It had been an hour since she woke up and her husband was not by her side. Her brilliant, stupid husband had left thinking that it would be better for her and their—her—child. The instant sickness she felt had nothing to do the morning sickness that was approaching. How dare he think that this child wouldn't love him as all babies love their parents? How dare society treat him in such a way as to make him feel so inadequate that he would feel that running away was the only safe option for him?

The note he left was ripped in half and glass broke in her rage. At society, at her husband, at herself. Couldn't she have made him see? Had she not beat it into his skull enough that she really didn't care about his 'furry little problem'? If their marriage hadn't made him understand what could make him understand?

The picture that held the both of them on their wedding day, with her beaming joyfully and his subdued look of adoration at his new wife, lay broken, face down on the floor where she had thrown it.

It had been three hours since he'd gone, and her rage had quieted down. She no longer felt the need to throw glass and tear her hair out. Instead a dull emptiness filled her veins. There was no motivation for her to eat, although she should, for the baby's sake. She made no effort to do any of the chores that she had set for herself the day before.

She couldn't even force herself to dress.

She stared out the window, wondering what she could have done, what she should have done to get him to understand. Would he have stayed then? If there was anything that she could have done.

Tears fell down her face without her even realizing it.

After five hours, her parents came for lunch. She barely lifted her head when they walked through the door. Her mother was at her side in an instant, lifting her chin and looking into her tear-stained face. As gently as she could, her mother asked what had happened. Her daughter's hair was the mousy brown once again.

"He's gone," her daughter choked out.

Fresh tears and sobs renewed and she buried herself in her mother's arms. A white rage boiled through her mother. After everything that he put her daughter through the past year, the pushing away, the fights, the marriage, he leaves? Her mother had no higher desire at the moment than to find that bastard of a husband and curse him right between the eyes.

Her own husband crouched down beside her and ran his hand through his daughter's hair. For half a second when she looked up, it seemed like she was expecting her husband. Her dark eyes clouded at the sight of her father. He asked what was the reason this time.

Between her hiccups, she muttered that she was going to have a baby. She buried her face into her mother's shoulder again. Her mother looked at her husband and tears sprung in her eyes as well. Her husband covered his face with his hands for a moment before joining in their embrace.

Lunch was forgotten about that day.

Another hour had gone by and she was in her bed again. She hadn't fought her parents when they led her in there, although she didn't want to be in that room. She wanted to be anyplace else but that room.

It still smelled of him.

Nevertheless she found herself in the sheets, staring at the space that her husband would normally have occupied listening to her parents arguing in the living room outside of her door. Arguing about what should be done with her husband. Her mother wanted nothing more to do with him. Her father wanted to give him a little time, allow for the correct thoughts to come and him to come to his senses. Her mother laughed harshly.

"If he'd had the correct thoughts in the first place, Nymphadora wouldn't be in that room married and pregnant," she spit out.

Their argument continued after that, but she was no longer listening. Her hand crept under her sheets and rested on her still flat stomach. Her mother may regret the actions that she had taken, but she didn't. She didn't. For around a month, she was happy. Even with the war going on around her, friends dying, people disappearing, she had found her little patch of heaven.

But as she was watching, her patch of heaven was disappearing. The flowers were dying and becoming weeds. The sunshine that had shone down was being blocked by a thundercloud, threatening to drown the entire garden. But one tiny flower stood tall and firm in midst of the oncoming storm.

She clung tight to that small hope.

At eight hours since he'd gone, her parents finally forced her to eat something. It wasn't much, some soup. She hadn't even finished it, but her parents, seeing that indeed she did eat something, relaxed visibly. Her mother opened her mouth to talk to her when her father pulled his wife from the room. She waited for them to leave the room and walk into the kitchen before she crept out of bed.

She went to the hamper and pulled out her husband's favorite cardigan. It had patched elbows and the neckline was beginning to show its wear. With a half glance at the door separating her from her parents, she slipped the oversized garment on before crawling back into bed.

Snuggling tightly into the wool, she was able to fall asleep enveloped in the scents of her other half.

Eleven hours had passed before her parents needed to head home. She offered a meek goodbye and watched them leave from the window. Somehow she managed to drag herself out of bed to sit at the dinner table when her parents ate dinner. She didn't eat much of what was on her plate. Mainly she took her fork and moved her mashed potatoes around the plate. She managed to swallow some of roast, but she didn't make effort to eat anything else.

Her parents promised to return the next day with more food and intent to do the dishes they had elected to rest in the sink for the rest of the night. She merely offered them a half smile that didn't reach her eyes and off they went.

After looking at the fire for a moment or two, the urge to drink something came over her. To drown her sorrows and problems and not confront this reality. She had raised herself to a half standing position, before she realized that alcohol and pregnancy weren't compatible. She cursed. Then cursed again. She cursed the alcohol. She cursed herself. She cursed her husband.

The only thing she didn't curse was her baby.

By the time the thirteenth hour had passed, she was exhausted. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep. Possibly wake up in the morning and realize that this whole day had been a dream. No. Not a dream. A nightmare. But she knew that when she went to bed that she would wake up in the morning as alone as she was at that moment.

That knowledge didn't prevent her from sleeping right at the moment that her head hit the pillow.

It was the nineteenth hour before she woke again. She was unsure as to why she was awake at that time of night at first. Sitting up in bed, she listened hard. Her hand inched towards her wand on the bedside table. There were no sounds in her own house, save her breathing and the creak of the wood as the wind blew against the house's exterior.

A wolf howled somewhere in the distance. She looked over at habit to the calendar with the full moon schedule circled in red, as habit. The full moon was still days away. Tears filled her eyes again at the thought that the calendar may be useless now.

She wiped her tears away and walked out to her kitchen. There wouldn't be any more sleeping that night.

At the twenty-third hour, she had fallen asleep with her head on the kitchen table. A cold cup of coffee sat near her head. Her hand was resting on the picture she had thrown against the wall hours before. She had repaired the glass, and had been gazing thoughtfully at it for a significant amount of time. Mainly at her husband, wondering what had been going through his head. At the wedding and when he left.

What she wouldn't do to have his face to look at her that way again.

The door to the outside opened and closed, bringing in with it the scent of outdoors and one other recognizable smell. In an instant, she was up and pointing her wand. She glared furiously.

Her husband held his hands up in surrender.

For a long moment, no one said anything. She glared at him with her dark eyes blazing. He stared at the floor, unable to meet her with his light ones. Shame radiated off of him.

"What was the reason my husband left me yesterday morning?" She demanded, voice ice cold.

"Dora, I-"

She shot a jinx inches from his ear. He stopped speaking. His eyes darted from the floor to connect with hers for the first time. The cold fury in them made him flinch.

"She's pregnant. I thought that by leaving I was protecting her."

Slowly she walked to confront him. His eyes had returned to stare at the ground. There were so many things that she wanted to do right at that moment. She wanted to scream and yell. She wanted to kick him back out because that was what he wanted so desperately in the first place. She wanted to kiss him for coming back. She wanted to hex him fifty times over. She wanted to cry.

In the end she did none of those things. In the end she slapped him as hard as she possibly could across the face. He made no sound to indicate the pain he experienced.

And then she was off. Screaming all the things that she had been longing to say for a day. She screamed until she wasn't even registering what she was saying. She screamed until her throat was scratchy and her voice hoarse. But she continued to yell at him. And he took it.

He never said a word back at her or to his defense. He stood there, hands still raised in the air as she continued her verbal offense towards him. Every once and a while he would flinch when one of her words hit its mark. But he never said a word or looked at her face. It made her angrier still. He should be defending himself, not allowing her to steamroll over the top of him, like the rest of the wizarding world.

Eventually though, her voice died when she realized that there was nothing left for her to say. She stared up into his face, breathing heavily. She watched his resigned face for a moment before shaking her head and turning away from him.

His voice halted her footsteps. It was shaking, uneven. He was so quiet, she could just make out what he was saying. She turned to watch him.

He still hadn't raised his eyes to look at her. But his hands were shoved in the pockets of his pants, shoulders slumped. The stance of someone who had given up hope but was still fighting. Tears were falling out of his eyes and rolling down his beautiful, scarred face. She barely heard what he was actually saying. Something about Harry and realizations. She wasn't focused on that.

She was watching the pain in her husband's face. Hearing the pain in his voice. Cursing the world to break him so. To make him believe the lies they tell.

Before she understood what she was doing, she had him pressed against the kitchen door and was kissing him with as much passion and love as she could. His voice died, and he stood there motionless. When she pulled away, she had coaxed his hand out of the pocket and held it gently in hers. She rubbed his knuckles with her thumb.

He was staring at the motion as if it was out of a dream. That was when she knew. He didn't expect to be welcomed back so easily, if at all.

Her other hand went to his face. She brought it up to look at her. Tears were falling again out of his eyes. She wiped them away with the pad of her thumb. Slowly she led him away from the door, into the living room where she pushed him to sit on the sofa. She held up a single finger as he opened his mouth to speak. She walked off, out of the room.

She returned holding their wedding picture. She lightly touched the image of his face. Squatting in front of him, she offered the frame.

He took it and looked at it. Similarly to what she had done, he gingerly reached out and touched her own face in the photo.

"I-I'm sorry," he choked out.

She believed him.

She had stopped counting the hours since he'd come back to her. Back home. They both knew that the trust they had would take time to fix. And then even when it had been fixed, there would always be the thought in the back of their minds about what he had done. But they understood each other, better perhaps than they understood themselves. She could see in his eyes that when he said he would never leave again he would hold it to his dying breath. Likewise he could see that when she said that she had never, and would never, give up or stop loving him that she would die before letting it go.

Things weren't fixed overnight, but they had their start.

A/N: I woke up and this wouldn't leave my brain 'til I got this written. Don't be afraid to write a review.