An Inconvenient Truth and A Convenient Deception

Part I

They both visit my apothecary monthly, like clockwork. Oh, sure, both patronize my shop at random times too, sometimes together and sometimes separately, but each comes seeking their own specific potion without fail. He comes in for his alone, however; he never purchases his specific potion while she's with him. When they are in my shoppe together, he'll look around for and then purchase anything except that which he comes in alone for.

Over the past year, I've put two and two together. My shoppe, though it is a thriving business, is still a small business, and as such, I'm the only brewer; hence, I'm the man making their potions. I see their names on the order forms, which are filed alphabetically by potion name and not by the customer's last name. After a few months of brewing enough of each specific potion to fulfill the exact number of orders, a shrewd Potioneer (which I am) catches on to the fact that a woman orders a fertility potion monthly and that her husband orders a contraceptive potion monthly.

I know the truth; however, I can't bring myself to inform the witch….to be the one to tell her how she's being made a fool….to see her big doe eyes gushing tears. I've seen that before, and believe me, once was more than enough; when she was screaming, begging, and writhing on my drawing room floor, she cried until the tears wouldn't fall anymore. I have not, in the six years since that happened, forgotten the image of her tears falling and pain in her eyes. I don't ever want to see that again.

Yes, I realize that the truth I'd impart to her would in no way compare to her being tortured by my crazy Aunt. Well, maybe it wouldn't compare to the physical pain of being tortured, but surely it would be as emotionally painful.

Yes, I realize that it may be unethical for me to watch (though reluctantly) her husband deceive her and say nothing.

Yes, I want her to be happy—she's like a friend (I say 'like' because though we are friendly, we don't socialize outside of my shoppe or outside of a chance meeting in Diagon Alley)—but does that mean I have to be the one to reveal the secret that would ruin her life? I think not.

I'm not going to tell her that while she is consuming a potion to increase her fertility month after month, her husband is trying to prevent her—and a mistress or two (or more)—from becoming pregnant. It's not my place, I tell myself.

So, I do nothing.

That's been my stance for the last year, until today, when I see her in my shoppe, filling out an order form for her usual potion. Tears are streaming down her face, although she's trying to hide it from my customer service witch at the front desk.

I can't explain what happens next, other than to say that something just snapped inside of me and is now propelling me out of my office and compelling me to comfort her.

She's instantly embarrassed that I've caught her crying, but her expression quickly becomes contrite; I told her numerous times during our 'eighth year' how her crying on my Drawing Room floor affected me (and I apologized profusely for standing there and doing nothing). She, being the compassionate witch she is, forgave me that year, and now, she, being the unfailingly gracious witch she is, is apologizing to me.

"Weasley," I say, though the word tastes bitter on my tongue (well, at least it does when I say it kindly and not dripping with disdain like when I say it to her husband), "don't you dare apologize to me." I say it firmly but kindly, and she nods.

I can't do 'nothing' anymore. "Let's talk privately in my office, Weasley. Yeah?" I say.

She nods and mumbles a 'thank you' as I lead her to my office. I direct her to sit in one of my pub chairs and hand her my clean hanky, which she accepts with a polite 'thank you' before commencing to dab at her eyes. With nonverbal spells, I close the door and Muffliato my office. Sitting, I wait for her to speak first because I recall from our last year in school that she eventually opens up if given enough time. She cried a lot during our 'eighth year.' Her tears fell then because of The Weasel, too; however, she doesn't realize (like I do) that the cause of her problems and her tears then is the same as it is now.

"It's just that it's been a year since I started taking the Praegnatio Potion," she says as she sniffs, wringing my hanky in her hands and smoothing it and then repeating the process. "It's been two years since we started trying (sniff), and it just (sniff) takes a toll on me, you know? (sniff) The Potion makes my hormones erratic (sniff) and every month it's all for naught (sniff)."

I just nod when she briefly lets her eyes find mine, and then I wait. My leg is jiggling from nervousness at what I'm about to do, so I stand and pour myself a finger of Firewhiskey; thankfully, I'm not brewing today. I offer her a drink, and at first she appears to decline but then says bitterly, "I may as well, huh? Please."

I turn to pour her two fingers of Firewhiskey. After she downs it, followed by a 'blech,' she lets the glass fall heavy onto the small table between our chairs. My wand is at the ready and I perform a nonverbal Aguamenti charm, filling her glass with cool water, which she notices immediately and drinks.

"Thanks, Malfoy," she says with a watery smile. I nod again. She sighs, and I (finally) work up the courage to say what needs to be said—or so I think.

"Weasley?..." I begin, losing my nerve, internally cursing my tendency toward self-preservation and my avoidance of public displays of emotion, verbal or otherwise, that has ill-prepared me for times like this.

"Please, call me Hermione, will you?" she pleads, and although I'm surprised, I nod.

"Then call me Draco," I return in a tone of false authority, smirking a bit to make sure she understands the meaning behind my tone. This time, she nods before bestowing me with a small smile. It's a bit awkward to be sitting here with her after so much time has passed since we last had an actual conversation—since before we left Hogwarts.

"Hermione," I begin, finding the sound of her name on my lips to feel strange; I've ever only called her 'Granger' and 'Weasley.' I frown; what I had begun to say just doesn't seem right. It seems too detached. As I've learned from being married for nearly four years, honesty is the best policy in times like this, so I think 'Here goes nothing' and I start again.

"Hermione, I don't know how much you've kept in touch with Astoria, so you may not be surprised to know that she and I, too, have had struggles with starting our family," I say, choosing my words carefully. From the look I see on her face, I can tell that she was not aware.

"Astoria and I have not discussed this with each other, no," she says. "I'm sorry to hear it," she adds earnestly. "Truthfully, she and I have not kept in touch like I wanted us to do. After you and I graduated, I was so busy planning my wedding and starting my training and then working and travelling so much, and I know that Astoria was busy with her final year, too, and then with your wedding…."

I nod—knowing, too, that Astoria hasn't exactly been a social butterfly in the last few years. "Well," I say, inhaling deeply, "We actually saw a renowned Muggle infertility specialist who was able to clear up the issue for us. Perhaps you and your husband (I cannot bear to speak his name—I'll only insult her if I do, and right now I don't want to hurt her feelings any more than they are) should consult her, too? I can give you her contact information—if you want?" I lower my gaze to my glass and fill it with water; my mouth is dry suddenly.

She sighs. "Thanks, Mal—Draco, but we just recently saw an excellent Muggle fertility specialist in London—perhaps the same one that you and Astoria consulted….Dr. Diana Grey?"

I nod (I know—shocker!).

"Well, she said that Ron and I both have abnormalities, and so we can keep trying, but it probably won't ever happen for us," Hermione says, trying to keep the tears at bay.

I sip my water, not allowing my gaze to meet hers. Carefully, I ask, "What did the Healers at St. Mungo's determine about you both?"

She frowns before replying. "Well, we started there first, a year ago….after we'd already been trying for a year with no success. We were told then that I was the only one with a fertility issue. That's when I was advised to start taking the Praegnatio Potion. We saw Dr. Grey two months ago, and that's when she found the irregularity in Ron's tests, as well as confirmed the irregularity in mine."

Ah ha—my 'in'. "What was Dr. Grey's recommendation for Ron?" I ask as casually as possible before sipping on my water.

"Some lifestyle changes is all," she says morosely. "You know, like maintaining a healthy weight and wearing loose boxers and such," she adds flippantly, assuming that I've heard all of this before and am probably familiar with what her arse of a husband was told (I'm not). "For the past two years, I've been eating extra healthily—and working out, too—and abstaining from alcohol—and I've been getting enough sleep—and we've been trying like crazy."

I'm certain that I blush, but she doesn't; she just looks frustrated, frowning as she rests her chin in her hands. I try to hide behind my tumbler, sipping on my water. (I know, I know; I'm a coward—still.)

"Before—when we thought that the only problem was with me—I felt so guilty—Ron wants a family so badly," she explains quickly.

I almost spit out my water in astonishment, but, thankfully, her gaze is once again upon my now-near-tattered hanky, so she doesn't notice.

"Now, though, I feel a little relieved that it's not all my fault, you know? But, I still feel so depressed that we cannot have children. We want a baby so much (sniff)."

Yes, 'we', I think, internally scowling. The Weasel wants a baby so badly that he's been preventing her from becoming pregnant for two years.

I have to move to disguise my body's angry response to her idiot husband's behavior. As I stand to pour another Firewhiskey (it's almost time for me to close the shoppe anyway), I suggest, "Perhaps, you should see a Healer again—without telling your husband that you're going this time. From the male perspective, it wouldn't do to get his hopes up for nothing." When I turn around, she is looking at me quizzically.

"What good would that do?" she says as she stands, walking toward me. "I was told just two months ago that I'm basically barren." She pours herself another serving of whiskey (two fingers, again).

I set my glass down and run my hands through my hair as she downs her second whiskey. When my eyes find her again, she's looking at me with a tiny crease between her brows. I look away quickly, using my wand to tidy my desk.

"What do you know, Draco?" she asks quietly, almost fearfully.

That is all I need to 'spill my guts.' I walk over to my huge wooden filing cabinet and pull out the drawer labeled 'A', rifling through for the Atocium file. Finding Weasley's latest order form, I pull it out. I then walk over to another large filing cabinet and pull out the drawer labeled 'W'. Finding 'Weasley, R. B.', I pull out all of the order forms from the last two years, minus the most recent order, which was already filed under 'A', as well.

Hermione is watching me curiously as I sit at my desk and place the parchments on top, facing her. I know she will recognize the name of the contraceptive potion; all I have to do to bring her world crashing down upon her has just been done.

Hermione looks at them and I see her eyes widen dramatically as a tiny gasp escapes her mouth. I can't bear to see anymore, so I rest my forehead on my steepled fingers. She's quiet for a long while before I hear sniffling that quickly turns into sobbing, and as I look up, I see her place one hand over her mouth and one on her stomach. Fearing she will faint, I stand quickly and round my large industrial-style desk in three strides. I'm at her elbow and urging her to sit back down when she screams.

It's like my memories and nightmares of that day—the one on which she was tortured in front of me—and it stings to know exactly how much she is hurting now. I almost regret what I've done.

Almost.

Before I can suggest again that she have a seat, she's swiping the order forms off of my desk, furiously and erratically. Then she turns on me, poking me in the chest with her pointer finger. "YOU KNEW?!" she shouts.

I close my eyes in shame and nod. Truthfully, I'm bracing for another slap to my cheek, but it never comes.

My eyes open when I hear the door hitting the wall behind it. Hermione is out of my office and shoppe in about five seconds flat. I doubt I'll ever have the opportunity to apologize this time.

I pour myself another Firewhiskey (three fingers this time) before I head home via Floo Network to my sweet, caring, lovely (and bloody sexy, by the way), and blood-cursed wife, who'd love nothing more than a baby, too….and whose own husband also takes Atocium every month like clockwork.

Don't compare me to The Weasel; my wife knows about my contraceptive use, at least.