Lumos

Chapter Fifty-Seven: "Inheritance" (I)

There was the opening. She leaned against the closed, right side and shoved her face to the gap.

There.

There.

The ghastly pounding in her chest and ears began to still.

Breathing in and out. That was something she could do.

So long as she didn't move a muscle.

The exterior's larch wood brought a decades-old, faded memory to her: her mother, patiently helping her into a set of ski things and singing.

Inexplicably, it made it all so much worse.

A rustle sounded on the other side of the room.

"Just a minute," she gasped. "Just—" Her gaze flicked over her shoulder.

George waited in the entry, eyes burning in the gaunt frame of his face. Anger or pain, she couldn't tell.

"Georgie," Hermione wheezed. "Wait."

"Darling." He leaned his back against the door, closing it with a light click-thunk. His face went blurry, but she could make out the shape of his arms folding while he watched her in silence.

"I'm sorry," Hermione rasped. "I didn't know."

Was he angry? Did he think she'd willingly placed their child in that situation?

"I didn't know when we made the plan." The sharp pang in her throat made her voice warble, and she hated it—the way it didn't sound like her at all.

Through the haze, George stepped forward. His brow had furrowed, and his mouth opened wider, then halted.

"Truly, I didn't—" another sob cut through her speech, and Hermione pressed the back of her wrist against her mouth, then twisted to the window once again.

She leaned half out because it made the spinning slow.

George was saying something soft and low and doubtlessly well-intentioned to calm her down, but she didn't want that reaction. She wanted the truth.

Because she knew his heart on this the way she knew her own. He would be understanding, but it would still crush him. There was no way to work around it.

"You're allowed to be upset," Hermione rasped. "I need a moment, but you're allowed to be upset."

"Hermione." George's tone was a quiet reproof.

Another gulp of cool air. Bracing herself over the opening required a certain amount of labor which her body found intolerable. She thudded to rest on the seat, then tilted her brow against the glass.

They'd sucked the strength from her and left her useless, hadn't they?

"I don't know what I'd have done, but I—I didn't know," she said. "I didn't mean to get pregnant, and I didn't mean to risk the baby. I didn't mean to complicate all of this when we're quite literally—" she gasped. "—at—at war for our lives."

Her right arm wrapped her middle, and she brought her left hand to her temple, where she pressed her fingers against her skin under the raggedy mop of her curls. They'd grown out a bit.

Hermione hid behind them, attempting to quell the wet croak in her throat.

A light touch brushed the damp skin of her cheek.

When he'd crossed the room, she couldn't be certain.

"Don't apologize for being pregnant," George whispered, gaze furtive as he drew a worn, blue quilt around her shoulders.