June 2005

Draco stood, withdrawing his hands and walking back until he was nearly five feet away. Fully out of arm's reach.

He suddenly seemed uncertain, as though he no longer knew how to interact with her. His hands at his sides opened and closed while he hesitated and looked away from her.

The grief and pain between had reasserted itself, sweeping in like a tidal wave. It hurt to look at him, to want him, to crave him as though he were oxygen, but not know how they'd ever reconcile everything that existed between them now.

"You should sleep," he said after a moment, glancing down and straightening his robes. "I'll bring whatever books you want tomorrow."

Hermione watched him, hesitating and drawing a quick breath.

"Do you want to stay?" She forced the question out before she could reconsider it.

Draco stared at her with his expression blank, and her heart began pounding painfully in her chest.

His eyes unfocused and then cleared.

"You don't want me to," he said after studying her for a second longer, his mouth twisting in the corner. "Don't try to force yourself into something because you feel obliged in some way."

He turned on his heel and headed towards the door.

"No," she said, standing up, her voice sharp. "Don't go."

He froze.

She swallowed, throat tightening. "I want you to stay. I do. It's just—sometimes—sometimes—" She tripped over the words as she tried to explain. "My memories are out of order—I can't always remember—" She swallowed. "Stay. I want you to. I don't want to be alone."

She stepped carefully towards him. "Will you?"

Her fingers were trembling as they brushed against the back of his hand. She was half-braced that he might jerk back or shove her away. She swallowed and edged closer, studying his face. His expression was a mask.

She looked down and slipped her fingers into his hand. She was hardly breathing, and her hand started shaking visibly.

This would be fine. Just breathe and it would be fine.

Obedient.

Quiet.

Not to resist.

She closed her eyes and drew a short, quick breath. The sound filled her ears.

"Hermione," Draco's voice made her eyes snap open as she looked up. He was staring down at her with a closed expression. "Don't do this."

He carefully took hold of her wrist and pulled his hand free of hers, fingers tightening for a moment. "I'll come see you tomorrow."

"No." She grasped his hand again. "No. Don't go. I don't want you to go. I just—I just—" her jaw trembled so much she struggled to speak. "I don't—" she swallowed and looked up at him. "I only want to hold your hand. I don't want to—I can't say no if you—because of the—"

Draco's eyes flickered, and his hand in hers twitched away.

She stared down at their hands, her hold tightening. "Just stay," she said, inhaling sharply. "I want to know you're not—somewhere else."

Hermione's heart racing until the blood roared in her ears, but she squared her shoulders and forced herself to walk towards her bed.

It crossed her mind that maybe she should have agreed to a different room. Then it wouldn't be the same bed.

She steeled herself, pushing the thought away. It would still be a bed. She'd still be lying on it and trusting him not to hurt her.

She trusted him. She knew she trusted him. Always.

She laid down on the far side of the bed and curled on her side, staring at him. He sat down slowly on the other side and looked so uncomfortable he seemed on the verge of apparating straight out of the room. She reached towards him.

His fingers twitched before he extended his hand and entwined their fingers.

He leaned against the headboard. He didn't appear to have any intention of sleeping. She studied him, tracing her eyes over his face, trying to memorise him again.

The more clearly she remembered him, the more overtly she could see the ways he'd changed. He looked spent, visibly ground down to the point that it showed in his features.

His fingers twitched in her hand.

He had tremors that didn't feel like typical cruciatus muscle damage. They felt psychosomatic; the long-term consequence of cruciatus. Torture had been so overused on him that the effects had become permanent.

Voldemort had punished him repeatedly for his failure in catching the last Order member; the person responsible for destroying the locket Umbridge had worn.

Hermione's throat closed and she gripped his hand tighter. "You—" her voice caught. "You destroyed the horcrux the way you did because you hoped it would force Voldemort to still recall Severus in February. Didn't you?"

He stared at her and then glanced away, moving his chin slightly in acknowledgment.

There was a hollow sensation in her chest as she thought back on all the occasions she'd noticed he'd been tortured. All those times she told herself not to care, that he deserved it.

Daily, for over a month.

"I am so sorry, Draco," she said.

He stiffened as though the words had struck him and nearly jerked his hand away from her.

"Don't apologise to me. You don't have anything to apologise for." He snapped the words out as though he were on the verge of snarling.

Hermione stared at him in silence until he looked away from her.

"You're angry at me, aren't you?" she finally asked.

Draco stared across the room, his expression unreadable. "That doesn't mean you have any reason to apologise to me."

Hermione studied him. "Why not?"

"Because—" he blinked, "—I have to apologise first, and I—" he looked up at the canopy over the bed. "and I—"

"Draco..."

"Christ, Granger," his voice was ragged, and he ran a hand through his hair. "You have no idea how much I'd hoped you'd never remember anything once you came here. What I wouldn't do to go back and get it right. If I hadn't told you I'd blown my cover—if I'd lied and not tried to say goodbye, none of this would have happened to you."

Hermione's throat tightened. "It would have killed me if you'd sent me away, and I'd found out later you'd died because I'd asked you to save Ginny. I would never have gotten over it. Not ever. I would do it all again," she said. "Every second. I would do it all again to save you."

There was a resounding silence.

Draco stares at her, a mixture of shock and rage sweeping across his face. "You didn't save me," he said when he finally seemed capable of speaking at all. "You just put us in hell for two years."

It was like being punched.

She felt herself pale as the blood rushed from her head. Her entire body curled inward.

Draco's hold on her hand tightened, his expression instantly regretful. "Wait—I didn't—"

She dipped her head down and tried to breathe "I tried to come back." Her voice shook. "I really did."

"I know. I didn't mean—"

She looked away. "You shouldn't have assumed that l'd be willing to lose you. Did you think I don't feel things as much as you? That I cared less because I had other obligations? You shouldn't have thought I cared less, I did everything I could to keep you safe. You don't know all the things I did to keep you safe."

"I just—"

"I promised—every time you asked, I promised I was yours always. There aren't any exemptions or expiration dates on always."

A crushing pain in her head woke her the next morning. Her fingers were still entwined with Draco's in the centre of the bed. He was asleep, but his features were tense.

Finding him in bed with her was familiar. There weren't any conflicting memories in seeing him asleep.

When he was close, it felt like slipping into the past. It was as natural and instinctive as breathing to touch him, to be near him. She felt as though she couldn't be close enough to him.

It was mostly the in-between distances that she'd abruptly find herself back in a moment in which he was looming over her and forcing his way into her mind; when he'd closed in on her and gripped her by the arm as he apparated her; when he'd said something so cruel it blindsided her.

But when he was close, he was Draco. He was hers.

He'd been vulnerable with her. He loved her, even though he never expected them to be anything but doomed. He'd loved her all the same.

She was cold, and wanted to move closer, but she was afraid he might wake if she shifted. She stayed where she was and looked at him.

"I'm going to take care of you," she mouthed the words silently. "I'm going to find a way to take care of you."

She felt it the instant he woke. Tension shot through his entire body as soon as he was conscious. His eyes snapped open, and he stared at her.

His eyes immediately narrowed. "Are you alright?"

She twitched her shoulder. "My head. It's always worse after a good day."

He let go of her hand and touched her forehead. "You're feverish again."

She didn't expend the effort of moving her head in acknowledgment.

"Can you eat?"

Hermione's stomach twisted, roiling at the thought. "Maybe later."

His eyebrows knit together and he looked visibly worried. "I'm required in Belgium today. I'll be back tomorrow. Stay in bed."

He stood up, still studying her.

Hermione stirred and lifted her head. "You said you'd get me books."

There was a flash of irritation in his eyes, his lips thinned. "Tomorrow."

"No. You said today. I can still read." She tried to sit up. "Otherwise I'll just lie here, worrying."

He sighed through his teeth. "Fine. Stop getting up. I'll have Topsy bring you books, quills, and parchment after you've eaten."

Hermione lay back down and pulled her arms more tightly against her body as she huddled, trying to feel warmer.

She swallowed. "I—just need the books. I can't touch quills so—there's not much use for parchment."

The muscles in Draco's jaw rippled. "Right," he said, as he came around the bed. "Just the books then."

He conjured an extra blanket and draped it over her. "Tell Topsy if you want anything. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Be careful, Draco. Don't—don't—" her voice failed, and she was quiet.

"You have to come back," she finally said.

"I will."

Once he was gone, Hermione slumped more limply into the bed. She felt as though her skull was about to crack open.

She felt miserably nauseous, but Draco had said Topsy wouldn't bring her books until she'd eaten. She didn't know if it would count if she vomited everything back up.

At midday she managed to keep a potion and a small cup of broth down. Topsy delivered a stack of books and a folio of handwritten pages that Hermione recognised as Draco's handwriting; all his notes from his attempts to remove the Dark Mark.

Topsy propped Hermione up with pillows so she could lie on her side and read.

Hermione tried to review the notes clinically and not think about the fact that Draco had been experimenting on unwilling subjects that had all died in the process.

They were all Death Eaters, and several had helped to torture Narcissa.

Draco had been thorough. His research and analysis had been comprehensive. He had to have taught himself a considerable amount of magi-biology and healing theory in addition to his curse research.

He'd tried nine times. Twice more since the war had ended.

Hermione knew from her research that Voldemort had been a brilliant student at Hogwarts. Whenever he'd created the Dark Mark, he'd invested considerable time and effort into making it an inescapable collar to lock around the throats of his followers. It wasn't particularly elaborate; it was simple, straightforward, and lethal.

At the back of the folio was a set of notes in sharp, spiked handwriting. Severus, she realised, had also analysed the mark.

Hermione read through the notes twice and then curled into a tight ball, gripping her throbbing head and trying to think, trying to analyse.

She kept grinding her teeth together as she struggled to cope with the pain. Eventually she passed out.

When she woke again, Draco was seated at the edge of the bed. He had her pregnancy guide open, his eyes skimming across the pages. She watched him for a moment.

"You're back," she said.

He immediately closed the book and looked over at her.

Her headache had faded again into something less debilitating. She sat up carefully and picked up the folio. "I read your notes, but not the books yet. I have a few book titles I think might be useful."

"Alright." His mouth quirked at the corner as he watched her.

She straightened the pages and fixed the corner of one that had been dogeared. "Part of the curse interferes with the blood's coagulation. It's a hemophilia type curse that may be a long-term side effect. I'll need to create a potion; a variation on what's used to counter vampire bites. It will require regular redosage, but once Voldemort dies, you might not have to keep taking it."

She gnawed at her lip. "It wouldn't address the immediate issue of getting the wound to close. You tried all the normal methods, even old Muggle ones like cauterizing and—tar, but I've just started. I'll find something."

Draco nodded again and glanced away.

The conversation was painfully stilted. Draco did not want to talk about his attempts in any further detail than the notes he'd provided. He was distracted and kept glancing towards the clock. His expression was appropriately engaged, but his eyes were flat as she mentioned theories she wanted to explore.

She realised, as she watched him, that he was indulging her. The notes and the books were to appease her. They were the library. Something to preoccupy her while he continued with his own plans.

She stopped talking and just stared at her lap. There was a long pause, and he stood up.

"I'll have the books you mentioned sent later today."

As he was leaving, he suddenly stopped and turned back.

He stood staring at her, and his mouth moved slightly several times before he spoke.

"Granger—you don't—" He stopped, and she saw his hand curl into a fist at his side before disappearing behind his back. He pressed his lips into a hard line and blinked before staring just past her.

"I never assumed you'd keep a pregnancy." He was almost expressionless as he spoke, but his Adam's apple dipped briefly. "I can send a potion with you so you can—resolve it once you're out of Europe. Just tell me—" He cut himself off, and he looked down, setting his jaw. "No, never mind that, there's no need. I'll send it. There's no reason for you to have to tell me what you choose."

He turned on his heel and left before she could speak.

Hermione lay in bed, tracing her fingers over her lower abdomen. If she searched, she could feel the small but firm beginning swell of her uterus just above her pelvis.

It hadn't occurred to her to have an abortion if she escaped, or that it would be the assumption Draco would be operating under.

She would have jumped out a window or poisoned herself in order to prevent a baby from being born into Malfoy Manor and left in the care of Astoria, but it hadn't occurred to her to abort it if she escaped.

It was a baby. To Hermione, it had been a baby since the moment Stroud had announced Hermione was pregnant.

Not a foetus. Not an heir. It was a baby, and one that she already felt intensely protective of. When she'd seen the fluttering light of the heartbeat, it had felt like her heart had been stolen.

But Draco was assuming she wouldn't keep it once she had any choice in the matter.

He'd raped her. She was pregnant. He expected she'd want an abortion as soon as she was free.

He was assuming that he'd stay behind to die, and she would leave and try to forget everything that had happened by erasing it.

Topsy came with a stack of books in the evening, several which were brand new.

"Is Draco here?" Hermione asked as she turned one of the books over in her hands.

"He is just returned."

"Can you tell him that I want him?"

Topsy gave a bobbing curtsy and popped away.

Hermione went over to the portrait on the wall.

Narcissa Malfoy stared at Hermione.

Hermione had only seen Narcissa once, at the Quidditch World Cup more than a decade earlier. Narcissa was sixteen in the painting, the same age Draco had been when he took the Dark Mark.

"I want to save your son," Hermione said. "But I don't know how to."

Narcissa said nothing. She just sat in her chair, studying Hermione in silence. Eventually Hermione gave up and turned away.

She was flipping through the books that Topsy had brought when the door opened.

Draco stood in the doorway.

Hermione closed the book. Her throat tightened. He always stood so far away and every inch of the space felt weighted.

"Your mother's portrait won't talk to me," she said.

Draco looked over. The portrait stood, looking at Draco for a moment before turning and disappearing out of the frame.

"It's not you. She doesn't talk to anyone but me. My father's spent hours begging her to just look at him. The frame used to be in the drawing room of the South Wing. The portrait saw everything that happened to my mother. It stopped speaking for a long time afterwards. When my mother was released, she took the portrait up to her rooms." His eyes were flat and unreadable. "She used to stand in front of it for hours, touching the portrait's hand on the canvas, as though they were trying to reach each other."

Hermione stared at the empty frame.

Voldemort's influence was like poison in the Malfoy family. As though he'd branded himself not only onto Draco and Lucius' arms, but into the fabric of their legacy. He'd destroyed Narcissa and corrupted their home. Even the portrait, a shadow of Narcissa's memory, was silent and scarred.

Draco looked back at Hermione. "She asked to watch over you. She wanted to be sure you were alright while you were here."

Hermione forced a wan smile before glancing down, hesitating for several seconds.

Her hands crept towards her stomach as she looked up. "I wanted to talk about what you said earlier, before you left."

Draco's expression instantly closed, and his gaze sharpened like a blade.

Hermione's chest tightened. Draco was suddenly looming over her, that same cold expression on his face.

"You want me to look at you, Granger? Fine. I'm looking. It's delightful, I must say, to see all the guilt in your eyes. You know, I used to think the circumstances of my servitude to the Dark Lord were as cruel an enslavement as anyone could conceive. But I admit, it pales somewhat beside you."

Her heart stalled, and she blinked repeatedly trying to refocus on the present.

"Can you come closer?" Her mouth felt dry. "It's easier to talk to you when you aren't so far away."

He walked over, and her heart rate increased with every step.

His expression was guarded.

She gnawed at her lower lip. She looked up when he was standing only a foot away.

If she touched him, he wouldn't seem so cold.

He didn't look like he wanted her to touch him.

She forced herself not to dwell on it, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze. "I didn't realise you expected me to terminate the pregnancy if I escaped. I understand why you thought I might—before, but I'm not. I wouldn't."

His expression didn't change. His eyes didn't flicker with even a slight reaction. "You may change your mind once you're free."

Hermione shook her head. "I won't."

His eyes remained flat, but she could see the tension in the corners of them. He straightened so that he loomed over her, and she felt as though she were being strangled.

His lip curled so that his teeth flashed. "There's no reason to make commitments to me regarding what you'll do once you're free. Do what you want."

Hermione set her jaw. "I'm going to. And that's why I won't use it. I want you know that I won't. I would always regret it. I would—I would always wonder if the baby would have had your eyes. Every winter I'd think about how old they'd be and wonder what they'd be doing. I would try to guess what kind of wand they would have gotten, and what subjects they would have liked, and whether they'd have been a natural occlumens like you and me." She was speaking quickly because her throat was growing thick, her cheekbones were beginning to ache. "I would wonder if they'd like to read. If they'd have hair like mine. If you—if you die—I would want to tell them all about you. Everything about you. I've—I've never gotten to tell anyone about you." Her chest spasmed. "People should know what you're like."

Draco scoffed in the back of his throat and glanced up towards the ceiling. "What I'm like? What exactly do you think I'm like?" He gave a short laugh. "You have a chance to have a new life. Don't drag my memory with you."

Hermione shook her head

He stared down at her, his gaze hard. "Do you want to walk through your life with a Death Eater's bastard chained to you? The whole world knows you're here and what I did to you in this house. It was quite thoroughly publicised, as you may recall. No matter what colour eyes it has, or how old it gets, it will be the child of a murderer, conceived because I—raped you while you were my prisoner, and everyone will know that. Everyone."

His chest jerked as he spoke, and he looked away from her. "Leave it all behind, Granger." He inhaled. "Have children with someone else someday."

Hermione stared at him. "Is that what you think I'm going to do? Run away and hide, and pretend that you were a monster I was lucky to get away from?"

He stared down at her, expression unreadable. "It wouldn't be a lie."

Hermione met his silver eyes and saw the flat, empty resignation in them.

"I hate you. I hold you partly responsible for every person who has died so far in this war and every person who will die. You don't need to convince me that you're a monster, I already know it."

Her throat tightened so much it was hard to swallow as she reached towards him. "Draco, you're not a monster. You didn't have any choice. Did you think I'd still hate you once I remembered?" She stepped closer and caught his face in her hands. "Even before I remembered, you were the only thing that ever felt safe."

She stared up into his eyes. "I left a note. Did you get my note? I love you."

He flinched as though struck, and she felt his jaw tremble against her fingers. He started to shake his head, and she stilled him, pulling him closer.

"I love you," she said more firmly, her voice shaking with intensity. "I love you. I will always love you. Always. Until there's nothing left of me."

She rose up on her toes, tilted her chin forward, and kissed him.

He was frozen as her lips touched his.

"I love you. I love you. I love you." She said the words against his mouth. Her fingers slid along the curve of his jaw as her lips kept moving against his.

He still didn't move. She pressed herself closer to him.

Then he shook. His hand rose up to capture her face, and he pulled her against himself. His fingers tangled in her hair as his palms cradled her cheeks. His mouth was burning. He kissed her and kissed her.

He kissed her like he was starving, like he'd been drowning. His tongue and his teeth and his lips pressed against hers. Her mouth brushed against his, and she nipped him. His tongue flicked against her lower lip and slid against hers. It was as though he were trying to pour himself into her or consume her.

His fingers slid along the shells of her ears and his thumbs caressed the arches of her cheekbones. She wrapped her arms around his neck as she met every movement of his lips. He drew a ragged gasp against her mouth, and she felt him shuddering. He kissed her until she could feel the desperation in his blood.

Then he drew back, resting his forehead against hers. His hands were shaking as he held her.

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for everything I did to you," he said, his voice hoarse and broken. "I love you. You left, and I'd never told you."

She asked him to stay every night.

They never did more than kiss. Draco's hands rarely moved below her shoulders when he kissed her.

She would curl up in his arms and fall asleep listening to him breathe.

During the day he'd leave to "work," and she'd research, giving Topsy longer and longer lists of books she wanted. Curse-breaking. Dark Arts. Lethal curses. Potions encyclopaedias and ingredient indexes. Curse analytics. Muggle medical textbooks.

She'd hoped, if the curse was broken, she'd be able to flense the mark. But after running a mental simulation of the procedure four different ways, she concluded it was impossible. The curse in the mark wasn't dermal, it was like his runes, even if she cut out all the muscle tissue in his forearm and removed and regrew his bones, assuming she could keep his hand in stasis comprehensively enough to preserve the tissue and nerves for up to twenty-four hours, the Dark Mark would just regrow along with bones, muscle, and skin.

Draco estimated they would have a few hours at most once her manacles were removed. It was possible that Voldemort would know immediately; he was intensely interested in Hermione.

If Hermione were trying to get Draco to flee with her, there wouldn't be time for an elaborate healing procedure. The removal would have to be fast.

He'd have to cut off his left arm, just below the elbow.

The thought left a painful knot in the pit of her stomach as she asked for more resources on amputation techniques. She wasn't sure even amputation would be successful. The wound was cursed not to heal; paired with magically accelerated haemorrhaging, the result was rapidly lethal.

It wasn't like the gradual deadliness of the curse Dumbledore had received on his hand. The damage refused to be contained or slowed, magically or otherwise. Tourniquets. Essence of Dittany. Cauterisation. Healing spells. Severus and Draco had tried without success to stop the bleeding.

It was as though the curse was determined to force all the blood out of the body.

She kept narrowing and narrowing the options. Every day felt like a screw being more tightly turned.

Her headaches stopped being debilitating, but they were steadily replaced by shriveling anxiety. The date on the wall felt like a daily death knell. She researched until she couldn't see to read. It was the only way she knew how to make herself feel useful.

Feeling useful was all she was doing. She knew Draco was letting her feel like she was contributing. He was letting her try, so she'd feel like she'd done something. It was just an outlet, like doing crunches in her room or searching the manor from garret to dungeon in the hopes of finding a weapon. It was something for her to do. Something preoccupy her with.

When Draco was with her, he treated her like it was all a goodbye. He looked at her like he was saying goodbye. He touched her like he was saying goodbye. He'd wrap his arms around her shoulders and rest his head on hers, and she could feel it.

One morning she returned from showering and found all her books gone. Topsy was standing beside the bed.

"The Healer is coming this day, the Master says all the books is needing to be put away."

Hermione gave a resigned nod and went and stared out the window. It was summer, lush and beautiful. She hadn't been outside in over a month.

It felt like such an effort; to go all the way outside, to try to stay calm under the open sky. It would waste time and energy she could be spending trying to find a way to remove Draco's mark.

There was a soft crack, and she looked over her shoulder and found that Draco had appeared.

"Stroud will be arriving soon."

Hermione nodded. "Topsy mentioned it."

He walked closer and stood, staring out the window beside her.

"When did you last go outside?"

Hermione kept looking down at the maze. She reached out and rested her finger on the grill of the window. "I don't remember. Early May."

"You should."

Her fingers slipped away from the glass and dropped to her side. "It's too open. I don't want to."

Draco was silent.

"Fresh air would be good for you. It might help you eat more."

Hermione looked down. "I don't have time."

"Read downstairs, sit by an open window. You used to always go outside."

Her jaw threatened to tremble. She tensed it and shrugged. "Well—" her voice was careful, "I was different then."

"I'm not talking about years ago. You used to go outside at the estate. You used to go out of this room. Now you hardly do that."

She shrugged and kept staring out the window. "I didn't have anything else to do."

He gave a sharp sigh. "Granger—why won't you go out?"

Hermione was quiet for a moment. She rested a fingertip against the glass and drew Kenaz for knowledge, creativity and inspiration. She had never imagined how much she could miss writing, how she'd taken for granted the ability to put her thoughts down on paper to organise and return to. She missed writing almost as much as she missed reading. She found herself often drawing on the windows to try to process everything crammed into her mind.

Beside Kenaz she drew Sowilo, for success and wholeness, and Dagaz for breakthrough, the power of change, and hope.

Then she sighed and drew Isa above them all and tapped it before looking down. "I feel the safest—calmest—in this room. There's still a lot I'm processing, and it—it affects me more when I'm in other parts of the house." She swallowed, and her shoulder twitched. "I might panic, and then you won't let me research anymore."

Draco went still. "Granger—" his voice faded briefly. "Don't—don't keep yourself in a cage because of me."

Hermione looked up at him quickly. "I'm not. I just—I don't want to take chances. There are more important things than going outside."

Draco started to reply but stopped, his expression growing cold. "Stroud's here."

Hermione felt her stomach sink. "Alright."

He left to bring Stroud, and Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, willing her heartbeat to slow.

The door swung open, and the healer entered, Draco only a few steps behind her, his indifferent mask fully in place.

"You're conscious this time," Stroud said, glancing over at Hermione as she conjured a table in the middle of the room.

Hermione's stomach flipped as she stood and walked slowly over, seating herself on the edge before being commanded to.

She and Draco had discussed the eventuality of Stroud's arrival but being braced for it didn't make her heart pound any less painfully in her chest.

Stroud flicked her wand and cast several diagnostics. "Well, you're not comatose or on the verge of starvation anymore. I would have visited sooner for this exam, but the High Reeve was afraid you were too delicate. You'll be entering the second trimester this week."

Stroud looked Hermione over with a critical eye. "You're quite sickly looking. You should still be outdoors at least an hour. You don't want to disadvantage a child by neglecting your health."

Hermione's chest tightened, and her fingers crept protectively towards her stomach.

Stroud waved her wand, and the glowing orb appeared. Larger, about the size of Hermione's fist.

The rapid, fluttering light filled the room like a star. Hermione stared at it and forgot to breathe.

Stroud inspected the orb and cast several spells on it before scribbling in her file. "Still healthy. It doesn't appear that the coma or seizures caused any developmental damage."

Stroud cast another diagnostic spell and, as it manifested, her face fell.

"Female. What a pity."