He felt absolutely useless.
More to the point, he felt everyone in the bloody office was useless.
Weren't they supposed to possess magical powers? How was it that that Madam Pomfrey was able to grow his bones back without problem back in his second year, yet this present problem was unfixable?
He didn't get it and he longed for someone to help him understand it.
The Healer dealt the blow as softly as he could, but it still felt like he had been shoved into a brick wall.
Why was this happening to them?
He had tried his whole life to be a decent person. He had defeated a Dark Lord for the safety of the wizarding world and this is what he got in return.
How would he be able to look at himself in the mirror every day?
How would his wife be able to look at him? How would he be able to look at her?
"We're sorry, Mister Potter."
That's what the Healer said after handing him his fate. Saying sorry seemed to be so insignificant compared to the problem.
What was he going to do now? He couldn't remember ever feeling so helpless.
"Mister Potter?" He hadn't even heard the knock at the door, or the mediwitch enter the room. "I have some paperwork for you. And I also have some pamphlets you might find useful."
She had some pamphlets? He was trying to digest this news he had been given and she was offering him pamphlets. A million responses floated through his mind.
Get the fuck out!
Take your pamphlets and shove them up your ass!
In the end, he settled for a simple and polite, "Thank you." It was all he could really say short of screaming at the top of his lungs.
He walked out of the office with the same blank expression he'd been wearing after he initially received the prognosis. He knew his wife would be at home, knew this was something that would be brought up right away.
How he wished he could take them away from this problem, away from the many ears that would be waiting to hear the news, away from the prying eyes that would show absolute pity when the outcome was known.
He didn't want to deal with any of it.
He reached the apparation point, an alleyway a block or so from the hell he just left, and wondered if he really wanted to take the quick way home. Honestly, there was really no reason to prolong the inevitable. His stomach would only twist into more knots. His head would have more time to pound. His nerves would have more time to make him feel nauseous. His heart would have more time to break. Yes, the quick way home would be less painful, though not by much.
He was soon greeted by the sight of his living room. Hermione had done her best to make their house their home. She didn't take full control of everything, opting to include him in picking out the colors and designs. Truthfully, he could have cared less if their bedroom had a color scheme of brown and a dark blue or if the kitchen boasted a theme of apples, but her thoughtfulness outweighed the lack of interest.
He breathed deeply, preparing himself for what he had to tell her, and noticed a wonderful smell. She was in the kitchen, cooking something that held a wonderful aroma. And though it the scent was pleasing, he really had no appetite at the moment. He slowly made his way to the room she occupied.
There she was, standing at the stove while stirring the contents in a pot.
She gradually turned around at the sound of his footsteps, training her dark brown eyes on his form.
She knew.
He could tell that she knew. But he felt the need to actually voice it.
"I can't give you a child. I can't give you a family."
Her features expressed an array of emotions. Disappointment, anger, pain, confusion, sympathy…
And it was his fault.
She placed the spoon next to the pot and approached him in a few short steps. He felt her arms surround him in a strong embrace. "You're my family, Harry."
She looked up at him with unshed tears in her eyes, knowing that she was seeing the same in his gaze. "What?"
"You're my family. No amount of children would have changed that fact. They simply would have made our family bigger in number."
He couldn't understand how she was being so calm, so supportive. He was unable to give her something she had desperately wanted, what they had both wanted, yet she was comforting him. "I'm so sorry." He held her tight, thinking of her as his port in the storm.
Their tears freely fell by this time, mourning the loss of something they would never experience, something they would never have.
"I'm sorry, too," she barely choked out. "I'm sorry that we have so much love to give, yet no child to shower it upon."
"Hermione, we could always…"
She placed a finger to his lips, halting the suggestion. "I don't want to think about that right now. Let's work through the news we were just hit with." She tried to crack a small smile amidst her tears, but he could tell it was forced. She was trying to put on a brave front for him. "Until we're both ready, the extra love we have will simply be spent on each other."
"I take you for better or worse."
Yes, they had both truly meant those words they had vowed to each other.
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