A/N: So I've officially gone crazy, it's now 3:12 and I've written two fics in one night. Not only that, but I never write Ron/Hermione. Ever. it doesn't happen. i don't even read them. Oh well. So since I'm blaming this on my dearest, darlingest Lexi, (she used to crazy ship Hr/R) I figure that this might as well be dedicated to her. Thing of it as a (really) late birthday present. Or something. So i'll also shamelessly promote her. her FF pen name is loveless-romantics and she writes WONDERFULLY (much better than me i swear) so go forth and stalk her!
Disclaimer: It's not mine, never has been, never will be. All belongs to J.K Rowling and co. Fic inspired by number 10 of my 10 drabbles part 2 songfic challenge thing... And therefore inspired by the song Home by the Dixie Chicks (though this isn't technically a songfic) Also, virtual cookies to anyone (besides you Lexi, though maybe I'll make you real cookies) who catches the Spring Awakening reference.
Pairing: Ron/Hermione, Hermione's POV
Your touch, it always felt so right. Like we were the only things that mattered. Not the war, not arguments with Malfoy, not our petty fights; just us. So why did everyone tell me we were wrong? They all told me that I was smart, reasonable; they asked what I could possibly see in you. I never could respond; that's probably why I started having doubt in our relationship. I didn't have a reason for loving you, I just did. We both know how I depend on reason, on logic. When I realized there wasn't any here, I panicked and left.
Now it's been a year and I can't stop thinking about it. Ironically, "it" isn't even us. It's a place, the Burrow. I can't stop thinking of it as a symbol of what we could have been. We could have had a life together, one filled with happiness and family. We could have gone to dinner at the Burrow every Sunday. When we arrived I would have kissed your mother on the cheek before talking to your father about various muggle things he'd come across. When Fred and George arrived they'd tease us, call us lovebirds, or some similar term while you told them to quit it. Ginny and I would talk in a corner about her latest boyfriend, whether he was treating her right or how his eyes just seemed to sparkle. At dinner Charlie and Bill would have told exciting stories about their jobs. Fleur would stare disapprovingly at Charlie when he frightened their youngest child with his tales of frightening dragons. It could have been, would have been wonderful.
But no, I listened to my pride instead of my heart. When people told me you were a mistake, I listened to them instead of you. You begged me not to leave; you cried at my feet promising to do anything if I would just stay. You couldn't understand why, how I could leave. Honestly, I can't either. It broke my heart to do it; I still don't know how I managed not to go running back to you that first week. Actually, I do know. People congratulated me for leaving you; they made me think I had done the right thing, no matter how I felt. They made me think of you as a weakness, a bad habit that I had to break. We all have our junk, and my junk was- and truthfully still is- you.
I tried dating other men. There was a string of faces, short memories, all of them meaning nothing more to me than clips from a movie. None of them made me feel like you did. All of them were just an idea to me, that "boyfriend" image. I needed someone to fill the void that appeared the night I left you. I think you'd be glad to know that none of them did. But maybe you wouldn't, all you ever wanted for me was to be happy.
I wish I were happy. I wish I could get over you, could get over my mistake. But I can't. No matter what reason, what logic I try to use, my heart still won't forget you. You, my heart, and logic never mixed well before, so why should they now? They shouldn't. Logic is telling me that mourning you is silly, girlish, and pointless. But it doesn't stop the heartache or the lonely nights in my flat when I'm trying to sleep without you. When I'm trying to chase away dreams of the Burrow, that house, no, not house. The Burrow is, was, so much more than just a house. A house is a building made up of walls, doors, windows. The burrow is a home. A home where there are children, parents, family, happiness, love. "Home is where the heart is," well they say the exception proves the rule so I must be that proof. I'm living, breathing proof because without a doubt, though it defies all logic, I left my heart at the Burrow, that home I could have had. The home I should have had, but don't.
A/N: So there are still a few lines that I don't like, and i really don't like the ending. I'm almost considering writing a second part where she goes back to Ron, or maybe from his point of view. Maybe if I actually get reviews telling me to I will. reviews are sort of all powerful. Anyhoo now it's nearly 3:20 AM and I'm tired and hungry. So I'm going to bed because tomorrow's Father's Day (Happy Falker Satherhood! ((again virtual cookies, or cake))) and so I'll probably be expected to actually function.