Disclaimer: I still don't own a thing. I don't own the characters, the plot, or the magic. If I had a mind as creative as that then I wouldn't be wasting my time writing fan fiction. I only play with the Wizarding World for awhile before handing it back to Rowling for safe keeping.

Author's Note: So, I've decided to make a fan fiction based mainly on Ron and Hermione's early years. Of course, there will be a good portion of Harry and Ginny in there as well. I don't know if I like this idea or not, as it is very different from what I am used to writing. It will largely be based on Hermione and her desire to become a mother. Please read it, at least, and let me know if you have any suggestions. Thanks.

COULD'VE LOVED YOU ALL MY LIFE

CHAPTER ONE

"And so it begins..."

"I told you, I'm not hungry."

For the fourth time that morning, Hermione Weasley declined the plate her husband was trying to shove in her face. Instead, her hands fumbled with the morning paper, opening the crisp pages with a deafening snap, just in case her husband didn't get the message that she was in a terrible mood.

"I know, I know," Ron's reply was smooth and gentle, the hand that wasn't clutching the plate held up in front of him, in an attempt to placate Hermione. "It's just some toasted bread and a little eggs. Just a few bites, c'mon," he said coaxingly, trying to get something into his infuriating wife's stomach.

"I said I wasn't hungry, Ronald."

At the sound of his full name barked in such a huffed manner, Ron looked up towards the ceiling for inspiration. Not finding any, he closed his eyes and placed the plate onto the bathroom sink counter, before crouching down next to Hermione on the cool tile of the bathroom floor.

She merely tilted her head in his direction and raised an eyebrow, before turning her attention back to the article she was perusing.

"I'm not eating."

"Fine."

Hermione looked up at him, her eyes dangerously narrowing. She tossed her unruly curls off to one side, gathering them into a ponytail with her hand. She looked menacingly, from the plate of warm food that her husband had slaved to make, to Ron himself, who was looking decidedly more anxious the more his wife stared.

"Why are you still in here?"

She asked pointedly, her head cocking towards the door, in an obvious display that she would have liked nothing better than for him to leave her alone.

"I'm not just going to let you sit here and be sick all alone."

Hermione would have thought that sentiment to be very sweet, had she not been three months pregnant and experiencing awful morning sickness. Ron had grown used to the verbal abuse by now, and as a result he was even becoming suave, a word that certainly had never been used in conjunction with Ronald Weasley's persona.

"Really, I insist," she muttered softly, trying to persuade him.

"I'll leave if you eat a few bites of toast."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Ron!"

Leaning over her husband, Hermione reached for the plate and grabbed a piece of toast, shoving it in her face. She took a few bites, her face considerably losing its color the more food she consumed.

Each bite was a solid, sharp chew, the sound of tooth clashing with tooth amplified by the tile lining the bathroom walls. Hermione deliberately took her time chomping and swallowing, making sure Ron knew she was surely mocking him. A quick glance at her husband led her to believe that he was clueless to her continued displeasure, or rather, he was pretending to act in ignorance to avoid a fight that would surely ensue if he brought the fact up.

A freckled hand was placed on the small of Hermione's back, warm fingers rubbing in a comforting circular motion. Ron reached up and brushed a stray curl out of his wife's face, his body angling so he could look into the chocolate eyes. His brow was wrinkled and his forehead was creased with lines of concern as he tried to assess Hermione's wellbeing.

"Are you going to be sick?" He asked her softly, his hand rubbing against the scratchy fabric of her sweater more firmly, as if the small act of kindness would make her feel less ill.

Instead of being met with a nod, or the shake of a head, Ron was leveled with a vicious glare, one that would normally have him running in the direction of the closest door.

"If I knew when I was going to be sick, dear, do you think that I would be leisurely spending my Saturday morning on the bathroom floor, with my legs wrapped intimately around the toilet?"

At the sound of silence, Hermione nodded her head once, and turned her attention back to her morning paper, apparently satisfied with her husband's lack of response.

Ron shrugged his shoulders and let his hand stop rubbing, merely settling it to rest against her. He noticed with ironic appreciation that she was still nibbling on the piece of toast, even though a good half of it was already gone. Perhaps that was what Hermione had needed all morning to get her started, a bone to pick, a fight to pursue. If badgering Hermione until she picked up food was what would get her to eat, then Ron was well prepared to weather the storm and badger all day. After all, it wasn't just for Hermione's wellbeing, but for the health of his first child as well.

"Uh… Ron…?"

"Yes, 'Mione?"

"I think… I'm going…"

At his wife's sudden tilt towards the toilet bowl, Ron recognized what she had been trying to suggest. His eyes widened as he watched his wife's back heave and the repugnant smell of sick up filled the tiny bathroom. Once again, Ron moved his hand up and down Hermione's back, the movement less controlled now. Instead of small circles, his palm was moving quickly and firmly, trying to cover the whole of her back in as brief pats as possible.

He waited patiently, taking his free hand and grabbing Hermione's hair from her much loosened hold on it. Her back kept twitching, her adam's apple bobbing dangerously, a sign which meant that she was sure to be sick again.

"It's okay, Hermione, it'll be okay," Ron offered hurriedly, not sure if reassurance was even what Hermione was looking for. At the very least, it was something, and comfort wasn't exactly something Ronald Weasley was graciously gifted with.

Hermione rocked onto her knees, so she could better grip the toilet, before throwing up the small amount of food that had previously resided in her stomach into the toilet bowl once again. A wince came from Ron, as he knew how much worse it would have been had Hermione had nothing at all in her stomach to dispose of. For once, Ron had behaved rationally, instead of the other way around.

She turned her face to him, silent tears tracking down her pale cheeks, her lower lip quivering. Merlin, he absolutely hated seeing her like this. Ron felt immensely guilty because he was part of the cause of her pain. His Hermione was an incredibly strong woman, but whenever she threw up, she would cry. The first time Ron had witnessed it himself, he'd been absolutely mortified and hadn't a clue as to what he should to do. But now, with a few years practice, Ron was fairly good at calming his wife down.

"Shush now," Ron murmured softly, placing his arms around his wife's waist and pulling her up with him. Immediately he enveloped her in a hug, stroking her hair as he normally did after a bout of morning sickness. It was eerie, how well he had adapted to taking care of her like this.

It lasted for a moment, as it always did, before she pulled away with a start. A hand swiped anxiously at her cheeks to scrub away any evidence that she had been crying, and she trailed out of the bathroom.

"I'm fine. Did you eat breakfast already?"

The question was only there to make her feel secure again, to make Hermione feel like she was still the same level headed independent woman she had always been.

Of course Ron had already eaten. He had cooked himself some toast and eggs when he had prepared her some breakfast. He didn't want to disappoint his wife, nor make her feel useless, so instead, he shook his head.

"I'm starving," he replied with a jovial smile and a hand over his lean stomach.

A small smile was exchanged between the couple, as Ron played along, and Hermione hurried off to clean herself up and make breakfast. They supposed they would just have to get used to this new way of life; at least for the next six months or so. Not that either really minded, too much, for the result was far better than anything they could imagine.

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A sudden wetness enveloped Ron as he unconsciously leaned in to spoon against Hermione. They had both gotten to bed rather early, as they were both plenty exhausted. Ron was very familiar with his sleeping patterns, with his wife's sleeping patterns, and he could tell, even in his sleepy state, that something was decidedly off.

He brought his hand up from under the blankets and brought it over to the alarm clock, where the greenish blue light would allow him to see better. The fluid on his hand was a crimson color, and sickeningly, Ron recognized it as blood. Without a second thought, he snapped on the bedside light and jumped out of bed, flinging the bed sheets aside. A large puddle of blood stained the sheets, pooling around his wife's sleeping form.

"Hermione… Hermione!" Ron shook her at once, his hold on her shoulder tight.

"Mm, what?"

"Baby…" He used his endearing nickname for her without a second thought, and then immediately brought a hand to his mouth. "Oh… the… the baby…." Realization dawned on him of what the probable cause for all the blood was. He had heard his mother talk about it before, when she had been in a similar situation many years ago, before she had had the twins.

"Ron, what are you babbling about?"

Hermione sat up in bed, a sharp, blinding pain hitting her in her lower abdomen the minute she sat up. Her eyes snapped shut, and she wrapped both of her arms around her middle, clutching herself in a death grip. She gagged once, never opening her eyes, not even to look at her husband when he let out a squeamish scream of distress.

"Can you… can you walk?"

Ron silently cursed himself. That had been an incredibly stupid question to ask to a girl who was rocking herself back and forth, racked with pain. Sending her an apologetic look that she wouldn't receive, he carefully placed his arms underneath her legs and around her shoulders, trying to lift her up as gently as possible.

"Ron… It hurts… " She cut herself off with her own moan of pain and snaked an arm around his neck.

"I know, I know," Ron looked around the room, panicking a bit as he tried to figure out the best way to get to St. Mungo's. They couldn't very well apparate, at least not with her in this condition. They certainly couldn't use their magicked car to drive there, because it would take much too long. Gazing at the fireplace, Ron knew they would have to take that, and it would probably hurt quite a bit for his wife.

"Uh…we… we are going to have to floo over to St. Mungo's."

Hermione spared him an incredulous look, before shaking her head, tears rapidly pooling in her eyes.

"I can't…. I mean… If the baby…. I just…"

He understood what she meant. If the baby managed to survive this ordeal, whatever it was, flooing certainly could cause irreparable damage. On the other hand, if they didn't get to the hospital soon, Ron might not just be losing his unborn child, but his wife as well.

"Hermione Weasley, you can, and you will."

Ron had never spoken so firmly to her. Hermione realized he was quite serious, and she gave her head a small nod. He placed her down in front of him, his hand snaked around her to help support her, directly in front of the fireplace. Handing Hermione the bag with the dust, he knew they would have to go one by one. Ron thought it best for her to go on first, because if she couldn't make it, he would be there to help her, and as soon as she reached the hospital, someone would be able to take her from there.

"Go on. Grab a fistful and head on over."

Hermione did as she was instructed, her cheeks blushing a pale pink at being treated like a toddler. In a strange way, Hermione took comfort out of Ron's control over the situation. If he hadn't been there, she would have, admittedly, been a complete mess.

Stopping just before throwing the dust, Hermione swallowed back tears and leaned against the sooty bricks. "I love you," she whispered, as she dropped the powder and the fireplace erupted into violent green flames.

She hadn't stayed long enough to hear Ron's response, that he loved her too, more than anything, in fact. It was then that Ron allowed tears to well up in his own eyes, the horror of finding his wife in a pool of her own blood, the unsure state of health his unborn child was in, it all rushed over him at once, blinding him with fear and worry.

Ron permitted a single tear to fall, before he hastily followed in his wife's path, finding his way to St. Mungo's in his wife's wake.

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"Ron, what the hell are you doing here?"

Harry Potter, a blanket wrapped around his lower half, turned from his spot at the fridge when he heard a soft 'pop' from behind him. His glasses weren't on his face and there was no doubt in Ron's mind what he had been up to with his sister earlier that night. A carton of milk was clutched in Harry's hands as he glared at his best friend, whose head was bowed in what Harry had assumed was shame. After all, this used to be an old trick Ron would play on him, checking up on Harry teasingly to make sure he wasn't shagging his sister. But Harry had thought those days ended awhile ago, now that they were both mature, married men.

Ron grunted in a sound that came out much like a sniffle rather than the manly impression that he was trying to give off. It was then that Harry realized that something was wrong, terribly wrong, in fact. Harry had witnessed his best friend crying on few occasions, and each one was due to a devastating event.

"Are you… are you crying?"

Harry hadn't meant it to come out as incredulously as it did. He winced at the tone of his own voice, sighing and placing the milk down on the marble counter.

Ron shoved his hands into his pockets and turned away, facing sideways instead of looking at his best friend of many years. His face blazed red, with a mixture of both anger and embarrassment for being seen displaying such emotions. He wasn't aware of Harry's concerned stare, of his friend's footsteps getting closer, until he felt a warm hand land on his shoulder and give a gentle squeeze.

"Is it the family? Hermione?"

Worry crept into Harry's own voice as he tried to figure out what was going on.

"We lost the baby."

Harry closed his eyes and let out a slow sigh, unable to imagine the devastation that must have been felt upon losing a child, one that didn't even have a chance to live, at that.

By the time he opened his eyes again, Ron's face was crumpled, twisted with anguish, and a small sob shook his body. He placed his fist into his mouth, trying to stop the tears from falling. It didn't take Harry long at all to pull his friend into a hug, trying to keep his distance, but comfort Ron at the same time.

"Where's Hermione, Ron?"

"She's sleeping… in the hospital. Mum's there with her now."

"Ron… It will be okay." Harry tried to sound sure of himself, to give off an aura of confidence for Ron's own good. He didn't miss the abject awkwardness at being the one that had to give off the reassurance for a change.

Ron nodded his head against Harry's shoulder, feeling ridiculously out of place and incredibly uncomfortable. But his need for comfort outweighed his need to keep his dignity in tact.

"It'll... It'll be okay..." Harry repeated again, his eyes wandering towards the stairs to see his own wife, with a sad frown on her face, observing the two. Somehow, Harry knew it wasn't supposed to be like this. A family shouldn't have to be something so hard to attain. Yet, time and time again, it was.

Feedback from wonderful readers like you would be very much appreciated.

Don't be review shy! I don't mind if you tell me 'Ew! That was horrible.' or 'Aw, I liked it.' Just a little note would be fantastic. Constructive criticism, constructive criticism, please constructively criticize me!

x Muriel