9.

THE YEAR THAT LIFE GREW

May 2th, 2009.

Hermione rolled onto her back, but the weight was too much. She tried to roll onto her stomach, but no. Of course that wouldn't work. And so, with a sigh, she remained on her side. Always on her side. How could anyone be so uncomfortable and still be expected to function as a human being?

Sleep wasn't coming. She'd known that when she'd went to bed really, but she'd tried to remain steadfastly in denial up until that point. Just like she always did. It was a game that wasn't fun, this sleep thing. She still tried to pretend that it wasn't a commodity she was yearning for, like it was a normal thing that came and went just like the night and day. But it wasn't and it hadn't been for quite a while now. A restless doze was all she could manage, and only if she was absolutely dead on her feet. Deep, fitful sleep was a thing of the past.

Hermione opened her eyes, squinting vaguely through the dim light seeping through her curtains. It must have been about four o'clock in the afternoon by the way the sunlight was glowing on the floorboards.

There was a cup on the bedside table. On Ron's side of the bed. It was a coffee cup.

With a grunt Hermione pushed herself to her hands and knees and crawled unsteadily across the bed to look inside the cup. It was half full of what must have been coffee at some point, but the milk had congealed around the surface making it barely recognisable. Now that she was so close she could smell the slightly the sharp tang of sour milk and strong coffee causing her to wrinkle her nose.

Still scowling slightly, Hermione collapsed onto her back and rolled her eyes when the weight made it too difficult to breathe. She rolled onto her side again and her mind wandered.

She was over being confused about all this by that point. If she had come to some kind of acceptance about her present state of being it was a bitter sort. Every day felt endless.

What felt like almost an hour later, a knock on the bedroom door roused her out of her contemplation. She grunted in response and when Ron's red hair proceeded him into the room, she tried to stop herself scowling. Without really knowing why, Hermione felt almost overwhelmingly annoyed with him in that moment. For god's sake, it was his house and his room, why in the hell did he feel the need to knock every time he wanted to enter? Was she really that terrifying?

He approached the bed and said, "How was your day?"

"Fine," she replied tightly.

He shifted slightly on his feet, letting a pause that went for far too long fill the space between them before he finally spoke. "We're going to be late."

Hermione's voice was weary in her response, just like her body, just like her mind. "I told you, Ron, I'm not going."

He grimaced. "But, Hermione, you can't miss today. It's the eleventh anniversary. We never miss this."

"Yeah, well, I'm pregnant."

"You were pregnant on the ninth anniversary and you still came…" he said sullenly.

"Yes. I am aware of that. But I did not feel then like I do now," she responded in a tone that was almost a growl.

"So what are you going to do then?"

"I am going to lie here and try to sleep. Same thing I have been doing every day for the past three weeks. Ok? Is that alright with you Ron?"

He put his hands up in the air in a gesture of supplication, "Yeah, fine. Do what you need to do."

"Where's Rose?"

"At mum and dads."

Hermione rubbed at her eyes, "I am capable of taking care of my own daughter…"

Ron didn't reply. He didn't even look at her. He just walked out. Hermione rolled over again, staring at the cup of cold, old coffee sitting on the nightstand beside the bed.

May 5th, 2009.

"I don't understand. I just don't get it. You know how important that day was! For Christ's sake, Blaise and Draco showed up and they'd literally been in the middle of curse fire hours before!"

Harry was pacing up and down the length of her kitchen and Hermione's narrowed eyes watched him ceaselessly. He'd tried to keep his cool when he'd arrived, she could see it, but his frustration with her had bubbled over soon enough just as she'd known it would.

Harry just didn't get it.

"I don't understand why it's such a big deal…" she said wearily.

Harry looked at her as if she'd just said something incredibly stupid. "A big deal? You… what? It was a big deal because we wanted you there! People wanted to see you, to celebrate your contribution to it all!"

Hermione measured her words before she began to speak. She did not want to make him angrier but deep down she knew it was probably inevitable. He was as tired of her as everyone else was.

"It's been nine years, Harry. Nine. I just don't feel the need to celebrate it anymore, ok? I don't see it as so important. It's just… you know, it's in the past. It's over. Frankly, I don't like remembering it."

"You don't like remembering our victory?" he scoffed, "We won, Hermione! What's not to celebrate?!"

"The victory was all well and good, but what about everything that came before that? What about all the death and madness? Not to mention what came after… I'm sorry but the victory was just one moment in the middle of a whole heap of pain. I don't want to celebrate it anymore. I'm tired."

Hermione didn't really know if she believed everything she was saying to him, but it seemed like a far more valid excuse for not attending the anniversary feast than the fact that she was just tired full stop. Usually, she enjoyed them, but that year it had just felt like too much of a chore. And it wasn't the remembering that made it seem that way. It was all the smiling she'd have to do and the speech she'd have to give as an honoured member of the Golden Trio. It was the food she'd have to eat, the hands she'd have to shake, and the trip down memory lane taken at around one in the morning when everyone was well and truly sloshed that she'd have to participate in.

She just wanted to sleep. Why was it that the one thing she craved was so impossible? And why was this just so fucking hard this time? Her term with Rose had been easy in comparison, she'd been the image of a glowing expectant mother, all clucky and nesty, ready to have her child. She'd had bad days of course, but nothing like this. This time the bad days ran together so much so that she lost track of time, couldn't distinguish one day from the last. It felt like she was reliving the same twenty four hours over and over again with the only notable difference being that her stomach got ever larger. And her lack of sleep wasn't helping either. When she watched the sun rise, then set, then rise again without closing her eyes, she felt mad. Truly insane. And it felt like no one cared. Any time she'd ever voiced her feeling to anyone, her mother or Ginny or Ebony both of whom were carrying their own pregnancies with a frustrating amount of grace, they'd just pat her arm sympathetically and tell her she had baby brain. That's it. As if she was supposed to stop feeling all these things just because she'd been told her hormones were wreaking havoc on her body.

The only person who really saw it, who really got how bad it was getting, was Ron. And he was taking it differently every day. Sometimes he'd be loving and sympathetic. He'd make her tea and rub her feet, but then he'd just get frustrated when it didn't appear to help. It did, of course, but Hermione didn't know how he wanted her to show her gratitude aside from saying thank you. That just didn't seem to be good enough anymore.

Other days, he acted like he was terrified of her. He'd slink in and out of rooms she occupied, treating her like a hostile enemy bound to attack at any moment.

And Hermione just didn't understand why. It wasn't like they were fighting a lot. In fact, they'd fought less in the last few months than they had in their entire relationship. Where usually she'd snap at him or get angry, now she just sighed. Her rare remonstrations were weary. Of course, she still felt the same anger and annoyance under the surface but she just didn't have the energy to voice it.

Just like that afternoon with Harry. He didn't seem to be ready to accept any excuse she had for not attending the ninth anniversary feast. He just wanted to rant at her and it didn't really matter how she responded to it, he'd do it anyway.

Eventually, she let him do just that, she let him have his vent, until, seeming marginally mollified, he left her house.

After that, Hermione pushed herself up the stairs and into the bedroom where she collapsed onto the bed and stared at that half empty cup of coffee on the nightstand.

May 16th, 2009.

The piano, that was what did it. That was what moved her the most. The fact that she could hear the weight of the musician's fingertips falling on the keys, as if he felt all his sadness, all his weariness right there in his skin and he was playing it out. He needed it out of him, she could hear that, she could feel that. The piano was his purge. Where others would cry, that man wept with notes.

Hermione sighed into it, a faint smile playing across her lips, her fingers tapping across the wooden arm of her chair along with the music coming from Remus's old record player.

It was the only time she felt anything close to happiness. Beethoven, Bach, Tchaikovsky, Mozart, it was all she could listen to. Nothing else made her feel this good.

Hermione sat alone in the study, legs folded under her as she listened intently, her eyes closed. She chose this room often, because she was mourning it. It would, after all, soon be a nursery for her son. But it was her favourite place of all, the walls lined with books, high windows forming dust moats in the air, ancient fireplace warming the room, fire crackling merrily in the grate. She loved this room. And soon it would be gone. Of course, Ron had said many times that they'd put in an extension soon so that she could have her study back, but she knew he'd probably never get around to it. And besides, even if he did, it still wouldn't be this room, wouldn't be the place she'd chosen for herself the moment they'd bought this house together. Her oasis.

With a creak that made Hermione jump, the door of the study swung open and in strode Ron, daily Prophet in one hand, plate of warm croissants in the other. He approached her chair and set the plate down on the small table next to it, never taking his eyes off the paper.

"How're you feeling today?" he asked blankly, taking a croissant and depositing it straight into his mouth.

"Fine," she replied, allowing her eyes to drift closed again.

"Mmf," he grunted through his mouthful before finally looking up at her, "Why do you listen to this dross?"

"It's not dross," she said with a sigh.

"It's depressing."

"Not for me it isn't. I like it. It's like… this music is on my level. It can't make me down because we're… singing the same tune anyway. Know what I mean?"

Ron snorted, "Nope, but that's nothing different. Anyway, we're supposed to be doing dinner at the Burrow tonight… And let me guess, you're not coming?"

Hermione smiled lazily through all of Ron's passive aggression. "Got it in one baby."

She thought she caught him rolling his eyes as he left the room.

Why didn't he understand? All she could do was disappoint people now. No one liked her mood, no one liked that they couldn't change it, Hermione had become nothing more than an inconvenient mess to them. And it was exhausting playing out that roll. She just wanted to be left alone. When she was alone she could find a sort of peaceful contentedness, it was only in company when that morphed into depression.

She went to bed that night on her own. Ron hadn't come home.

She ignored the cup.

May 20th, 2009.

Hermione found herself in the study again that Wednesday night, but for a change, she was not alone. And her company was strange company indeed.

"You were not at the tovarasi dinner on Sunday night," said Narcissa, straight backed and cold looking as usual in the chair across from Hermione in front of the fire.

"I… I didn't know it was a tovarasi dinner," Hermione replied with just the right amount of guilt laced into her tone.

But Narcissa was more cunning than that. "Come now, Hermione. Do not pretend it would have mattered whether you knew or not. The outcome would have remained the same."

There was no remonstration in the older woman's tone, no disapproval, only cold honesty. There was the impression that Narcissa didn't care either way what the reason was. She only seemed to want to make it clear that lies weren't necessary.

Nonetheless, Hermione didn't know how to respond at all. She didn't really know why this visit was even taking place. Narcissa hadn't shown up unannounced by any means, in fact she'd sent a letter on Monday and then another letter just to confirm hours before her arrival. And Narcissa Malfoy was the sort of woman Hermione didn't feel comfortable blowing off, regardless of how confusing her sudden investment in Hermione was.

Still, years after Azkaban, Narcissa was quiet and reserved and when she did speak, her words were often worth listening to. If she'd taken the time to organise a visit with Hermione, it must have been something important. And aside from all that, Hermione felt just a tiny bit glad to be seeing a new face, it was always the same people moving through her house and she had exhausted the sympathies of every one of them to the point that they seemed incapable of talking to her about anything other than her pregnancy. She hoped Narcissa would over some respite to that. Perhaps she needed legal advice, something Hermione could sink her teeth into, get passionate about. Hell, she'd even welcome some underlying drama with Draco if it would just break the monotonous thoughts she was having about her own condition.

But, even after sitting in polite silence for fifteen minutes, Narcissa still had not said why she was there, justifying Hermione's confusion.

"How are you?" asked the older woman, sipping her tea delicately, finally breaking the silence.

"Fine," Hermione responded quickly, automatically.

Narcissa raised a perfectly groomed eye brow. "Is that what they are calling blind fear now? Fine, is it?"

"Blind fear?" asked Hermione with a faint tone of disbelief.

"Well that's what you are feeling, isn't it?"

"I… I don't know what I'm feeling," she responded in a slightly cracked voice.

Narcissa smiled. "Clever girl like you, Hermione, I'm surprised. And with your control complex, you must be going mad."

"I think I might be a bit, yeah," said Hermione weakly.

"Good," said Narcissa with a firm nod, "I think anyone who doesn't go mad when pregnant must be mad already. So that's something."

Hermione let out a surprised giggle, "What?"

"Well, if you think of it logically, pregnancy releases all sorts of hormones into your body that wreak havoc on your sense of normality. So, I can only come to the conclusion that those women who wander around glowing for nine months are either completely out of their minds already so that the hormonal change makes barely a difference, or they're doing a very good job of hiding how they really feel. You are neither glowing nor pretending to glow, therefore, you are not usually mad."

"Only now?"

Narcissa nodded. "Only now."

"Right."

"And you can be comforted by the fact that it will pass soon and your insanity will subside back into the usual."

"What do I do until then?"

"Give into it, of course. Be mad. It's the only way," said Narcissa as if it were obvious.

Hermione nodded mutely, both shocked at the older woman's candidness and disappointed that they'd seemingly inevitably arrived at the very same subject she just couldn't get away from. She only hoped that Narcissa hadn't yet gotten to her point, that this was merely courtesy and there was still some deeper reason for her visit.

"Narcissa," said Hermione uncertainly, "Forgive me if this sounds rude but I'm curious: why did you come and see me tonight?"

The older woman shrugged contemptuously and set down her cup and saucer to regard Hermione with a cold stare. "I merely wanted to help, Hermione. I know I have not seen you while you have been in this state but I have heard the way the others spoke about you with tones of pity and sympathy and frustration. I couldn't imagine how they must have been treating you directly…"

"With pity and sympathy and frustration," Hermione confirmed for her in a somewhat bitter tone.

"And in my mind those thing are probably the very last things you need. I am here because I know what it is like to experience a difficult pregnancy. I have been there. The other girls haven't yet gotten it, perhaps they never will. But they are not women like you and I, Hermione."

Hermione tried to stop herself grimacing. She didn't know how she felt about being a woman like Narcissa Malfoy. Of course, over the years since her release from Azkaban, the older woman was slightly more jovial and if she was still as judgmental as she once was, she hid it well. But none the less, she was still cold underneath it all, still had the shadows in her eyes that were the horrors of her past actions and beliefs. Narcissa was a tortured woman. And for the most part, she had been the one to inflict that torture on herself. Just like Hermione really. As much as it irked her, Hermione could see that there were similarities between the two of them. She just didn't want them so easily pointed out.

"When I was pregnant with Draco," said Narcissa suddenly, after a moment of silence, "I felt like the whole world was fighting against me and that if I let down my guard for just a moment, I would be crushed under the weight of its onslaught."

She sighed wearily before she spoke again, and when she did, her voice had taken on a darker tone. One that made Hermione squirm, like she was watching something private, something she shouldn't be seeing.

"I don't mind telling you, Hermione, that… I… I hated him. I hated Draco when I carried him. And I hated him when he came out. At first I thought that it might ease, you know, I thought that as he got older I'd learn to love him. I tried to comfort myself with that, can you imagine? That I'd learn to love my own child… But I didn't. No matter how much time passed, I couldn't bring myself to feel anything for him at all. He tried so hard to be close to me when he was little and his every attempt only caused me to move further and further away."

Hermione was visibly distressed by now. She didn't want to hear any of this, didn't want to hear that there was a possibility that she would hate her own son when he was born. She didn't want to hear that there was a possibility she hated him now. She couldn't bare the fact that the things that Narcissa was saying were resonating deep within her. But despite her feelings, Narcissa ploughed on ruthlessly, eyes constantly boring into Hermione's own with fiery intensity.

"I saw him as a testament, a monument, to every single thing I had ever done wrong in my life, and every mistake I was yet to make. He was more than an annoyance to me, he was an illness, a plague. I felt like if I got too close I would be infected," Narcissa gave a quiet, sad little laugh, "The ironic thing is, that is exactly what happened. I let him get too close and I became infected. I don't really know when it happened or how, but one day, just before his tenth birthday I saw him as my son rather than…" she swallowed thickly, "Rather than Lucius's creature. I saw that Draco would become his father and I found that I hated that idea more than I hated him. So I held him close, as much as I could I held him. Lucius used to say that I coddled him, that I'd brought him up to be weak. I think he was jealous, because Draco didn't run to his father anymore, he ran to me."

Narcissa sighed again, raising a hand to flutter over the skin of her cheek. Her eyes finally strayed away from Hermione's face, to look blankly at the carpet, unseeing.

"You know," she said quietly, "I sometimes hope that my love and the fact that I'd given it changed Draco just a little. I sometimes hope that my love was the reason he did not kill Dumbledore, was the reason he was capable of changing in the end, was the reason he could love you, Hermione… But… but I also fear that perhaps my withholding it for so long was what drove him into the ranks of the Death Eaters, what drove him to commit the atrocities he did."

"Perhaps both," said Hermione, finally speaking.

Narcissa's eyes snapped up to hers and there was a familiar look of desperation on her face, the same look Hermione had seen on Draco so many years ago.

"You know," said Hermione with a sad smile, "I think that… that we as humans think of things in one of two ways. We either see the best possible scenario or the worst. We seem incapable of perceiving both at the same time. And because of that, we miss the fact that so often reality sits somewhere in the middle, somewhere in between the best and worst cases. And… and when you think of it like that, it doesn't seem so bad. It's not as scary."

"Yes," breathed Narcissa, nodding, "Yes, you're right. Thank you."

They sat in silence for a moment. Narcissa drained her cup of tea in an uncharacteristic show of gracelessness, before going about making herself and Hermione another cup. Hermione watched the older woman as she bent over the tea tray and she felt pained. It was so easy, nowadays, to forget the hurt of the war and all that had come before it. So many years had passed, had washed away all the blood and rubble and scorch marks. But there before her was an example of it all. Hermione finally understood why Narcissa had come. She'd come because something in Hermione's situation had triggered her pain, had moved that old, aching muscle in exactly the wrong way. And the older woman had needed to confront it.

Hermione hoped it had helped at least a little.

She also saw her own possible future and what she herself was capable of doing to her children. Of course, when she got so caught up in her own suffering, she barely saw them, both Rose and her unborn son, at all. They were becoming, to her, exactly as Narcissa had described Draco; an illness.

Hermione felt like she had to do something, had to somehow change the possible outcome. But she couldn't for the life of her think of what. And, suggested a traitorous voice in her head, what if it was irreversible? What if she was powerless over the feeling?

Hermione sat forward in her chair as best she could, staring at Narcissa intently.

"Narcissa, please tell me what to do," she said seriously, "Please. I don't want to do that to my son. I don't want to hate him."

"I've already told you," the older woman replied, "Be mad."

"But I don't understand…"

"You feel angry don't you? You feel frustrated and annoyed with the people around you?"

"Yes, I do."

"But you don't say anything, do you? You just keep quiet."

"That's right."

"Well, don't be quiet anymore. Hormones or not, Hermione, those emotions don't come from nowhere. If something Ron does fills you with rage, it isn't fair for him or you to just blame that on hormones. He has a part to play in it as much as you do. So feel your feeling. I'm not saying that it would be right for you to behave immaturely or to let your emotions run wild, but to supress them is not healthy. If you feel sad, cry, even if it's inconvenient for those around you, even if it's in the middle of the street. Just do it. Because if you don't, all those feelings, they'll just burn away inside you, and they'll hurt you. They'll hurt your son. Because it's not the child that's the illness, it's the unexpressed emotion. That's what will infect you if you let it."

June 1st, 2009.

For just over a week after her conversation with Narcissa, Hermione experienced a curious form of peace and acceptance. Her depression did not evaporate entirely, but it was certainly less poignant than it had been. She found it easier to laugh and smile, easier to be honest.

And she waited and watched for those toxic feelings of sadness or anger to rise within her again, the ones that she'd been repressing before, but they did not. She was determined to be different if they appeared again, was determined to express them. She knew that they hadn't gone away just because she'd had some time to feel peaceful.

But it was hard not to sink into a false sense of security. Her sleeping patterns had evened out slightly, she was eating a little better and even found time and motivation to do things other than sit in her study and listen to music. She read books again, worked a little and tried to contribute to the running of the house as best she could. Her motivation seemed to have returned.

One rainy afternoon while Ron was at work and Rose was having a play date with James, Hermione found herself seized with the desire to move her and Ron's bedroom around, she needed a change and she wanted the bed facing the giant window that spanned the western side of the room rather than running parallel to it so that she could lie there and watch the sun set over the mountains.

And so, wand in hand, Hermione happily began the process, cleaning off the surfaces of various pieces of furniture, levitating them out onto the landing outside the bedroom and casting cleaning charms on the dusty sections of floor that had once been hidden. It felt liberating to cleanse her environment like that. Like she was really closing a door on the darkness that had been following her the last months. Her record player sat on a clear patch of floor, making the walls vibrate with its volume. That afternoon, she'd decided against her usual lilting classical music and had replaced it with Led Zeppelin just because she could.

After Hermione had been working steadily for almost an hour and the sun was beginning to set behind the clouds making the room dully grey, she came to sit on Ron's side of the bed. His nightstand was crammed with books on quidditch and defensive spells which needed to be cleared before she could move the table.

Hermione began to levitate the books back onto the bookshelf where they belonged and as the pile thinned, she found something hidden underneath it that made her heart stop for just a second.

The cup. That coffee cup. It was still there over a month later.

Hermione could do nothing but stare at it blankly, at the black spots of mould growing on the surface of the congealed milk as the sharp, acrid smell of it burnt in her nostrils.

She must have sat there for near twenty minutes, long after the record had scratched to a halt, the room growing darker and darker around her. Eventually, for some unknowable reason, tears began to well in her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She didn't sob or sniff or wail, she simply sat in still silence as the tears flowed, staring down at that mug, transfixed.

It was all coming back.

The sound of the front door banging open downstairs didn't even make her jump. Ron's call of greeting couldn't inspire her to respond.

It was only some minutes later, when he finally stamped up the stairs that Hermione's eyes finally broke contact with the cup.

"Woah! What's this then?" asked her husband happily, having difficulty squeezing between the pieces of furniture scattered on the landing to enter the bedroom.

"I'm moving the room around," said Hermione quietly.

"I hope you're not doing anything to hurt yourself love. Blimey, it's a bit dark in here!" he flicked his wand first at the lamps on the walls, then at the dead fire in the grate which roared to life and Hermione found herself bathed in golden light.

"How was your day?" she asked distantly.

"Oh you know, same old, same old. Bit of trouble with some of the prisoners in Azkaban but that's nothing unusual really. Bloody hell, I'm buggered though. Fancy take away tonight?"

He moved over to her and gave her a quick peck on the forehead before slumping down onto the bed next to her and kicking off his boots.

When Hermione made no reply, he gave her a quizzical look. "You alright babe?"

"Yes… I…" her words were faltering, like she'd somehow forgotten how to speak, "I just…"

He sat up, looking concerned, and set one hand on her back and the other one her knee. "What? What is it Hermione?"

She took a deep, calming breath. "Ron, what is that?"

Her hand shot out to point at the mug, sitting alone on his otherwise bare nightstand. He craned his neck a little to get a look at what she was gesturing to and laughed.

"It's a cup of coffee. Well, it used to be… fuck it's gone a bit foul! Why do you ask?" his tone was light, joking, and she knew he didn't understand at all.

"That's been there for over a month," she pointed out.

"So?" he asked flippantly, getting up to move over to the fire.

"So you left a cup of coffee sitting on the nightstand for over a month," she tried to explain to him.

He gave a patronising little laugh, "And that's made you angry has it? No need to over react, Hermione, it's easily fixed."

Ron pulled his wand from his jeans pocket and flicked it at the mug which vanished.

Hermione felt something tearing at the inside of her chest and knew it was rage. But it wasn't healthy. It was black and foul and cancerous. It was not the sort of emotion that Narcissa had been speaking about. It was dangerous. And she found she could hold it in. There was nothing to stop it surging up through her body, opening wounds along the way. She got slowly to her feet.

"That's it? That's your solution? To just vanish it? You don't see anything wrong with that?"

He rolled his eyes, "No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"Why not take it downstairs Ron, why not wash it up, why not fucking do something real about it?"

"Look, it's just a cup of coffee, Hermione! Calm down! I don't understand why you're making such a big deal about this!" he scoffed, throwing his hands in the air.

"Well why don't you ASK ME?!" she yelled, terrified by the feeling of relief she was getting that she was finally, finally, losing her temper, after so much time in silence. It felt so good to just yell. And that scared her. It scared her how ready she was to be cruel.

"What? Like that makes a difference. You're going to throw a fucking tantrum either way, whether I ask or not, so what's the point?!"

"The point?!" she demanded, outraged, "Maybe the point should be that you care about me? That you want to know what's upsetting me?"

"And why would I want to?! Why would anyone want to?! You act like such an acidic bitch all the fucking time, Hermione, it's no wonder no one's going to ask you what your problem is anymore!"

"How dare you!" Hermione screamed before pointing at her stomach, "This is your fucking son, Ron! And it's him doing this to me! Him and you! I don't get this crazy all on my own!"

"Oh so it's my fault now!"

"No, it's not just your fault, but you play a part! You can't just blame me! You always blame me! Can't you take responsibility for once?! Why do I always have to be your scapegoat, Ron?!"

"My scapegoat?! You're the one losing your fucking mind over a cup of coffee!"

"SEE?! That's what I mean!" she yelled furiously before taking a long, deep breath, her voice quieting again, "Can't you just, for one second, please see that you might have done something to hurt me? Please? Just say something that doesn't make me the insane one, that doesn't put all the blame on my shoulders…"

He didn't really how desperately she needed to be told she wasn't insane. Because her mind was falling away from her. Her control was leaking out. She could feel it.

He looked at her for a long moment, shoulders rising and falling with his breath. "I can't think of anything," he said indifferently.

Hermione felt the tears in her eyes again and though she willed them back, they wouldn't be pushed away. They fell down her face and defiantly, she did not wipe them away. She wanted him to see them, the proof that he'd hurt her. Maybe, just maybe he would be able to say it then, that he'd done something wrong.

But Ron didn't seem to be able to look at her. His gaze fell to the floor, flicked out the window, at the empty air above her head, but never into her eyes.

After a moment, he cleared his throat and made towards the door. "I'm going to Harry's. I can't do this right now."

Hermione rushed to put herself between him and the door, anger filling her heart again.

"Is that it? You're just going to leave?" she demanded.

"Yeah. I am. Now get out of the way," he growled.

"No! I won't! I won't let you do this to me again!"

He stopped in his tracks and suddenly his face was inches from hers.

"What do you mean again?" he growled.

Hermione cringed slightly. "You know what I mean!"

"SAY IT THEN!" he bellowed, right in her face, so loudly her ears rang.

The violence of it shocked her right into that frantic, fearful rage, pushed her past the point of no return, and she pushed roughly at his chest so that he stumbled backwards.

"EVERY TIME IT GETS TOO HARD YOU LEAVE ME!" she screamed, "YOU ALWAYS LEAVE ME!"

"And how many times do you want me to apologise for that!" he bellowed back, regaining his footing, "How much do you want me to fucking torture myself!"

His foot lashed out and kicked at the wall beside him as he yelled at her, leaving a boot sized hole.

"That's just it Ron!" she screeched, "How many fucking times do you have to apologise! Why don't you just not do it in the first place! Always begging for forgiveness, never asking for permission! And you wonder why it still hurts me! Because it does! It's like a knife in my fucking chest!"

"Well I can't fucking help that, can I?!"

"YOU LEFT ME IN A WARZONE! YOU LEFT ME KNOWING THAT I MIGHT FUCKING DIE! AND I NEARLY DID! YOUR BEST FUCKING FRIEND AND THE WOMAN YOU CLAIM TO LOVE! YOU LEFT BOTH OF US OUT IN THE COLD!" she screamed, the tears cascading down her face with every word.

Ron's cheeks were pale and his eyes hollow but his teeth were bared in rage, ready to lash back at her but she wouldn't allow him the opportunity.

"And then you did it again a year later! You left me in the mess of that fucking war, all on my own! Just because it was too hard! I don't fucking care that you came back and said sorry because your words mean NOTHING! No matter how many times you say sorry, you'll always leave me again! Because you know I'll always let you come back!"

Now that she'd started, Hermione didn't know that she could stop. Weeks and weeks of pain and fear and anger were pushing up through her chest, cascading from her mouth in one long violent stream. It wasn't about the coffee cup. It had never been about that. It was about him and how disappointed in him she was.

"And now you'll leave again, just like you have every single fucking day for the last two months. You never once asked me what was wrong. You never once pushed me to talk to you. You just let it go, you believed everyone else's bullshit about hormones and baby brain even though you could see with your own fucking eyes how fucked I was! And I was, Ron, I am! I am terrified! You want to know why? Because I hate my own son! I've spent the last two months wishing, praying that my life would just end! That his life would end! MY OWN SON!"

Hermione was sobbing now, uncontrollably, violently. And Ron was looking at her like he found her repulsive.

"And you," she said, her voice finally lowering into a grief stricken whisper, "You think you can stand there and tell me I'm over reacting. When I wish I was dead."

Her last words hung in the air between them. His fists were clenched by his sides so tightly that the skin of his knuckles was pearly white. Still, he couldn't look at her when all she could do was stare into his face in desperation, wishing that he'd just say something to sooth her, to make it all better.

But he didn't.

He moved towards her. He moved past her, towards the bedroom door.

"No!" she cried desperately, the anger gone, her pride gone, "No, Ron, please!"

She rushed to stand in front of him again, her hands struggling to find purchase on his shirt. He stared over her head, fury contorting his features, making him ugly. She tried to use her body weight to stop him leaving. She couldn't handle him leaving.

When he stopped suddenly, she almost thought it had worked, but then his hands landed on her ribcage, fingertips digging painfully into her skin. His picked her up, moved her to the left, out of his way, and put her down again. Just like that.

And then she was alone in the room.

For the briefest of seconds, Hermione simply stared at the open door, listening to his heavy footsteps storming down the stairs. Then, she rushed towards the door, determined to follow him, even if she had to beg for forgiveness, even if she had to admit that it was all her and that he was completely without fault, ready to say anything just to get him to stay. But the way was blocked by all the furniture she'd left on the landing. Ron could fit through, but she couldn't with her belly.

She wheeled on the spot, searching for her wand, one ear cocked, waiting for the slam of their front door. Her wand was nowhere to be seen.

That's when the contraction hit her and completely broke her world.

Hermione doubled over in pain, her knees giving out underneath her and cracking excruciatingly on the hard wood floor.

The agony was familiar. It was, without a doubt, a contraction. But that contraction was seven weeks early. Panic gripped her, running catastrophic electricity through her veins.

"RON!" she screamed, "RON! PLEASE! COME BACK! IT'S-"

Her words were cut off in a rabid shriek as the pain peaked.

And she heard the front door slam.

Her heart broke. It broke because she knew he would have heard her. And he left anyway.

Hermione scrambled around on the floor desperately for her wand. She couldn't get out of the room. She probably wouldn't even be able to make it down the stairs now, even if she could move the furniture. There was, of course, a fireplace, but no floo powder. And she knew she would not be able to apparate without causing damage to herself or the baby.

So unless Hermione wanted to give birth to her son on her own, alone on her bedroom floor, she had to find her wand.

It took fifteen agonising minutes for her to locate it, tucked behind a book under the bed where it must have rolled. By the time her fingers closed around it and she gave a manic sob of the most potent relief, the sweat was pouring from her body and her head was spinning. She was having difficulty breathing and swallowing.

And in that moment, she prayed that her wishes had not been granted. She didn't want to die. She didn't want her son to die.

And yet, she'd never felt closer to death. She felt sure that if she did not find help soon, death was coming to take her and her baby boy whom, she realised then with so much force it was like a punch to her stomach, she loved with so much of her heart that it seemed impossible that there was any more to give.

Hermione concentrated on that love that was blossoming in her chest and cascading all through her body along with the pain and the oncoming blackness, and held up her wand.

"Expecto…" she gasped, her mouth dry, her tongue swollen, "Expecto…"

Her wand arm dropped and she cried. It was too hard. The energy was flying from her body.

My son, she thought desperately, MY SON.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

The otter burst from her wand tip and frolicked around her body, crumpled on the floor of her bedroom.

"H-help…" she rasped, sobbing, "Help. Pl-please."

The otter disappeared in a burst of silvery flames. She didn't know where it had gone or whom it would seek out, she'd had no one in mind with her broken cry for assistance. She just trusted that her little otter would find someone before it was too late.

Hermione curled up into herself as another wave of pain swept through her. She squeezed her eyes shut against it, focussing her mind on anything that would hold her in consciousness. When she opened them again, she looked down to see blood, dark red and filling the room with its metallic scent, coating her bare thighs.

The contraction had lasted minutes, and still no one had come. She was still alone, staring into the flames leaping in the grate in front of her, trying not to think of the blood because she knew what the blood would mean.

Perhaps she really was going to die.

With that thought, Hermione's sobbing finally stopped and her face turned blank.

Death.

Harry and Ron talked so much of the war, of all their near death experiences, almost as if talking about it robbed it of its meaning. That's how they dealt with it, she supposed. And they had the right to deal with it however they wanted. They were the heroes after all.

But was this how a war hero died? Alone, in child birth, in an empty house? A house that had so often held everyone she loved? She'd built her life into this. Everything she'd ever done, every word she'd ever said, every galleon she'd earned, every book she'd ever read, was all going to culminate right here. This was the finale. Her whole sum of parts, everything that made her Hermione Granger, brains of the golden trio, brightest witches of her age, most respected lawyer in the country, was about to end right here on the bedroom floor.

Hermione closed her eyes.

She was ready for it.

But in the infinitely silent moment, right when she was closer to oblivion than she'd ever been, a crack rent the air and the sound of pounding footfalls reverberated through the floorboards into her head.

"Oh my… what is she…?" said a woman's voice, full of grief and fear.

"HELP ME!" cried a man and suddenly, there were cool hands on Hermione's cheek.

Hermione opened her eyes.

Of course it was him. It was always him.

"Draco…" she whispered.

Behind him stood Narcissa, her face lined and cracked in terror.

"Go down stairs, mother, get the floo powder. We have to get her to St Mungos," said Draco, taking full control, just as she knew he would.

Narcissa disappeared.

Draco's wand was already flying up and down her body and she felt the tightness in her throat begin to ease, felt the pain in her abdomen and in her bones dulling.

"Now," he said lowly, trying to keep his horror and fear out of his voice, "You're not going to close your eyes again, are you?"

"Why not?" she said somewhat sleepily.

"Because I don't want you to die," he said in a cracked voice, eyes flicking between her own and his wand as it continued its course all over her body.

"But what's the point?" she sobbed, the tears coming again, "He's already dead."

"He's not," Draco growled.

"He is. The blood, Draco. Look at the blood…"

"We're wizards Hermione. It takes a lot more than this to kill us. I promise. Look, here," he took her hand gently and put his wand, which was pointed at her stomach, in her palm. She immediately felt a constant, throbbing beat travelling into her skin.

"That's a heartbeat," said Draco, "He's not dead."

Hermione let out a wail as he took his wand back. She grasped his hand.

"Help me, Draco! Please!"

"I will," he said intensely, "Don't worry, I'm not leaving you."

Narcissa re-appeared behind him and threw what looked like the entire pot of floo powder into the crackling flames in the grate. They burst into a brilliant green glow and Draco hoisted Hermione into his arms. She could already see flecks of her own blood speckled on his shirt.

He walked into the flames with her on his chest.

June 4th, 2009.

Ron looked wretched. He looked more than wretched, he looked like a man on fire.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, not attempting to brush away the wetness on his cheeks.

"I know," Hermione responded blankly, staring down at Hugo, suckling at her breast. He was so tiny, looked so much more fragile and breakable than Rose had. But he was alive and, thanks to the healers and thanks to Draco's quick thinking the night he'd found her, Hugo was healthy.

For the millionth time in the last three days, Hermione thanked god she was a witch because she knew that muggle medicine would not have saved him. Without magic, her little boy would have died along with his mother.

"Hermione, please…" begged Ron.

She looked over at him, seated beside her hospital bed.

This should have been a happy moment. The tears on her husband's face should have been tears of joy. It saddened her in a place deep in her heart that Hugo had been brought into the world amidst so much brokenness.

She couldn't have him brought up like that. After everything that little boy had been through, both inside her womb and out, he deserved so much better.

"It's ok, Ron," said Hermione, lying her hand palm up on the bed for her to take, "It wasn't your fault."

"It was…" he said thickly.

"It wasn't. It was mine. I shouldn't have let myself get so out of control. I'm sorry."

Ron put his face down on the bed, both of his hands encircling hers, and wept. "How can you do that?" he sobbed, "How can you be the one saying sorry? I left you, Hermione. And you almost died. If it wasn't for… for… why is it that other men are always the ones to save you when I leave?"

Hermione had no answer for that.

After a moment, Ron lifted his face a wiped his eyes, a look of determination sweeping over his features. "I'll be better from now on. I promise. I'll be better. We'll… we'll fix this."

"How?" she asked, because she genuinely wanted to know. Because she needed them to fix it, for Hugo and Rose. Their children needed them to be better. She knew she could leave Ron, knew that that was a possibility, but she didn't want to put herself through that, didn't want Rose and Hugo to spend the first years of their lives with absent parents too caught up in dealing with a divorce.

"There's a mind healer I've heard about," said Ron and Hermione quietly bristled at the idea that he thought she needed yet another councillor. But his next sentence surprised her.

"He works with couples. We could go, you and me. We could get help."

Hermione smiled slightly and nodded. "I think that's a great idea, Ron."

"And… and you don't have to give up your study. You've still got a few days left in the hospital so I'll have the extension put in and set up before you two come home. Hugo can have the new room."

Her smile grew. He had no idea how much that meant to her.

"Thank you, Ron."

She was glad he'd put thought into it, glad that he was taking charge. Because, after what had happened, there was healing that needed to take place. Without a doubt.

For him, she'd keep the events of that night quiet. Draco and Narcissa knew the truth of it but she trusted them never to share it. Harry knew nothing other than the fact that she and Ron had had a fight and she'd gone into an early labour soon after. He didn't know that she'd begged and pleaded, he didn't know that Ron had left the house as it rang with his wife's screams.

And it needed to stay that way, needed to keep quiet. Because she was invested in her husband's desire to be better and she knew the last thing he needed was the judgement of their friends and family.

They had been through worse, or that's what she told herself, and they'd come out the other side better people. Now, it was more important than ever that that happened. Because this time the happiness of her children was at stake. And Hermione would do anything for them.

Anything.

A/N - So this chapter was really hard to write. I'm not going to go into why but it would be wonderful to get lots of warm reviews from you beautiful people!

xx

Desdemona