Ron/Hermione
Summary: It was always her. The way her books were covered in juice and chocolate stains. The way she sounded like a textbook whenever she explained things. The way she was. Only her. Only them.
Nothing should have stood in their way.
Inspired by "We Can Work It Out" by The Beatles.
How was she supposed to tell him?
After months of arguing and yelling and crying, she'd finally had enough. She'd walked right out of their flat just a week ago. She didn't even say anything.
But now...
No, she couldn't go back. She couldn't face him now. There was no way. He would just yell at her - give her some passive aggressive remark before telling her to get out. There was no way she could go back.
She just wouldn't tell him.
Yeah, that seemed like a good idea. Just...hide a tiny Weasley. Hide all that red hair. Maybe if she died it or shaved it or -
No. She moved to fall back on the pillows, but her head hit a piece of chocolate. Again. Hadn't she asked they stop bringing her those? All they did was remind her of him. He always made hot chocolate when Winter came around. He'd always tell her to put her book down when she was drinking it, because she'd always spill chocolate all over the pages.
And she never listened.
His face was everywhere in that hotel room.
In the tiny shampoo bottles. He had to miniaturize his plates and cups so he could fit them all in their tiny cabinet. He kept buying these collectibles with professional Quidditch players' faces on them. He must have had hundreds by this point; he even had one with Ginny. Whenever he got a new plate or cup or napkin or silverware set, he'd burst in through the door and ramble out biographies.
She loved that.
Every now and then, though, she'd come across one that she hadn't seen before, and each time, her heart sunk a bit.
She saw his face in the telly, too. He'd only ever seen one as a kid, when his father brought one home. Ron had gotten a chance to use it, and he'd only learned what it was when he saw a picture of something similar in a catalog Hermione was reading, and he asked her about it. Arthur's fascination with the muggle world didn't quite pass on to Ron, but he asked Hermione questions about it all the time. Sometimes questions would turn into trading childhood stories. Sometimes they'd sit for hours just talking about their families.
She loved that.
She tried to knock, but her hands just trembled on the wood.
As soon as he opened the door, as soon as she saw her face, she fell apart. She covered her face and shook her head. At the sound of his voice, she stood still.
"Hermione, wha—are you o—"
"I'm pregnant." He stood there for a few seconds, just staring at her. Frozen.
"Come inside," he finally said, gesturing an arm past the door.
And then she was frozen. She wiped away a tear and folded her arms before walking in. On the way to the couch, she stopped in her footsteps. "I'm—" He turned around, and, for a second, it looked as if he was going to reach out for her. "I'm so sorry, Ron," she said in a strained voice.
"Hermione..." She felt so stupid. She was so embarrassed. She considered walking out again for a moment. "Hermione, look at me." His arm was on her shoulder now, and she only now realized she'd been staring at the floor.
"Oh, God," Hermione said, pacing towards the sofa and finally sitting down. She ran a hand through a tangle in her hair. "What are we going to do?"
With that, Ron nearly ran towards her. When he reached her, he held her face and gave her the most serious, no-nonsense look she'd ever seen on him. On anyone, actually.
"I'll tell you." A gentle voice came out of his hard expression as he brushed a curl out of her face. The sound was so comforting that she almost started sobbing again. "We're going to love that kid more than anyone has ever loved anyone. Ever."
That got her crying. She fell into his shoulder and felt his mouth open, but he didn't say anything. Then,
"And they're going to love you to pieces...like anyone would."