reaching out
The waiting room at St. Mungo's Maternal and Infant Health Department was painted a soothing shade of pale green. Soft, instrumental music played from nowhere in particular, and the chairs were charmed to be just the right balance of supportive and comfortable.
Hermione hated everything about it.
"I shouldn't be here," she muttered to Ginny, who sat beside her, flipping casually through an outdated copy of Witch Weekly. "There are witches with real problems who need this appointment more than I do."
Ginny lowered the magazine and fixed Hermione with a level stare. "Like who?"
"I don't know," Hermione said, flustered. "Witches with serious complications. Medical emergencies."
"That's what the emergency department is for," Ginny replied matter-of-factly. "This department is specifically for witches like you, who are dealing with the physical and emotional aftermath of childbirth."
"But I'm not—"
"If you say you're fine, I swear to Merlin I will hex you right here in this waiting room," Ginny interrupted, though her tone was gentle. "You're not fine. And that's okay."
Hermione fell silent, staring down at her hands. After her breakdown three days ago, Ron had immediately written to Fleur, asking for the name of the Healer who had helped her. Fleur had responded within hours, not only with the information but with a long, heartfelt letter to Hermione describing her own struggles after Dominique's birth.
Hermione had read the letter with increasing astonishment. Fleur Delacour-Weasley, who always seemed so effortlessly elegant and composed, had experienced the same crushing anxiety, the same inexplicable sadness, the same feelings of inadequacy that Hermione was now enduring.
I felt as though I was drowning, chérie, Fleur had written. Each day, the water rose higher, and I could not tell anyone, because who would understand? I was supposed to be happy. I had a beautiful family, a healthy baby. What right had I to feel such despair?
The words had resonated so deeply that Hermione had finally agreed to make the appointment. But now, sitting in the waiting room, she was having second thoughts.
"Maybe this is just how motherhood feels," she said quietly. "Maybe I'm just not cut out for it."
Ginny sighed, setting the magazine aside entirely. "Do you remember after the Battle of Hogwarts? How some people seemed fine at first, and then months later would fall apart? How some people couldn't sleep without nightmares, or jumped at loud noises, or couldn't bear to be in crowded places?"
Hermione nodded. The aftermath of war had affected them all differently. Harry had thrown himself into Auror training, barely sleeping. Ron had alternated between periods of manic cheerfulness and profound grief over Fred. George had disappeared for three months, returning gaunt and quiet but somehow more at peace.
"Childbirth is a physical and emotional battle," Ginny continued. "It's traumatic, even when everything goes well. Your body and your brain are recovering from a major event, while simultaneously adjusting to massive hormonal changes and sleep deprivation. Is it any wonder some of us struggle afterward?"
Put that way, it made perfect sense. Hermione had read about the hormonal fluctuations of pregnancy and childbirth, of course, but somehow she had expected herself to be immune to their effects. As if sheer force of will could overcome biology.
"I just keep thinking of all the other mothers throughout history who managed without 'maternal mental health care,'" Hermione said, making air quotes around the phrase.
"Yes, and many of them suffered terribly, in silence," Ginny replied. "Just because women have endured something for centuries doesn't mean they should have to."
Before Hermione could respond, a door opened and a kind-faced witch in lime-green Healer's robes appeared.
"Mrs. Granger-Weasley?" she called.
Hermione froze, suddenly unable to move. Ginny gave her hand a squeeze.
"Go on," she said quietly. "I'll be right here when you're done."
On wooden legs, Hermione followed the Healer into a comfortable office. Unlike the more clinical examination rooms in other parts of St. Mungo's, this one featured a plush sofa, several armchairs, and a desk that seemed almost incidental to the space.
"I'm Healer Rosewood," the witch said, gesturing for Hermione to take a seat on the sofa. "But please call me Diana. I find it helps to be on a first-name basis when discussing matters of the heart and mind."
Hermione perched on the edge of the sofa, her back rigid. "I'm Hermione," she said, then immediately felt foolish. Of course the Healer knew who she was.
If Diana noticed her discomfort, she gave no sign of it. She settled into an armchair across from Hermione, a charmed quill hovering beside her, ready to take notes.
"So, Hermione," she began, her voice warm and free of judgment, "why don't you tell me what brings you here today?"
The simple question broke something open inside Hermione. Before she knew it, words were pouring out of her — about the constant fear, the intrusive thoughts of harm coming to Rose, the crushing sense of inadequacy, the moments of rage followed by overwhelming guilt, the inability to sleep even when exhausted, the feeling of being trapped in her own home, in her own body, in her own mind.
Diana listened without interruption, occasionally nodding or making small sounds of understanding. The quill beside her scratched across a parchment, recording Hermione's words.
When Hermione finally ran out of steam, Diana handed her a tissue for the tears she hadn't realized she'd been shedding.
"Thank you for sharing that with me," the Healer said. "It takes tremendous courage to speak so honestly about these feelings, especially for someone in your position."
Hermione dabbed at her eyes. "My position?"
"A public figure. A war hero. Someone many young witches look up to." Diana smiled gently. "It can be especially difficult for those who are accustomed to excelling at everything they attempt."
Hermione gave a watery laugh. "That obvious, is it?"
"Let's just say you're not the first high-achieving witch to sit on that sofa," Diana replied. "Now, based on what you've described, I believe you're experiencing a combination of postpartum anxiety and depression. It's quite common for the two to occur together, particularly in women with... let's call them 'perfectionist tendencies.'"
Despite herself, Hermione felt a wave of relief at having a name for what she was experiencing. It wasn't a personal failure or a character flaw. It was a recognized condition with specific symptoms, which meant it could be treated.
"Is there a potion or spell that can help?" she asked, already thinking ahead to potential solutions.
Diana's smile widened slightly. "Ah, looking for the quickest route to recovery. Again, not unexpected. There are certainly magical approaches we can consider, but I find that a combination of magical and Muggle methods tends to be most effective."
She waved her wand, and a series of pamphlets arranged themselves neatly on the coffee table between them.
"I'd like to start you on a mild calming draught — not the standard variety, but one specifically formulated for postpartum witches. It won't affect your ability to care for your baby or to breastfeed, if you're doing so. I also recommend joining our support circle for new mothers. It meets twice weekly here at St. Mungo's."
Hermione picked up one of the pamphlets, which featured a circle of witches on the cover, some holding babies, all with varying expressions of exhaustion and hope.
"A support group?" she asked skeptically.
"I know it might not sound appealing to someone who prefers to handle challenges independently," Diana said diplomatically, "but there's something uniquely healing about sharing experiences with others who truly understand. Magical theory suggests that shared emotional burdens actually lighten more quickly than those borne alone. Something about the resonance of similar magical signatures amplifying healing energy."
It was a clever approach, Hermione had to admit — appealing to her intellectual curiosity and love of magical theory to overcome her reluctance.
"I'll think about it," she conceded.
"Excellent. And finally, I'd like you to consider talking therapy. Similar to what Muggles practice, but with some magical enhancements." Diana handed her another pamphlet. "We've found it particularly effective for processing complex emotions and developing coping strategies for anxiety."
Hermione took the pamphlet, a sense of cautious optimism beginning to grow within her. The idea that there was a path forward, a structured approach to feeling better, was immensely comforting.
"How long will it take?" she asked. "To feel normal again?"
Diana's expression softened. "That varies greatly from witch to witch. Some begin to feel improvement within a few weeks of treatment. Others may take months. The important thing to remember is that recovery isn't a straight line. There will be good days and difficult days. But with support and proper treatment, the good days will gradually outnumber the bad."
Hermione nodded, trying to absorb this. "And what about... what about Rose? Have I damaged my relationship with her already? Will she be affected by all this?"
It was the question that had been haunting her most of all. The fear that her emotional state was somehow harming her daughter, creating invisible wounds that would manifest years later.
Diana leaned forward, her eyes kind but serious. "Babies are remarkably resilient, Hermione. And from what you've described, you've been meeting Rose's physical needs admirably, despite your own suffering. The fact that you're seeking help now, while she's still so young, means she's unlikely to experience any lasting effects."
She paused, seeming to consider her next words carefully. "I'd also point out that by seeking treatment, you're teaching Rose a valuable lesson, even if she's too young to consciously recognize it now. You're showing her that it's okay to ask for help, that mental health is as important as physical health, and that taking care of yourself is part of taking care of others. Those are powerful lessons for any child, but especially for a daughter."
Hermione hadn't considered it that way before. The idea that her struggles might eventually become a source of strength or wisdom for Rose was a new and comforting thought.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "That helps."
By the time she left Diana's office, clutching a prescription for the calming draught and several pamphlets, Hermione felt lighter than she had in months. Not cured, not even close, but for the first time since Rose's birth, she could see a way forward.
Ginny was waiting in the reception area, just as she'd promised. She looked up from her magazine, her eyes questioning.
"It went well," Hermione said, surprised to find she meant it. "Really well, actually."
Ginny's face broke into a relieved smile. "Brilliant. Fancy a cup of tea before we head back? There's a decent café on the fifth floor."
Hermione hesitated. Rose was with Ron at the shop, and they'd only been gone an hour. The thought of a quiet cup of tea with adult conversation was tempting.
"Actually," she said, "that sounds lovely."
As they walked toward the lifts, Ginny casually looped her arm through Hermione's. "I'm proud of you, you know," she said simply.
Hermione felt tears prick at her eyes again, but for once, they weren't tears of despair or guilt. "Thank you for coming with me today. I'm not sure I would have made it through the door otherwise."
Ginny shrugged. "That's what family's for, isn't it? Besides, you'd do the same for me. You have done, in fact."
Hermione looked at her questioningly.
"After James was born," Ginny clarified. "Remember when you came over every day for a week when Harry was away on that Auror mission? I was a complete wreck, convinced I was doing everything wrong, and you just showed up with food and held James so I could shower and sleep."
Hermione blinked in surprise. "But that was different. Harry was away, and you were on your own."
"And I was terrified," Ginny admitted quietly as they stepped into the lift. "Not just because Harry was away, but because I had no idea what I was doing. Everyone kept saying maternal instinct would kick in, but mine seemed to be defective. If you hadn't been there..." She trailed off, shaking her head.
"I had no idea," Hermione said softly. "You always seemed so confident with him."
Ginny laughed. "Apparently we're both rather good at hiding things. Must be all that practice keeping secrets during the war."
As the lift doors opened onto the fifth floor, Hermione felt a small but significant shift inside her. She wasn't alone in this struggle. She never had been.