That Time of Month

It was the last week of November and Hermione was terribly sick.

Sick barely described it. Every day started and ended the same: Early. At around three o'clock a.m., the vomiting began. Hermione flipped three shades of green and Harry wound up just staying awake all night in case it started up, because once it started, it didn't end for hours. He didn't mind at all. He would do anything for her, even if it involved getting thrown up on in the wee hours of the morning by his wife.

It was around half past three. The room was dark, and Harry was lying with his back against Hermione's chest, resting lightly, when he felt the familiar sharp tap on his shoulder from behind and then heard Hermione's soft rasp.

"Harry," she whispered groggily. "Harry, are you awake?"

"Of course," he grunted immediately, turning over to face her. Her hair was in a state of disarray and her eyes were bloodshot as she gazed over at him, her bottom lip trembling. Even when she looked like she'd been mauled by a truck she still looked absolutely gorgeous. He took her hand. It was cold and clammy and sweaty. He reached down and rubbed her stomach--his favorite part of her body--soothingly as he asked, "What do you need? Are you going to be sick again?"

She shut her eyes tightly and shook her head. "No," she whispered. "I'm thirsty."

He frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Yes . . . I need water."

"Hermione, are you alright?"

Her breathing was deep and it seemed she was uncomfortable. Harry pulled her close, sighing silently when he felt her tummy rubbing softly against his. Hermione buried her head snugly against his shoulder as he rubbed her back, loving the feel of her warm skin under his fingertips. "Are you going to be sick?"

"No . . . but my stomach hurts."

"Hurts?"

"Yes, Harry," she said, clearly aggravated, which amused him to no end. "What about it don't you understand?"

"Well, your stomach hasn't been hurting . . . just been queasy."

"Well, it's hurting now. Can you please get me some water?"

Harry sighed again, smiling at her annoyed tone, and patted her bottom lightly. "Absolutely. I'll be right back." He kissed her shoulder and waited for a reaction, but she just grunted exhaustedly with her face pressed against his neck, and he just grinned, pushing her limp body off of his so that he could get out of the bed. He pulled on a pair of shorts and padded down the stairs to the kitchen.

He had just filled a glass of ice water and was preparing to bring it up with a few pieces of toast when he heard Hermione's muffled voice.

"Harry," she called miserably.

"I'm coming!" he shouted.

"No, not that. I need you up here for a moment."

He frowned for the second time that night. "Er, okay." Gathering up the water and toast, he made his way back up, but what he found wasn't exactly what he was expecting.

Hermione was moving groggily around the room, no robe on, pulling the sheets off the bed miserably, her hair flying around over her head. He was about to ask what she was doing when he spotted the extremely vibrant and noticeable stain on the sheets. His stomach lurched. There was one thing about women that he found unbearable. "That time of month," he and Ron had always called it.

He set down her water and bread on her nightstand and cautiously approached her, but before he could do or say anything, she shoved the sheets into his arms, and he tried as hard as he could not to retch on the spot.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said sadly, walking into their bathroom. "I usually keep track of my cycle, but having the flu the past weeks has made me lose count. I completely forgot." She opened the medicine cabinet, searching for something, and Harry looked left and right, and then pulled a gagging face and dropped them on the floor, pulling his hands away and flapping them a bit. "Gross," he muttered.

"I heard that," Hermione mumbled to him. She looked in the cabinet under the sink, and then she groaned. "Damn it. Harry," she said, turning around, the bags under her eyes and the off-white of her skin more pronounced than ever. "I need to ask you a favor." She bit her lip, the question on both their minds already asked.

Harry shook his head and crossed his arms. "No. You can't ask me to do that, Hermione."

"Harry, it's really not an option," she said in a final sort of way, walking back into the room. I cannot go out because I'm leaking --"

"Ugh, please don't phrase it like that, Hermione," Harry said, his stomach churning, but Hermione snorted.

"What? Grossed out? How about I can't go because I have no means to stop the blood and other mucus-like fluids that are gushing nonstop from my vagina?"

"No!" Harry clutched his stomach. "Don't go into detail! Please! I don't need it!"

"Oh, stop it, Harry. The details I can give barely scratch the surface. Listen, you need to go for me. Just one box. Besides, there're no other people out at this time to see you anyways." She picked up the sheets again and pushed them against his chest. "I need you to throw these in the wash for me. My stomach is roaring. I taking the day."

Harry just stood there as she walked past him to the linen closet, pulling out new sheets and then putting them on the mattress. She finished, and then looked around at Harry, who was still standing where he'd been for the past three minutes, sheets still in his arms, dumbfounded expression dimming his gorgeous features. "Go!" she shouted. "There's a puddle practically forming around my feet, Harry! This really isn't the best time to be confused! Go to the store, buy them, come back, and our lives will flow much easier!"

But Harry was already halfway out the front door, trying to banish the retched thoughts out of his mind.

He loved his wife, and her body. Just not what went on in that body and its effects on their laundry.