I've never written in this world, and my apologies to those patiently awaiting my next chapter of Assurance. But, these two have been at it in my head for the last few days and I really have some other things that I must do. So, now, I hopefully can return to my regularly-scheduled life. I hope you enjoy the one-shot. If you have the inclination to leave a note, please do. Thanks for popping by! :) –SJ

(As always, insert typical disclaimer here.)

-oo000oo-

Shards

"Hermione!" he bellowed, and pounded on the dark-stained oak panel that separated the two. Soon he would try the handle.

She balanced on the edge of the four-poster bed, their first extravagant purchase after marriage. It barely fit in their one-bedroom apartment at the time, but for once she had released her practical side and allowed herself to be swayed by its beauty. She remembered feeling slightly ill as they signed the ticket and turned over the galleons. After kissing her soundly on the lips and throwing an arm around her shoulders, he grinned widely and strutted as he guided her from the store. It was all he could do to keep from crowing to their friends. She had reminded him, a half smile playing across her mouth, "No one cares about our new bed but us."

She pressed her palms into the white duvet. The soft fabric bent to her will and wrinkled against her sweaty palms, tangled with smooth vine wood. Smothering a sob with a bite of air, she pulled the back of one hand across her eyes. No more tears. She had to be done with tears.

Like so many times before, she had turned her wand towards the empty, dirty cup sitting on the edge of the sink. It was so much easier to clean as you went, and she never understood why the flick of her wand was so much different than his. She had created a bad habit for him, tidying up his messes. Resentment, foul and oily against her tongue, choked her as she spat, "Thanks for cleaning up after yourself, Ronald." And, instead of doing the chore, she watched the bowl of the blue and white Spode vines and flowers separate from the handle and become shards. Her eyes widened as the din created from the china meeting the tile floor registered and Ron yelled, "Bloody hell, are you all right?" from the other room. Heavy footfalls followed as he rushed towards the kitchen. And she just couldn't have the same argument again. So, she retreated and bit back the sardonic answer that played in her head.

She didn't want to be this way. This nag. Taking a relationship that had always been work and slogging through more muck. She slipped the small band on and off her left finger. Maybe they had just married too young. Wrongly thought that love would always be enough and being together was better than the alternative. After the war, and the funerals, and reuniting with her parents, and their separation during her final year at Hogwarts, it was expected. And wanted. Actually becoming a Weasley in name was second only to finding out she was carrying one. And at twenty-six, she felt her world crushing in on her. "Oh, baby," she sighed, "what have I done?"

The handle rattled, and Hermione rolled her eyes. You have a wand, you arse. Some auror he must have been. And the litany of his shortcomings began to re-play in her head. He was sarcastic and unintuitive. He ate too much and his compassion was lacking. And if she was completely honest with herself, she'd admit she'd not fully forgiven him for leaving her alone as she cried after him during the year in the tent. She thought of him, on the other side of the door, and felt a shiver run through her body. Like hell I'm opening this door. He doesn't deserve it. He's too tired to put his teacup away after a day in the shop, and I can barely see my feet. If it's this bad now, what about when… She rubbed her burgeoning stomach.

His voice was colder this time when he yelled, "Hermione. Let me in or I'm leaving. And if I leave, I'm not coming back. I won't be locked out of my own bedroom again."

She considered the threat, even as she was surprised by his ire. To be able to raise her baby in quiet, as she was raised, maybe even with her own mum and dad, sounded heavenly right at this moment. Since she'd been promoted to department head, and George and Ron had opened a shop in Hogsmeade, it seemed their sparse time at home always ended like this. She locked the door to the bedroom, and refrained from spewing all the ugliness she felt in his direction. The next morning, they would cordially go about their business. A perfunctory kiss on the cheek and they were apparating away, again. She returned way after he had fallen asleep on the couch to swallow some food and turn in without a word. How quickly it had become a habit to behave this way. She saved her compassion for work. Everyone wanted a bit of her, except for her own husband. Truth be known, this is the most they'd interacted all day. Maybe even all week. She couldn't remember the last time he had really pulled her to his chest with any passion. It might have been when they found out they would add to the Weasley clan.

Turning her newly straightened back to the door, she jerked her wand hand silently at the lock. He didn't expect the handle to give and it flew into the wall. She held in a sigh as another wave of the wand repaired the hole. She could feel his blue eyes on her neck, but refused to break her stoic posture.

"Hermione," he said, his voice quiet and as lonely as she felt. "Hermione, are you done loving me?"

Done? How could he think she'd ever be done? It's just whether it was enough. She could picture him as he waited in the doorway, head down and face and neck flushed from frustration and hurt. More words tumbled out in a rush. "If you are, I'll respect that. I know," he drew a shaky breath. "I know, things haven't been right lately. I've tried to give you your space."

A rush of understanding overwhelmed her. Harry's appearances in her office to see how her day was going, while welcome, had become more frequent over the last few months. She thought Ron's retreat was due to his indifference. He didn't realize she wanted to be chased. As she turned her eyes to the cracking voice, and saw his tears spill over, she couldn't swallow hers back any longer. For the first time in months, Ron gently touched the bare skin of her arm, sitting beside her on the bed and quickly engulfed her. Her rigid posture relaxed, and he took that as a sign to pull her closer so her head could rest against his chest. How easy it was to pretend that she didn't need this from him. That she could do everything on her own and that love meant nothing.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it. "I'm a berk, 'Mione. A git. A prat. A right bastard." With each derogatory descriptor, he touched his lips to her hair. She leaned into each one. Enjoyed the pressure as he rested his cheek against the top of her head. "With the emotional range of a teaspoon," he murmured, as he turned to face her and brushed her cheek with his thumb.

"I'm sorry, too" she whispered, and eagerly eliminated the rest of the distance between them.

The kiss wouldn't solve everything. It would do nothing but show both that they held out hope for each other. But hope was enough for now.