims.

"Miss…Clearwater?"

Hermione looked up for a second, confused, then it hit her. Right. I'm Penelope.

"Yes. Right."

They both knew she was lying. He wasn't going to ask though. He performed a lot of these illegal magical procedures. He didn't judge.

"And I have here a copy of the form signed by Nicolas Scabior-"

Just then, she felt it. A small kick, coming from deep inside her womb. She gasped and had to hold on to the edge of the table.

"Miss Clearwater?"

Hermione took a deep breath in and relaxed her grip on the edge of the table. "Oh, yes, I'm sorry-," she started and then was interrupted by another kick, harder this time.

"Ow!" she exclaimed.

Healer Locke eyed her.

"Miss Clearwater?"

"I'm sorry Healer Locke, I think…I mean I think the baby is kicking me."

He seemed like he didn't know what to say. He consulted his notes quickly. "It says here you are over five months along so-"

"I…it hasn't moved or done anything before so I can't be certain but that's what it felt like to me."

Kick.

"Miss Clearwater?"

Scabior was reading yet another smear piece by Rita Skeeter. Where did this woman find this shite to write about?

Suddenly, he heard the door opening on it's massive hinges. And the sound of feet running. Running?

He stood, anxious to greet her. He hoped the ordeal hadn't been too traumatizing.

'Get it together,' he thought to himself, 'you're goin' soft'

She stopped in front of him, still in her dressing gown holding her clothes in her hands.

"I'm sorry…," she started, her voice breaking.

Sorry?

He was about to say something when she continued.

"I-I…couldn't!"

And without another glance she turned and ran out of the office.