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Hermione Granger is not an idiot, but at the moment, all thoughts have left her mind. She’s already done the charm but she didn’t believe the results even if they were the same with each wave of her wand. No, she needs something concrete, something she knows from her parents.
The white stick in her hand is the fifth one. The first four are lined up on the bathroom counter like soldiers killed in battle. As she places the latest pregnancy test next to the others, she lets out a shaky breath. Air can’t seem to find its way into her lungs and her hands can’t stop trembling, even as her fingers grip the edge of the counter.
She’s a statistic. She’s a stupid statistic in the Muggle world and she hates it.
There’s a knock on the door. “Hermione? You alright in there?”
Her hands turn the knobs of the faucet and she washes her hands, using the sound of flowing water to help cover up the strain in her voice. “I’m fine! Just need a moment.”
There’s a pause, and then, “You sure? I’m heading out to meet Cho, but I can -”
“Have fun! I’ll see you later. Tomorrow. Later.”
The doorknob jiggles. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She’s not. She is absolutely not okay, but she doesn’t want Harry to know. He’ll ask why and she doesn’t want to have to tell him that she’s part of the bloody stupid 2% of people who may get pregnant with a condom. She doesn’t want to admit that she doesn’t remember the man’s name; he was some guy at a Muggle bar in London who managed to catch her attention during an Open Mic Night and she’d gone home with him because it was what she wanted.
There isn’t regret for the sex, but she wishes this part wasn’t happening.
“Hermione?”
She pats her cheeks with damp hands. The water from her fingers mingle with the tears that are drying beneath her eyes.
“You’d tell me if something was wrong… Right?”
“Of course,” she answers as she turns off the taps. The lie hurts coming from her lips, but it’s usually a truthful statement.
When she reaches out to touch the wood of the bathroom door, her eyes fall closed and she imagines Harry’s hand in hers, offering the comfort he’s always provided since they met during their first year of Hogwarts. Back then, he’d been too shy to deal with everyone who wanted to meet The Boy Who Killed the Dark Lord, and she’d bossily told everyone to “Shove off, he’s not interested.”
They’d been best friends ever since.
“Alright,” Harry says slowly. He knocks a nonsensical pattern on the door. “Send a Patronus if you need to, okay?”
“Okay.” Her voice is quiet but it doesn’t matter. Harry is already walking away, his footsteps fading into nothing before she hears the roar of the Floo going off.
She’s alone again. Her body slowly drops into a crouch and she leans her forehead against the door. No one is around to hear the sob that erupts from her mouth, to hear the gasping breaths that overtake her.
In a very rare moment, Hermione doesn’t know what to do.
Part of her keeps chanting, This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening , but it’s a bold-faced lie and she knows it. Usually so careful about her potions, she’d stopped them for a brief time to allow new potions to work through her body - the wizard equivalents of vaccines, she supposes, but she doesn’t want Dragon Pox or Pixie Pox or any type of Pox, really, so she’d stopped the contraceptive potion in case of any potential interactions.
By the time she’d gone out to the Muggle pub, she hadn’t thought anything of it.
And now, five pregnancy tests and multiple detection charms are telling her that her body is housing another being.
This isn’t something she planned. Obviously. If she’s being honest with herself, it’s not something she ever thought she wanted. Oh, she likes children well enough, but the idea of being pregnant has never seemed appealing. Some of her friends are gorgeous when they’re pregnant - Ginny always seems to do that glowing thing. But it’s never been for her, she doesn’t think.
She’s set to begin a new post in the Investigation Department of the Auror office in two weeks time. Despite knowing she can still do the job, it’s rare for the DMLE to keep pregnant witches on staff. It’s complete bollocks but the magical world is still a Patriarchal system that she is determined to break down.
Either way, she’s pregnant now.
“Idiot,” Hermione mumbles to herself. “Such a stupid fucking idiot!”
Over and over, Hermione rants, berating herself and yelling until her voice is hoarse and she can no longer see through the blur of angry tears. She knows she’s not the only one at fault but she has no way to contact the singer and she doesn’t want to, anyway. It’s easier to get mad at herself. By the time she stops screaming, she’s flat on her back, staring at the ceiling where paint is chipping away at one of the corners. Her skin feels prickly, like she’s being electrocuted. The more she thinks about her situation, the more she worries.
“Get it together, Hermione,” she whispers. “Get it together.”
Like a switch flicks in her brain, Hermione stands up and splashes water on her face. The house is eerily silent when she walks to her bedroom. She changes, her heart beating faster with each passing second. Going to St Mungo’s means possibly seeing people she knows but it’s the better choice over going into the Muggle world - she doesn’t even know if she’ll be allowed to terminate a pregnancy there. Not that she thinks it will be easy at St Mungo’s. She’s been in the wizarding world for so long that she knows pregnancies are practically revered.
But she can’t think of that, not yet.
Before she can change her mind, Hermione is grabbing a handful of Floo powder and barking out, “St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries!” She arrives in a room not too far off from the main entrance and she can see the old chairs scattered in a reception area. The witch behind the desk isn’t a familiar face, which makes Hermione breathe a sigh of relief.
“Can I help you?” Her tone is brisk, abrupt.
“I… I believe I’m pregnant,” Hermione says, as though a secret.
“Congratulations,” the witch intones. “Do you need a -”
“I don’t want to be pregnant.”
There is silence and the Welcome Witch gives her a long look before she purses her lips.
“You’ll have to go to the 9th floor.”
Hermione frowns. The 9th floor is usually for those who have been obliviated too much or who have had their minds -
She draws in a deep breath.
“The 9th floor.” she repeats. “Why can’t I just go to… to…”
“You will need to speak to a Mind Healer first. He or she will determine whether you are of sound mind to make such a decision.”
Hermione is livid at the explanation. She knows what she wants and she doesn’t want to have to talk to anyone. “This is preposterous.”
“You can go to the 9th floor or you can register as an expectant mother in the Maternity Ward.”
Fuming, Hermione nods her consent and goes to the bank of elevators after spelling her signature on a piece of parchment, one that records her actual signature and that of her magic.
The elevator is empty when she steps in, but at the last second, a hand pauses the closing doors and in walks, of all people, Draco Malfoy. Inwardly, Hermione sighs. It’s not that she hates the man - when they were younger, he was spoiled and pampered, but he’s grown out of it. They’re not friends, not even friendly, but they have enough shared friends to be considered acquaintances now.
“Healer Malfoy,” she says with a nod.
He glances at her. “Granger.” He eyes the number that floats against the elevator wall, the one that announces where she’s going. “Everything alright then?”
“Yes.”
Silence ensues until the elevator stops on the 3rd floor. Draco turns his face to her briefly. “Well. Good luck.”
And then he disappears, the doors shut again, and Hermione leans against a wall, rubbing her temples. When she reaches the 9th floor, the doors open once more and a young male wizard in light green training robes seems to be waiting for her. Next to him is a semi-transparent scroll and if she squints, she can see her name and information on it.
“Don’t worry,” the wizard says a bit too cheerfully. “Only the patient and any Healer deemed necessary to your case can see the information. If you’d follow me, Healer Lupin has an opening and is willing to speak with you.”
Her case. It seems like such an ominous phrase. There shouldn’t be a case. There should be a cut-and-dry meeting between patient and Healer and a vial of red liquid that she drinks because she never wanted to be a mother.
“Here we are.”
They stand in front of a plain white door that says HEALER R.J. LUPIN on it in black letters. Suddenly, Hermione’s nerves are back - not because she’s changing her mind - but because she realizes she’s being forced to talk about this pregnancy. The trainee knocks once, twice, and then the door opens.
“Go ahead.” The wizard pauses, his face twisted uncomfortably. “Whatever you choose is right.”
Hermione is a little shocked at his words, but then a soft “Please come in” makes its way to her ears from the office and she takes a deep breath before walking in. The door shutting behind her seems to echo all around.
He has a kind face, is the first thing Hermione thinks. Healer Lupin is an older man, short hair in waves cut close to his head, and wrinkles that appear when he smiles. He’s wearing plain black robes, not the garish lime green of most Healers.
“Healer Lupin,” Hermione says.
“Miss Granger.” He smiles at her and waves to one of the seats in front of a large desk that looks like it’s been carved of maple. “Please have a seat. Can I get you tea? Water?”
“No, I’m fine,” she responds automatically. She watches as that same semi-transparent scroll appears on his desk, hovering over the vast space. “You can call me Hermione.”
“Hermione, then. Would it make you more comfortable to call me Remus?”
She pauses and repeats his name silently in her head before whispering it. It rolls off her tongue smoothly. “Maybe.”
“Alright then. It says you're here because of a pregnancy.” His eyes look curiously at her.
“Yes,” she confirms quietly. “That is, I think so. I did the charm and… And did some Muggle tests.”
Remus waves his hand and the scroll disappears. He laces his fingers together and brings the closed fists up to his mouth, his elbows leaning on the desk. “I see. Miss Granger, Hermione, are you aware of all the options available to you as a witch?”
“I… Yes.”
“You are not the first witch I’ve spoken to whose decision has been made. In fact, if it weren’t already obvious, I see more witches in this scenario than most other Healers.”
He leans back into his chair, bringing his hands to rest on his stomach. He watches the young witch closely and is pleased when she stares back at him, not angrily, not upset, just calm. It’s already a big difference from when she first walked in. He knows he’s obligated to ask her the list of questions in this scenario but he can already predict her answers.
“Alright then, Hermione. Before we go into some more details and before I ask you some questions, why don’t you tell me what you want.”
Hermione takes a deep breath, the look in her eyes unwavering as she continues to meet the Healer’s gaze. “I’d like the Extus Potion.”
Remus nods, and with a flick of his wand, pages coming flying off one of his shelves, banded together with a thin rope. “Alright, Hermione. Deep breath and let’s go through what is necessary.”
There’s no judgment in his tone and for that, Hermione is incredibly grateful. She follows his instruction to take a deep breath, then leans forward in her chair so she can see all of the paperwork on his desk. Remus’ voice is soft and calm, a comforting sound that helps soothe the erratic thoughts from earlier.
It’s almost an hour before every question has been answered. She’s a bit agitated if only because some of the questions made her rage - Do you realize that your child can be given to a Pureblood family unable to conceive? Even with the sparks of magic that appeared with anger at that one, Remus had simply put out the tiny fire that appeared on his desk and again offered her tea.
“I’m going to ask one more time, Hermione, because I’m obligated to do so, and because I want you to be sure. Do you want this pregnancy?”
“No.”
Hermione watches as Remus signs off on the paperwork before he puts everything in an envelope and sends it off.
“Just like that?” she asks quietly.
Remus pauses. “As I said, you are not the first witch to come in here in this particular situation. I like to think I’m fairly good at reading people. You seem like a fully capable witch who understands what you want and that despite being careful, had what you would call bad luck. ”
“I just never wanted this,” Hermione confesses.
“And that doesn’t make you a bad person.” Remus stands and walks around his desk. Holding a hand out, he helps Hermione out of her seat and hands her a small card that has his name and a Floo location below it. “Should you need to speak to someone after you take the potion or even a month from now, feel free to contact me. I can very easily - and would happily - take you in as a new patient if you need it.”
“Thank you.”
He leads her out of his office and walks her back to the bank of elevators. When she gives him a confused look, he smiles grimly at her. “Only a Mind Healer can get you to where you’re going.”
Hermione seethes a bit but reminds herself that it’s going to happen and everything will be fine. She’ll worry about all of these protocols in place another time.
“Permission for Hermione Granger to go to Section 5 of the 13th floor, given by Healer Remus J. Lupin.”
A green glow flares around the elevator and then it opens. Remus gently pushes Hermione inside. He nods toward the small card she still holds in her hand. “Don’t be ashamed to use that.”
“Thank you again,” Hermione says. The doors begin to close and her heart suddenly begins to pound. The air around her seems to grow thicker. “Wait!”
A wand appears between the closing doors and Remus is still there.
“The other witches - have they ever - did you ever - could you -”
She can’t seem to get her thoughts out, the words catching in her throat. Remus knows what she’s asking. She’s not the first one to ask. She will not be the last. He steps over the threshold of the elevator and stands next to her, a respectable distance away, but he does allow himself to put a hand on her shoulder for a brief second.
“You don’t have to be alone if you don’t want to.”
Hermione lets out a long, slow breath. This time, she lets the elevator doors close and shuts her eyes as it ascends to the top floor of the hospital building.
Everything will be fine.