It was late on the 18th of September 1996, the eve of Hermione's sixteenth birthday, that she made what she thought was the final decision.

She was in the Gryffindor common room with her friends, Draco of course lounging across Harry's lap, and the conversation, as it so often did, had turned to Quidditch.

"I'd love to watch Krum play again, just once," Ron was saying. "He's such an incredible Seeker."

"Wonder if Hermione could get us all free tickets to a game sometime," joked Lavender. "You still in contact with him, Hermione?"

Hermione stiffened, but forced herself to reply naturally. "Now and again," she said nonchalantly. "It's nothing serious."
I'm having his baby.

This seemed to be a casual enough response to adequately disappoint the group and make them stop directing the questions at her, but attention stayed on the topic Krum.

"I heard he's on 150,000 Galleons a year," said Seamus. "Imagine what you could do with that kind of money."

"Just imagine," said Draco, lazily inspecting his perfectly manicured nail beds.

"Alright Malfoy, we know you bleed gold," Dean rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and Harry chuckled.

"It is a good pay check at nineteen, though," Seamus continued. "And he's not even peaked yet in terms of his ability and physical fitness! He can literally only get better from here on."

All this praise of Krum was beginning to really irritate Hermione.

Why should he have such a fantastic life? She wondered angrily. I wanted things too. I have ambition and drive and big plans. I shouldn't have to sacrifice everything I've ever dreamed of at fifteen while he swans around with his Galleons doing whatever he likes.

Right then and there, Hermione decided. She'd given Krum ample opportunity to show an interest in her over the past few months and he hadn't made the slightest effort; nor had he cared about the blatant hints she'd been dropping about his baby. If he could ignore the situation and get on with his life so could she.

She would do it. Move on with her life. Get rid of the baby.

Tomorrow she'd be sixteen, old enough that Madam Pomfrey wouldn't have to inform her parents of any medical treatment if Hermione didn't want her to. And she certainly didn't want her to!

It would be an unorthodox way to celebrate her sixteenth birthday, but Hermione liked the symbolism of the crossroad it provided. She was able to think rationally about the pregnancy for perhaps the first time, and it felt like a huge weight was in the process of rolling off her shoulders.

Hermione had always known she wouldn't make a good mother - she hadn't got anywhere near the patience required for a baby, or the time or the attention span available. She'd never pictured herself wanting children, either. And certainly not at sixteen, with her current life experience and emotional maturity.

No, it wasn't to be, she decided. It wasn't a pleasant thought but this time tomorrow she'd be in her bed and it would all be over with, like some terrible eleven-week-long nightmare.

No more baby. No regrets. She was sure of it.

***

The next thing Hermione knew, it was the early morning of the 19th, and she was throwing up again.

"Happy bloody birthday to me," she muttered shakily, dragging the back of her hand across her mouth. "I am not going to miss this part one bit."

She stared at herself in the mirror, and tried to calm her nerves. Today was the day.

She brushed her teeth, washed her face, and dressed quickly in her usual robes (it was a school morning, after all) and made her way to the Infirmary to see Madam Pomfrey, who was already up and about, even at 6 o'clock in the morning.

After explaining her predicament, signing some forms to acknowledge she understood what she was doing, and assuring Madam Pomfrey that she did not want her parents involved, Hermione was handed a warm light purple potion with instructions to drink it that evening, to give it time to strengthen.

The transactional quality of the interaction surprised Hermione; the whole thing had been very impersonal and straightforward, as if she was merely complaining of a sniffle and was being given medicine for that rather than to end a pregnancy.

It felt like going to the shop or the bank really, and while Hermione was grateful for the lack of judgement from the Matron, it also made her feel a bit weird.

Nevertheless, she slid the potion bottle up the sleeve of her robe, thanked Madam Pomfrey and headed back up to the girls' dorms to hide it before breakfast started, which she'd be expected to attend even if she didn't eat.

Her relationship with the other Gryffindors had been somewhat strained in the two weeks since her outburst on the first night, but a recent heartfelt apology had meant that they were all back to being close friends - except they were all a lot more careful commenting on her appearance and food choices these days!

Hermione slid the little bottle under the rungs of her bed, between the mattress and the frame, and then it was time to head down to the Great Hall after Lavender and Parvati. She checked her reflection in a mirror on the way down, and smoothed down her robes. Time to act like nothing was wrong, like she hadn't just hidden an abortion potion under her bed. It was just a normal Tuesday.

"Happy birthday, Hermione!" her friends clamoured when she got to the Gryffindor table. The table was laden with little presents and cards, and Fred and George let off several noisy streaming firecrackers in celebration as she took her seat.

"Wow, thanks, everybody!" Hermione beamed, genuinely surprised and grateful at the effort they'd all put in for her.

"Open mine first, Granger," Draco smirked, forcing himself down next to Harry and Luna and helping himself to a crisp apple from the Gryffindors' fruit bowl. "I think you're going to like it."

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. It wasn't that she didn't trust Malfoy these days, more that she found him a difficult person to read and never quite knew where she stood with him.

"You got me a present?" she asked. He pushed a little box at her, meticulously wrapped in green paper and secured with a delicate silver bow.

"I did," he agreed. "I've got good manners, you see."

"It's not good manners to tell people you've got good manners," Hermione laughed, but she accepted the gift. "Thank you, Draco. I think."

"It's nothing scary, H," Harry assured her. "I was with him when he bought it."

Draco punched his boyfriend in the leg. "Shut up, Potter," he snarled. "You're ruining the fun. I liked it better when she thought it was a trick. Now I look like a wet wipe."

Hermione ignored their squabbling, intrigued by the concept of a present from Draco Malfoy. She peeled back the paper gently from the box and opened the lid to find the daintiest little necklace she'd ever seen, gold with a little red pendant that glittered ever so slightly in the daylight.

"Draco," she gasped. "That is so beautiful! Why would you get something so lovely for me?"

"It was second-hand and Harry wouldn't wear it. He's got terrible taste," Draco lied, but he was clearly blushing, touched by her gratitude.

"That's not true, Draco." Harry rolled his eyes. "You can admit to being nice sometimes, you know."

"You'd better not open mine next," Ron said sulkily. "Bloody Malfoy."

"I'm sure yours will be lovely too, Ron," Hermione assured him, but she dutifully reached for Neville's present instead (a soft red scarf that he'd knitted himself).

Breakfast went much more happily and smoothly than Hermione had expected, given the circumstances, and she'd even managed some tea and toast. She'd had plenty of cards and presents, including some from home, which had made her feel weirdly guilty, as if she didn't deserve presents for deceiving her family.

Overall, Hermione felt incredibly lucky and supported by her friends, and walked to her classes that day with somewhat of a spring in her step. In the evening, when classes were over and dinner was finished, the group celebrated with a birthday cake and some silly games, and all in all, Hermione's sixteenth was a birthday to remember for all the right reasons.

That night, when she went up to bed, Hermione removed the bottle from her bed frame, and stood it on her windowsill. The colour had deepened a few shades since the morning and was less translucent than before, although it was still quite warm. She couldn't quite bring herself to unscrew the cap, although she didn't know exactly why.

I'll take it tomorrow, she thought, the contents will be even stronger by then.

But the following evening, the bottle was entirely black, and the liquid inside looked more like oil than water, and Hermione knew she'd missed her window to take it.

Bloody hell. Bloody, fucking, hell.

________________________________

a/n: thank you so much if you read this part! please leave a comment on any parts you particularly enjoyed, or any thoughts you want to add 🤍🤍

i've been having more thoughts about this becoming a trilogy and the idea is really growing on me :)) it's been a good week for writing!

~ paradisedraco