AN: Just a short one.
Chapter Nine: The Tipping Point
Hermione staggered out of the bathroom, clutching the doorframe for support. She'd been kneeling by the toilet for hours, dry heaving long after her stomach had emptied itself of everything she'd eaten that day. Her legs felt like jelly, and she had to steady herself as she slowly made her way down the hallway. Each step was an effort, her body drained from the relentless assault of her morning sickness.
Reaching the kitchen, Hermione grabbed a glass and filled it with water, her hands shaking slightly. She took a cautious sip, bracing herself for the worst, but her stomach stayed calm. Encouraged, she drank the rest of the glass and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, letting out a breath she hadn't realize she'd been holding. She needed to sit down, so she shuffled into the living room and sank down into the sofa, pulling a blanket over herself as she tried to find comfort in the familiar cushions.
The TV remote was lying nearby, and she picked it up, flipping through channels aimlessly. She needed a distraction, something to pull her thoughts away from the gnawing loneliness. Marley snd Me might be good for a cry, or maybe a rom-com to lighten the mood instead. As she curled up, tucking her feet under her and adjusting the blanket, she thought about texting John. She just wanted to check in and see how everyone was doing—even though she told herself she didn't care about Sherlock, she knew the truth was that she wanted to hear from him.
She typed a quick message to John, keeping it light and casual, then set the phone down. No sooner had she done so than a sharp pain shot through her abdomen, intense enough to make her double over with a gasp. Her hands flew to her stomach, her breath catching in her throat. It was a stabbing pain, sudden and blinding, and as quickly as it came, it vanished, leaving her shaken. Well, that wasn't normal, Hermione thought to herself.
Another wave of pain hit, and Hermione's calm façade began to crumble. Panic set in as memories of the Cruciatus Curse she had endured at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange flooded back—sharp, searing agony that tore through her with every breath. She clutched the sofa, struggling to make sense of the pain. Her first thought was to call John—he'd know what to do, even if maternity care wasn't his speciality.
With trembling hands, she dialled his number. No answer. She left a message, her voice wavering as she tried to describe what she was feeling. As another sharp pain wracked her body, she cried out, dropping the phone as she doubled over again and fell to her knees. When she glanced down, her heart nearly stopped—she saw spots of blood staining the carpet beneath her.
Hermione's panic intensified. She was alone, and every attempt to stand sent her reeling back to the ground. She fumbled for her phone, desperately dialing her parents, then Mary, then John again. No one was picking up. She was alone in her parents' house, terrified and in pain, and every minute that passed felt like an eternity. She tried John one last time, leaving another message, but her voice broke as a fresh wave of pain tore through her.
Just as she cut off the voicemail, Mary's name flashed on her screen. Relief surged through her as she answered. "Mary!" Hermione gasped, clutching the phone. "I need your help. I'm at my parents'. I need to go to the hospital, but no one is answering. Please, please come quickly?"
Mary's voice was calm and reassuring. "I'm on my way, Hermione. Hold tight."