From: mydogisawesome
Word: Difficult
Word Count: 1,704

Her heart breaks every time she stares down at that baby's face. His beautiful, innocent face, lined with soft baby skin, so pink and perfect. Her stomach clenches whenever he sucks on her finger, those tiny red lips wrapping around it as his own fingers clutch at her larger one, desperate to maintain the connection. And it hurts the most when he opens his eyes and they are blue, so blue, the bluest of all blues.

Because she doesn't think she loves him.

She can't love him. It's his fault, after all. It's his entire fault that the whole world has turned gray, that everything seems darker, that her entire life has changed in one second. Like a snap. Like an uncomplicated spell that she would cast when she was a simple eleven year old girl, when she didn't have two children to take care of and love.

She can't love this boy, and she feels so guilty. She should love him. But he's the last one. His eyes will never be replicated in another baby. His firsts will never be the firsts of another child. He feels like an end, an end that wasn't supposed to come so soon, and she had no control over the fact that it did.

There's a tiny, logical part of Hermione that knows it wasn't Hugo's fault. Women who have been tortured to the degree that she was tortured always have certain amounts of trouble having babies. Really, she's lucky that she even had Rose and Hugo at all. The logical part of Hermione that knows this, however, has been locked into another part of her brain and shunted to the side by this monstrous woman that she has become. The woman who is unable to love her own child.

It's not that she hasn't tried. She sits at his crib every day and stares down at him for hours, not picking him up, just staring. It's a worthless attempt to get her heart to feel anything other than pain when she looks down at her child, and the way that she handles him is so cowardly that she wants to slap herself.

Hermione had not been like this with Rose. Rose was the easiest baby to love, so full of life and laughter and happiness. She thinks that Hugo might have that too, but she hasn't noticed. She has, on the other hand, noticed that the last baby she will ever have has brown hair, not read. In that respect, she feels as though Hugo has let her down. Why couldn't both of her children have red hair?

She knows there's something wrong with her. A mother shouldn't so easily be able to identify her favorite child. A mother should not know which child she would save if a building was burning down. A mother should not feel depressed every single time she looks down at her two week old baby. A mother should not feel overwhelmed whenever her baby cries- this is another problem that she never had with Rose.

Sometimes she just sits by his cradle and loathes herself and waits for Rose to cry so that she can leave her silent vigil. She feels like she's in mourning for a future that was supposed to be and a future that never will be. Hermione is grieving the loss of something that she never had, and in so many ways, it is the most ridiculous thing she has ever done.

This is hard. This is so hard. This is so much harder than fighting Voldemort, than being tortured, than anything she's ever experienced in her entire life, because she doesn't understand herself. She doesn't know why she has given up. She doesn't know why she can't just accept the cards that the world has dealt to her, accept her baby boy. She was given him, after all. Him and Rose. They are hers, and for that she is still eternally grateful, in spite of what is happening to her right now.

Her fingers run across the wood of the crib, her mind buzzes, and she stares unfailingly down at the baby's sleeping face. One of the fingers slips from the wood and onto his cheek, and she feels the soft skin there, the flawlessness that only an untainted child could have. She knows it's not his fault. She knows, she knows. But she was holding him when they told her. Told her exactly what the complications meant, the complications that had arose when she was giving birth to him. The complications that had gotten Ron kicked out of the room, and she had never felt more alone than that moment, in spite of the fact that she was surrounded by St. Mungo's staff. She didn't think she would ever forget the frightened look on Ron's face as they escorted him out of the room, and she hadn't realized, hadn't even imagined, that there could be love in that look, too. That the magnitude of what he felt for her hit her so powerfully in that moment, and she remembers lying there with tears running down her face and thinking that if they got through this unscathed, she would do this a thousand times over to make him love her even more.

But now she will never have another child. She will never see the look on Ron's face as he sees their baby for the first time. There are no more genes to be mixed together, no need to move into a bigger home, no middle children. She hates that.

Cool hands slip around Hermione's shoulders, resting on her collarbone as Ron kisses the top of her head from behind.

"Hi," he says simply. Lately, there haven't been many pet names or endearments. After Rose had been born, all they had wanted to do was have enough time and energy to make love, to celebrate the being that they had brought into the universe. In the past two weeks, though, Hermione hasn't been much for cuddling, never mind sex.

"Hello," she replies quietly. "How was work?"

"It was okay," he says. "I took the liberty of turning on the light for you. Thought you might want to see Hugo."

"Thanks," she mutters.

Ron walks over to the crib, picking up the baby in his large hands. Hugo seems unusually tiny tonight, so weak and feeble in spite of his beauty. He's still Ron's, and that's something.

"Hi, Hugh," Ron whispers. "And how was your day?"

He wakes up at the movement of being lifted into his daddy's arms, and Hermione is unsurprised to see that he doesn't start crying. Hugo doesn't cry nearly as much as Rose did when she was his age, and Hermione wonders whether this will change. Whether the baby senses her unhappiness and it reflects in his ability to behave.

She wants to go to Rose's room, to bury her face in the soft skin and beautiful ginger hair, but seeing Ron with his baby boy brings warmth to her stomach for the first time in days, and she can't bring herself to let that go. She watches him talk to Hugo, watches him coo over the baby, watches him smile and love and be a father. She does this for several minutes before finally saying what she needs to say.

"Ron," she manages to croak out. "Ron, I think there's something wrong with me." His expression slinks from happy to startled as he stares at her, eyes frozen on her vulnerable face. "You… you know what I'm talking about, right?"

"Yes," he whispers, and his own voice spurs him into action. After dropping a quick kiss onto Hugo's head, he lowers the baby into the cradle, then straightens and says with his back to his wife, "You don't hold him. Not like you did with Rose."

"I know," she responds, and her voice seems to crack under the strain of not crying. She is still so angry, at herself and at the world.

He turns around, and although she'd expected to see a man looking at a monster in the expression on his face, all she can see is a husband who wants to protect his wife. He walks over to her, and then tentatively kneels on the floor, placing his hands on her thighs.

"You've just had your future taken away from you. All of the things that you hoped for and dreamed for and planned."

"I know I did," she sighs, eyes on the floor. "I can't stop thinking about it."

"Hermione, you're depressed, love."

"I know."

"And I think that you have every right to it."

She looks up.

"Do you?"

"Yes, I do. But, Hermione, that doesn't mean you should be frightened of our baby. It's not Hugo's fault."

"I know," she moans, burying her head in her hands. "I know, Ron. But I can't… I don't know why… I can't… connect. Not like I did with Rose. God, I'm so frustrated and I just hate myself and I don't understand any of it!"

"It's been two weeks, and you've had a shock. Hermione. I know it's difficult, but we're going to fix you, okay? Give it time. And then you're going to learn how to forgive yourself. I promise."

"Really?"

"Really. In fact, let's start now."

He walks over to the crib and picks up Hugo, then tenderly places the baby in Hermione's waiting arms. Ron slowly slips behind Hermione and puts his arms around her, kissing the top of her head.

"This is Hugo. He's our baby. He has your hair and my eyes and he's quiet and observant and he loves you and you love him, even though it's buried underneath miles of hurt."

"I'm going to be a mother again. I am," Hermione says resolutely, touching Hugo's cheek.

"I know you are," he tells her. "After all, you are a Weasley."

She wants to laugh, but can't bring herself to do it.

"Weasleys love fiercely," she agrees.

"As I love you," he reminds her quietly.

And with that, she knows that, no matter how difficult, everything is going to be alright. In the end, everything is going to be just fine.

A/N: I know that this chapter may be difficult to read for some people, but when I got the prompt, this is what I chose to write. I myself was shocked when this story, which was supposed to be very fluffy, got this chapter, but alas, it happened. I have always pictured something like this happening when Hermione realized that she and Ron could not have any more children. I always thought that it was a product of her torture, why they only had two when they loved each other so much, and when he came from such a big family. If you do not agree, I completely understand. Thank you for reading the chapter- it is as dark as this story will ever get. ~writergirl8