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“Congratulations!” Harry and Hermione beamed as the painted green door swung open before them.
“Shhhhh,” Neville replied, finger to his lips but grinning from behind it.
“congratulations,” they whispered in unison again. Neville stepped aside and the pair of them bundled in off the cold street and into the golden warmth of his home. Coats were hung, scarfs and hats were draped over a radiator to dry next to others, and they followed their host down the hall and into the kitchen at the back of the house.
A crackling fire burned merrily in the grate casting a cosy orange glow over the room and the three other occupants, all of whom looked up joyfully at the newcomers. Ginny was the first to reach them, and Hermione caught her friend in a tight embrace.
“It’s so good to see you!” Ginny said. “I’m sorry you couldn’t visit. They’d only let us—”
“It’s fine, honestly,” Hermione replied. “You didn’t need us there crowding you after all that anyway. You look radiant!”
Ginny released Hermione and pivoted to greet Harry in the same manner. There was still the hint of a bump, Hermione thought, but she looked remarkably well.
“Get you guys a drink?” Neville asked, squeezing behind the kitchen island.
“Butterbeer would be great, thanks,” Harry replied. Ron was leaning against the counter, holding something in his arms, while his girlfriend used her wand to fix colourful paper streamers around the room.
“You’re only putting up Christmas decorations now? It’s half way through December!?” said Harry, incredulously.
Ginny stuck out her tongue in reply. “Well some of us have been in hospital for two weeks.”
“Yeh, less complaining, more hanging, Potter,” added Lucy, sending a cardboard box of mismatched baubles soaring into Harry’s arms. He caught it clumsily, one hand still holding his butterbeer.
“Harry would put our tree up on the first of November if I’d let him,” chuckled Hermione.
“It’s called Christmas Spirit,” said Harry, slouching away to add to the festive look of the place as Ginny led Hermione across the room towards Ron.
“Is this…”
Cradled in Rons arms was a tiny bundle of blankets and, peeking out from between the folds, a red face scrunched up in sleep.
“Elijah Frederik Weasley-Longbottom.” Ginny lifted the babe from his uncle’s arms and placed him squarely in Hermione’s.
He wasn’t gorgeous, not really, not yet. No week-old baby is — except to their parents — and anyone who says otherwise is lying. It takes a month or two for their faces to get all chubby and their inquisitive eyes to lock onto yours, but he was certainly adorable. His button nose crinkled as he groused in his sleep, and a tiny ache pinched at Hermione’s heart.
It was one she was used to and had learned to live with, but holding a baby was always when it bit hardest.
“He’s lovely,” she said truthfully, hunting through the swaddle for a miniscule hand that closed reflexively around the tip of her finger.
“You’d think mum would be used to grandkids by now, but she was beside herself,” said Ginny, leaning in over Hermione’s shoulder to smile at her baby son.
“It’s different when it’s your own daughter, I expect,” Hermione replied. She kept her face pointed down at the child until the moment passed.
“Still, I practically had to order her to go back home.”
“You have a spare room, don’t you?” teased Ron, ducking a clean diaper that Ginny lobbed at him from the overflowing hamper on the island.
Hermione felt the warm, solid presence of Harry against her side and turned to smile at him. His lips alighted briefly on her cheek before he leant in to get a better look.
“He looks just like you, Nev,” Harry said.
“Here.” Hermione adjusted her arms under the precious bundle and held him out towards Harry. Instinctively, Harry cradled the infant’s head in the crook of his elbow and adjusted his weight along his forearm. Elijah wriggled and fussed as he changed hands, and Harry quickly took to bobbing him gently, walking a slow lap of the kitchen to soothe him back to sleep.
A hand found Hermione’s elbow and she looked to see Ginny offering her a glass of wine. She took it gratefully and the two women sat on a pair of stools at the island. Hermione took a sip from her glass and frowned.
“It’s non-alcoholic,” Ginny said apologetically. “I was so ready for all the things I’d missed over the last nine months, but now I learn that it can get into your milk? What gives!?”
Hermione took another sip, more out of politeness than anything else, and set her glass down.
“How was the birth?”
“Errr…” Ginny pulled a face. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing they don’t let you have your wand during labour or I would have cursed everyone and everything under the Sun, and Neville doubly so, but you know, it’s already starting to feel a bit hazy. That first week was scary; he was having trouble breathing and they had him hooked up to all these gadgets, but I’m glad to be back home now.”
“If there’s anything you need, if you’ve run out of something and need someone to run to the shop, or if you and Neville just need a bit of time, don’t hesitate to ask. Harry and I are here for you.”
“Thanks,” Ginny said, placing a hand on Hermione’s arm. “You reckon you guys might think about it soon?”
Another twinge. She could have told her, Ginny would understand, but at first it had been too much to process, and then enough time had passed that it would have been strange to bring it up.
“I don’t think so.”
“Is it Harry?” Ginny asked, lowering her voice. “Does he not want to?”
“It’s not that.” Hermione watched her partner rocking the newborn and laughing with his friends. “No, Harry would be a great dad, but we’re still so young,” she said, opting for a half truth. “I’m only twenty-five. I know wizarding families start early but for muggles it wouldn’t be that unusual to wait another five years even.”
“If you’re waiting for the right time, there is no right time,” said Ginny softly.
Hermione made a noncommittal noise in response and Ginny seemed to pick up on the fact that the topic was exhausted for the time being.
“How’s work going, anyway?”
“Oh Ginny, you don’t want to know about that, surely?”
“Hermione, please. All anyone’s talked to me about for the last nine months is pushchairs and maternity wear and bottles and breast pumps. I long for something as normal and mundane as the Ministry.”
Hermione laughed and caught Harry’s eye as he looked up at the sound.
“Well, if you’re sure, it’s actually going really well. The witch who works above me is looking to retire soon and I’ve been shadowing her to make my case for her position when she goes. I’m actually in the middle of securing a secondment to India.”
“India!?”
“Don’t worry, it’s still a few months away, but it would be an enormous opportunity for me. If I can pull it off, I’ll be the most junior official to ever run the liaison office. I’d have my pick of departments when I got back.”
“That’s great! We’ll miss you so much though. Is Harry going with you?”
“We’re not sure yet. He wants to — I want him to — but it depends on what he can work out with his own boss.”
Just then, Elijah’s little voice rang out in a gurgling cry and Ginny rose to see to him.
“He’s probably hungry,” she said, scooping the bundle from Harry’s arms.
“That makes two of us,” said Neville as he donned a pair of floral oven mitts. “Molly’s left us enough food to feed a small army, so there’s plenty to go around.”
He bent down and pulled a steaming casserole out of the oven, its rich aroma instantly filling the kitchen. Usually, Molly’s cooking was a treat, but something about the smell caught at the back of Hermione’s throat and her mouth unexpectedly filled with saliva.
Glancing around, nobody else appeared to have suffered the same reaction. Ron was clearing the table and Harry was laying out plates for them all, so, bemused, Hermione took a seat.
Heaped spoonfuls of the stuff were served up and everyone took their places, Ginny joining them after feeding Elijah and laying him down in his cot. They all dug in voraciously except Hermione, who once again was feeling mysteriously queasy. She pushed the stewed meat around her plate but her appetite had completely left her.
Thankfully, her aversion went unnoticed among the merry company and together they passed a joyous evening of laughter, shared stories, and festive decorating until her nausea was long forgotten and she walked home happy, if a little hungry, in Harry’s arms.
Hermione’s legs were moving before her mind was fully awake. Impulse and muscle memory drove her across their bedroom and into the en-suite where she dropped to her knees. The toilet seat clattered against the cistern as she flung it open and vomited inside.
There wasn’t much to expel, having skipped dinner, but she heaved again and spat bile into the water. A pair of warm hands brushed against her neck as Harry scooped her hair up and held it away from the bowl.
The convulsions became fewer and fewer and, when it was clear that she had nothing more to give, the sensation finally receded.
“I’m sorry,” Hermione said, accepting the tissue that Harry offered her and wiping her mouth.
“Don’t be,” he replied. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I think so. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I would say it’s something you ate, but we both ate the same thing and it hasn’t affected me.”
“I didn’t actually eat anything last night,” Hermione admitted. She sank back onto her heels and flushed away the evidence of her episode.
“No?” Harry asked, perplexed.
“Wasn’t hungry,” Hermione shrugged. “Felt a bit queasy.”
“You think you might be coming down with something?”
“I don’t know. I feel alright now.”
Harry’s hand cupped her forehead gently. “You don’t feel feverish. Pushed yourself too hard maybe? You’ve really been angling for the India post.”
“Maybe.” Hermione was unconvinced. “Honestly, I feel fine. Just needed to get it out my system, whatever it was.” She crossed to the sink and grabbed her toothbrush, eager to purge the sour taste from her mouth. “What time is it?”
“Too early to go to work, not early enough to go back to sleep,” Harry replied.
“Sorry,” Hermione repeated, muffled from behind her toothbrush.
“It’s okay, I know just how to fill the time.” Harry reached into the shower cubicle and turned the water on. Steam poured over the glass, condensing on the mirror and soothing Hermione with its silken warmth. Harry paused, half in, half out of the shower and beckoned to her.
Hermione spat her toothpaste into the sink. “Really?” she said, amused. “After seeing that?”
“You brushed your teeth, didn’t you? If you have a better way to spend half an hour before our alarms go off, I’d like to hear it.”
Hermione laughed but it was a valid point and she slipped out of her pyjamas to join him.
“You will go and get checked out though?” Harry asked, holding out a palm to stop her from entering.
“That’s what you’re thinking right now?” Hermione replied coyly, but he raised a stubborn eyebrow at her. “Fine, yes, I’ll make an appointment, but you’ve only got twenty-eight minutes now and I expect you to make up the lost time.”
An hour and a half and one impromptu hair wash later, Harry and Hermione bade each other goodbye and headed to work, though not before she had sent a hasty owl to the doctors’ office under Harry’s watchful gaze.
She was surprised at work by the response which asked her to drop by that afternoon. Her nausea hadn’t returned all day, but she knew Harry would be disappointed if she didn’t go, so Hermione finished early and headed across town to the practice.
She was greeted warmly by the receptionist and, after a short wait, was led into Doctor Mitchell’s office.
“Hello, Hermione,” the doctor smiled, scooting her chair away from the desk to greet her patient.
“Hi Steph, how have you been?”
“Oh, good thanks. We should definitely catch up properly soon, but right now it’s me who’s supposed to be asking how you have been. I got your owl this morning?”
“Oh, it’s nothing really,” said Hermione, sitting in the examination chair. “Just a tummy bug or something I expect.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, I felt a bit nauseous last night, couldn’t stomach any food, and then this morning I threw up.”
“Hmm, okay,” the doctor said, shuffling closer and waving her wand in a complex pattern in Hermione’s direction. “Any aches or pains? Temperature? Shivering?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“And you said you threw up this morning.”
“Yes.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Just since yesterday evening.”
“Hmm,” the doctor said again, sitting back with a frown. “You don’t seem ill.”
“That’s what I said,” Hermione replied, already considering getting her coat.
“Unless…”
The doctor made another series of complicated loops and flicks with her wand, tapping her chin between movements. Hermione had been around healers enough to pick up on the magic of mending broken bones and minor lacerations, but the skill of diagnosis was a branch of magic beyond her knowledge.
“Huh,” Doctor Mitchell finally said.
“Am I free to go?” asked Hermione.
“Well, you’re not ill,” the doctor said. “You’re pregnant.”
There was no doubt in Hermione’s mind that she had heard the doctor correctly, but there was simply no way she could be right.
“I’m…”
“Pregnant.”
Hermione’s head was spinning. Her limbs felt too hot and too cold at the same time, and if she weren’t already sat down, she would have certainly fallen.
“But… that’s not possible,” she said weakly.
“These things are never certain,” Steph replied softly.
“But you said. You checked and you said it wasn’t.”
“I know. Magic isn’t infallible, Hermione, and the human body is something that continues to defy all limitations put upon it. All I could do at the time was give you my professional opinion. I know this must be a shock.”
Hermione let out a shaky, humourless laugh. Pregnant. She wasn’t— she couldn’t be— she had accepted that fact, long ago; had known what her life would look like from that moment on and come to terms with it. All of it, shattered. Where did she stand now that her future as she knew it was like so much dust in the wind?
“Hermione?”
Doctor Mitchell’s voice forced her out of her own head and back into the room. She looked serious.
“Your initial diagnosis still stands, even if we were wrong about what it meant long-term. In your condition, you are what we would consider a high-risk pregnancy.”
Hermione gripped the arms of the chair to stop them from shaking. She understood, she was listening, but her mind continued to whir in the background, examining all her choices and throwing out each in light of this new information.
“I can’t say what that will mean,” the doctor continued. “We will have you back here more frequently than we usually would, to keep an eye on how everything is progressing, but there is a higher-than-average chance of complications in situations like this. Complications that could affect the baby’s health, your health, or both.”
“What are you saying? That I might lose it? That I might die?”
“I’m not saying anything at the moment, I just need you to be aware of the risks. Talk it through with Harry. If you decide not to continue — and that’s an option you can take — come back and see me, okay? Do you understand?”
“I… yes.”
“I know this isn’t how you would have wanted to receive the news,” Steph said, placing a hand on Hermione’s arm. “Don’t keep it bottled up, okay? Talk to the people around you, lean on them.”
Hermione nodded and took a steadying breath to stop her legs from shaking as she rose. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Perhaps once, but that had been taken away and it had taken a long time to wrest control of her life from that feeling of helplessness. Hermione would make of her life what she wanted, but in the space of fifteen minutes she had once again been thrown into a situation where fate jerked the rudder from her hands.
“Thank you,” Hermione said, good manners coming so naturally she didn’t even have to think about them.
“Get in touch soon. We can talk through anything you need,” said Doctor Mitchell. Hermione nodded distractedly and made for the fireplace, and home.
Hermione was sitting at the kitchen table when she finally heard the key turning in the lock and the sound of Harry stomping his boots on the doormat. She had practiced how she would break the news to him, but even so her pulse quickened as he made his way down the hall towards her.
Harry entered the room, errant snowflakes still trapped in his hair and his cheeks rosy from the cold. She opened her mouth to change his life.
“Good news!” Harry said before she could find her voice. “I was speaking to Spears today and we’ve figured out a way to make the India thing work! I’m going with you!”
“…Oh,” Hermione said, wrong-footed by his exuberance and wide smile.
“We sorted out a schedule where I could do three weeks away for every week in the office, so I’ll still have to pop back here once a month for a few days, but now I’ll be able to come out with you! Isn’t that great!”
“That’s… erm…”
“Isn’t that great?” Harry asked, confused by her hesitance. There was no choice; she would just have to come out with it.
“I went to see Doctor Mitchell this afternoon.”
“Oh,” said Harry, picking up on her serious tone and taking a seat opposite her.
“I’m not ill,” Hermione hastened to add before Harry could worry too much. “I’m pregnant.”
Harry’s face froze, mouth half-open, eyes staring blankly. It might have been enough to make Hermione laugh if she wasn’t so anxious about his reaction.
“Uhhhh,” he said, the sound escaping his open mouth involuntarily before he could morph it into a question. “How?”
She quirked her head at him.
“I mean, I know how, but I thought that wasn’t possible?”
“Turns out they were wrong,” Hermione shrugged.
“Well, that’s okay, isn’t it?” said Harry, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his snow-flecked hair. “Scary, but okay?”
“It’s not quite as simple as that.” This was the part she had been dreading. “Steph said that, because of what happened all those years ago, it’s not a normal pregnancy. There’s a high risk of ‘complications’, she said.”
“What kind of complications?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fatal ones?”
“Possibly.”
Harry let out a long sigh and rubbed his face with the flat of his hands, then reached forward and entwined them with her own.
“Are you okay?” he asked, searching her face. Hermione’s heart swelled. No matter what happened, he was always looking out for her.
“I don’t know,” she replied truthfully. “We don’t have to… keep it.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“Honestly? No.” She saw the pain flicker across Harry’s face. It was a dreadful position to be in no matter which way they cut it.
“I don’t— I can’t lose you, Hermione. I know it’s selfish, but I couldn’t bear it.”
“I’m not thrilled about the prospect either,” Hermione said with an attempt at a small smile. “You know I don’t believe in miracles or divine intervention, but I don’t know how I can just say I don’t want it and for that to be it. Ever since I found out motherhood wasn’t on the cards for me, I’ve done my best to make the most of the things I can control. I work damn hard at my job, we never let an opportunity pass us by or wonder what if, and this throws all that up in the air, I know that! No weekends in a different country on a whim, no midnight broom rides, no India.”
The thoughts that had been coalescing in her head continued to spill out.
“Hell, when I got that diagnosis, I wasn’t even planning a family. I thought that maybe one day I would, sure, but it was some far off, uncertain future, so it’s not even like I lost something tangible, but I can’t make myself not want it, Harry. We’ve been handed this ill-timed, life-changing, potentially deadly reality and I can’t bring myself to turn away from it.”
She could feel Harry’s hands shaking, or perhaps that was her own. It was all so illogical when the cost was so high. Hermione had never been one for gambling, but emotion had always defied logic.
Harry was quiet as she watched him working through what she had said, separating it out to consider each statement in turn.
“Take some time,” she said softly.
“Huh? No, no I want to be here with you.”
Hermione smiled.
“I know you, Harry. I’ve just dropped this enormous thing on your lap and you need time to let it sink in and process it. I know I did; I’ve had all afternoon. Go for a walk or grab your broom, talk to Ron, whatever you need. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
He looked at her questioningly but there was no trick in her words. She knew him better than anyone, and moreover she knew he would always come back to her. They were a strong couple because they knew exactly when to tackle something together, and when not to.
Harry rounded the table and threaded his fingers gently through her curls, laying a lingering kiss upon her forehead.
“Did I ever tell you how much I love you?” he muttered, drawing strength from their closeness for another heartbeat.
“Every day,” she replied. “Go on.”
The pub was busy and raucous with people letting off steam after work or escaping the cold. With barely a week until Christmas day, evergreen boughs had been strung up from the exposed beams, adorned with ribbons or clumps of berries and full of twinkling lights.
Harry occupied a stool at the bar, not sulking, but neither was he joining in with the festive atmosphere, instead letting the noise and happiness wash over him like a curious bystander. The door opened and a ginger head, taller than most in the room, bobbed in. A freckled face scanned the room, spotted Harry, and Ron began to thread his way across the pub.
“Alright, mate!” he said, dropping heavily onto the stool next to Harry’s and waving at the bar keeper for a bottle of whatever Harry was drinking. It arrived quickly and the two of them clinked their bottles together.
“Got your patronus. What’s the occasion?” Ron asked, taking a swig.
“Hermione’s pregnant,” said Harry simply.
“Mate! That’s amazing! Congratulations!” Ron banged his drink against Harry’s again, who had to quickly raise it to his mouth before it foamed over.
“Thanks,” Harry replied flatly.
“Why do you look like someone’s run over your Hippogriff then?”
“Because it wasn’t supposed to be possible.”
“I’m not sure I’m following. Someone’s had the talk with you, right?”
Harry elbowed his friend for good measure.
“It wasn’t supposed to be possible because Hermione is infertile. Or, was.”
That wiped the smile off Ron’s face. It was replaced with a look that asked whether Harry was really supposed to be telling him that.
“It’s not a secret,” Harry assured him. “We’ve talked about telling you guys on multiple occasions. It just never seemed like the right moment, and now she’s pregnant with a baby that might kill her.”
“Woah, woah, back up. What do you mean she’s infertile?”
“Do you remember in our fifth year when we raided the Ministry to save Sirius?”
“How could I forget?” huffed Ron.
“And do you remember that Hermione was cursed by Dolohov?”
Ron’s mouth dropped open. “He didn’t—”
“Not directly, but there was internal scarring and… well, she was told she would never be able to have children of her own. Can you imagine being told that at sixteen?”
“She never said anything.”
“She didn’t even tell me until we’d been dating for a few months. Didn’t want to “lead me on” if I wanted a family.”
“What did you say?”
“That I wanted her exactly as she was and that, kids or no kids, that wasn’t going to change.”
“And was that the truth?”
“Absolutely. Did I think I would have kids eventually? Yeh, who doesn’t? But Hermione was always the most important thing. If I could have her, I could be happy without anything else.”
Ron’s hand found Harry’s shoulder and squeezed.
“What’s this about it killing her then?”
Harry took another swig from his bottle.
“That scarring, it complicates things. Makes it more likely that things will go wrong. That… she might not make it through.”
“I’m sorry, man. No two ways about it; that sucks. Don’t forget this is Hermione we’re talking about though. If anyone can get through it, she can.”
“It’s not just that,” said Harry, picking at the label of his beer now. “It’s me.”
“What do you mean?”
“How on Earth am I going to be a father? I know absolutely fuck all about being a good dad. What have I got? I’ve got Vernon Dursley who thinks family homes and high-security prisons are one and the same, I’ve got my dad who died before I was even old enough to form a memory of him, I’ve got Sirius who spent most of his life in Azkaban and the rest on the run. I can’t do this. I can’t raise a child.”
Ron listened silently before placing his bottle back on the bar.
“Wow, mate. That is… the biggest load of bollocks I’ve ever heard.”
“What?” Harry spluttered, choking on his beer.
“Do you think being a good dad is somehow different to being a good person?”
“It’s not—” Harry began, but Ron wasn’t finished.
“Nobody has any fucking idea how to be a parent. It’s not an exam you study for; you just do your damn best. Shitty kids come from having shitty parents, and you are not a shitty person. You’re Harry Potter for Merlin’s sake. Kids argue at school about who would win in a fight, you or Dumbledore! Who stepped up and taught us all Defence Against the Dark Arts when the teachers wouldn’t? Who went back in time to stop an innocent person being convicted? Who literally sacrificed themselves to save the whole school? Not to mention it’s not just you against the world any more. You and Hermione will figure it out together, and all of us will be right here with you too.”
There was a lump in Harry’s throat that he uncomfortably swallowed.
“Thanks, Ron,” he said, patting his friend on the forearm.
“Any time,” Ron replied. “Anyway, you haven’t said yet whether you want a kid. Do you?”
Harry thought. “We’d made all these plans for just the two of us. We were going to be the fun aunt and uncle who bought the best presents. We were going to take a joint sabbatical and tour Europe, but… I think I do. With Hermione, I think I do.”
They tapped their bottles together again in a silent acceptance of lives that refused to be normal.
“By the way, Dumbledore would absolutely wreck you in a fight, no contest.”
The pair of them broke into riotous laughter fuelled by the emotion of the moment, tears spilling down aching cheeks and onto the polished bar.
“What are you moping here with me for, anyway?” Ron asked when they’d finally regained control of themselves. “Go be with Hermione. You should be celebrating.”
“You’re right,” said Harry, throwing a handful of sickles onto the bar. “I just need to make a quick stop off first.”
Ron scooped up the money and signalled to the barman for another round.
“Then I’ll drink to your health!” he said, waving as Harry squeezed through the press of bodies and out into the street.
It had been Hermione’s idea that Harry take some time to come to terms with what she had told him, and she stood by that decision, but left to her own devices it was hard not to start overthinking it.
She was starting to think that perhaps she had been too forward. Harry needed to know the facts, of course, but maybe it was too soon to also disgorge all her thoughts on the matter? It had been too much to take in at once.
And the more she thought about it, the more selfish it seemed. The baby was inside her, yes, but it was both of theirs and Harry’s opinion held equal weight to her own. She should have let him process it and then asked his thoughts on the matter. She had made her position abundantly clear and hadn’t given him a chance to form his own opinion independent of hers.
Not to get too pragmatic about it either, but the stakes were different for each of them. If the pregnancy did end in disaster, he would be the one who had to go on living with that burden. Was it fair to put Harry through that, knowing he would shoulder the loss?
These thoughts and more competed for attention in Hermione’s head as she tried and failed to keep herself busy.
She hadn’t changed her mind, but what if Harry was adamant that he didn’t want her to keep it? Hermione knew he would never force her to do something she didn’t want to, but was that the kind of impasse that fractured relationships?
It was stupid, she was being stupid, of course that wouldn’t happen, but she would feel much better when she could stop speculating and talk to him properly.
As if she had summoned him by pure will, there was a knock at the door. He could have let himself in with his key as he had done earlier, but Hermione’s desire to see him dismissed that curiosity in favour of wrenching it open herself.
Harry stood there on the snow-covered path. He had even more of the stuff in his hair than he had before; great fat flakes of it that drifted down slowly and already blanketed the front lawn and hedges that surrounded the house. It was pitch black, save for the puddle of orange light cast by the iron lamp above the doorway.
“I’m sorry about before,” Hermione said, standing in the doorway. “I shouldn’t have sprung everything on you all at once. Of course we can discuss what the best thing to do is. It’s not just about what I want, it’s about what we want. Can we just pretend I didn’t say all that other stuff and go from “I’m pregnant”?”
She waited with baited breath for an answer, cold air pooling around her ankles as it crept into the house, but he just smiled a wide, warm smile that was reserved only for her.
“Harry?”
Harry drew a hand from behind his back to hold something up to the light. It was a tiny Babygro decorated like a Christmas pudding, complete with a holly-sprig hat. Hermione’s eyes filled with tears.
“You know it won’t be born until September,” she said, voice choked with emotion.
“Then it will be perfect for next Christmas,” Harry said. A sob escaped Hermione’s lips and Harry swept forward to lift her into his arms, carrying her across the threshold and pushing the door closed behind him with one foot.
7 Months Later
The doors of St Mungo’s banged off the corridor walls as the gurney was rolled through them at speed. Harry kept a hand clamped onto the railing, swept along with the maul, cool fingers resting lightly against his.
The emergency response witch was reeling off details to the healers as they ran.
“Hermione Granger, twenty-six, presented with severe haemorrhage, possible placental abruption. She’s been given fifty cc’s of calming draught and two-hundred cc’s of blood replenisher.”
They turned a sharp right and clattered through another set of doors. There was so much blood. It glistened on the sheets that covered Hermione’s legs.
“Try and stay awake, Hermione,” one of the healers said, head swivelling between watching where they were going and checking on her patient. “Not much further now.”
“Harry?” Her voice was wobbly but clear.
“I’m here, I’m here,” Harry replied, speeding up so that he was within her eyeline.
“My parents…”
“Ron’s on his way to them now, Hermione. He’ll bring them right here.” He gripped her hand, cold beneath his sweaty palm. The bloom of the blood replenisher in her cheeks was at odds with the rest of her pale complexion.
They turned off the corridor and into a private room. As soon as the gurney had stopped moving, the healers swarmed around it, casing spells and clearing space. Harry tucked himself as tight against it as he could, daring anyone to try and separate them.
An older healer, the one who seemed to be in charge, sent a silver fox darting out of the room and then came to the head of the bed.
“Hermione? I’m Healer Parks, I’m going to do everything I can for you and your baby, okay? What’s happened is that the placenta has separated from the uterine wall and caused a haemorrhage.”
“The baby?” Hermione asked.
“Baby is okay at the moment, but she won’t be if we leave her in there. We’re going to have to deliver right away.”
Hermione pressed her free hand to her mouth and Harry blinked his vision clear through unshed tears.
“Is it safe?” Harry asked.
“You are thirty-two weeks along, correct? It’s early, but Baby has a very good chance of survival if we act quickly. There’s not enough time to induce labour, so it will have to be a caesarean delivery.”
“And Hermione?”
“We need to get Baby out before we can address the bleed. The theatre is being prepped right now.”
Harry didn’t fail to notice that he hadn’t answered the question. Just then, a healer dressed in light blue rather than the standard green stuck their head around the door.
“They’re ready,” he said.
In an instant, the bed was moving again and Harry made to follow before Parks held up a hand.
“Are you Dad?”
The question knocked Harry back. He had known it was coming eventually, but he was suddenly forced to face the reality that ‘eventually’ was now. He was Dad.
“Uh, yes,” Harry replied.
“Very well,” the healer said and gestured for him to continue with the gurney.
They followed another twisting route, green-robed witches and wizards jumping out of their way as they passed.
“I’m scared,” Hermione said as they turned down another corridor towards the operating theatres. Harry was too, out of his mind, but that’s not what Hermione needed.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said. Unbidden, another conversation from some months before came floating to the forefront of his mind; a conversation with Doctor Mitchell.
“There may come a point where, out of Baby and Mother, only one can be saved, and if Hermione is unconscious, that decision will fall to you. I’m not trying to alarm you, but it is better to think about it now than have it sprung on you in the moment.”
He and Hermione had discussed it at length and reached a sobering conclusion, but he didn’t know if he had the strength now to follow through with it.
They reached the operating room and Harry was directed to the side while they moved Hermione from the gurney onto a prepared table. Someone handed him a smock and a face mask and he fumbled them on with numb fingers.
A kaleidoscope of healers buzzed around the table as gleaming chrome equipment was laid on a tray and bright lights were swung into position. A team clad in pale pink wheeled in a transparent incubator with soft blankets bunched inside it.
Finally, Harry was able to rejoin Hermione. A chair had been placed by the head of the operating table and he shuffled it in as close as it would go, shoulders touching, head bowed low. A screen was erected across Hermione’s chest, cutting them off from whatever was happening on the other side.
A surgical healer posted on Hermione’s other side leant in to speak softly to the pair of them.
“They’re going to cast a powerful numbing charm, okay? It will feel strange, and you may feel some pulling, but there will be no pain. It’s important that you let me know if you feel like you’re going to be sick.”
Hermione nodded, the cracks in her mask of bravery beginning to show. Harry clutched her hand in both of her own and pressed it to his lips through the mask. An apprehensive hush fell over the theatre save for the whirring and clicking of various devices out of sight behind the screen.
Hermione let out a small gasp. “I can feel it, the numbing.”
“Okay, I’m making the incision,” came a steady voice from behind the screen and Harry felt Hermione’s grip on his hand tighten.
“Look at me,” he said, willing her brown eyes to meet his green. “Just me. It’s just us. Everything is going to be okay.”
The sounds of the theatre faded into the background as their world reduced to the six inches between their faces. Harry could have mapped her iris in his sleep, each fleck, shine, and shadow, and he poured every ounce of his love, pride, and resolve into her.
Hermione let out a small gasp.
“Are you okay?” Harry asked quickly.
“Yes, I can feel them… moving things. Ah! It’s… strange.”
“Ready with the incubator?” came the voice again, and then a sound broke through into their world, one that would change everything forever. The tiny sound of a baby crying.
Harry and Hermione stared at one another in numb disbelief. They were no longer a two. They were a three.
The screen was pulled down and a pair of hands placed an impossibly tiny person onto Hermione’s chest. She was red and thin and needed a clean, but she was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen. The tidal wave of emotion proved too great to hold back and both of them sobbed as they held the infant between them.
The healer leaned in again.
“She needs to be taken to the NICU now while you are treated, but you can see her the moment you wake.”
Hermione allowed the healer to carry their baby to the incubator and tucked her carefully inside, tapping it with his wand to keep her warm.
“We need to put you under for this next bit, okay? Count backwards from ten for me please?”
“I’ll be right here,” Harry promised. He used the pad of his thumb to wipe away a tear that tricked into her hair.
Hermione began to count.
“Ten, nine, eight… seven…”
The healer waved his wand over her. Harry watched her eyelids droop and felt her hand go slack as the sleeping charm took her.
She dreamed of nothing, felt nothing, heard nothing until she became aware of something.
Instead of pitch blackness, the nothing had a slight red hue, and Hermione realised it was the inside of her own eyelids. She opened her eyes on a clean hospital room, light filtering in through the large windows and falling on Harry who was sat in a comfy chair facing her bed.
“Hey,” she tried to say, but her throat was too dry to form anything but a rasp.
Harry looked up from his book at the sound and smiled.
“Here,” he said, jumping up to pour her some water from the jug on her bedside.
It coated her sandpaper mouth, chasing away the lingering drowsiness as Hermione’s faculties returned to her. There was a dull ache in her abdomen and she felt like she’d fallen down a flight of stairs, but all her limbs were working and she no longer felt muddled or slow.
“Our baby?” she asked.
“She’s doing great,” Harry replied, and a relief like none she’d ever felt in her life washed over Hermione. “I’ll call an orderly with a wheelchair to take us over.”
“No, I can do it,” Hermione said, bracing her arms on the sides of the bed.
“Hermione, you’ve just had major abdominal surgery,” said Harry, moving to catch her.
“I’m not waiting another second to see her, so help me or move out of the way.”
Harry smiled in spite of himself.
“Remind me which one of us was the stubborn one again?” he said, taking her weight on his shoulder as he helped her to her feet. Her stomach protested sharply against being flexed, but she could walk well enough with Harry’s help.
The NICU ward was directly opposite the maternity ward, and it was a mercifully short hobble across the corridor and into the dim room lined with incubators.
Harry led them down the row of tiny babies until they reached one half-way down. Despite having only seen her and held her for a matter of moments, Hermione instantly knew her daughter when she saw her. One-handed, Harry pulled a chair up to the incubator and Hermione gladly sank into it.
A pair of holes had been cut in the side of each incubator, covered by a glass plate that could be swivelled out of the way. Hermione opened one up and slipped her hand through, touching the bare skin of her baby. It was warm to the touch and indescribably soft.
Harry pulled up a chair opposite and placed his hand inside the chamber too, gently holding her miniscule balled fist.
“Does she have your eyes or mine?” Hermione asked.
“She hasn’t opened them yet, but I hope she has yours.”
“And she’s okay?”
“Perfect in every way. They say she’s doing brilliantly. Must be because she’d got such a strong mum.”
Hermione’s fingers laced through Harry’s and their linked hands formed a barrier across the child’s chest.
“We can do this, you know,” said Hermione, staring through the glass at the two most important people in her life.
“I know,” Harry replied. “All we need to do now is think of a name.”
The End.