Empty Womb, Empty Room, 1/2 (HP)
Title: Empty Womb, Empty Room
Rating: R
Summary: Propagation of the species is one of our most basic and innate urges. When Nature has other ideas, however, the burden can be unendurable. Written for the Ron/Hermione FQF.
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.
Note: This fic attempts to deal with infertility and a late-term miscarriage honestly and maturely, without wallowing in angst or wrapping everything up in a neat, happy bow. Whether I've succeeded or not is for you to decide, but if you find the subject matter disturbing or upsetting in ay way, please do not read any further.
The resounding pop of an Apparating wizard had not even faded away when Ron bounded up the steps to his front door. He was having the most perfect day: the air was clear and warm, the Cannons were ahead in the standings, he'd got an outstanding performance review from his supervisor at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and he had found the perfect stuffed animal to finish off the nursery he and Hermione had spent the past month decorating. It was an exact duplicate of the teddy bear he'd had as a small boy, and he couldn't wait for his son -- or daughter -- to grab it in its chubby little hands and embrace it the way he had embraced his.
"I'm home!" he called out as he burst through the door, barely able to contain himself. He winced when the door slammed shut behind him. Hermione couldn't bear slammed doors, and would no doubt have a few choice words for him.
Those words never came.
"Hermione?" he called again, his voice softer this time. No one responded. By all appearances the house was completely empty; his steps creaked ominously on the old wooden floorboards. "Hermione, are you there?" His ears strained for the slightest sound from upstairs.
Increasingly alarmed, he pulled out his wand and cautiously made his way up the stairs. After checking every room, and the nursery twice, he came back down.
It wasn't like Hermione not to be home at this time of day. Although she continued to work for the legal firm of Goldstein, Goldstein and Granger, she'd reduced her workload to whatever paperwork could be done from home two months ago. After so many years of trying, and so many close calls, once she'd passed the twenty-week mark without incident she'd begun taking every possible precaution. That meant staying off her feet as much as possible, no Apparating or use of a Portkey, and no leaving the house unescorted unless it was to Harry and Ginny's, her parents', or the Burrow. She always left him a note before going, so her unexplained absence was a puzzle.
Uncertain what to do, he took a Butterbeer from the fridge, cracked it open, and sat at the kitchen table. An offended squeak brought him to his feet. With a laugh, he rescued the bear from his back pocket and set it on the table. "Sorry I sat on you, mate," he said, lifting his bottle to the toy in a mock toast before tipping it back for a long pull. The animal just stared at him with its coal-black button eyes.
Their moment of camaraderie was broken by the eruption of green flames from the hearth. Since the Floo Network was the only magical transport available to Hermione in her delicate condition, Ron naturally assumed she was on her way home, and rose to welcome her. Much to his disappointment, however, Harry tumbled out of the fireplace.
"Oh, thank Merlin," he exclaimed as he swept the soot from his robes. "I went to the Ministry an hour ago and they said you'd left, but when I came here earlier you weren't home, and your mum said she hadn't seen you, and --"
"What is it?" Ron asked, dread coiling in his stomach. "What's happened?"
"Something's gone wrong. Hermione's at St. Mungo's."
Not again, Ron thought as the dread slithered its way up to his throat, constricting him so he could barely speak. Please, not again. Not now, not when she's come so far. A glance at Harry's inscrutable face, however, revealed nothing. "What happened?" he croaked.
Harry just grabbed his arm and tugged him towards the hearth. "You'd best come with me," he said. "They can tell you what happened better than I can."
Ron broke free of Harry's grip long enough to grab the bear from the table, then followed him into the Floo Network in another burst of green flames.
* * * * *
Ron had hated St. Mungo's for as long as he could remember. Too often, it had been associated in his mind with death and devastation. Even coming here with Hermione so she could be examined by an obstetric Healer, and hearing his unborn child's heartbeat for the first time, had not been enough to mitigate the feeling of misery that settled over him like a shroud every time he came here.
Harry led him at a brisk pace out of the fireplace and across the foyer through the door that led to the patient wards. Ron was desperate to ask him what had happened, to find out what Harry knew but was reluctant to tell, but he couldn't help clinging to the belief that the longer he remained ignorant, the less likely his worst fears would be realized. He clutched the stuffed bear to his chest as he followed Harry upstairs, hoping against hope that everyone was simply overreacting.
When he saw Ginny, his father, and his in-laws standing in a huddle outside a closed door at the end of the corridor, however, his heart sank. Bringing Muggles into St. Mungo's was a complicated procedure undertaken only in the worst of crises; if the Grangers were here, then the news must be very bad indeed.
Ginny turned and saw the two men headed towards her. "Thank goodness you found him!" she said to Harry as she came forward to embrace Ron. Her chin trembled and her eyes were shiny when she looked up at him. "She's been awake for about ten minutes now, asking for you."
Ron pulled back and grasped her by her elbows. "Ginny, please, you have to tell me -- what happened?"
She shook her head and stepped back, breaking free. "Just go in and see her, Ron."
His shoulders slumped. He hazarded a glance at his in-laws, but there was no news forthcoming from them, either. His frustration was rapidly reaching a boiling point, to the point that he wanted to rage, to hit someone, to hex something. Instead, he took a deep breath and opened the door.
The curtains had been drawn over the windows, leaving the room enveloped in dimness. Ron heard a faint patter against the windowpane and realized it must have started raining since he left home.
On a bed near the far wall, Hermione lay on her side, her back to him. A lamp on the bedside table cast a golden circle of light on the pillow beneath her head. On the other side of the bed sat an empty, straight-backed chair.
Ron winced as the click of the door closing seemed to echo through the room. Hermione stiffened at the sound, then half-turned towards him. He could see the glint of wetness on her cheeks reflected in the lamplight. Dread slithered within him once again, awakened by the sight of her delicately pale, blotchy face framed by an unholy mass of brown hair. He hurried to her side, scooting the chair as close to the bed as he could get and taking her hand in both of his.
"What happened, Hermione?" he whispered, almost afraid to speak.
She sniffled. "I'm so sorry, Ron."
He reached forward to tuck a lock of hair away from her face. "Sorry about what, love?" He tried to smile at her, but it felt so unnatural to do so he thought his face might crack. "You didn't try to use Mum's antique sewing machine again, did you?"
A mewling sound escaped from her throat as she shook her head. "I - I lost the baby."
The dread that had risen up in him, its hood unfurled, now struck, sinking its fangs deep into his heart. In truth, this was the news he had feared the moment he saw Harry emerge from his fireplace, but having expected it made it no easier to hear.
They'd tried for years without success to have a baby. A year after they were married, Hermione declared her desire to stop using contraception and start a family. Though the very idea of raising a child terrified him, Ron was only too happy to give her what she wanted. They made love with abandon, wherever and whenever the mood struck. Fred, who had caught them in flagrante not only once, but three times, had even taken to calling them the "rutting Weasleys", though never when his mother or Hermione were in earshot.
Yet despite all their enthusiastic coupling, Hermione's menstrual cycle remained as stubbornly predictable as ever. Meanwhile, Harry and Ginny's brood increased on what seemed to be a yearly basis. Just before their fifth child was born, Hermione dragged a reluctant and embarrassed Ron to a Healer who specialized in infertility. For two years they were subjected to a battery of spells and potions, including one particularly foul-smelling swill that made all of Ron's body hair fall out. Despite the endless indignities he and Hermione endured, however, none of the spells or potions bore fruit.
Undaunted, Hermione then decided to turn to Muggle science. Losing his hair had been a mere irritation compared to what those crackpots put him through. Sex with Hermione lost all pleasure as he was called upon to perform any time her body temperature reached a certain level -- a demand that frequently required him to invent clever excuses to leave work -- and to fulfill his procreative duty in a variety of alternatingly ridiculous and uncomfortable positions. When Ron found himself locked in a small room with a plastic cup and a stack of glossy Muggle magazines depicting naked women flaunting their intimate bits for all the world to see, however, he knew that his pride had hit rock-bottom. So he flung the empty cup at the smirking attendant and fled, too distraught to bother with concealing his Apparition from passing Muggles.
As only she could, Hermione convinced him to return to the clinic, though it hadn't been easy. In the end, it was his profound love for her and wish to help her fulfill her desire to have a baby that brought him back. He refused to use the clinic's resources to provide the samples they required, however, and so, once a month, he would lie back on their bed and fantasize about a plump, full-breasted, wide-hipped, smiling Hermione surrounded by a host of children while her expert hands coaxed him to orgasm. Once they'd cleaned up they would then Apparate to the clinic, where Ron would endure the agony of watching the doctor insert a long needle into Hermione's flat abdomen and slowly depress the plunger, implanting Ron's sperm directly into her uterus.
At first, Ron feared that Muggle science would prove no more successful than magic. Then, one glorious fall day, Hermione informed him that her period was late, the first time that had happened since it first began its monthly appearance when she was in her early teens. He'd been so ecstatic the next day he spent almost an entire week's salary on baby clothes. Three weeks later, when the cramping began, and then the bleeding, they'd both been devastated. The doctor reassured them that this was not an unexpected setback, given the troubles they'd experienced from the beginning, and urged them to try again as soon as they were ready.
For two more years Ron felt as though his life had become a pendulum, swinging constantly between the extremes of elation and despair as Hermione would become pregnant, then miscarry before the first trimester had ended. He clung stubbornly to hope, however, as each time she managed to carry the child a little bit longer than before. He knew, though, that she wouldn't be able to continue like this forever; her already petite frame had grown almost gaunt, and not even magic could hide the deepening shadows under her eyes. He wanted to tell her to stop punishing herself, that there were other ways to have a family, but he feared even the slightest bit of resignation on his part would push her over the edge. So he remained silent and hoped for a miracle.
That miracle came this winter, when Hermione passed through the first trimester without incident. Soon her belly began to take on a roundness that had not been there before, her face began to fill out, her narrow hips began to widen, and her breasts felt heavier in his large hands. He was afraid to touch her, fearing the worst, but when one night she grabbed his hand and pressed it to her stomach and he felt the first faint fluttering of a new life, he couldn't contain his joy. That night they made love for what felt like the first time in years.
When panic set in the next morning, it took all the persuasive powers in the doctor's arsenal to convince Ron that, yes, it was perfectly safe to have sex with one's pregnant wife, and that, given all they'd suffered, the mood enhancement doing so would bring would be very beneficial to both Hermione and their child. He did, however, recommend Hermione spend as much time on bed rest as possible.
Ron's innate protective instincts took control; he became like a man possessed. He knew the rules he laid down for where Hermione could go, and when, and under what circumstances, and what she could do on her own and what she couldn't do without supervision, drove her crazy, but she bore his obsession with good humor. He took great pride in attending to her needs, caring for her with the assiduousness he had learned at his mother's feet as she cared for his baby sister.
Ron also insisted Hermione return to magical care for the duration of her pregnancy. He would remain forever grateful to Muggle medicine for the miracle it gave them, but he just didn't trust it. Hermione tried to reason with him, but that was one argument she couldn't win.
When they learned Ginny was herself pregnant again, and due to give birth not long after Hermione, the two women drew even closer than before. Relieved that Hermione had someone she could share this experience with -- and someone she could turn to for first-hand knowledge and advice -- Ron relaxed the restrictions somewhat and encouraged Hermione to spend as much time with Ginny and her children as possible.
The best part about Hermione's pregnancy, as far as Ron was concerned, was the sex. While she had always been responsive to him, even in her most unfettered moments she could never completely let go of her primness. Now, though, she became an entirely different person in bed. It was scary and brilliant at the same time. Ron had briefly been tempted to ask Harry if it had been the same for him, then realized that was a hell of a lot more about his sister than he ever wanted to know. So he just relaxed and let himself enjoy it.
Now, though, he realized as he clutched Hermione's cold fingers in his shaking hands, all of that had been snatched away from him. He didn't think he could go through any more of this, which would mean Hermione's distress must be many times more unbearable. He couldn't stand the thought of saying no to her, but no child could be worth this much suffering and loss.
"Ginny had come over for tea," she was telling him, stumbling over the words as she tried to keep her sobs in check. "She'd brought the children with her, and they'd all gone outside to play. Ginny was telling me about a spell to ease muscle spasms when the cramps started. She thought maybe they were Braxton-Hicks contractions, but I knew." She reached out to grasp the edge of his robe. "I knew, Ron. I knew even before I got here that the baby was gone."
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers. "There wasn't anything they could do to save it?"
"Her," she whispered, shaking her head. "Our baby was a girl. A perfectly formed little girl, except that she was dead."
"Do the Healers know what happened?"
She shook her head again. "They want to do a post-mortem, but I told them to wait until you got here." She looked at him with tears spilling out of her soft brown eyes. "I thought you might want a chance to hold our daughter first."
Ron swallowed noisily. He hadn't been prepared for that. He was no stranger to holding tiny infants, having cradled his nieces and nephews more times than he could count over the years. The idea of holding his own child's dead body in his arms, however, was a bit more than he was willing to endure, even for Hermione's sake.
"I'll see what the Healer has to say," he said, releasing her hand and standing up. "I need to find out when I can take you home anyway." She simply nodded.
He looked down at her pallid face and had to fight back the urge to scoop her up in his arms and Apparate with her to the other side of the world, where no one knew them and where no one could pity them. Instead, he took the stuffed bear from his pocket and nestled it against Hermione's chest. She looked at it rather quizzically at first, then gave Ron a wan smile and slowly closed her eyes.
Ron rested his hand on her head, gently stroking her hair. "I'll be back as soon as I can, love," he murmured, then left.
* * * * *
The gathering outside Hermione's room had noticeably thinned when Ron stepped out into the corridor. His father and Ginny had both gone, probably to attend to the demands of their own families, leaving Harry and the Grangers waiting. Also there was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with wiry gray hair and a bulbous nose whom Ron recognized as the obstetric Healer. Ron squared his shoulders and approached them.
"How is she, Ron?" Mrs. Granger asked. She held a handkerchief in her hands that she twisted and knotted between her fingers. Ron could tell from its limp, bedraggled state that it had been used to dry many tears today. "How's Hermione?"
He briefly considered lying to them, assuring them that this was a temporary setback, that Hermione would be back on her feet in no time. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. "She's in pretty bad shape," he said. Before either of the Grangers could press him for details, he turned to the Healer. "Can I have a word in private?"
He nodded and followed Ron several yards down the corridor. Harry gently ushered the Grangers in the opposite direction. As soon as he felt safe enough to speak openly, Ron turned on the Healer. "What the hell happened? Everything had been going so well. She saw you just last week and you assured us everything was progressing normally. What happened?"
The Healer removed his glasses and polished them on the edge of his robes before carefully settling them back on his nose. While he waited for an answer Ron seethed, fighting the compulsion to slam his fist into the nearest surface, be it a wall or, even better, the Healer's face. When he finally spoke, his response did nothing to soothe Ron's anger and frustration.
"I don't know."
"What do you mean, 'I don't know'? You're the bloody expert!"
"Believe me, Mr. Weasley, where your wife is concerned, I have put my expertise to the test and found it shamefully lacking. Occasionally, we will stumble across a medical mystery that cannot be solved by any means available to us, be they magical or Muggle. Mrs. Weasley's inability to carry a child to term appears to be just such a mystery."
Ron could feel the day's stubble scrape the skin of his palm when he scrubbed his hands over his face. "So what you're saying is -- if I'm hearing you correctly -- is that Hermione and I will never be able to have children?"
The Healer propped his elbow on a nearby windowsill and ran his fingers through his hair. "If you two were to keep at it, she might be able to carry a child long enough for it to survive outside her womb, if delivered prematurely. However, I would strongly discourage you from taking that course of action. The later in your wife's pregnancy she miscarries, the more difficult her recovery will be. Not only that, but as she ages the risk of birth defects increases. That risk becomes even greater when you factor in premature delivery."
Ron's breath escaped with an audible 'whoof' as he slumped against the wall. "Why?" he moaned. "Why did this happen to us?"
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Weasley," the Healer said. "I wish I had better news for you."
Ron blinked away the tears that stung at the corners of his eyes and looked blearily at the Healer. "Does Hermione know yet? Does she know she'll likely never be able to have a child?"
"Not yet."
"Then don't tell her yet. Something like that... that can wait until morning."
"If you wish." Ron nodded. "Very well. I need to examine Mrs. Weasley one more time and give her a Dreamless Sleep Draught to help her rest before I do the post-mortem." He glanced at Ron. "Do you wish to hold your daughter before I--?" Ron's faint shudder seemed to be all the answer he required, and he nodded in acknowledgement. "You're welcome to spend a few more minutes with your wife, but I would advise you to go home and get some sleep. The next few weeks are going to be very trying for both of you."
"When can she come home?"
"Tomorrow morning, if there are no complications during the night."
"You'll let me know if there are any?"
"Of course, Mr. Weasley."
"Okay. Thank you for all your help."
The Healer extended his hand, apparently to touch Ron on the shoulder, but then withdrew it. "I deeply regret the misfortune you and your wife have suffered."
Ron watched the Healer enter Hermione's room. His throat and eyes burned with unshed tears. Inside, he felt as if his heart had been torn to shreds. He'd always been rather ambivalent about having children, but having had the choice wrenched from his grasp was beyond frustrating. Even more so was watching the effect their repeated failures had on Hermione's spirit. He'd seen the lingering, longing looks she would give Ginny as she grew large with each successive child and known, without having to ask, how persistently her feelings of inadequacy gnawed at Hermione. This was an obstacle that not even her cleverness or his determination could surmount.
"You okay, mate?" a soft voice said beside him.
Ron turned to see Harry studying him. "Never better," he said dully.
"Is there anything Ginny or I can do? D'you want to kip at our place tonight?"
Ron shook his head. "No, I'll be fine." He glanced around. "Where are Hermione's parents?"
"I escorted them to the entrance," Harry explained. "There's an Underground stop just around the corner, so they should be on their way home by now."
"Thanks, mate," Ron said. "Reckon I'm going to have to explain what's going on to them sooner or later."
Harry clasped his shoulder. "Later will do. There's a Muggle pub not far from here; why don't you let me treat you to a pint?"
"A pint sounds bloody brilliant right now."
As he had just over an hour ago, Ron let Harry lead the way, retracing their steps out of St. Mungo's. When they passed through the door that opened out on to Muggle London, Ron was surprised to see that it was dark. The rain that had fallen earlier had stopped, leaving small puddles that reflected the light of streetlamps and splashed beneath his feet as he and Harry walked through them. Feeling a chill seep beneath his skin, he wrapped his arms around his torso and hurried to keep up with Harry. He was glad when he saw the warm, golden glow cast from a coach lantern that hung beside a sign heralding the Bull and Lion, so he followed Harry inside.
The pub was small and cozy, with sturdy wooden booths polished by decades of patrons' well-padded bums. A billiards table took up one end and a stone fireplace the other; perched on a platform above the bar was a telly tuned to some Muggle sport Ron didn't recognize. While Ron took a seat in an empty booth near the fireplace Harry went up to the bar to fetch their drinks.
A few minutes later, a glass filled nearly to the top with dark brown liquid topped with just a sliver of foam slid in front of him. "Cheers," Harry said.
Ron looked up to see him tip his glass back and raised his own in response. "Down the hatch."
* * * * *
Ron wasn't sure how late it was when he tripped and fell to his knees while climbing his back steps; if Hermione weren't in St. Mungo's, he'd have got a tongue-lashing for coming home at such a late hour. And despite his clumsiness, he wasn't pissed, though he almost wished he were. He'd sat in the pub for several hours, nursing his beer while talking about anything and everything under the sun except children or Hermione. In a way, it was just what the Healer had prescribed. He desperately needed the distraction and Harry, bless Merlin, had come through in spades. As envious as he was of the countless ways the wheel of fate had turned in Harry's favor, Ron knew he was doubly blessed to have Harry as a friend.
But Harry had a family to return home to, so Ron reluctantly bade him farewell and Apparated back to his empty house.
The silence was oppressive. After turning on all the table lamps, Ron aimed his wand at the wireless set and activated it. At this late hour, most of the music consisted of what George called "shagging music," but Ron didn't care if they played mermaid song; he just wanted noise.
The Butterbeer he'd opened that afternoon when he returned home from work -- before his world had been turned upside down and inside out -- still sat on the kitchen table. It was warm, but he didn't care. He took several long swallows.
As he tilted his head back to drain the last of the bottle, Ron spotted the curved newel post at the bottom of the staircase out of the corner of his eye. He knew he was going to have to climb those stairs sooner or later, and he knew once he did the first room he would see would be the nursery. The nursery that he and Hermione had so lovingly furnished, all for naught; the nursery that would remain forever empty.
"Fuck," he groaned. Then, louder, "Fuck!" With a snarl he threw the bottle. It smashed into hundreds of pieces when it hit the wall. Ron grinned with malicious satisfaction. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he hurtled up the stairs to stand at the door to the nursery. "Fuck," he whispered, just before he crumpled to the floor in a flood of tears.
PART TWO
Rating: R
Summary: Propagation of the species is one of our most basic and innate urges. When Nature has other ideas, however, the burden can be unendurable. Written for the Ron/Hermione FQF.
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.
Note: This fic attempts to deal with infertility and a late-term miscarriage honestly and maturely, without wallowing in angst or wrapping everything up in a neat, happy bow. Whether I've succeeded or not is for you to decide, but if you find the subject matter disturbing or upsetting in ay way, please do not read any further.
The resounding pop of an Apparating wizard had not even faded away when Ron bounded up the steps to his front door. He was having the most perfect day: the air was clear and warm, the Cannons were ahead in the standings, he'd got an outstanding performance review from his supervisor at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and he had found the perfect stuffed animal to finish off the nursery he and Hermione had spent the past month decorating. It was an exact duplicate of the teddy bear he'd had as a small boy, and he couldn't wait for his son -- or daughter -- to grab it in its chubby little hands and embrace it the way he had embraced his.
"I'm home!" he called out as he burst through the door, barely able to contain himself. He winced when the door slammed shut behind him. Hermione couldn't bear slammed doors, and would no doubt have a few choice words for him.
Those words never came.
"Hermione?" he called again, his voice softer this time. No one responded. By all appearances the house was completely empty; his steps creaked ominously on the old wooden floorboards. "Hermione, are you there?" His ears strained for the slightest sound from upstairs.
Increasingly alarmed, he pulled out his wand and cautiously made his way up the stairs. After checking every room, and the nursery twice, he came back down.
It wasn't like Hermione not to be home at this time of day. Although she continued to work for the legal firm of Goldstein, Goldstein and Granger, she'd reduced her workload to whatever paperwork could be done from home two months ago. After so many years of trying, and so many close calls, once she'd passed the twenty-week mark without incident she'd begun taking every possible precaution. That meant staying off her feet as much as possible, no Apparating or use of a Portkey, and no leaving the house unescorted unless it was to Harry and Ginny's, her parents', or the Burrow. She always left him a note before going, so her unexplained absence was a puzzle.
Uncertain what to do, he took a Butterbeer from the fridge, cracked it open, and sat at the kitchen table. An offended squeak brought him to his feet. With a laugh, he rescued the bear from his back pocket and set it on the table. "Sorry I sat on you, mate," he said, lifting his bottle to the toy in a mock toast before tipping it back for a long pull. The animal just stared at him with its coal-black button eyes.
Their moment of camaraderie was broken by the eruption of green flames from the hearth. Since the Floo Network was the only magical transport available to Hermione in her delicate condition, Ron naturally assumed she was on her way home, and rose to welcome her. Much to his disappointment, however, Harry tumbled out of the fireplace.
"Oh, thank Merlin," he exclaimed as he swept the soot from his robes. "I went to the Ministry an hour ago and they said you'd left, but when I came here earlier you weren't home, and your mum said she hadn't seen you, and --"
"What is it?" Ron asked, dread coiling in his stomach. "What's happened?"
"Something's gone wrong. Hermione's at St. Mungo's."
Not again, Ron thought as the dread slithered its way up to his throat, constricting him so he could barely speak. Please, not again. Not now, not when she's come so far. A glance at Harry's inscrutable face, however, revealed nothing. "What happened?" he croaked.
Harry just grabbed his arm and tugged him towards the hearth. "You'd best come with me," he said. "They can tell you what happened better than I can."
Ron broke free of Harry's grip long enough to grab the bear from the table, then followed him into the Floo Network in another burst of green flames.
* * * * *
Ron had hated St. Mungo's for as long as he could remember. Too often, it had been associated in his mind with death and devastation. Even coming here with Hermione so she could be examined by an obstetric Healer, and hearing his unborn child's heartbeat for the first time, had not been enough to mitigate the feeling of misery that settled over him like a shroud every time he came here.
Harry led him at a brisk pace out of the fireplace and across the foyer through the door that led to the patient wards. Ron was desperate to ask him what had happened, to find out what Harry knew but was reluctant to tell, but he couldn't help clinging to the belief that the longer he remained ignorant, the less likely his worst fears would be realized. He clutched the stuffed bear to his chest as he followed Harry upstairs, hoping against hope that everyone was simply overreacting.
When he saw Ginny, his father, and his in-laws standing in a huddle outside a closed door at the end of the corridor, however, his heart sank. Bringing Muggles into St. Mungo's was a complicated procedure undertaken only in the worst of crises; if the Grangers were here, then the news must be very bad indeed.
Ginny turned and saw the two men headed towards her. "Thank goodness you found him!" she said to Harry as she came forward to embrace Ron. Her chin trembled and her eyes were shiny when she looked up at him. "She's been awake for about ten minutes now, asking for you."
Ron pulled back and grasped her by her elbows. "Ginny, please, you have to tell me -- what happened?"
She shook her head and stepped back, breaking free. "Just go in and see her, Ron."
His shoulders slumped. He hazarded a glance at his in-laws, but there was no news forthcoming from them, either. His frustration was rapidly reaching a boiling point, to the point that he wanted to rage, to hit someone, to hex something. Instead, he took a deep breath and opened the door.
The curtains had been drawn over the windows, leaving the room enveloped in dimness. Ron heard a faint patter against the windowpane and realized it must have started raining since he left home.
On a bed near the far wall, Hermione lay on her side, her back to him. A lamp on the bedside table cast a golden circle of light on the pillow beneath her head. On the other side of the bed sat an empty, straight-backed chair.
Ron winced as the click of the door closing seemed to echo through the room. Hermione stiffened at the sound, then half-turned towards him. He could see the glint of wetness on her cheeks reflected in the lamplight. Dread slithered within him once again, awakened by the sight of her delicately pale, blotchy face framed by an unholy mass of brown hair. He hurried to her side, scooting the chair as close to the bed as he could get and taking her hand in both of his.
"What happened, Hermione?" he whispered, almost afraid to speak.
She sniffled. "I'm so sorry, Ron."
He reached forward to tuck a lock of hair away from her face. "Sorry about what, love?" He tried to smile at her, but it felt so unnatural to do so he thought his face might crack. "You didn't try to use Mum's antique sewing machine again, did you?"
A mewling sound escaped from her throat as she shook her head. "I - I lost the baby."
The dread that had risen up in him, its hood unfurled, now struck, sinking its fangs deep into his heart. In truth, this was the news he had feared the moment he saw Harry emerge from his fireplace, but having expected it made it no easier to hear.
They'd tried for years without success to have a baby. A year after they were married, Hermione declared her desire to stop using contraception and start a family. Though the very idea of raising a child terrified him, Ron was only too happy to give her what she wanted. They made love with abandon, wherever and whenever the mood struck. Fred, who had caught them in flagrante not only once, but three times, had even taken to calling them the "rutting Weasleys", though never when his mother or Hermione were in earshot.
Yet despite all their enthusiastic coupling, Hermione's menstrual cycle remained as stubbornly predictable as ever. Meanwhile, Harry and Ginny's brood increased on what seemed to be a yearly basis. Just before their fifth child was born, Hermione dragged a reluctant and embarrassed Ron to a Healer who specialized in infertility. For two years they were subjected to a battery of spells and potions, including one particularly foul-smelling swill that made all of Ron's body hair fall out. Despite the endless indignities he and Hermione endured, however, none of the spells or potions bore fruit.
Undaunted, Hermione then decided to turn to Muggle science. Losing his hair had been a mere irritation compared to what those crackpots put him through. Sex with Hermione lost all pleasure as he was called upon to perform any time her body temperature reached a certain level -- a demand that frequently required him to invent clever excuses to leave work -- and to fulfill his procreative duty in a variety of alternatingly ridiculous and uncomfortable positions. When Ron found himself locked in a small room with a plastic cup and a stack of glossy Muggle magazines depicting naked women flaunting their intimate bits for all the world to see, however, he knew that his pride had hit rock-bottom. So he flung the empty cup at the smirking attendant and fled, too distraught to bother with concealing his Apparition from passing Muggles.
As only she could, Hermione convinced him to return to the clinic, though it hadn't been easy. In the end, it was his profound love for her and wish to help her fulfill her desire to have a baby that brought him back. He refused to use the clinic's resources to provide the samples they required, however, and so, once a month, he would lie back on their bed and fantasize about a plump, full-breasted, wide-hipped, smiling Hermione surrounded by a host of children while her expert hands coaxed him to orgasm. Once they'd cleaned up they would then Apparate to the clinic, where Ron would endure the agony of watching the doctor insert a long needle into Hermione's flat abdomen and slowly depress the plunger, implanting Ron's sperm directly into her uterus.
At first, Ron feared that Muggle science would prove no more successful than magic. Then, one glorious fall day, Hermione informed him that her period was late, the first time that had happened since it first began its monthly appearance when she was in her early teens. He'd been so ecstatic the next day he spent almost an entire week's salary on baby clothes. Three weeks later, when the cramping began, and then the bleeding, they'd both been devastated. The doctor reassured them that this was not an unexpected setback, given the troubles they'd experienced from the beginning, and urged them to try again as soon as they were ready.
For two more years Ron felt as though his life had become a pendulum, swinging constantly between the extremes of elation and despair as Hermione would become pregnant, then miscarry before the first trimester had ended. He clung stubbornly to hope, however, as each time she managed to carry the child a little bit longer than before. He knew, though, that she wouldn't be able to continue like this forever; her already petite frame had grown almost gaunt, and not even magic could hide the deepening shadows under her eyes. He wanted to tell her to stop punishing herself, that there were other ways to have a family, but he feared even the slightest bit of resignation on his part would push her over the edge. So he remained silent and hoped for a miracle.
That miracle came this winter, when Hermione passed through the first trimester without incident. Soon her belly began to take on a roundness that had not been there before, her face began to fill out, her narrow hips began to widen, and her breasts felt heavier in his large hands. He was afraid to touch her, fearing the worst, but when one night she grabbed his hand and pressed it to her stomach and he felt the first faint fluttering of a new life, he couldn't contain his joy. That night they made love for what felt like the first time in years.
When panic set in the next morning, it took all the persuasive powers in the doctor's arsenal to convince Ron that, yes, it was perfectly safe to have sex with one's pregnant wife, and that, given all they'd suffered, the mood enhancement doing so would bring would be very beneficial to both Hermione and their child. He did, however, recommend Hermione spend as much time on bed rest as possible.
Ron's innate protective instincts took control; he became like a man possessed. He knew the rules he laid down for where Hermione could go, and when, and under what circumstances, and what she could do on her own and what she couldn't do without supervision, drove her crazy, but she bore his obsession with good humor. He took great pride in attending to her needs, caring for her with the assiduousness he had learned at his mother's feet as she cared for his baby sister.
Ron also insisted Hermione return to magical care for the duration of her pregnancy. He would remain forever grateful to Muggle medicine for the miracle it gave them, but he just didn't trust it. Hermione tried to reason with him, but that was one argument she couldn't win.
When they learned Ginny was herself pregnant again, and due to give birth not long after Hermione, the two women drew even closer than before. Relieved that Hermione had someone she could share this experience with -- and someone she could turn to for first-hand knowledge and advice -- Ron relaxed the restrictions somewhat and encouraged Hermione to spend as much time with Ginny and her children as possible.
The best part about Hermione's pregnancy, as far as Ron was concerned, was the sex. While she had always been responsive to him, even in her most unfettered moments she could never completely let go of her primness. Now, though, she became an entirely different person in bed. It was scary and brilliant at the same time. Ron had briefly been tempted to ask Harry if it had been the same for him, then realized that was a hell of a lot more about his sister than he ever wanted to know. So he just relaxed and let himself enjoy it.
Now, though, he realized as he clutched Hermione's cold fingers in his shaking hands, all of that had been snatched away from him. He didn't think he could go through any more of this, which would mean Hermione's distress must be many times more unbearable. He couldn't stand the thought of saying no to her, but no child could be worth this much suffering and loss.
"Ginny had come over for tea," she was telling him, stumbling over the words as she tried to keep her sobs in check. "She'd brought the children with her, and they'd all gone outside to play. Ginny was telling me about a spell to ease muscle spasms when the cramps started. She thought maybe they were Braxton-Hicks contractions, but I knew." She reached out to grasp the edge of his robe. "I knew, Ron. I knew even before I got here that the baby was gone."
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers. "There wasn't anything they could do to save it?"
"Her," she whispered, shaking her head. "Our baby was a girl. A perfectly formed little girl, except that she was dead."
"Do the Healers know what happened?"
She shook her head again. "They want to do a post-mortem, but I told them to wait until you got here." She looked at him with tears spilling out of her soft brown eyes. "I thought you might want a chance to hold our daughter first."
Ron swallowed noisily. He hadn't been prepared for that. He was no stranger to holding tiny infants, having cradled his nieces and nephews more times than he could count over the years. The idea of holding his own child's dead body in his arms, however, was a bit more than he was willing to endure, even for Hermione's sake.
"I'll see what the Healer has to say," he said, releasing her hand and standing up. "I need to find out when I can take you home anyway." She simply nodded.
He looked down at her pallid face and had to fight back the urge to scoop her up in his arms and Apparate with her to the other side of the world, where no one knew them and where no one could pity them. Instead, he took the stuffed bear from his pocket and nestled it against Hermione's chest. She looked at it rather quizzically at first, then gave Ron a wan smile and slowly closed her eyes.
Ron rested his hand on her head, gently stroking her hair. "I'll be back as soon as I can, love," he murmured, then left.
* * * * *
The gathering outside Hermione's room had noticeably thinned when Ron stepped out into the corridor. His father and Ginny had both gone, probably to attend to the demands of their own families, leaving Harry and the Grangers waiting. Also there was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with wiry gray hair and a bulbous nose whom Ron recognized as the obstetric Healer. Ron squared his shoulders and approached them.
"How is she, Ron?" Mrs. Granger asked. She held a handkerchief in her hands that she twisted and knotted between her fingers. Ron could tell from its limp, bedraggled state that it had been used to dry many tears today. "How's Hermione?"
He briefly considered lying to them, assuring them that this was a temporary setback, that Hermione would be back on her feet in no time. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. "She's in pretty bad shape," he said. Before either of the Grangers could press him for details, he turned to the Healer. "Can I have a word in private?"
He nodded and followed Ron several yards down the corridor. Harry gently ushered the Grangers in the opposite direction. As soon as he felt safe enough to speak openly, Ron turned on the Healer. "What the hell happened? Everything had been going so well. She saw you just last week and you assured us everything was progressing normally. What happened?"
The Healer removed his glasses and polished them on the edge of his robes before carefully settling them back on his nose. While he waited for an answer Ron seethed, fighting the compulsion to slam his fist into the nearest surface, be it a wall or, even better, the Healer's face. When he finally spoke, his response did nothing to soothe Ron's anger and frustration.
"I don't know."
"What do you mean, 'I don't know'? You're the bloody expert!"
"Believe me, Mr. Weasley, where your wife is concerned, I have put my expertise to the test and found it shamefully lacking. Occasionally, we will stumble across a medical mystery that cannot be solved by any means available to us, be they magical or Muggle. Mrs. Weasley's inability to carry a child to term appears to be just such a mystery."
Ron could feel the day's stubble scrape the skin of his palm when he scrubbed his hands over his face. "So what you're saying is -- if I'm hearing you correctly -- is that Hermione and I will never be able to have children?"
The Healer propped his elbow on a nearby windowsill and ran his fingers through his hair. "If you two were to keep at it, she might be able to carry a child long enough for it to survive outside her womb, if delivered prematurely. However, I would strongly discourage you from taking that course of action. The later in your wife's pregnancy she miscarries, the more difficult her recovery will be. Not only that, but as she ages the risk of birth defects increases. That risk becomes even greater when you factor in premature delivery."
Ron's breath escaped with an audible 'whoof' as he slumped against the wall. "Why?" he moaned. "Why did this happen to us?"
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Weasley," the Healer said. "I wish I had better news for you."
Ron blinked away the tears that stung at the corners of his eyes and looked blearily at the Healer. "Does Hermione know yet? Does she know she'll likely never be able to have a child?"
"Not yet."
"Then don't tell her yet. Something like that... that can wait until morning."
"If you wish." Ron nodded. "Very well. I need to examine Mrs. Weasley one more time and give her a Dreamless Sleep Draught to help her rest before I do the post-mortem." He glanced at Ron. "Do you wish to hold your daughter before I--?" Ron's faint shudder seemed to be all the answer he required, and he nodded in acknowledgement. "You're welcome to spend a few more minutes with your wife, but I would advise you to go home and get some sleep. The next few weeks are going to be very trying for both of you."
"When can she come home?"
"Tomorrow morning, if there are no complications during the night."
"You'll let me know if there are any?"
"Of course, Mr. Weasley."
"Okay. Thank you for all your help."
The Healer extended his hand, apparently to touch Ron on the shoulder, but then withdrew it. "I deeply regret the misfortune you and your wife have suffered."
Ron watched the Healer enter Hermione's room. His throat and eyes burned with unshed tears. Inside, he felt as if his heart had been torn to shreds. He'd always been rather ambivalent about having children, but having had the choice wrenched from his grasp was beyond frustrating. Even more so was watching the effect their repeated failures had on Hermione's spirit. He'd seen the lingering, longing looks she would give Ginny as she grew large with each successive child and known, without having to ask, how persistently her feelings of inadequacy gnawed at Hermione. This was an obstacle that not even her cleverness or his determination could surmount.
"You okay, mate?" a soft voice said beside him.
Ron turned to see Harry studying him. "Never better," he said dully.
"Is there anything Ginny or I can do? D'you want to kip at our place tonight?"
Ron shook his head. "No, I'll be fine." He glanced around. "Where are Hermione's parents?"
"I escorted them to the entrance," Harry explained. "There's an Underground stop just around the corner, so they should be on their way home by now."
"Thanks, mate," Ron said. "Reckon I'm going to have to explain what's going on to them sooner or later."
Harry clasped his shoulder. "Later will do. There's a Muggle pub not far from here; why don't you let me treat you to a pint?"
"A pint sounds bloody brilliant right now."
As he had just over an hour ago, Ron let Harry lead the way, retracing their steps out of St. Mungo's. When they passed through the door that opened out on to Muggle London, Ron was surprised to see that it was dark. The rain that had fallen earlier had stopped, leaving small puddles that reflected the light of streetlamps and splashed beneath his feet as he and Harry walked through them. Feeling a chill seep beneath his skin, he wrapped his arms around his torso and hurried to keep up with Harry. He was glad when he saw the warm, golden glow cast from a coach lantern that hung beside a sign heralding the Bull and Lion, so he followed Harry inside.
The pub was small and cozy, with sturdy wooden booths polished by decades of patrons' well-padded bums. A billiards table took up one end and a stone fireplace the other; perched on a platform above the bar was a telly tuned to some Muggle sport Ron didn't recognize. While Ron took a seat in an empty booth near the fireplace Harry went up to the bar to fetch their drinks.
A few minutes later, a glass filled nearly to the top with dark brown liquid topped with just a sliver of foam slid in front of him. "Cheers," Harry said.
Ron looked up to see him tip his glass back and raised his own in response. "Down the hatch."
* * * * *
Ron wasn't sure how late it was when he tripped and fell to his knees while climbing his back steps; if Hermione weren't in St. Mungo's, he'd have got a tongue-lashing for coming home at such a late hour. And despite his clumsiness, he wasn't pissed, though he almost wished he were. He'd sat in the pub for several hours, nursing his beer while talking about anything and everything under the sun except children or Hermione. In a way, it was just what the Healer had prescribed. He desperately needed the distraction and Harry, bless Merlin, had come through in spades. As envious as he was of the countless ways the wheel of fate had turned in Harry's favor, Ron knew he was doubly blessed to have Harry as a friend.
But Harry had a family to return home to, so Ron reluctantly bade him farewell and Apparated back to his empty house.
The silence was oppressive. After turning on all the table lamps, Ron aimed his wand at the wireless set and activated it. At this late hour, most of the music consisted of what George called "shagging music," but Ron didn't care if they played mermaid song; he just wanted noise.
The Butterbeer he'd opened that afternoon when he returned home from work -- before his world had been turned upside down and inside out -- still sat on the kitchen table. It was warm, but he didn't care. He took several long swallows.
As he tilted his head back to drain the last of the bottle, Ron spotted the curved newel post at the bottom of the staircase out of the corner of his eye. He knew he was going to have to climb those stairs sooner or later, and he knew once he did the first room he would see would be the nursery. The nursery that he and Hermione had so lovingly furnished, all for naught; the nursery that would remain forever empty.
"Fuck," he groaned. Then, louder, "Fuck!" With a snarl he threw the bottle. It smashed into hundreds of pieces when it hit the wall. Ron grinned with malicious satisfaction. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he hurtled up the stairs to stand at the door to the nursery. "Fuck," he whispered, just before he crumpled to the floor in a flood of tears.
PART TWO