"Our love would be forever. And if we die, we together."- Muse

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"Harry, do you think Ron will ever love me?"

"I… Yes. Most definitely. I am absolutely sure that he loves you."

(Summer 1996)

Sunlight peeked through the curtains and hit her face, causing her to stir and cover her face with her hand. The heat from the sun on her face slowly made her sweat and she groaned, cursing inwardly at her own laziness for not drawing the curtains closed properly last night before she collapsed on the bed and slept like a dead man.

While she rubbed her left eye absentmindedly, she noticed that she had fallen asleep fully clothed again. Coat and all, heck, even her boots were still on! No wonder she is sweating up a storm right now. Ron's body heat radiating from behind her probably didn't help as well. Glancing down, she tried to pry herself free from Ron's arms as gently as she could without waking up her boyfriend, as he probably had a rough day of training yesterday seeing how the Quidditch world cup is quickly approaching.

It was then she saw something that made her insides boil.

Written on Ron's palm was a girl's name, along with her phone number, and a loop sided smiley face. Not bothering to be gentle anymore, she elbowed her way out of his hug and shoved him off the bed, all while letting out a long string of profanities.

She had picked up the habit of swearing ever since she transferred to from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. While hanging with all the Aurors when both Harry and Ron were still in the office had caused her to dabble with some pretty foul-mouthed people, it is the people at MLE (Department of Magical Law Enforcement) that truly used the foulest of languages, it being the only way to instill fear in criminals and alike.

"What the hell was that for!" he croaked as he tried to untangle himself from the sheets and rubbed his now throbbing head. His throat burns!

"That! Who the fuck is this Regina rubbish?" She yelled, pointing at his hands. "You were out drinking again last night weren't you!" she yelled again when she saw how hung over Ron appeared to be. Sniffing the air, she almost wanted to kick herself for only realising now that he stunk of alcohol.

"Shut up Hermione! It was nothing! You know how those girls are, always throwing themselves at me! It is not my fault that we're fucking war heroes, and I happened to be playing Quidditch for the fucking team of England and girls can't resist me!" He roared as his head throbbed even harder and he is still unable to untangle himself from the stupid sheets.

Frustrated, he tore his way out of those stupid sheets.

"Don't you dare give me that as an excuse! I don't see Harry going out every night drinking his liver off and flirting with every fucking girl he sees and he is practically the fucking minister of magic!" She yelled as she jabbed his chest accusingly.

"Listen to me 'mione! It is not as if-" begin Ron as he grabbed Hermione by her shoulders, forcing her to look at him.

"Wait! Witches don't fucking have cell phones! You went to a muggle pub! Girls throwing themselves at you because you're a fucking Quidditch player my ass!" She shrugged him off and shoved him hard, repeatedly hitting his chest as he struggled to grab her hands. He managed to grab both of her wrists and flipped her over so that he was now straddling her, pinning her down with his weight.

"Listen to me! I know I messed up again, but- " he begun once again and then she spat at him. She spat at him.

"Why you little - " he snarled as she thrashed about, struggling to get away from him.

"Get the fuck off me you filthy, pathetic excuse of a man!" she screamed when he tightened his grip on her arm.

"Hold still! Hermione I really didn't -"

And her wand was at his neck.

Fuming and trying her very best not to curse something and potentially ruining the expensive furniture (which she paid for all by herself, thankyouverymuch), she settled for a well-aimed kick at his prized wizard's chess box set, sending pieces of pawns -much like herself, she thought bitterly- flying.

She waited for his outbursts at her manhandling of his precious, precious wizard's chess set made of Swarovski crystals that he had spent almost half a year of his Quidditch salary on (and mind you, England is paying him quite a lot for keeping a couple of stupid, flying balls).

It didn't come.

It had been like this for the longest of times. They would fight, and then make out, and then have angry sex. But today, today, was different. She had thought that she could take it; she had thought that if she kept everything bottled, everything hidden, it would be fine. He would change.

They would exchange insults, they would kick and scratch, and sometimes, even send a few borderline dark spells at each other, but they would always end back up in bed.

Not today.

Swinging the chains of her beaded bag over her shoulders she was halfway to the foyer before a loud crash and a string of profanities was heard as Ron untangled himself from the remaining of the ripped sheets clinging onto him.

"Where are you going?" He growled, much like he had before.

"I am leaving you!" she snarled, not bothering to look back, and stalked towards the door, her strides big.

"No you ain't, come back!" He yelled as he reached out to tug at the chains of her bag and mercilessly hurled it backwards, sending it crashing onto the wall and spilling its contents all over the floor when it the hard exterior cracked and broke into pieces.

"What is your fucking problem!" she yelled, spinning back around to face him, and attempted to shove him. He blocked her hands and shoved her back, causing her to stagger backwards, and gestured at her to come forward and give him her best shot.

She lunged forward, pretending that she was aiming for his stomach and when he moved to block her attacks, she swung her right arm up and punched him in the jaw.

"Fuck!" cursed Ron as he staggered backwards, and crashed into a cabinet, effectively knocking over a vase.

Tears welled up in her eyes, slightly blurring her vision. But she will not cry in front of him, that she will not. She promised Harry. She promised herself. She. Will. Not. Cry.

"You ain't going anywhere!"

She is sick of this, sick of his womanising ways, sick of pretending that everything is fine, even when she smelled the perfume of other women on him, day after day. Sick of him, period.

She knows that their relationship had been going nowhere for the longest of time, and that it's now or never. How many times had she have to make up lies for the bruises on her skin, the scratches on her once flawless face? "Oh it was the result of a nasty fly-away spell from when I was duelling." "It's nothing, I accidentally walked into a door!"

She suspects that Harry knows of their abusive relationship, but had been too wrapped up with the concept of best friends till the end that he had somehow convinced himself to overlook the in-your-face clues. Most probably he had really convinced himself that Ron didn't hit Hermione (God forbid he does! Ron wouldn't hurt a fly!), she probably really walked into that door!

As Ron made to grab her by the shoulders once again, she spun around and looked at him squarely in the eyes.

"Don't make me pull out my wand again."

He hissed, but let go of her.

Not looking back, she walked out of the house, and apparated away immediately.

Inside the house, Ron sat down and began counting.

One, two, three, four, five, six-…

She will be back. She always does.

The faint crack later that day only confirmed his theory. He smirked.