Because of You

[A/N]: Well, surprisingly, I don't have much commentary for this chapter. It's pretty self-explanatory. I suppose that's a good thing. (Although now, instead of saying anything of consequence - I'm just rambling.) So, I'll go with my ol' stand by…

Thank you for all the amazing reviews. Your interest in the story is extremely rewarding and I can only hope that I continue to meet your expectations. :]

Disclaimer: Still waiting to somehow magically receive partial ownership of HP and related materials. Today wasn't that day, but there is always tomorrow.

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**THE WEDDING DAY **

The dark blue sedan rolled slowly into the petrol station. Thom Granger pulled up to a pump and brought the car to a stop.

“Might as well fill up while were here.” he said to no one in particular.

Hermione unfastened her seatbelt and got out of the car, slinging her handbag over her shoulder and heading towards the small shop to their right. She strode across the lot, to the door and pulled it open. The light tinkling of a bell announced her presence and a rather scruffy looking teenager looked up briefly from the magazine he was reading behind the cashier's counter. She could see a door in the back left corner of the shop that looked like it might lead into a lavatory. She made her way around the rows of shelves, to the door and gave a slight push. Her instincts had been correct. It was grimy and a yellow light bulb cast a dingy glow on the dull porcelain, but it offered solitude and for that she was thankful. She unzipped her handbag and slowly pulled out her wand. The wood felt strange against her fingers, yet comfortingly familiar. She rarely pulled it out anymore; magic had become painful.

She stood in front of the sink and used the wand to quickly turn on the faucet, deciding against handling the germ-ridden knobs herself. She ran her hands under the stream of water then brought them to her face, transferring the cool liquid to her cheeks and forehead. She used her wand again to turn off the sink and then placed it back into her bag. There were no spells, no magic words, no potions that could make this any easier. She would be armed with deep breaths and a strong exterior, nothing more.

She left the loo and exited the shop, eliciting another disinterested glance from the young cashier. She resigned to the fact that there were no more ways to prolong her arrival. By the time she slipped into the backseat, the tank had been filled. Now nothing stood between Hermione and the Burrow.

“All set then?” her dad asked.

She nodded and offered a weak smile and the sedan rolled out of the station and back onto the road.

** 3 YEARS AGO **

Hermione wiped away her tears with the back of her hands then pounded the steering wheel with her fists. She hated today, she hated this moment, she hated this feeling, she hated these secrets. She hated the way Harry had spoken to her and she hated the way Ron had shifted uncomfortably while they had argued. She hated the guilt. She hated hurting the man she loved.

She knew the drive to her parent's house well; Harry often suggested they take the car there because the ride was relaxing and scenic. Yet, Hermione was anything but relaxed this afternoon. However, it wasn't the tension or her lack of driving skills that caused the accident a half an hour down the road. The car in the other lane swerved over the line too fast for her to have any reaction, brightest witch of her year or not. Her only faults were lack of foresight and being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

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Ron slid an empty butterbeer bottle back and forth on the kitchen table between his hands. The Quidditch game had ended over two hours ago, with the Chudley Cannons emerging victoriously, and Harry now seemed restless. He paced the kitchen, pausing to look out the window every now and again expectantly. Ron was doing his best to keep a light conversation going, but finding it increasingly difficult. Something was hanging in the air; something unpleasant, but unidentifiable. It was an afternoon Ron would always remember, filled with anger at life's utter unfairness; an afternoon that would haunt him forever; where he felt helpless and words felt meaningless. He wished he could have somehow, any how, been more prepared.

There was a sudden tap at the kitchen window and Harry jumped. He wasn't sure why it had startled him; he'd been waiting anxiously for the sound of an owl beak against the pane. He knew that despite their argument, once Hermione reached her parent's house and calmed down she would send word. Not to do so would be cruel. He opened the window just enough for the dark brown owl to swoop in and drop an envelope onto the kitchen table. It hadn't crossed Harry's mind that Hermione's parent's owned a spotted white owl. Maybe if it had, he would have waited to open the letter. Maybe if it had, he would have prolonged the inevitable just a little bit longer and hung in naïve bliss just a short while more.

Ron was the first to see the thick red letters on the front of the envelope that read “Urgent! To Harry James Potter”, but Harry was the first to pick it up. Reading the front of the envelope himself, he exchanged worried glances with his best mate. Although the bright red letters suggested otherwise, Harry hesitated. Then with a deep breath, he slid his finger under the flap and tore it away. Ron watched silently as Harry pulled the folded parchment out and ran his eyes across the print. His eyes widened and his face paled. Ron stood instinctively.

“What is it mate? What does it say?”

Harry's mouth twisted, but no words came out. Unable to speak he held out the letter to Ron with a shaking hand, then dashed down the hall and into the bedroom to change. Ron took the parchment and settled his eyes onto the print.

Dear Mr. Potter,

At 3:57 p.m. on the current date of August 17, Hermione Jean Granger was admitted into our care after sustaining minor injuries as a result of a Muggle vehicle related accident. We assure you that the patient will make a full recovery and request that you proceed to our facility as soon as possible. We ask that you please do so in a safe manner, as we do not need you occupying a bed here as well.

Sincerely,

Helena Hornbee,

St. Mungo's Healer

Harry returned to the kitchen as Ron finished reading the letter a second time. Looking up into the pained, frozen face of his oldest friend, Ron couldn't find any words to say.

“Ron…I've-I've…got to go.” he stammered.

“Of course. Do you want me to go with you?”

Harry seemed to consider the offer for a moment then shook his head.

“No. No, that's okay.”

Ron nodded then took his friend by the shoulders.

“The letter said she's okay. She's okay, Harry.”

Harry nodded and allowed a whoosh of breath to exit his lungs.

“I'll send word when I know what happened…when I know what's going on.” Harry promised.

With that, he closed his eyes and silently praying while he waited for the tugging sensation of apparition to wash over him. It only took a few seconds before the uncomfortable pushing and pulling feeling stopped and Harry opened his eyes. He hadn't been able to concentrate properly at all and was shocked he'd ended up outside of St. Mungo's in one piece.

St. Mungo's was one of the few places in the wizarding world that was completely visible to Muggles - if they knew where to look of course. The entrance was hidden behind a large, red department building on an inconspicuous London street. A sign hung on front reading “Closed for Refurbishing” to further mislead any curious wanderers. There were two large windows, inside one of which sat a dummy sporting outdated clothing. To Muggles, it appeared to be an abandoned shop; wizards however, knew better. Harry tapped the glass impatiently, awakening the dummy who grumbled in annoyance before motioning toward the entrance, fulfilling his duty as gatekeeper and allowing Harry passage. After hearing a low click, Harry pushed the doors open and stepped inside. The busy atmosphere inside St. Mungo's was a stark contrast to the desolate, seemingly deserted exterior. The reception area was lined with victims of unfortunate mishaps - among them two young wizards who seemed to have gotten their heads stuck together, a witch whom had sprouted a long orange tail and another who was hiccupping large pink bubbles.

Harry was moving through the crowd, heading for the reception desk when a hand reached out and grabbed him by the forearm. He turned quickly and came face to face - or rather, chest to face as she was quite short, with a woman dressed in a St. Mungo's nurse uniform. She was round, especially in the face and had a messy, wild bun piled on top of her head. Her eyes were a peculiar shade of purple, but kind and crinkled at the corners from a lifetime of smiles. There was a large clip board tucked under her arm and a quill tucked behind her ear.

“Harry Potter?” she asked, not waiting for an answer before pulling him with her down a long, white hallway. “I've been awaiting your arrival.”

He nodded and allowed himself to be dragged into the lift at the end of the long corridor, which descended a level before opening again.

“I am Helena Hornbee. I owled you about Ms. Granger, as per her request.” she said, stopping outside the lift. She took the clipboard out from under her arm and flipped the first page over. “They just moved her…now let me see…ah hah. She's just three doors down on your left.”

She motioned down the hall. Harry's stature gave him a clear view of the clipboard she had been studying. The top of the page read “Hermione Jean Granger” in neat, black print, followed by several lines of red ink listing her injuries. All seemed rather minor - a cut here, a bruised rib there- all, except for one. It was haphazardly circled and bolder than the others and stung Harry sharply the moment it sunk in. Helena snapped the clipboard up, burying it in her bosom. Harry's feet felt heavy and his throat dry. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts.

“How-how does she look?” Harry asked, swallowing hard.

Helena smiled comfortingly.

“She's a bit banged up. A few cuts and bruises, but nothing you really need to prepare yourself to see.”

Harry nodded slowly, thanked her and headed for the third door on the left.

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Hermione stared at the ceiling, counting the tiles and making patterns in her mind as she waited for Harry to arrive. Her heart broke for him - imagining him opening the letter, imagining his reaction, his fear. Her heart broke for how he'd have to see her and more so for what he'd have to hear. She hoped that Ron had still been there when the owl had arrived. If anyone could be a crutch for Harry, it was Ron; and Hermione hoped that his mere presence helped keep Harry together.

Her mind had been all over the place when Harry strode through the doorway of the third room on the left. Distracted by her thoughts, she almost hadn't noticed him until he was sitting next to her on the bed, his green eyes pooling with worry and helplessness as he studied her face. She reached up instinctively to cover a particularly large gash over her left cheekbone, but he grabbed her hand away, wordlessly, and kissed her fingers ever so lightly, terrified of hurting her.

“Har-…“ she croaked, but he shook his head to silence her. Tears formed in his eyes, but he remained solid, blinking them away and running a hand through his hair.

He already knew. Somehow, he already knew. Hermione didn't know it had been revealed to him through a curious look at the clipboard Helena Horbee had been holding. She didn't know how angry it made him that it was lumped in with the minor bruises and superficial cuts that would all heal in a few weeks time. She didn't know that something in Harry had cracked; the result of an undeserving blame too heavy to bear. She reached out and wrapped an arm around his waist. He let her pull him gently down, until his head was resting against her chest. She gently stroked her fingers through his hair.

Hermione was glad he couldn't see her face in this position. She wanted to cry and she wanted to share the loss the man she loved was feeling. It disgusted her that her eyes were dry. It disgusted her that it was relief and not despair that kept her silent.

Hermione's immediate fear had been that Harry would think she'd purposely put herself in harms way, or even caused the accident herself. He didn't. What ended up happening was much worse.

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Hermione was released from St. Mungo's twenty-four hours later with a jar of healing salve and instructions to take it easy the next few days. They returned to the flat via the Floo network, which was much gentler than apparition or any type of flying. Harry insisted she get right into bed and allow him to bring her dinner. She had initially argued, but resigned to the fact that she was still quite tired and sore and did as he said.

Something was causing a nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach, but she couldn't quite pinpoint the source. Harry had been uncharacteristically quiet and despondent since he'd first arrived in her room at St. Mungo's and even her gentle, tasteful attempts to lighten his mood had been met with resistance. Still, it wasn't something to be particularly nervous about. He'd been hit hard and was understandably grieving. Nevertheless, something Hermione couldn't seem to put her finger on was making her worry.

It wasn't until three weeks later that Hermione could no longer pretend everything was okay and the problem finally surfaced. It was late, past midnight, and she lay in bed feeling the warmth radiating from Harry's body against her back. She knew he wasn't sleeping; he never slept during the night anymore. In fact, most nights he wasn't even home. He would leave in the evening, usually after pushing his dinner disinterestedly around his plated, claiming to be meeting friends at this or that pub. He never invited Hermione and he never gave specific names. Then he would wander, or sometimes rather stumble, into the bedroom at an obscenely early morning hour and collapse fully dressed into bed. Sometime he'd sleep clear through to the afternoon, skipping training and skipping meals. Hermione had tried to address the situation when it first began and he had looked at her with the saddest, most helpless of eyes and told her that he was doing what he needed to get over the loss. She had immediately felt guilty, having needed no time at all to mourn losing the baby and had dropped the subject in fear of having to admit so. She had comforted herself, vowing to give him time and she assured herself he would work it out of his system.

After two weeks of watching the situation get worse instead of better, she had confided in Ron, hoping he could help break Harry from his self-destructive cycle. Ron had tried, and was still trying, to no avail. Hermione became particularly concerned when Ron reveled he'd only met Harry for drinks out once since the accident; his claims of meeting friends down at “said” pub, oddly enough were not involving his oldest and dearest.

Hermione lay motionless, considering the situation. She had been unable to break through to him emotionally and it was time to asses other options. Tonight she would attempt to break through his barrier physically. She had no idea how he would react, but she was prepared to let him have her however he wanted. He had been distant lately, but not particularly cold. He would kiss her when she got home from work or before he went out for the night, but they were obligatory and lacked any ounce of passion. He would squeeze her shoulders and caress her face as he thanked her for dinner, (even though he rarely ate any of it), but it was more habit than anything else; his eyes were distracted and his voice was empty.

She'd had enough. She wanted the pre-baby life back. She had lost the baby - it was no longer inside of her, no longer her secret to bear; yet it was still taking things from her, still twisting her life into an unidentifiable mess. She had to put an end to this. The man she loved was right beside her, yet she was lying here, missing him terribly. The distance between them was much wider than the mere space of sheets on the bed; she longed for closeness and ached for his touch.

Hermione turned over to face Harry. As she'd suspected, he wasn't sleeping, yet as she propped herself up on her elbow, he closed his eyes. Refusing to give up easily, she sat up on her knees and positioned her upper body over him, planting an arm on each side of his head. She used one of her knees to spread apart his legs, meeting some initial resistance, before allowing themselves to be parted. Harry's eyes opened slowly as she repositioned the bottom half of her body against his. His expression was unreadable as her warm brown eyes studied his piercing green ones, but he hadn't made any attempts to stop her, so she slowly continued, grinding her hips hard against him. As a result of the friction she quickly felt him begin to stiffen against her abdomen and she started lightly kissing his throat; pushing her lips against his neck then up across his jaw line. When she reached his lips, however, she met an unexpected reaction that robbed the breath from her lungs. Harry's arms wrapped around her tightly and he rolled, moving above her and subsequently trapping her beneath him. He ran a hand up her leg and under the long Weird Sister's tee-shirt she had worn to bed, dragging his fingertips against her thigh. His lips pressed hard against hers and his tongue delved hungrily into her mouth. When they parted, Hermione gasped for breath and he tangled his hand in her hair, pulling a fist full hard, snapping her head back and exposing the delicate skin of her throat. She didn't care; she didn't need to breathe. Right now she was getting somewhere, she was tearing down his walls and that was all she needed. He kissed the length of her neck, creating a slippery trail with his tongue down to the valley between her breasts. Then as suddenly as he had grabbed her, he released her; acting as though his hands had been burned.

He moved away from her and sat up on the side of the bed, burying his head in his hands. Hermione scooted across the bed towards him and placed her hands gently on his shoulders. He shrugged them off and stood. Her hopes had been so high. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Why wouldn't he just let her in?

“Harry, what's happening?” she asked quietly, letting the tears spill over onto her cheeks.

“I'm sorry. I just-I just can't.” Harry answered.

He shook his head and his shoulders hunched forward.

“You can't what? What can't you do?” she pushed, her voice rising higher with each word. “Tell me what you can't do. Let me try to help you.”

He glared at her, but it wasn't a look of anger. He looked…terrified. She watched the breath leave his lungs and his eyes close.

“I can't feel.” he said, almost inaudibly.

Hermione leaned as close to him as she could without falling off the bed, desperate to pick up every word that came from his mouth.

“I can't feel anything.” he repeated slowly, his voice unsteady. “I can't think. Not about anything…anything but…”

He stopped. His eyes opened. Hermione hung in the silence. He pushed his hands into his mess of black hair.

“I made you take the car.” he said finally. “You wanted to apparate, but I-I made you take the car.

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[A/N]: Next chapter? The long awaited break up. The possibilities are endless…

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