Chapter Text
All That Remains
Chapter 1: Prologue: Unraveled
Hermione Granger is twenty-eight.
New to her are the shallow lines - delicate as spider webs- at the corners of her eyes and the sidelong glances thrown in the direction of her un-banded wedding finger. She abruptly senses people find her abnormal, as they did in her childhood. They are again distrustful of her wirey, unmanaged hair or vast scope of knowledge. They think she's become unpredictable, unhinged, or worse, unhappy- all of which, those same people whisper to their robe tailors and hat makers, are reasons enough to be wary of a witch like her.
The truth is she is unhappy. The truth is, in some way or another, the three of them all are.
Harry's scar faded away along with his self-perceived purpose. Hermione with her empty womb and even emptier home. Ron and his once great, endearing novelty dwindled to ashes. It's almost laughable, she often thinks to herself, how they had once thought they could go along being as happy as they were on the snowy day in January when she and Ron were married at the burrow or on the Christmas Eve Ginny told them she was pregnant with James. Now, Hermione knows, there is too much that has passed between them. Now, she has said to Ron over and over again, the fight that has held them together for so long is finished.
There is nothing left.
It happened slowly, and then all at once. The undoing of them all – like a spool of yarn quietly, gradually unwinding its way into nothing.
Hermione remembers her first quiet moment of realization. May 2003, when she, Ron, and Harry were hosted by the MACUSA President and his government. Five years since the battle. Five years since the high. Now, it feels like replaying a nightmare. The dazzling displays of red, white and blue, the champagne, the diamond brooches, the speeches, the magical guests from around the world clamoring to get just one look at the three of them.
Even in that moment, she recalls hating how it felt, standing up there on that red-carpeted stage, like she was part of some sort of exhibition. Like each and every person in the crowd below was looking up and thinking, 'I wonder who she lost, I wonder who she hurt, I wonder who she killed?'
Ron, however, was stunning. She hardly recognized him on the front cover of the 'Daily Prophet' the next morning in his new, navy blue dress robes, hair slicked back, lights from the camera flashes dancing across his face. He spoke with such a foreign confidence that she hoped he had taken a vial of liquid luck to get him through. No longer was he Ron Weasley, Harry Potter's friend or Ron Weasley with the five- no, four older brothers. He was Ron Weasley, Britain's soldier, Ron Weasley with the hero's ending.
After the party, when he had crawled into bed beside her drunk off the champagne, yes, but mostly drunk off the fame, Hermione felt as though she was lying next to a stranger. She knew then, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest through the darkness, that things would never be the same.
By now, she and Ron have moved into two separate bedrooms with two separate beds. She stays in the guest room when she comes home for the summer holiday or Christmas even though she knows Ron will object.
"Stay in our room tonight," he will plead, "please, you know how that makes me feel."
"I don't want to, it's your room now."
"It's our home. Everything here is yours too."
"Everything?"
Something unspoken will pass between them. She'll go unpack her trunk.
It's been nearly two years since their marriage, in any traditional sense, ended. When Hermione, flushed with the victory of her latest S.P.E.W. Case chose to forgo the celebratory glass of fire whiskey with her colleagues and hurry back home, instead, to celebrate with Ron.
Even now she can see it perfectly. The scene before her was so absurd– Ron's belt still buckled, an empty bottle of wine, Lavender's hair cascading over Hermione's silky white sheets, his head between her legs, guilty blue eyes. She remembers that Molly had once asked, 'Where's Fred?' at Sunday dinner and then burst out laughing among the cringing faces of her remaining relations. She hadn't understood it at the time. But that was exactly how she felt just then. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She just watched her own world rot out from under her—white sheets, glistening skin, nothing left to save.
"So that's it, Ron?" she asked simply, once Lavender had scurried out clutching her blouse closed over her bare chest. "You don't love me anymore?"
"It wasn't about love… it was need. Habit."
"Answer the question."
He sighed, looking terribly sorry for himself, "You won't let me touch you, Mione.'
"Don't call me that." she spit, voice made of sharp edges, "I've just had another miscarriage, you're not supposed to touch me."
"Or what? It'll hurt our chances of conceiving again?" he rubbed his hand down his face, "It's like… we've forgotten how to just be us. Everything's about trying again, tracking dates—like it's a task list, not a life."
"So this is all about sex?"
"No, that was about sex," he gestured to the bed and then looked back to Hermione, "and this is about failure…"
"I'm sorry?"
"You feel like you're failing. You've had three miscarriages and you feel like you've failed, just admit it." he said flatly, all the wind gone from his sails, "You've never failed at anything, not ever. It's okay–"
"-Failed?" she hissed, although she knew there was a strain of truth in what he was saying, "I've been doing everything I can to save this marriage!"
"Blimey, Hermione! Listen to yourself! You don't want this, you just don't want to fail. Love, marriage, baby, it's all the same. Honestly, I never thought our marriage needed saving."
"Oh, that's rich! So what's all this with, Lavender Brown again, then, hmm? Lavender Brown, Ron? Can your standards go any lower?
"I already told you… being with her. It was about touch."
Hermione slapped him, hard, across the jaw. "You're disgusting. I can't even look at you."
"So what's changed, then?"
It was about a week later that the Headmistress of Hogwarts had written to Hermione offering her the newly vacated post as Muggle Studies professor, after all, she had particularly excelled in that subject.
Later, she wondered if McGonagall had somehow caught wind of the disaster her life had become because over tea they spoke nothing of Ron. They said not a word of marriage or babies or all the nasty things that had been said in the heat of the moment. And, of course, McGonagall hadn't as much as raised an eyebrow on the subject of the solo living arrangements when Hermione accepted on the spot.
At any rate, she didn't care if McGonagall knew, she was just so thrilled to leave the crumbling remains behind.
When she said goodbye to Ron on the threshold he had carried her over all those years before, she said it under the pretense that separation would be good for them, that even though they still loved one another, maybe, just maybe they would learn to like one another again.
In the end, she convinces herself, she's just not the divorcing type. The war has ravaged her of everything but a scar on her forearm- her parents, her ideals, her morals, and possibly even the ability to have children. Ron and his family are all she has left in this world, she knows the price she must pay.
Besides, she reminds herself whenever she catches the bright-eyed, dewy-skinned, seventh year couples snogging in the corridors, the only thing that is never final, is youth.