Rain

1. STORM ON THE HORIZON

Tell me, can you weather the storm
'Cause I need somebody who will stand by me
Through the good times and bad times

(Boys II Men, Can You Stand the Rain)

Hermione cried when it rained, but I think it rained because Hermione cried. Why would the weather be pleasant when she wasn't? There was always this indescribable, indiscernible feeling to be sad when she was, like there was nothing in this world worth smiling about if she wasn't smiling. The emotion was so infectious that it contaminated everything it touched. Even the sky fell victim to this unexplainable phenomenon. Plants lost the potency to be beautiful, the air was impaled with poison, and life became almost unbearable.

For some unexplainable reason, downpours always followed the initial drizzle. Perhaps it's like Mum says, "Can't have a garden without gnomes," or in more précised terms, my marriage wouldn't be what it was if it didn't have as many ups and downs as it did.

I used to wonder if it was possible to sink so low that climbing up wouldn't be an option, but I did find an answer to my question. I should start at the beginning; stories always seem to make better sense when one tells them from the beginning.

I woke one morning to quiet sobbing. As first the sounds were so soft that I wondered if I was simply dreaming. As soon as I realized them for what they were, my eyes flew open as I felt my heart being plucked out of my chest. "Are you alright, love?" I asked quietly.

She jumped at the sound of my voice. "I didn't--I don't know," she whispered. "I just . . . felt like crying." She shrugged nonchalantly, as if weeping was the most natural thing to do. "Did I wake you?"

I politely ignored her question. "Is it the baby?" My glance flew to her stomach, as did my hands. Hermione wasn't due for another two months, but, according to the books I had read over the last few months, anything could happen.

"I . . . Ron . . ." She forced a smile, and shattered every single one of my initial beliefs. If her tears made my life hell, a feigned smile sent me to the depths of the inferno. "No, Bryce hasn't given me any trouble."

The original topic was forgotten for a while as I focused on something more imminent. We both suspected that our child was a boy, but we had never made an attempt to find out. Hermione wanted to name the baby after her father, but I thought that the name Bryce was simply horrible. "Our baby's name is Jamie," I stated flatly.

She raised an eyebrow. "What if it's a girl?"

"Did I not just say Jamie?" I repeated.

She didn't say anything in return. Instead, she turned to face the opposite end of the window, and I was instantly reminded of the sounds that had awaken me.

"Hermione, tell me what's wrong!" When she answered my question with averted eyes and silence, I beckoned her. "Please. You have to tell me what's wrong so that I can make it better."

Almost as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I recalled something Fleur had said just the night before at supper. "Did that . . . that . . ." I tried to select the proper words to show the intensity of my repugnance for my sister-in-law. " . . . that French tart hurt you? Because I'll--"

"Ron, you will not!" Though a scowl was etched unto her face, I couldn't help but smile. At least, my Hermione was back. "Besides, if I recall properly, you seemed rather eager to get a taste of that tart last--"

"That is not true, and you know it!" I interrupted. My shock turned to concern. "Is that why you're crying?"

Hermione lowered her head and flushed with embarrassment. Apparently, the Weasley blush can be passed on to even those who marry into the family. "Well . . . I . . ." She swallowed. ". . . you haven't touched me in months."

"What are you on about?" I forged the most innocent look I could muster. "I'm touching you right now."

After two years of marriage, she was hardly impressed with my flippant tongue. "You know what I meant," she said.

I wasn't even sure how to explain. "Hermione . . . I . . . the baby!" Somehow that crazy statement made much sense in my head. Surely, she understood.

"You're right." This smile wasn't even a fake one; it was a smirk. A real smirk. "There's no reason to shag if I can't get pregnant."

I must have swallowed every single drop of liquid in my mouth, because my throat suddenly felt dry as the Sahara. I leaped to my feet. "WHAT?"

She went on grinning like a bloody Chesire cat. "Ron, honestly, you can't be that daft," she said. "Apparently, one can't get any more pregnant than, well, pregnant."

"Hermione--"

"Oh, shut it!" Before I could protest, my wife disappeared from the room, leaving me standing still in complete bewilderment.

I was confused. Her little spat had absolutely no basis of fact. Did she think that I married her to pop out babies? We--the both of us--had decided that we wanted children.

A moment later, I had collected enough of my thoughts to dare approach Hermione again. I found her in the kitchen, amidst something I hope was breakfast but knowing Hermione, it was probably just burnt scones and biscuits. For one of the few times in my life, I ignored food (or what would have been food if Hermione hadn't interfered with her cooking) to deal with the matter at hand. I took a deep breath before asking, "What was THAT?"

Hermione simply shoved a plate into my hands. "Eat breakfast; you'll be late for work."

After the Second War, the Ministry of Magic had a change in administration. Naturally, Harry was more than happy to take the job of an Auror, but after Ministers like Fudge and Scrimgeour, I had lost all faith in the Ministry. Accepting a job at Wiz.Net, a new wireless company that was "changing the way wizards do wireless" (and this is the logo, by the way), I finally put my talent for being cheeky to good use. Wiz.Net was always looking for new ideas to entertain people.

But the next word I uttered was hardly meant for any sort of entertainment. When I said "Hermione," I was seriously hoping for an explanation.

I didn't get one. In fact, she all but ignored my presence. After a few moments of silence, she ordered, "eat."

Then I did something stupid, but after all I did have a hobby of stating the obvious. "You're pregnant, love."

"Oh, that's what this was?" She pointed towards her belly. "And I reckoned I was putting on a bit of weight."

"You're pregnant," I said again, "and you're swirling about in a whirlwind of raging hormones."

She looked at me. Actually looked at me. At some point, I was wondering if I should have transfigured into something else. Finally, she scoffed. "Reading those books didn't make you smarter; they just gave you sillier retorts."

"Well, at least they seem to work for you!" Did I ever mention that my mouth usually moves faster than my brain can possibly keep up? I wanted to apologize, I really did, but as soon as she had gasped, my feet were hurriedly carrying me off into the bedroom.

I honestly had no idea what we were disputing about this time.

As I furiously flopped myself unto the bed, the windows curtains briefly parted so that I could catch a glimpse of the sky, blanketed with clouds as a thunderstorm hovered over the abyss of my life.