beyond the books

The teacup shattered against the kitchen wall, sending shards of porcelain and splashes of lukewarm Earl Grey across the tiled floor.

Hermione stared at the mess, her hand still raised from the throw, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Rose's cries echoed from the nursery, where Hermione had put her down for a nap not ten minutes earlier.

Just ten minutes. That's all she had wanted. Ten minutes to drink a cup of tea and read the first paragraph of the report on house-elf legislation she had promised to review weeks ago.

Ten minutes of feeling like herself again.

But Rose wouldn't sleep. The moment Hermione had sat down with her tea, the cries had begun, building from whimpers to full-throated wails that seemed to pierce directly through Hermione's skull.

And something in her had snapped.

Now, as the reality of what she'd done — hurling a teacup across her own kitchen in a fit of rage — sank in, Hermione felt a new emotion cutting through the anger: pure, unadulterated terror.

What kind of mother felt such rage toward her innocent baby? What kind of mother couldn't handle ten simple minutes of crying?

Rose's cries intensified, and Hermione forced herself to move, to climb the stairs to the nursery on legs that felt disconnected from her body. Each step was an effort, as if she were wading through treacle.

In the nursery, Rose lay in her crib, face contorted and reddened with the force of her cries, tiny fists waving in the air. Hermione picked her up mechanically, checking her diaper (dry), offering her breast (refused), rocking and shushing with movements that felt hollow and rehearsed.

"Please," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please, Rose. Please stop crying. I don't know what you need. I don't know what to do."

The admission hung in the air between them, terrible in its truth. Hermione Granger-Weasley, who had always known what to do, who had always found the answer in a book or through logical deduction, had no idea how to comfort her own child.

Rose continued to cry, and Hermione felt herself beginning to cry with her, silent tears streaming down her face as she paced the nursery.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured, pressing her lips to Rose's forehead. "I'm so sorry I'm not better at this. I'm so sorry I'm not the mother you deserve."

The fireplace downstairs flared to life with a whoosh, signaling Ron's return from the shop. Hermione hurriedly wiped at her tears with her free hand, trying to compose herself before he came upstairs.

"'Mione?" Ron called. "Everything alright? There's tea all over the kitchen."

"Fine!" she called back, her voice unnaturally high. "Rose is just a bit fussy. I'll be down in a minute!"

She heard Ron's footsteps on the stairs and felt panic rising in her throat. He couldn't see her like this. He couldn't know how close to the edge she was.

The nursery door opened, and Ron's tall frame filled the doorway. His expression shifted from curiosity to concern as he took in the scene before him — Hermione's tear-stained face, Rose's continued crying.

"What's happened?" he asked, crossing the room in two long strides.

"Nothing," Hermione insisted, turning away slightly. "She's just being difficult today. Won't nap. Probably going through a growth spurt or something."

Ron gently placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. "Hermione," he said quietly. "Talk to me. Please."

Something about the gentleness in his voice, the absence of judgment in his eyes, broke the last of Hermione's resolve. A sob escaped her, then another, until she was crying as hard as Rose, her whole body shaking with the force of it.

"I can't do this," she gasped between sobs. "I thought I could, but I can't. I'm a terrible mother. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm so scared all the time, Ron. So scared I'll do something wrong, that I'll miss something important, that I'll hurt her somehow—"

Ron carefully took Rose from her arms, and Hermione let him, collapsing onto the nursery floor as if her legs could no longer support her.

"I threw a teacup at the wall," she confessed, the words tumbling out now. "She wouldn't stop crying, and I got so angry. What kind of mother gets angry at her baby? What's wrong with me?"

Ron sat down beside her on the floor, Rose cradled against his chest. Remarkably, the baby's cries had begun to subside as Ron rocked her gently.

"There's nothing wrong with you," he said firmly. "Nothing at all."

"But I—"

"No," Ron cut her off. "Listen to me, Hermione. Remember when we were looking after Teddy that time? He was about six months old, and he wouldn't stop screaming, and I got so frustrated I had to leave the room? And you didn't think I was a terrible person then, did you?"

Hermione shook her head mutely.

"Right. Because babies are hard. They make you mental sometimes. It's normal." He shifted Rose to his shoulder, patting her back gently. "But this seems like more than just normal new parent stuff. How long have you been feeling this way?"

Hermione stared at her hands, twisted together in her lap. "Since we brought her home," she admitted in a small voice. "At first I thought it was just the usual adjustment period. The books all say the first few weeks are the hardest. But it's been two months, and it's getting worse, not better."

Ron was quiet for a moment, digesting this. "Why didn't you tell me?"

The hurt in his voice made fresh tears spring to Hermione's eyes. "I was ashamed," she whispered. "Everyone expected me to be perfect at this, like I am at everything else. Your mother had seven children. Ginny makes it look so easy with James. And you... you're so natural with her. She stops crying for you. You're not afraid all the time like I am."

Ron let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "Not afraid? Hermione, I'm terrified every day. I just hide it better, apparently."

Hermione looked up at him, surprised.

"It's true," he continued. "The first night we brought her home, I stayed awake the whole time watching her breathe. I was convinced if I fell asleep, something would happen. I just didn't want to worry you, since you seemed to be handling everything so well."

A bubble of hysterical laughter escaped Hermione. "I seemed to be handling it well? I've been falling apart since day one!"

"Well, you've been doing a bloody good job of hiding it, then," Ron said, a hint of his usual humor returning. "Which is very on-brand for you, I suppose. Suffering in silence while the rest of us bumble along."

Rose had fully quieted now, her eyes heavy-lidded as sleep finally began to overtake her. Ron carefully laid her in the crib, then sat back down beside Hermione, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"I think," he said carefully, "that we need to get you some help."

Hermione tensed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that it sounds like you might have postpartum depression. Or anxiety. Or both. Fleur had it after Dominique was born. Bill told me about it. She got help from a Healer who specializes in that sort of thing."

"I don't need a Healer," Hermione protested automatically. "I just need to try harder—"

"No," Ron interrupted, his voice unusually firm. "That's exactly what you don't need to do. You don't need to be perfect at this, Hermione. Nobody is. And you don't have to do it all alone."

He squeezed her shoulder, his voice softening. "Let us help you. Me, my family, Harry... we're all here. And a Healer might be able to help too. There's no shame in it."

Hermione leaned her head against his shoulder, suddenly exhausted. The relief of having finally spoken the truth aloud was overwhelming.

"What if I never get better?" she whispered. "What if I'm always this way?"

Ron pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Then we'll deal with it. Together. Like we always do."

For the first time in two months, Hermione felt a tiny flicker of hope.