As always, a huge shout out to MissyJAnne85 & Caitlincherin28 for being my emotional and mental support and getting me through this chapter & making it better.
If there was ever a time to listen to the songs of this fic, now is the time! This chapter contains the song the fic was named after - all songs used can be found in the endnotes and listened to here on the Spotify playlist.
Time to get serious. There are major trigger warnings in this chapter. Please check the endnotes for more information.
Draco stood over Hermione's body. Her curls fanned around her deathly pale face, helping to distinguish where she lay on the stark white sheets. Her chest rose and fell regularly, as it should. Her eyes flickered beneath their lids. Her chart ebbed and flowed exactly how it was supposed to according to the Healers clad in lime green. So why wasn't she waking up? Trauma, they had told him when they eventually allowed him in.
For the first week, only her parents had been allowed in to see her. Draco had sat outside of her room day and night, scarcely eating and only occasionally venturing home to the manor to bathe.
His mother was fine. Revived, bones healed and sent home to recover from there. She had already been taken care of by the time Draco had stumbled into the reception area following Hermione's departure from Diagon Alley.
Hermione had not been so lucky. The Healers didn't know what Rodolphus had hit her with. They thought it likely that it was a curse of his own creation. Certainly from his holding cell in Azkaban, Lestrange was offering up no clues. Having said all of that, Hermione was doing considerably well. The Healers managed to repair her organs and keep them functioning as they should, and after they had told her parents that they were unable to save the baby —well, that was when they had allowed Draco into the room, even if it was with a stern look. Their conversations had been limited and muted. Draco was unable to bring himself to think of anything other than their loss and how fragile she looked in this big room, on a small hospital bed with all the colour leached from her features.
Most days, Draco was not alone with her. Her parents visited every evening, and Potter and Weasley both flitted in and out—Weasley much more than Draco would like. Still, he couldn't bring himself to be snide or snarky to them. Together they had tackled his uncle and brought him down, even if it was a second too late. Mostly, he sat, and he stared at Hermione, holding her hand until he could imagine it twitching in his, or he fell asleep. The Healers had gotten used to finding him this way, gently shaking him and sending him home for the evening.
Hermione had lost a lot of blood before she had arrived at St Mungo's. The blood-replenishing charm that they used on her was helping, but its effects were not lasting as they should. Three times a day the spell was performed. The Healers had told them that the charm was helping her blood cells to regenerate, that with some time she would be back to normal, but that it didn't explain why she wasn't waking up. Then came the Mind Healers. They cast complex charms over Hermione's head, a picture of her brain floating in front of them. Little golden lights would spark in certain areas as they prodded her, and they would mumble to each other, but never fully explain what was happening—at least not to Draco.
So it was with great hope and anticipation when Draco started to notice a little bit of colour on Hermione's cheeks and a warmth in her hand that wasn't from holding his.
Three days later, she opened her eyes slowly. The glaring white light of the hospital room made her shut them again immediately. Draco didn't see this happen as he was watching their clasped hands, but then Hermione twitched, and it was a movement all her own. Hardly daring to believe it, even as adrenalin sang through his body, Draco continued to stare with wide eyes at their interlaced hands. Then Hermione groaned, and Draco stared with wonder at her face as she started to wake up properly. Clutching his wand, he called for the Healers.
Moments later, Hermione was trying to sit up as her door opened, and two Healers stepped in. They rushed to her side and assisted her into a comfortable position, offering her water immediately after.
Hermione gratefully accepted. Her mouth felt like it was full of cotton wool, scratchy and dry. It must smell terrible, she thought distantly as her eyes danced around the room. They landed first on the Healers, then on the hordes of flowers, before finally landing on Draco. Tears swam in her eyes as the Healers asked her what she could remember.
"Everything," she replied, her voice hoarse and broken. Slowly, she looked down, her hands moving to her stomach. She continued to look at Draco, the tears leaking from her eyes. "The baby?" She asked, already knowing the answer.
Draco's bottom lip wobbled as he sucked in a lungful of air. Tears clung to his eyelashes as he cupped her cheek in his hand. The Healers offered what little privacy they could, whilst checking her vitals on the other side of the bed. Gently, he shook his head—just the once. He was unable to hold her gaze but equally powerless to look away.
A sob rose and choked in her throat as she curled in on herself, shying away from Draco's touch. Hermione closed her eyes, and wished it all away, wished it was all just a nightmare instead of the fresh hell of reality. The Healers spoke their charms over her, monitored her vitals and updated her charts. One started to back out of the room as Hermione's sobs encompassed her. The other threw Draco a sympathetic look.
"We'll give you some privacy, inform her parents, and return with some Dreamless Sleep potion," she said as she inched her way out of the room.
Draco nodded in response, the numbness already stealing over him. Hermione was awake, and that was all he had wished and wanted for the last two and a half weeks. But with her waking came the grief, fresh as he shared it with the only other person who could possibly feel as he did. He had never seen Hermione fall so completely apart before. Draco moved onto the bed behind her and held her as her tears soaked the pillow and her body shuddered against his.
Draco held her against him, his face pressed into her curls, somehow still soft and gently perfumed with the jasmine that he loved so much. He held her there and pressed gentle kisses to her shoulder as her sobs started to subside.
A gentle knocking rapped on the door. Neither of them said a thing, but it cracked open anyway. Hermione's mother stuck her head through, her father followed not a moment after.
Hermione saw them, pulled in a lungful of air and started to cry again. Draco looked up at them helplessly as their eyes darted from their daughter to him and back again, before hurrying to her side.
Draco didn't budge from his position on the bed, his eyes shining as Hermione's mother stroked the hair back from her daughter's eyes, and brought a handkerchief to her face. Her father placed a heavy, comforting hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently, sending his love into the pressure he held there.
Minutes or hours later, Hermione swiped the tears from her eyes and attempted to sit up in bed. Draco scooted back to his chair and reached for her hand. Hermione slipped her fingers from his and asked for a glass of water.
Trying not to read too much into the gesture, Draco retrieved her glass, magicked some water into it and handed it to her, watching her face all the while.
"How—how are you feeling, sweetheart?" Her mother asked, brushing the dampness from her own eyes.
"I don't know," Hermione croaked, her throat still rough from disuse and despair. "It all feels like a living nightmare." Her lips trembled, and she raised the glass to them to cover it—to give her something to do with her hands that wasn't touching Draco. "I—I'm tired, though. How long has it been?"
"Just over two weeks," Draco supplied, his eyes averted from her face.
A sharp intake of breath from Hermione and a pause before she asked. "And your mother?"
"She's fine. The last of the bruises are fading, and she is safe at home."
Hermione nodded. "And," she stuttered, tried again, "and Rodolphus?"
"Potter and Weasley got him. He's rotting in Azkaban now. Good fucking riddance."
Hermione's father cleared his throat loudly. Hermione and Draco glanced up at him.
"Er, pardon my language, sir," Draco said, a blush creeping up his neck.
"Draco, I wonder if you might be able to fetch us all a cup of tea? Jean and I rushed straight over here as soon as we got the call," he said, his eyes conveying a different message.
They wanted to speak to Hermione on their own. Well, he could give them that, even if leaving her room for just a minute would feel like the Earth was quaking under him. Offering them all what he hoped was a reassuring smile, he gave his chair to Jean and left the room in search of tea.
The door closed behind him, and he wondered for a moment if he should press his ear to it. Deciding against it, he took off down the corridor. He would do the right thing and inform Potter and Weasley that she was awake, then he would make the tea.
"So," Hermione's father started. "That's Draco Malfoy."
Hermione met his eyes and nodded. "Yes," she said.
"He's incredibly handsome," her mother gushed nervously, "and tall. Goodness Graham, isn't he tall?"
Hermione blushed at her mother's description of her boyfriend. Well, she wasn't wrong.
"Yes, very tall. And he's completely in love with you," her father stated.
"Did—did he tell you that?" Hermione asked quietly.
"He didn't need to," Graham responded. "The boy has barely left your bedside in weeks."
Hermione wanted to smile but couldn't bring herself to. Her mother stepped slowly towards the chair Draco had vacated, lowered herself into it and reached for Hermione's hands, still curled against her stomach. Hermione held her mother's hand. One of them was shaking, but Hermione couldn't tell who.
Slowly, Jean looked up from their intertwined hands and into her daughter's tear-streaked and blotchy face. She was still beautiful.
"You were pregnant," she said. Not a question, not a statement, not a comment—those three words were packed with a pain only a mother could feel on her daughter's behalf.
Hermione sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded once in confirmation. Yes, she thought, I was. The words wouldn't come from her mouth even though they were the only ones swimming around in her brain. Was, was, was.
"And you were happy," her father came to stand by her mother's side. He offered a hand to his wife, and his other to his beautiful little girl—because even though she was now a grown woman, she was still his baby.
Hermione bit her bottom lip, drawing blood, and offered another little nod. Yes, she had been happy. But now...now she was empty.
"Do you love him as much as he loves you?" Her mother asked.
More tears welled in Hermione's eyes. She held her mother's gaze as she gave one final nod.
"Maybe—" her father started, casting his eyes away. "Maybe this is better, a —"
Suddenly Hermione found her voice. "Don't you dare say a blessing in disguise," she hissed at him. Vehement, she pulled her hand from her mother's grasp and folded her arms across her chest.
"I wasn't going to," her father replied. That was a lie, he had been going to, but he knew it was wrong of him before Hermione had stopped him. He cleared his throat. He would never wish this loss upon anyone, let alone his only daughter. He looked away, ashamed. He only wanted what was best for her.
Someone knocked on the door, and despite the awkward air in the room, Hermione still hoped it wasn't Draco. Looking at him now was like watching her heart shatter. She'd barely been able to endure his touch as he held her earlier. Their loss screaming through her mind at the mere thought of him.
It wasn't Draco, it was a Healer, offering her the Dreamless Sleep potion. Hermione gratefully accepted and took the vial from him. Without another word to her parents, Hermione drank its contents, settled back into her pillows and drifted.
When she woke, her parents were gone, but Draco remained. She swallowed and closed her eyes again.
"How are you feeling?" He asked quietly.
"Empty," she said, even her voice was hollow. "You?"
The simplicity of the question had him reeling. How was he feeling? All of this time he'd been by her side, unable to think of anything other than her, her recovery and lack thereof, and the loss of their baby. He'd already had two and something weeks to process it all, but had it helped?
"My mind feels like a foreign land," he admitted quietly. "My whole body is numb, and I can't get past the silence ringing inside my head."
Hermione shifted on the bed, offering a small grunt of appreciation. She felt the same way.
"Why won't you look at me?" Draco whispered.
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because when I see your face, I see a little baby in your arms. A baby with blue-grey eyes and a mop of platinum curls, and it is killing me."
Draco stifled the sob rising in his throat, the sound coming out as more of a choke. He turned to the window and watched the sun as it was setting in the sky. It was several minutes later, the sun almost gone when he spoke again.
"Would you like me to leave?"
"Yes," Hermione said quickly. "No," she added a moment later. "I don't know."
Draco stayed in his seat by her bed. It was dark in her room before either one dared to say anything else. Draco didn't light the candles, and Hermione didn't cast a Lumos. Everything was easier in the dark.
"Have we spent all of the love we saved?" He asked her, regret coursing through him. He didn't want to hear her answer. He already knew it.
"It has just been one thing after another, Draco. A fight we can't seem to win. With—without the baby, your father will never help us. We're back to square one. We're never going to get through this. Obstacle after obstacle without anything other than love to get us through. From day one, the odds have been stacked against us. I think we've used up all our chances."
When Draco didn't reply, Hermione dropped her head into her hands, letting her tears drip through and onto the sheets. So this was it then, the final piece of the puzzle no longer missing, but incapable of the fit. She had been just a small-town girl, trying to find her place in the big arcade that was Draco Malfoy's world.
"Were we always a losing game?" Hermione addressed the silent room softly, swiping at her eyes.
A tear rolled down Draco's cheek. "Yes," he replied reluctantly. He'd always known this was how it was going to go, hadn't he? Isn't this why he'd fought so hard at the start? He'd seen this end before they had even begun. Yet, he'd carried on and loved her still. They had both been addicted to this losing game.
"Yes," he repeated, standing and moving to the door. "I love you, Hermione. I think I will probably always love you." Draco paused, seemingly unable to continue. He gripped the doorframe, letting it support his weight, his hold so strong that his knuckles turned white. Several gut-wrenching moments later, he continued, his voice ragged, "I grieve with you. But maybe this time love isn't enough. I—I hope you'll be happy. Goodbye, Granger."
Draco closed the door softly behind him and leaned against it. He heard Hermione's cry on the other side and stifled his own. All this time he had been a pawn in his own life, no not a pawn—a pawn has strength in numbers. He turned out to be the king after all—limited movements taken out in one swift action. All he knew now was that loving Hermione Jean Granger had always been a losing game. A broken heart was all they each had left, and he could only hope that maybe one day they'd be able to fill the cracks.
A week later, Hermione was sent home. Her mind ached, her body ached, and her heart ached. How could she have loved something so much after such little time? The loss of her child felt like a loss of self. The loss of Draco felt like her future had been ripped away from her.
Communicating was difficult.
Eating was a chore.
Showering was torture.
Ron and Harry visited. Hogwarts finished, and Ginny joined them. Luna and Neville too, occasionally. Hermione couldn't bring herself to smile. Her words were limited. Still, her friends came. She wanted to see Draco. She wanted to hold him, to tell him she was sorry. To get back to how they'd been. But just as much as she missed him, the little life that they had planned out haunted her. Seeing his face now would be no different than it was when she woke up. Would this grief ever end? She didn't know, how could she? Her brain rationalised while her heart raged. Her heart had been broken so many times in the short span of a year—it had been broken and it had failed her, but her mind never had. She'd face a war against herself and make sure that her brain came out the victor once more. She wouldn't see Draco. She wouldn't cave or give in. She'd place him in a dark green box, and put it away. She would be strong. For herself.
Draco allowed himself one extra week of despair, locked inside his room. One week and he'd keep his promise to his mother—go outside and get some fresh air. In his dark room, he brooded. He tore things apart with his bare hands and smashed precious artefacts against the walls. He grieved his loss; the loss of his child, of Hermione, of the life he'd hoped to have. He meant what he said. He wanted her to be happy, hoped that it would be possible for her, even if it wasn't for him.
As his allotted week came to a close. He gathered a piece of parchment, his favourite quill and a small inkpot and wrote a quick message.
Will you meet with me?
DM
He slipped it into an envelope and attached it to the leg of his magnificent Eagle Owl, Aquila, and sent it on its way.
Two hours later, Aquila was back at the window, a small scroll clutched in his talons.
When?
That was all it said and all he needed it to say. Draco fed his owl some treats and let it rest for an hour before he scribbled a reply with a place and time. Turning in for the night, he finally felt like he was doing something good.
Narcissa was delighted when Draco stepped into the drawing-room at tea time. He had bathed, shaved his face and even donned clean clothing. It was the first time she had seen him so well put together in nigh on a month. But it wasn't for her, he had said. He was going out. He wasn't sure how long he'd be, but he suspected it wouldn't be more than a few hours.
"Goodbye mother," he placed a quick kiss on her cheek and left for the reception room. Stepping into a fireplace, he threw down the Floo powder and stated, "The Leaky Cauldron."
When he had broken up with Hermione in January, he had hated himself. He had hated himself so fiercely for it all—for hurting her, for being the one who had put them in that situation. He had been responsible for all of the decisions then, never giving Hermione a choice. This was different, the decision to separate had been hers—and while it went against every fibre of his being, Draco respected it. He respected it because he had expected it. It was always meant to be this way. He had never deserved her, never deserved to even enter her orbit. He would take what he had, cherish it, and give her back everything he possibly could. Three and a half weeks ago, his world had come crashing down. One week ago, Hermione's had. Today, he hoped to assist in rebuilding hers.
Ronald Weasley was already at the bar, inhaling a late breakfast alongside what appeared to be a bowl of black coffee. Draco spotted the shock of red hair easily and slipped into the stool next to him.
"Weasley," he nodded.
"Malfoy," came the clipped response.
There was a pause while Draco placed his coffee order, "Espresso, thank you, Tom."
"You wanted to meet?" Ron prompted as Tom set the small cup and saucer before Draco, lingering as if hoping to overhear their conversation. Draco shot a cold look at the barman before he hovelled away to serve other mid-morning customers.
"Yes. I wanted to talk to you about Hermione."
Ron grunted and placed his knife and fork down on his empty plate. Wrapping his hands around his bowl of coffee, he said, "I figured as much. What? You want me to back off? Disappear? Stop being her friend? Whatever it is, Malfoy, you can forget it."
Draco smirked despite himself. Things would never change between him and Ron. He could live with that.
"The opposite, actually," he drawled, slipping once again into old habits. He chastised himself—he had meant to do better. To be better.
"Whatchu mean?" Ron asked, looking at him for the first time that day.
"You made her happy once. I was hoping you would try to do so again." Draco turned the little cup in its little saucer. Round and round it went while he waited for Ron to pick his chin up off of the bar.
"You—you're saying that you're giving up? That you don't want her anymore?"
Draco hissed. This was harder than he'd thought. "I'll always want her," he managed to say. "But I'm not good for her. There are obstacles we cannot overcome. I know you love her still. I saw your Valentines letter. Besides, how could you not?" Draco lifted his espresso to his mouth, scrutinising Ron from behind the small white ceramic cup. Setting back down, he attempted to downgrade his glare. "She is the greatest gift the gods ever bestowed. So, what do you say, Weasley? Will you try to make her happy?"
"Why?" Ron asked, drinking deeply from his coffee.
"It's time to move on. I need to let go. I can't keep hurting—I don't want Hermione to keep hurting. I thought you should know—I won't get in your way. I just want what's best for her."
Ron started to chuckle, quietly, but he was chuckling all the same.
"What?" Draco demanded, his voice hard.
"Do you really expect me to believe that you're just giving up on her? That you're just going to walk away and stay away? Fuck, Malfoy. I am smarter than that, despite what you think. What, are you suddenly fine now? Not all cut up like you were in the hospital?"
Draco took a moment to reply, draining the dregs from his cup.
"I am not fine, Weasley. I am far from fine. I am falling apart—I can't deny it. Coming apart at the idea of leaving her. At the idea of my life without her. At the idea of her with you. But maybe if I burn this bridge, she'll be able to breathe—" Draco stared into his empty cup. He took a moment to breathe himself. Calling on years of trained composure, he continued, "maybe, if I do this... We can start to pick up the pieces and heal from our stitches."
The colour drained from Ron's face. Malfoy was being honest for once in his miserable life, yet, he couldn't quite believe it. "Why should I believe you?"
"It's the truth."
"I don't know why, but I am trusting you with this, Malfoy. Will you keep your word and stay away?"
"I will." Draco slid a galleon across the bar to pay for Ron's meal and his coffee, with a generous tip to boot. He stood from his seat and started to walk away. He got three steps before he stopped again.
"Make her happy, Weasley. Make her laugh like you used to. Make all this shit worth something."
Draco didn't turn to see Ron's reaction. He needed to get out of there. He needed a place to think, or to not think.
Somehow, he found himself back in Diagon Alley, standing in front of Florean Fortescue's. The damage to the store had already been repaired. Life went on around him as if it hadn't been drastically and hellishly altered in this very spot. As if he hadn't lost everything worth living for on the cobblestones he stood on right now. People jostled past him in the bright, late May sunshine, but he felt cold. He felt cold to his bones. Right here, is where Hermione had lain, bleeding out as their baby died inside of her. Right here is where his world had blown apart. He Disapparated home before he could do anything he regretted, like wind up in a holding cell for the destruction of public and private property.
Hermione was slowly starting to get her shit back together. She showered every day. This in itself, was a huge win for her. Once she showered, she ventured downstairs, sat and ate with her parents. The food still tasted like cardboard in her mouth, but her parents looked on with pride and approval in their eyes. Her father would go to work in the mornings, her mother in the afternoons. She was never left alone, and she wanted so badly to be left alone. She picked up books to read but found herself staring at the same pages for an hour without a single word sinking in. Still, she reminded herself, this was progress.
She'd been at home for two weeks when an owl arrived from Ron, asking her if she'd like to get out of the house and get a coffee. Just somewhere local, he had suggested. Somewhere not too far from the safety of home, she surmised. Even so, the idea of getting out of the house—of putting on clothes that were acceptable for public eyes, doing her hair and maybe adding a splash of makeup? Well, the idea was exhilarating and nerve-wracking all at once. She replied immediately with a time and place.
The next day at three o'clock, Hermione found herself in her old favourite cafe. The one where she used to come to during the school holidays when she wasn't with Harry and Ron. This place had been a safe haven of good coffee, cakes and comfy chairs to lose herself in a book. The feeling returned to her as she stepped through the doors and made her way to a quiet corner. Hermione flipped the menu over and read through it as if she had never seen it before. It hadn't changed in years, the owner insisting on not fixing something that wasn't broken. But everything was broken these days, wasn't it? Or was that only her?
The bell over the door jingled, and Ron stepped through. His eyes adjusting to the dimmed lighting, he saw Hermione as she waved to him from her seat. A brilliant smile lit up his face, and for a moment, the breath left Hermione's lungs. Here he was, her friend. One of her best friends. Someone who knew her and loved her. Someone who would go through thick and thin with her. Someone who had broken her, and someone whom she had long since forgiven.
"Mione," he greeted, leaning down to kiss her lightly on the cheek. She fought the urge to recoil. Her instincts telling her that it wasn't right, that she belonged to someone else. But that wasn't true anymore. Ron could kiss her 'hello', and there wasn't anything wrong with that picture. She needed to readjust, that was all.
"Hello, Ronald," Hermione smiled. It was a genuine smile. She was happy to see him, if not perplexed. Happiness was hard to come by lately.
A teen appeared at their table, noisily chewing on some gum.
"What can I getcha?" She asked, twirling a pen around and over her fingers, notebook at the ready.
"A cappuccino, please." Hermione requested. "Oh, and a piece of the devil's food cake, if you have it."
"Sure thing," the teen replied, "and you?" She turned to Ron.
"Oh, uh, yeah. What she said," Ron lifted his head in a nod to Hermione.
"Two pieces of cake, two cappuccinos coming right up," the girl said, vanishing behind the counter.
"One day you will be proficient in making your own orders at Muggle restaurants," Hermione assured him with a wink. What was she doing? Getting out of the house and breathing fresh air was making her kooky.
"One day," Ron agreed, "but today is not that day."
Hermione smiled at him as the coffee machine whirled to life, the sound of the milk steaming and frothing creating enough of a sound barrier between them and the waitress for Hermione to ask her most pressing question.
"So, what did you want to meet about?"
Suddenly, Ron looked nervous. A blush crept up his neck and to his ears, and he pulled at the neck of his t-shirt. "Oh, er. I just wanted to check in on you... See how you were doing. You look good, by the way—like you're feeling better. Are you? Feeling better, I mean?"
"A bit, yes," Hermione admitted, though it felt wrong to do so.
"That's good," Ron mumbled as their waitress appeared at their table again, delivering their coffee and cake.
Hermione let her fork sink into and slide through the cake, bringing it to her lips. It was heaven. She was half-way through it before she put her fork down and picked up her coffee.
"Ron," she prompted. "What did you want to talk about?"
Ron cradled the coffee cup in his hand. He'd been over this in his head a million times, but looking at her now, the words seemed to escape him.
With a sigh, he started. "I've been trying to do it right, 'Mione. I've stayed away when you asked me to. I didn't fight against it when you told me about Malfoy. I've tried, I've really tried. I know you still love him—I know you probably will for a long time to come. I know it, and I'm ok with it. I love you anyway. I don't know where I belong without you, 'Mione. I know, I know where I went wrong. I was stupid and inconsiderate, and just plain old idiotic. I was an arse, I know that. But you forgave me, right?"
Hermione hung her head, refusing to make eye contact as she twisted her hands around her mug. He paused for a little while, encouraged by Hermione's silence to just keep on going.
"I know this is something you don't want to hear, something I might regret saying later on, but I don't think you were ever right for him. He certainly wasn't right for you. You're better than us all. I can't stop myself from wondering, from thinking what it might have been if I'd just gotten on the train to Hogwarts—gone back with you like we planned. I don't expect you to say anything now, to respond or anything like that. Hell, I'm just glad that you're still here listening. I know it will take time—I want you to take the time. But when you're ready, I'll be there. If our history has taught me anything, it's that I belong with you, 'Mione, and I believe that you belong with me."
Hermione stayed silent the entire time. Her eyes were wet with tears, and she refused to look up, to meet his gaze. His words were all wrong. It was too soon. She'd never be able to love again. But his intentions were pure, she could see that. She could know that because she knew him.
"Anyway, just something to think about," Ron said as he stood. He left some Muggle pounds on the table and placed his hand on her shoulder. This time, Hermione did flinch. Ron told himself not to let it bother him. "Will you be able to get home ok? Should I take you?"
Hermione shook her head quickly. She needed him to leave. She needed time and space to think.
"Alright then," he said softly. "Speak soon."
Hermione only looked up once she heard the bell over the door jingle once more, signalling Ron's departure.
First things first:
TW- Miscarriage/ Pregnancy Loss.
I want to talk about this for a moment. This chapter was the hardest thing I have ever had to write. I cried and I tormented over it. Caitlin and Missy cried and tormented over it. But here is the thing: 1/4 women experience a miscarriage at least once in their life. One. In. Four. That's 25% of us. Pregnancy loss is not something I would wish on anyone, it is as horrendous as it is common. I anguished over whether or not I should write this chapter this way for too long, but I'm sick of it. Miscarriage is nothing to be ashamed of. It is not something to be swept under the rug. It is real and it affects people in ways you may never have even considered. Pregnancy loss is not a taboo subject, it deserves to be spoken about. If you or someone you loved has experienced a miscarriage, I am so sorry for your loss. Here is a website with some information that could offer some support. If you would like to reach out to me for any reason, you can find me on facebook and on tumblr.
Chapter Songs:
Arcade - Duncan Laurence
Bridges - Earthlings
Ho Hey - The Lumineers
