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Hermione’s silencing charm has worn off. Again. Severus closes his eyes as her sobs echo through their house. The last house of Spinner’s End is no stranger to the sound of a brokenhearted woman any more than he is to the feeling of impotence that comes from being unable to do anything about it. As a boy, he could not comfort his mother unless he wished to further incite his father’s wrath. Now a man, he simply has no idea what to say to the woman upstairs.
His unwilling wife.
The almost mother—no, the mother regardless—of his child.
There’s a small sound of fracturing china as his grip tightens on his teacup. Severus takes a deep breath as the grief washes over him again. He craves the numbness of his occlumency shields like a drug, but he won’t allow it. If Hermione cannot escape this pain, then he too will endure. Her cries grow louder, her grief coming in waves. His hand twitches around his wand.
One patronus to Ginevra Potter and this could cease to be his problem. He could go off and employ his shields and feel no guilt for the woman left behind. Or so he tells himself, even though he knows it’s a lie. When the marriage law had forced their hands, Severus thought held no illusions about it turning into a love match, but his traitorous heart had other plans. He doesn’t love her, not properly, that requires a greater intimacy than they share, but he has grown irrefutably fond of the witch who hasn’t made a forced marriage feel like a cage.
They had not told anyone about the pregnancy yet. Hermione had said she wanted it to be just theirs for a while. Though he hadn’t clarified why, he had assumed it had something to do with the way both reporters and Molly Weasley descended like ravenous wolves on Ginevra and Potter bearing impertinent questions and debatably well-meant advice. He found he also appreciated the time to wrestle with the idea of fatherhood without listening to reports of how he was a lecherous old bat; somehow the fact that the Ministry itself had both made the match and ordered their procreation is always forgotten when their relationship comes up in the public sphere.
Severus pulls himself from his bitter musings and returns to the matter at hand. To summon Ginevra or not to summon. To divulge their secret without a discussion feels akin to a betrayal, no matter his intention but, as a woman and a mother, Ginevra would—Severus pauses. He remembers Hermione talking about how she hoped her pregnancy would go as smoothly as Ginevra’s had. Ginevra who has a healthy toddler at home and whose belly is already round with their second child. Now Hermione may not be as prone to bitterness or jealousy as he is, but he cannot help but feel that Ginevra is not the person his wife needs.
Who is then?
Who can he send to her that will understand what she is going through? He wracks his brain, trying to think of who might understand what it is to go from the anxious joy of expecting to the devastating grief of loss in the span of mere weeks. Someone who might understand what it is to be utterly helpless to stop something you want more than anything to prevent. Someone who can grieve with her. Help her wrestle with whether she’s still a parent even if she never actually got to hold her baby.
Someone like him.
The epiphany hits him at the same moment he realizes that he’s crying. Again. Severus takes a deep breath and a not-so-fortifying sip of tea long since gone cold. Then he walks slowly up the stairs. There are three rooms on the landing: his, hers, and the main bedroom used only for the mandated fulfillment of their marital duties. He goes straight to her room, knocking immediately lest he lose the nerve. He hears her breath hitch, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Hermione,” he calls through the door. “Could I come in?”
“I… I just want to be alone right now.”
The hesitancy in her voice is nearly as painful as her sadness. Does she not want to burden him? Or does she just not want him? Either way, he will not abandon her at the first show of resistance.
“I just want you to know that I’m here,” he murmurs. “You can talk to me, or not, but I am here.”
Silence.
Severus waits a few minutes. Just when he decides to go to his room, the lock clicks and her door swings open. He enters cautiously. Hermione is curled up on her bed. Her eyes, peeking out from her blanket are red and puffy. She sniffles as she sits up. The brokenness in her gaze guts him but it is nothing compared to her next words.
“I don’t know what I did wrong.”
She collapses in on herself as if those words were the only thing supporting her slight frame. Severus moves before he’s given himself permission to, taking her into his arms and repositioning them so that he’s sitting on the edge of her bed with her cradled across his lap.
“Nothing,” he says, the intensity in his voice taking him by surprise. He looks down at her, cupping her cheek with one hand. “This is not your fault. Not even a little bit.”
She closes her eyes and turns her head into his chest, allowing his comfort but not his absolution. He moves his hand to the outside of her knee and clears his throat.
“I had to look at the memory in the pensieve before I could accept that I hadn’t botched your prenatal draught somehow. I wish I had a similar way to prove your innocence.”
“You blamed yourself.” She sounds surprised.
“Until I saw the memory, yes.”
Hermione is silent. The sort of silence that comes from words one isn’t sure should be spoken. He rubs her shoulder with the thumb of the hand behind her.
“I meant what I said. I am here. You can talk to me.”
“I didn’t think you would care,” she blurts out. “E-everyone says men are different than women about these things. And you in particular, you’re so… contained I just, I wasn’t even sure if you were happy about the baby.”
“It has always been difficult for me to say how I feel,” he tells her, voice heavy with regret. “I think I was in shock at first and then terrified. Eventually the terror calmed into an anxious sort of hope.”
She pulls his hand from her knee and into her lap, absently toying with his fingers. His heart clenches at the action. They have never touched so carelessly.
“What was your hope?”
“To have the family I’d dreamt of as a boy.”
“What if I can’t ever give you that family,” she asks miserably.
“One miscarriage doesn’t mean—”
“What if I can’t, Severus,” she repeats. “What if my body continuously fails to do the one job it is supposedly made to do? What then?”
He frowns, not sure what she’s getting at. “I believe if you suffer four miscarriages, the reproductive stipulation is absolved from the marriage contract, unless a qualifying medical condition is uncovered prior to the fourth.”
“You’re allowed to divorce me then,” she says softly. “You could pick another witch to procreate with once they rule me damaged goods.”
“You are not damaged,” he practically growls. “And I wouldn’t.”
“Divorce me or pick another witch?”
“Either. Though I wouldn’t contest you if you filed yourself.”
Hermione leans back to look at him. “You could have the family you hoped for.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“I got pregnant, Severus, clearly your bits are in good working order.”
“High praise to my bits, thank you.” He can’t help but tease her. “While yes I theoretically could father a child elsewhere, I don’t want to. I know it’s hardly the time to bring it up, but I’ve hurt you enough by withholding my feelings, so I’ll say it plainly now: I want you, Hermione. I want this to be a real marriage. I want us to be a real family, whether that’s with one hundred kids in tow or just the two of us for the rest of our lives.”
“You do?” Merlin, she sounds so… small.
“Yes. I do.” He forces himself to continue. “I understand if it’s too much to think about right now. Or too much in general. It doesn’t—I won’t—I will always be there for you, Hermione, whatever you decide, whatever happens next. I promise.”
Hermione reaches up slowly to cup his cheek with her hand. Then she gently presses her lips to his. For the first time since their courtroom wedding two years ago, they share a kiss outside of the bedroom.
Short.
Sweet.
Life-altering.