J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe, characters, etc., I own only this plotline. Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Elizabeth.
"Look at the bloody Prophet, Hermione! Someone's claiming to have seen the git again. At this point I don't see how you don't believe that he's still alive," Ron insisted, all but shoving the newspaper in Hermione's face.
"Stop calling him a git, Ron, that's disrespectful. And I don't believe it simply because it isn't possible. Harry saw him die in the Shrieking Shack, remember?" Her argument was almost automatic now as she filed some papers away into another folder and levitated it into her filing cabinet, closing the drawer with a bang.
"Maybe he didn't, though, just think! Maybe it was all an act and Snape just wanted to get out of fighting in the rest of the war! It'd be just like the greasy prat to do that sort of thing," Ron muttered resentfully.
Although his dislike of the former Potions master had decreased over the five years since the Final Battle, he still considered the man a bête noir. Even in supposed death, Ron had never forgiven Snape for the undeserved detentions and snarled insults he had heaped upon the students of Hogwarts for as little as stepping a toe out of line.
"Stop talking about him like that! I don't care how much you dislike him; it's just cruel to desecrate his memory like this." Hermione was not usually one to get upset over Ron's insensitivities, but she was getting fed up with both the claimed sightings and her friends' speculations that there was or could be some truth to them.
The rumours had started about a year ago when the Daily Prophet had printed the testimony of some old witch in Suffolk, who resolutely insisted that she had seen the supposedly dead Severus Snape buying a croissant from a pastry shop. But when she further relayed that he had disappeared when she looked away and back again, and because the cashier at the shop had no memory of serving such a man, her claims were chalked up to mere senility.
It was several months until the next sighting. This time it was a teenager in Ireland, claiming that Snape was living in a cottage concealed by strong charms beneath a seaside cliff. The area was searched thoroughly by wizards and witches with training similar to that of Gringotts' own Curse-Breakers, but no such cottage was found.
The vast majority of the wizarding world was sceptical of these allegations. Only two months later, however, the sightings began to pour in. He was seen in London, in Edinburgh, in Munich, in Paris; soon every country in Europe would have a claim to seeing Severus Snape. The escalation of these findings eventually led the vast majority of the wizarding world to believe that he was still alive somewhere in Europe.
What flabbergasted Hermione the most was that Harry, of all people, who had seen Snape die before his eyes, was beginning to believe that he was hiding out somewhere. She was continually astounded that she was the only one who could view the situation logically.
"Fine, fine," Ron conceded. "But Merlin, Hermione, sometimes you act as though you actually liked him or something." He glanced up at the clock on the wall and jumped out of his seat, nearly knocking his chair over in the process. "Bloody hell, I'm late for training! See you later, Hermione, I've got to go." He rushed to the door, barely remembering to shrug on a coat before Disapparating.
Hermione shook her head in annoyance, levitating the last of her files into the cabinet. They contained detailed descriptions of new charms and spells she had been attempting to create, which she planned to compile into a book at some point and market to the wizarding world. One Hundred and One New Spells and Charms for the Modern Wizard or Witch seemed appropriate as a title, though quite a mouthful and rather clichéd. She had nowhere near one hundred and one yet, though; rather more like twenty.
She was glad that she had opted not to become an Auror like Harry and Ron; she didn't like the idea of rigorous training every day and loads of theory work on top. While Harry had started his schooling at the Ministry as soon as he graduated from Hogwarts, Ron had only started training a year ago. He often whined at her to help him with the written work.
In fact, Ron was whining a lot these days. He whined at her when he was "too tired" to help with the housework, which was especially tiresome since she refused to hire a house-elf. It annoyed her a great deal, partly because of the extra chores when she already had her own self-imposed work to do and partly because she felt that she was slowly slipping into the role of submissive housewife. They weren't even married! She had no idea if Ron was planning to propose anytime soon. He had shown no signs of it.
He rarely told her he loved her anymore...
That struck her as particularly significant. Shouldn't couples say that they loved each other, if they did? It didn't matter that it had been five years; she still said that she loved him, though it dawned on her that she did so rather automatically. Most of the time he would reply with "Mmhmm" or "Me, too". They were never intimate anymore, in any sense of the word. When it came down to it, it seemed she had been sucked into a loveless marriage-that-wasn't-actually-a-marriage.
Hermione stood up, marched to the filing cabinet, and slammed it shut with a clang. Everyone had always said that she and Ron were made for each other; their bickering was apparently proof of that. It reminded her of a sentiment she had often heard in her Muggle preschool. If he picks on you, he must like you.
Of course, no one had ever said that to her, exactly. None of the boys wanted to play house with a girl with frizzy hair and buck teeth, much less one with brains in her head.
She had always felt somewhat left out that her friends had boyfriends as they progressed through school while she hadn't. Her mother had always advised her that the girls with boyfriends at age eleven would grow up to be fast, but she was envious all the same. Her parents had had her teeth braced earlier than most, hoping to save her some embarrassment later in life, but she was still the bushy-haired know-it-all.
Ron had been her first boyfriend. As sad as it was, he had been her first everything. She had never expected any better because she simply had never had any better, had never thought that she could do any better.
It occurred to her that, right now, being single seemed infinitely preferable than being in a relationship with Ronald Weasley. If she couldn't find anyone better for the rest of her life, so be it. She would be alone if that meant not settling for less than what she really wanted.
She would end it with Ron.
She left the study and made her way to the foyer. She was going to shop for houses today, look for her own place while Ron was at work. She put on her coat and Apparated to the local magical real estate office.
Ron held his wand at the ready, traipsing around the battlefield with a clumsiness common to gawky teenagers. He was, for the most part, still a hobbledehoy, often tripping over his own feet and knocking things over. But here he could not afford to make mistakes. Here he had to be alert at all times, ready at all times to fire a spell or create a defence.
Suddenly a bolt of red light flew past his head, narrowly missing his freckled nose. He spun around, Protego already forming on his lips, but it was too late. A hazy, indistinct black figure raised its wand once more and fired a spell at him silently, the green light filling his vision. He fell to the ground as the scene around him dissolved...
... and Harry Potter's voice filled his ears.
"RON! You botched it again! I keep telling you, you have to cast Protego before you turn." He continued to chastise Ron as he opened the door to the simulator, completely breaking the illusion that Ron was in a field. Harry helped him to his feet, looking him up and down and shaking his head. "And you don't have to fall every time you die, it's melodramatic." He sighed. "I suppose there's nothing for it now, we'll try again tomorrow."
Ron groaned. "I'm getting bloody tired of Auror training, you know. Why do we even need Aurors, now You-Know-Who's gone?"
Harry rolled his eyes at his friend's reluctance to say Voldemort's name. "Voldemort wasn't the only Dark wizard, Ron, and there are plenty of Death Eaters probably still out there, waiting for someone new to cling to. But since you think Aurors are so useless, perhaps you shouldn't become one." He knew that would sting, but his friend's complaining was wearying.
Ron kicked the grass angrily on his way out of the room. "You know, I think you're right. I'm not suited to be an Auror. I keep messing up every-bloody-thing I do and I'm not getting any better." He was angry at Harry, angry at himself, angry at the Ministry for making the training so damned hard. But then, Auror training should be hard, shouldn't it? They could only afford to train the best of the best, rather like the Muggle Marines Hermione had sometimes mentioned.
Ron didn't like hard work. He liked asking his friends to help him with his work. He supposed, though, that the end of school marked the end of the time when he could coast by on help from others. He had not even initially intended to become an Auror, but when Harry finished his training, Ron followed suit to be with his friend. Obviously this had been an imprudent decision.
"Good luck to you, mate, but I quit." He grabbed his jacket from a chair and stalked out of the room, telling the secretary in the main hall that he would not be returning.
Ron Apparated into the house with an especially loud crack, his magic more potent than usual due to the height of his frustration. He stormed to the study with intent to burn all of his studying papers and manuals on stealth and tracking and everything to do with Aurors, but the sight of Hermione standing quite still in the doorway stopped him.
"What is it, Hermione?" he asked, a bit miffed that she was blocking his entrance.
"I'm leaving, Ron." She crossed her arms, ready to take whatever he reaction he offered. She had rehearsed her lines over and over beforehand, and had tried to think of every possible reply.
Ron looked as though he'd been punched in the stomach. "You're what?"
She sighed. "I said I'm leaving. I'm ending it. I'm sorry," she repeated, avoiding his eyes. She didn't like having to hurt him, but she had made up her mind hours ago. When Hermione Granger made up her mind about something, no one and nothing could change her decision.
"W-why?" Ron cried, dropping to his knees. "Did I say something? Did I do something? Is there something wrong with me? I'll fix it, Hermione! Just tell me what to do!" he pleaded.
Hermione dropped her hands to her sides, willing herself not to break under pressure. "No, Ron, there's nothing you can do. There's nothing to fix. I feel like you and I have just... I feel like I'm settling. And I don't want to settle. I don't want to hurt you, Ron, really I don't, but," she sucked in a deep breath, "I've fallen out of love with you and I think I'll be happier on my own. I really have fully considered this, and I believe that this is the best thing for us.
"I think that, given a bit of time, you'll realise that you're not as hurt by this as you think you are." She said this gently, unwilling to further injure his feelings by hurling spiteful comments. She didn't look at him as she moved toward the kitchen, where she had left her things packed.
He shook his head and stood up, following her with long strides. "No, no, no, Hermione, you're mad, there's no way—we're perfect for each other, everyone's always said so!" he insisted desperately.
"They're wrong, Ron. I'm sorry." She picked up her bags, all conveniently shrunken to the size of sugar cubes. "Good bye."
A loud crack resounded in the kitchen, followed by the sound of Ron's muffled sobs.
Hermione's new flat was small, smaller than the house she and Ron had shared. Small but with enough room to hold her books and papers, and room to magically expand if she wished. She preferred a smaller living space; it made her feel as though everything she needed was only a short distance away.
The flat consisted of a bedroom, a washroom, and a small den with a kitchenette. Each room was appropriately small and cosy, and she had even managed to get a charmed fireplace in the deal. The agent had added it on for just a nominal extra fee. The chimney was Disillusioned, so that it was invisible to Muggles. And the flue was spelled to vaporise the smoke before it hit the outside air, as it is not every day that one sees an apartment building emitting smoke.
It was ironic that she had decided to move just then, as she had been about to leave for a stress-relieving trip to Lyon. Now, she felt that she needed a holiday more than ever. Going over the ramifications of her recent broken relationship with Ron and subsequent change of living accommodations was giving her a headache, not to mention a heavy case of the guilts.
She had unpacked everything—minus the essentials for her trip to France—as soon as she arrived, as well as made a few modifications to her already charming abode. All it had needed were some dark curtains and thick carpeting to make her feel at home.
But the headache was still nagging her, so she pulled a vial of the Draught of Peace out of a cupboard to soothe her head. The potion reminded her, dimly, of fifth-year Potions class, when she had first made it. Naturally, she had read up on it a great deal the year before, but she had never put the knowledge into practise due to her lack of ingredients. After all, where could she get moonstone and syrup of hellebore other than the dungeons? Snape would never have allowed a student, especially a Gryffindor, to come within a metre of his stock of ingredients.
Now she was lucky enough to receive an inventory of ingredients every month, which allowed her to practise her brewing as well as make some potions for her own convenience. She was only bringing a small supply with her on her trip, considering she only planned to be gone for a week or two.
She had originally intended to leave in the morning, but she was feeling restless and wanted to be out of Britain. God forbid Ron should find her new flat and try to get in while she was asleep.
Why wait? she thought suddenly. Nothing is stopping me from leaving now.
With that, she found her miniature bags, now resting on the counter in the kitchenette, deposited them in her pocket, and Disapparated.