One

Disclaimer: Jo owns it all.

Severus was making his way to St. Mungo's subterranean medical research complex, bemusedly contemplating his new status as godfather to Blaise and Pansy's newborn daughter, Phoebe, when an elderly wizard with a silver mane and beard nearly as long as Albus Dumbledore's popped out of a doorway, promptly seized a startled Severus' hand, and began pumping it with vigor and enthusiasm.

"So glad you've decided to join us, young man! Excellent, excellent," enthused the wizard, green eyes twinkling in an altogether too-familiar manner, and Severus found himself having to quickly suppress a shudder of profound revulsion.

It had taken him a quite a long time to fully understand and accept that his once-beloved mentor had used his kindly, twinkling demeanor to efficiently manipulate him and his fellow Order members every bit as ruthlessly as the late, loathsome, serpent-snogging git known as Tom Riddle used terror to control his Death Eaters. Both lived by the adage 'the end justifies the means,' and while Severus himself had once felt the same way, he found he could no longer honestly say that was the case anymore.

Firmly dragging himself from the dark mental path he had determined to never walk again, Severus nodded a greeting to the aged wizard who, somewhat embarrassed, belatedly introduced himself as Theodosius Rankin, head Healer and administrator of WRAITH, the new War-Related Ailments and Injuries Treatment Hospital, which was now connected to St. Mungo's by a rather impressive dragon-tempered glass walkway.

Severus had received his invitation to the gala event to celebrate the upcoming grand opening of said facility only two days previously, and he had promptly tossed it on top of the teetering pile of other such invitations he had received and ignored.

After pouring himself a cup of good English tea and nabbing a pair of decadent dark chocolate-almond scones from the extensive array of pastries laid out on the table, Severus seated himself in the chair nearest the door, the better to observe his fellow invitees as they arrived.

Unobtrusively scanning the room, Severus spied several persons of note from various fields: seated to his right and sporting a crown of short blonde curls and ubiquitous lime-green robes was Dorothea Wainwright, head Healer of St. Mungo's maternity ward; the portly grey-clad little wizard inspecting the walnut sticky buns was Stuart Creighton, prolific author and expert on magical blood disorders; wearing finely-tailored black robes and having an animated discussion near the coffee urn were Gideon Rookwood and Cassius Thorntree, the heads of the Ministry's Department of Health and Potions Research, respectively; nodding a greeting and taking a seat to his left was Healer Douglas Rubens, one of the few people Severus considered a friend. The former Ravenclaw Head Boy had tried his best to befriend a first-year Severus and tried valiantly to protect him from the worst of the young Marauders' depredations.

They had only just exchanged pleasantries when a deep-voiced throat was cleared, drawing the attention of all to the head of the table, and the wizard standing there.

Severus' eyes widened as he recognized the snowy hair and dark blue gaze of Gaston Morel, world-renowned Healer, philanthropist, and creator of the Morel Foundation, a non-profit medical research firm that had produced many of the most impressive advancements in the field of medical Potions research for the last several decades.

As a teen, Severus had often dreamed of working at the Morel facility in Aix-en-Provence, imagining himself as a rising star among Potions researchers and becoming a much sought-after expert in the field he loved.

At least, until Lucius Malfoy took advantage of his deep depression in the wake of Lily Evans becoming Lily Evans Potter, carefully coaxing his devastated young friend into making the stupidest and costliest error of his young life.

Just then, Rubens nudged Severus' elbow and passed him a stack of folders that had been making their way around the table. Accepting one and passing the others on, Severus took a moment to leaf through his. It contained the medical charts of nearly two dozen young women of varying backgrounds with two things in common: Each witch had suffered at least three miscarriages in less than a year, more than half dying in the process. And each witch was found to have the same peculiar, unidentifiable substance in her blood.

Severus, deeply disturbed, tapped at his chin thoughtfully, his mind conjuring a vivid image of a highly distraught Hermione Weasley, sobbing hysterically as she fled St. Mungo's barely two hours ago. Somehow, he instinctively knew that one of those charts surely belonged to his little know-it-all, the former Miss Granger.

***

Hermione was sitting on the living room sofa, having bathed and dressed in her softest flannel pajamas, fuzzy bathrobe, and slippers, sipping disconsolately at a mug of tepid green tea when Ron finally arrived through the Floo, scattering debris everywhere as he dusted the confetti from his hair and the soot from his Chudley Cannons uniform.

"Hey, 'Mione, we swept the Vultures! Four games straight out of seven, we completely kicked their Bulgarian arses, we did!"

"That's wonderful, dear," Hermione said quietly.

At that, Ron turned around and took in the sight of at their less-than-tidy living room and his wife's wan, disheveled appearance. He paled as realization struck him with the force of a Bludger hit between the eyes. Ron's Firewhiskey-infused gaiety evaporated in an instant and was immediately replaced by a simmering rage.

Ron knew, he just knew, it must have happened again.

"You lost our baby, didn't you? Again!" Ron's voice was all hard edges and barely-suppressed fury.

Hermione looked up in shock, her face going from pale to bone-white, while Ron's steadily darkened to an unhealthy shade in the magenta range.

"Ron, please, I wanted our baby every bit as much as you do! I can't help the fact that..."

"Yeah, you could if you really wanted to," Ron shouted, turning shrill as he exploded in rage.

"I thought we agreed that when we decided to have kids, you would stop working! But noooooo, you just had to keep working and proving that you're so much smarter than everyone else, too smart to settle down to be a proper wife and mum like a normal witch! You want so bad to be a Potions master just like that old bat you idolize, you probably brewed something to make sure you wouldn't have to worry about having our babies, didn't you?"

Stunned speechless and staring at her husband's twisted, reddened face and ugly clenched fists for a few frozen beats, Hermione suddenly turned around and headed to their bedroom.

Moments later, she returned with the paper bearing Healer Ruben's diagnosis and placed it on the table in front of her husband.

Ron eyed the paper with distaste, and spat, "What's this supposed to be?"

"It's from St. Mungo's," Hermione responded quietly and silently waited as he scanned the document, his full lips thinned and tight with anger.

"So Lavender was right," Ron growled. "You little baby-killing bitch!"

"Lavender? What did she... Ron, NO!" Hermione screamed as Ron snatched up a vase filled with wildflowers and threw it at her head, water, multicolored petals, and shards of crystal flying everywhere as the vase smashed against the wall, mere inches from her head. "Ron, listen to me, please," she cried.

"I'm done listening to your lies, Hermione," Ron yelled furiously. "You hear me? We are DONE!"

Hermione knelt in the broken bits of crystal, her body shaking violently with the force of her sobs, her blood mingling with the water pooled on the floor as Ron reached for the Floo powder.

Turning around, Ron coldly surveyed his sobbing wife for a few moments. "I'm going to let Mum know she doesn't have to worry about knitting anything for us anymore, thanks to you. I don't know when I'll be back. Don't be here when I return."

At that, he flung a handful of Floo powder, stepped into the hearth, and out of her life.

It was several minutes before Hermione found the strength to drag herself to her feet, still stunned by Ron's cruel accusations. She still couldn't believe that her husband, her lover, her best friend since she they were firsties at Hogwarts had turned on her so completely, had actually believed her capable of deliberately causing herself to miscarry their unborn children.

Hermione had no doubt now that Lavender had set her sights on stealing her husband, and Hermione knew from past experience that Lavender had no scruples whatsoever when it came to getting what she wanted. Hermione had had serious misgivings, right from the moment Ron had told her that the Cannons were taking a page from Muggle footballers and had hired cheer-leaders to liven up their games, with Lavender Brown as the new Chudley Cheerleaders' captain. Ron had been amused by what he interpreted as Hermione's jealousy and had insisted that he was absolutely devoted to her and their family.

Of course, that was back when Hermione was three months into her first pregnancy, and blissfully unaware that her first miscarriage was only days away.

Hermione had known from the very beginning that Ron wanted a family at least as large as the one he had grown up in. Hermione, personally, would have preferred perhaps two or three, but she loved Ron so much that she had wanted to make his dream of a large family come true, just as new bride Ginny planned to do for her familial-love starved Harry.

Praying fervently to whatever gods might exist that her friends would be blessed with children and the kind of happiness that seemed to come to her like glimpses of a radiant sun, only for the clouds to come rolling in, darker and more forbidding than ever before.

Slowly moving over to her desk, Hermione scrawled out a quick note to Luna before coaxing a terrified Pigwidgeon from the rafters and sending him on his way.

Then she dragged herself off to her room to pack her bags, hoping that Pig would return quickly with Luna's reply.