You Won't Know

Ron gave Luna a hug and she smiled at him, a fleeting smile that he nevertheless took to mean something reassuring.

He left her then and made his way to the bar, feeling somewhat strange and disassociated himself.  Everyone around him was going about their lives—witches and wizards each with their own task, their own mission.  Some were simply performing their daily routine yet he, Ron Weasley, remained aloof and unable to feel connected to any of them. 

Perhaps it was the sudden overwhelming reality that stretched out before him: his wife was going to deliver a child, or perhaps it was the fact that suddenly everything he ever wanted was right here—he was happy—he should be happy.

He would go home and tell Hermione. 

Turning abruptly he wheeled around and made his way back home, sidestepping pedestrian traffic with skill. When he found a polite enough spot to aparate, he did so, so as not to startle anyone.

The house was quiet when he returned, yet he discovered Hermione sitting at the kitchen table, reading a book.  She was…different.  He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he felt as if she was in one of her moods. 

“Hello darling,”  He said warmly, walking around the table to lay a kiss on her lips.

She did not turn to meet his lips, but instead sat there, rigid and…he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.  She looked like she did not want to be touched.

“How’s our little girl?”  He asked, rubbing her tummy with the lightest of caresses.

He looked at her and immediately snatched his hand away.  She looked like she might bight his fingers off.

He sat down in the chair next to her and rested his chin on his hand, looking at the table for inspiration. 

How does one go about telling one’s wife, he thought, no, one’s pregnant wife, something so selfish and terrible? 

He studied the fine wood grains, then looked at her.  She was so pretty.  He wanted to kiss her just then, and found himself leaning foreword, as if tugged by an invisible string when she suddenly slammed her book shut and glared daggers at him.

“Must you look at me like that?  I can’t stand the sight of you, get out!”  She stood so abruptly the chair fell backwards and stormed out, leaving Ron stunned and confused.

__

Hermione emerged from her bath rejuvenated and smiled at Ron from across the dinner table, but he would not look her in the eye and look terribly on edge.

Frowning, she said lightly, “So, how was your day?”

He looked at her, eyes wide and his eyebrows raised so high she thought they might disappear into his hairline, “Oh wonderful, wonderful.”

He was clearly uncomfortable, and what was worse, he was playing with his food—pushing it around back and forth.

Ron always had a healthy appetite.  If he wasn’t eating then something had to be really bothering him.

She tried not to let this worry her.  She got more easily rattled now that she was pregnant, she supposed—but maybe that was just an excuse?

“Ron?”

“Hmm?”  He asked, finally taking a bite of food.

She shook her head, letting the subject drop, but was still uneasy.

__

Ron came home late from work during the net couple of days.  On the third night he came into the bedroom, shucked his pants, and eased into bed.

He missed Hermione, and couldn’t help but think that the last couple of days had been a little strained.

He leaned over and kissed her neck, rubbing her breasts.

Hermione rolled over to face him and she smiled wickedly at him.

He felt his cock stiffen to equine proportions and groaned, “Hermione--“

He leaned down and kissed down her chest, rubbing and sucking on her nipples, knowing she loved to have her nipples played with.  Sometimes he could make her come just by sucking them…

But tonight he felt a sense of urgency from her.

He settled himself between her legs, and looking up, he made eye contact, and he froze in complete horror—

Because it was Hermione’s body—but someone else’s face looking back at him—

Unable to reach his wand, he did the next best thing and through himself away.

“Hermione?!”

She looked at him, her eyes wide, “What’s the matter?”

He shook his head, blinking rapidly.  “No, nothing.  I—“  He ran a hand over his face, “I’m sorry, I’ll be back in a little bit.  I think I’m more tired than I think.”

He ran downstairs and poured himself a shot of fire whisky, shaking at what he saw.  He had honest to God believed that it hadn’t been her…