Disclaimer- I own nothing. JK owns it all and I just play with them.

This starts off a bit slow, mainly because I wanted to show the way Hermione thought about Ron, and to show her state of mind.

I haven't written in about 4 years, be nice :]

Prologue.

Hermione clenched her teeth and clicked her tongue impatiently; Ron, her sweet, predictable husband had the most infuriating habits. His incessant tapping on the table was going to drive her up the wall. Twenty years had not shortened her temper or made him any more sensitive to his pig-headedness or irritating, maddening, frustrating ways.

"Hey Hermione, check this out..."

She sipped her coffee, reminding herself that patience, so much patience, was the key to dealing with him. When had it gotten so hard? Had it always been? Were they always so absolutely and completely different? Hermione couldn't imagine so, but their friendship had never been easy.

She breathed in, watching as the dusty morning sun filtered through and reflected off the faux oak cupboards, onto the ivory of the floor tiles. It glittered across the suds of soap that dripped lazily down the back of pans Ron had used to cook pancakes, bacon and eggs. He really was a wonderful husband, a wonderful provider. He was careless but not callous, forgetful but not thoughtless.

It was why she turned and faced her husband, why Hermione propelled herself towards the antique oak table and leant in over Ron's slumped, robe clad shoulders. He was reading the Quibbler- they had a free subscription - and was chortling at a cartoon inside.

Her lips tightened; it was better suited for Hugo than Hermione and perhaps Ron felt the same for he leant back and bellowed his son's name,

"Oi, Hugo! Hugo! HUGO! HUUUUGOOOO!" There was the creak of a bed and the sound of footfalls above them.

The kitchen door swung open and Hugo drifted into the room. He was absolute proof that genes existed; his hair was the same, glaring red of his father and fell to his ears without a kink. His eyes were brown but freckles dotted his features like ink spots. His nose was long, sloping up into a narrow face with cheekbones that slanted towards narrow lips and teeth that were just a little too big. He was handsome, Hermione thought; his face had a boyish charm that was far too sophisticated to fit onto Ron's mulish features.

Ten years old, he flounced around with the poise of someone who had everything he wanted and hadn't grown up enough to appreciate it. Still, Hermione couldn't help but smile.

"What, Dad?" he huffed, exaggerating his exasperation.

They shared the joke in a way that only a father and son can; Hermione's smile grew. Ron really was brilliant with the kids. The kitchen, already filled with the warm glow of the spring morning, seemed to brighten with the sound of undignified snorts and laughter. The longer she watched them, the more her smile widened. She couldn't help it; there was something so innocent, pure, about her family. But she felt apart from it, like an aunt rather than a mother.

It drew her thoughts to her daughter; little Rose, now twelve, was coming to the end of her first year at Hogwarts. Her chest ached as she thought about how much she'd already grown in just a few months. At Christmas she had opted to stay at school and Hermione found her absence bittersweet. Unlike Hugo, who had the same fervour for knowledge as a younger Hermione, Rose was a gifted witch but had the swagger and mischievousness of her father- and more worryingly, her uncle George. There had been three letters home by Christmas and Hermione's lectures fell on deaf ears as Ron congratulated her on successfully confounding a very, very ancient Mr Filch and tricking him into carrying her books.

"Come back, Hermione."

She had drifted off again; Hugo had left and Ron was only inches away. His hands slid around her waist. He leant in to kiss her affectionately but Hermione only felt a flash of annoyance. She turned away and his lips brushed her cheek.

There was no hesitation. Ron released her. This was a dance they had been playing for months and Hermione wondered how much more she could take. The monotony of playing the perfect wife and mother had taken its toll on her. It wasn't that she didn't love her life, but she needed something revitalising, fresh and exciting.

She deserved that, she thought shamelessly. She fought in a legendary war and had sacrificed so much- the words carved into her arm were a constant reminder. The trouble, the life threatening situations, the painful loss she had suffered; the reunion with her parents had tripled her pain. They had been horrified to see her so grown up, after three years of searching. They loved their daughter but disliked how much they lost down to the magic she had gained. Their relationship was strained but what could Hermione do? She hadn't spoken to them since an awkward and depressing phone call in the nearest phone box over Christmas.

"D'you think Harry will be up for Quidditch this weekend? We haven't played for ages." His voice was heavy with anticipation.

"Mm, maybe," Had her voice always sounded this listless? A twinge of guilt forced her to continue more brightly. "Ginny says Harry's been restless."

Ron watched her finish her coffee and place it in the sink.

"Love you Hermione."

"Mmm."

Ron kissed her cheek softy, his eyes overcast, before apparating to work. He was training to teach; it still amused Hermione that Ronald Bilius Weasley would ever take an academic route by choice. He wasn't stupid but he certainly lacked a flair for it when they were at school. His previous job at Weasley Wizard Wheezes suited him better.

Then again, what did Ron have an aptitude for? He was lovely, of course, but what really stood out…

Hermione shook her head; it was unfair to think of Ron that way. He had given her everything, including two children who they both worshipped. He found something peaceful in teaching, but she couldn't help but find his anecdotes very boring. She should be happy for him- in fact, she was very happy for him- but was stuck in a spiral of doubt when it came to herself.

What did she really have in common with Ron? She suspected that throughout the war, his bravery and his warmth were a comfort; it had reminded her of much happier, much more exciting times. It had reminded her of Hogwarts, of the Burrow. Harry could never provide that relief; he had been too tormented, too tainted by evil and his destiny that he had no serenity about him. She loved Harry as a friend, a brother, but could never think of him in another way.

Some days she wished she could have; they would've gotten along so much better. She sighed; Ginny was perfect for him, what was she thinking? She couldn't even turn to Ginny for help- it was her brother Hermione was doubting, almost to the point of despising.

No, Ron had been good to her…but it wasn't enough. Her stomach felt heavy inside her body. She had never cheated on Ron- she loved him, of course- but it wasn't enough. She felt trapped in a home of domestic bliss, screaming to get out.