Meanwhile, back at St. Mungo's...
Meanwhile, At St. Mungos
Hermione lay prone on her back, counting the holes in the ceiling. One… two… five… She fought to awaken from a heavy sedative potion she had obviously been given. She tried to open her eyes, but only managed a feeble flutter. The last time I remember feeling this groggy was the morning after the night I spent with Ron Weasley! she mused, bringing a smile to her drugged countenance.
Drifting into a light sleep, she remembered that fateful night. For months, Ron had been pestering her about not dying a virgin. Hermione tried to explain to the rather dense redhead that she couldn’t possibly be a virgin, because she had already given birth to twins. The equally dense Hermione decided to give old Ron a whirl anyway, hoping it would prompt him to quit pestering her.
She made careful preparations for the night; an invisibility cloak to put over his face so she wouldn’t have to look at him, two bottles of mouthwash, acne potion, a plunger, three rolls of paper magi-towels, and a bottle of Skele-gro.
A girl can never be too careful, she thought with a wicked grin.
She spent the rest of the afternoon brewing a special potion to induce sleep. She was out of one ingredient, so she added artificial bacon bits instead, hoping for the best. The potion was for her, not him.
Ron arrived around seven, wearing nothing but his freckles. She shooed him in, looking around to make sure no one had seen him. While his back was turned, she downed a vial of the potion she had made. “MMmmm… Bacony!” she moaned in an exaggerated southern accent.
The author will spare you the details; let’s just suffice to say Hermione had a hard time waking up in the morning. When she finally did, she saw Ron all curled up on the floor, wrapped in paper towels like a mummy. He was clutching the plunger in one hand and the acne cream in the other. He was whimpering softly to himself. Hermione had no recollection of the night, since she had been under the influence of the potion. She was aware that Ron smelled strongly of mouthwash and Skele-gro.
It took her two hours to pick the bacon bits from between her teeth, several weeks to realize the invisibility cloak was missing, (blatant foreshadowing) and nine months to the day to give birth to Ron Jr.
She drifted out of her dream and heard a horrible sound, like a cross between a muggle jackhammer and the Hogwarts Express whistle. The sound was rhythmic, pulsing, undulating, waxing and waning. She realized what it was, and finally opened her eyes, turning to smile at Rubeus Hagrid, who had not left her bedside since she arrived at St. Mungos to give birth to their son, Hagrid Jr.
Hagrid was asleep in a chair beside her bed, drooling into his beard. He had attempted to de-bug that bush of a face decoration before he entered the hospital. Hermione noticed he still had that pesky gecko, which occasionally poked its green head from underneath the hairy tumbleweed of beard. Hermione had grown fond of gecko and hoped Hagrid was never able to get rid of it. It was that annoying white duck shouting “AFLAK” that made her cringe.
Suddenly, the chair collapsed under Hagrids’ weight, and he crashed to the floor, upsetting the bottle of blood replenishing potion on the bedside table. The crash woke him, and he looked over at Hermione, rather embarrassed.
“Sorry ‘bout that!” he garbled sheepishly.
“It’s okay Haggy-doodle!” she smiled to her enormous hairy friend.
Hagrid blushed a deep violet. No one had ever cared enough about him to give him a pet name. Big, fat tears rolled down his face and splashed to the floor, creating a puddle. Hagrid sobbed loudly in his happiness.
All the sobbing and crashing alerted one of the mediwitches, and she charged into the room. She slipped in the large spreading puddle created by Hagrids’ tears and fell, landing squarely on her back. Hagrid got up in panic, splinters of the broken chair clinging to his massive, moleskin covered buttocks.
“Sorry ’bout that too!” he wailed, and started sobbing again.
Hermione couldn’t stand this pathetic display of sorrow, so she slapped Hagrid in the face. Well, she would have slapped him in the face, if his face were available. Hagrid was so tall; she only managed to bruise his shin, just below the kneecap.
“Ow! Whadja do ’at for?” he simpered, rubbing his kneecap.
“SOMEONE had to snap you out of it, Rubie-dingle!” she said, in her most authoritative tone.
Hagrids’ chin began to tremble. He still wasn’t used to the pet names, and it touched his pork shoulder sized heart like nothing else. Hermione plugged her ears for the onset of caterwauling she knew would ensue.
Just then, the head nurse of St. Mungos arrived at the bedside.
“Hermione, you have been in here a month, and I do believe your bones and blood have replenished enough so you can try walking,” the stout nurse offered.
Hagrid grew angry. “She’s not goin’ anywhere until she sees the wee li-il one!”
Confused as to what dialect the large hairy man was using, she cautioned; “Your… ahem… Son... is still in the Magi-natal-incubator-thingy.”
Hermione blinked. There couldn’t be such a thing, could there?
“Well, bring him in anyway!” Hermione ordered the mediwitch, ignoring the look of sheer terror in the woman’s eyes. The portly woman reluctantly agreed, and left the room to go fetch little Hagrid Jr.
Several minutes later, and aided by four other nurses, she pushed the large bathtub sized incubator into Hermione’s’ hospital room.
“Awww, wouldja look a’ the li’l lad?” Hagrid cooed, beaming with pride.
The object of his cooing lay in the incubator, all five and a half feet of him. The poor child’s body was covered in curly black hair, and his hands were already the size of small dinner plates. His bushy eyebrows met in the middle, and though he was just a newborn, he already had the makings of a five O’clock shadow. He’s beautiful! Hermione thought to herself.
“Can I hold him?” she asked hopefully.
“Um…” stammered the med witch.