Disclaimer: I own nothing, except maybe the heartroot plant.
A/N: Written for the Ron/Hermione Spring Images!Fic Challenge, using prompt #12. When I saw the prompt, I knew I had to include Neville, and thus this was eventually born. Thank you to queenb23 for her sharp eye as always and for assuring me that my first "married Ron/Hermione" fic was written believably.
Heartroot
"Neville, you have no idea how much I appreciate this—"
"Not a problem, Hermione," he said, smiling as she let him through the door. "Where's Ron?"
She eyed the newly-delivered letter from Ron on the sofa, hoping her face didn't crumple. "He…he had to work today." Again. Merlin he never used to work on Saturdays. Why won't he come home?
She glanced around the cheap flat. The wallpaper was peeling, the floorboards squeaked, it smelt like cigarette smoke and their water was always cold—but it had felt like home while her husband was there. Without him though…
"I don't know what happened," Hermione began, pulling her mind away from painful subjects as she led Neville to the back. "One day it seemed fine and the next it was dying. And it was such a nice present from you that I hate to let it just die without seeing what I've done wrong—"
"I'm sure it can be fixed up," he assured.
It was three years ago that Neville had given Ron and Hermione a potted plant—small, twiggy and with a single green leaf—as a wedding present. Her heart lurched slightly at the memory.
"It's a rare species from Ireland," Neville told the newlyweds as he placed the pot with the other gifts. "The Druids used to give them to new couples as a blessing for their marriage. It may not look like much, but it'll grow into something beautiful eventually."
"That was sweet of him," Hermione said as he walked away to ask Hannah Abbott for a dance.
Ron cast the pot a skeptical look. "Looks kind of … sickly-looking, doesn't it?"
"You heard Neville—it won't stay that way."
"Yeah, well, he's always had a different idea of beauty when it comes to plants." He grinned, and she knew he was thinking of Neville's old Mimbulus mimbletonia….
It had grown rapidly since—faster than either of them could purchase the pots to keep it in. Lately, though, all growth had ceased to a halt, and instead, it had started slowly wilting.
The wedding plant had been placed by the window overlooking the city street. It was as high as her waist and, but for some small leaves and tiny browning flowers, as bare as when they had first received it.
"Wow, Hermione!" Neville exclaimed. "I can't believe how big it's grown!"
"But it's dying now, Neville!" Hermione's control was waning—all over a plant. It was foolish, but for some reason it was important to keep it alive. Because if it died … then she felt like so would everything else.
Neville raised his eyebrows. "It's just wilting, Hermione," he assured her. "It happens to all plants at one point or another."
"But I've been watering it exactly how you told me since you gave it to us and it's not helping!" Her voice was suddenly near hysterics and she could barely stand anymore. "And I can't be a failure at this too! I just can't —!"
"Hermione, you aren't a failure at anything!" He pulled her into a dining room chair and grasped her shoulder. "Why would you think that?"
"I—I…" But now tears were filling Hermione's eyes and her throat tightened. She couldn't say anymore.
Her friend looked more than a little concerned. "Should I Floo Ron?"
At the mention of her husband, Hermione lost what little restraint she had. She managed to get a "N-No!" before her terrible sobs were heard throughout the flat.
Neville drew a chair up at once, pulling her into his chest and making soft shushing noises as he rubbed her back soothingly. Neville's cotton shirt was a comfort under her cheek, but she wished the man who held her now smelt of sweat and spice and everything distinctly Ron.
After a time, her tears finally stopped, though she still felt unable to talk. Neville announced he was going to make some tea. Rarely had she been more ashamed of what Neville must think of her—getting so upset over something so stupid. However, it wasn't the plant that had her so worked up. Not really. It was … other, more personal things.
By the time Hermione had calmed down enough to get a clear word out, Neville had brought her a mug and a plate full of the ginger newts she kept hidden in the top cupboard above the sink.
"I'm—I'm sorry, N-Neville," she muttered, wiping her eyes. "You sh-shouldn't have to see m-me like this."
Neville handed her a box of tissues with a look of concern. "Hermione, it's fine. But what's the matter? Why wouldn't you let me get Ron?"
She blew her nose loudly. "I don't … want him to see me like this, either," she mumbled.
"He's seen you in a lot worse, I'm sure." He grinned and Hermione couldn't help smiling back.
"Yes, but I … I don't want to give him a reason to …"
"To what?"
She sighed in misery and buried her face in her arms, trying to keep herself from crying again. "I don't think he loves me anymore," she mumbled.
There was a long, weighted silence.
"Hermione…that's a big claim to make," he said finally.
"Well it seems like it!" Hermione cried, snapping her head up. "It started when we moved here and it's only become worse since. He stays late at work and my job has me so busy that we're never together, and when we are, it's not the same!"
A dip in the wizarding economy shortly after their marriage made them both as poor as church mice. Their individual incomes had not been enough to keep the beautiful home they had chosen when they had become engaged, and they were forced to temporarily relocate to an older flat in a seedy part of town. As the months stretched into years, Ron stayed away a little bit longer each week until she nearly had to force herself to stay awake just to see him before bed. On the rare days he was home, he seemed distant and wouldn't look her in the eye.
Hermione wondered if he sometimes regretted marrying her. Or wished he had decided live his own life.
"I've stopped cuddling with him, for one, because it never seemed to make him feel better like it used to. We don't … you know … as much. And we can't … we can't even seem to argue anymore."
Neville looked more stunned then ever. "Can't even argue?"
She nodded morosely. "The last one was over a month ago." Over bed sheets of all things. And it didn't even lead to shagging.
"Have you tried talking to Ron about this?"
"I'm…I'm afraid to," she admitted quietly. "Because I don't want to hear him say that he doesn't … doesn't …"
"He does love you, Hermione," Neville told her fiercely. "He loves you more than you can possibly know."
She nibbled on a biscuit, wanting to believe him but afraid to. How was it that Ron could turn her into such an insecure, irrational teenager?
"Let me show you something, Hermione." Neville got to his feet, walked to the window where the wedding plant was and with incredible ease lifted it up onto the table. He took out his wand, tapped it on the pot, and half of it seemed to disappear. "Look at this," he said.
Instead of a maze of thin, twiggy veins, this one had only two thick roots that curved upwards on either side and then down towards each other to form—
"A heart," he said unnecessarily. "D'you know what plant this is?"
"I haven't been able to find it," she admitted.
"It's called heartroot." His voice was one of barely contained thrill—the same one he always used when talking about anything to do with herbology. "It doesn't feed on just water like normal plants—though it is good for it—but on love between a married couple. As the love continues, it grows larger. It disappeared for centuries until the end of the last war, and most think it's because the love was so much more powerful in that wizarding community than it had been before. Some other herbologists and I have been trying to breed them again by giving it to certain married couples. There haven't been any reports of their heartroots growing this much in such a short time. If one of you had stopped loving the other, one of the roots would be shriveled up. That isn't the case here, see?"
Hermione stared at the roots for a long time, thinking somehow she had never seen anything more beautiful. "Then why is it wilting?"
"Because as much as you love each other, you're still sad," he said, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly. "If you want this to go back to normal, you've got to talk to Ron. Tell him how you're feeling. Not me."
Hermione looked at his face for a moment and smiled slightly. "You know why he's been acting this way." He had never been very good at hiding what he thought or felt, she remembered. His emotions were almost too open—like Ron's were.
"I do," he admitted. "And I've said to stop acting the way he is, but you know him—he's too stubborn to listen to reason when it comes to you."
Hermione looked at her hands, knowing deep down Neville was right. She had just been too worried about keeping her heart intact to listen to what her mind knew she had to do.
Because if she was wrong, she wouldn't survive properly. And that terrified her.
As if realizing she needed one more push, he told her softly, "Heartroots only grow near wizarding communities. No one knows for sure why, but the theory is that witches and wizards feel love—real love—the strongest of any other people. Once we fall in love with someone, it takes the strength of the universe to let go. Ron has the biggest heart I know, and he's always given it to you."
Hermione couldn't help but be amazed at how little and so much had changed in him since they had met on the train almost thirteen years ago. She doubted he would ever stop surprising her. "When did you become so smart, Neville?" she asked.
He shrugged, going slightly pink. "It's obvious when you're on the outside looking in. And—well—don't mention it to anyone, but Hannah's determined to turn me into a more emotionally-aware human being. Being around drunken sods on weekends tends to do that to you, I think."
Hermione smiled. Hannah's a very lucky woman.
~~*~~*~~
Hermione gazed at the small dinner she had spent the rest of the afternoon preparing. A steak and kidney pie, mashed potatoes, a bowl of carrots, Ron's beloved chocolate biscuits, a bottle of butterbeer—all of her husband's favorites. Ron usually made the meals back when they had eaten together, but her cooking skills had improved since their wanderings through the wilderness.
The helpings were barely enough for the two of them, and it'd be a stretch on their already shrinking pocketbooks, but Hermione was determined to make it worth it. A good meal always relaxed him. If he was in a good mood, perhaps he'd open up to her.
It was near nine that evening before Ron finally came home, and Hermione immediately got up from the sofa where she had been waiting for him.
His robes were halfway off his shoulder and he was already staring wide-eyed at the table.
"I thought we could eat a meal together again," Hermione told him with a smile, hoping her nervousness was successfully hidden. "It's been a while."
He swallowed, not looking at her. "Yeah. Yeah, it has."
They ate in silence—partly because Ron was shoveling his food like he hadn't eaten in days and partly because Hermione was too busy steeling herself to talk much.
"It is good?" Hermione asked finally, noting that his plate was almost clean.
"Mm-hm!" Ron hummed in appreciation.
"I'm glad." She'd have to start the…whatever it was…before he finished; otherwise she'd might lose her nerve and never get the chance again.
Come on, now—are you a Gryffindor or not?
"Ron?"
Something in her voice must have alarmed him because his fork halted on the way to his mouth. He looked…a bit anxious? "Yeah? What is it?"
He was staring at her hair, not her eyes, but Hermione had his attention. The question now was how to broach the subject.
She looked at her lap for a moment and then back at him as she decided on the direct approach. Now or never.… "Ron, do you still love me?"
His fork clattered on the table in stunned disbelief. "Of course I do. Why would you ask that?"
"Because sometimes.…" She took a steadying breath. "Sometimes I feel like you don't anymore. You've been more distant since we've moved here. Don't deny it. And I don't know why, so the only reason I could come up with was that you blame me for keeping you here. I've tried ignoring it because I don't want it to be, but … I can't anymore. Now I just want the truth, Ron."
His head had dropped to stare at the table, and she slipped her shaking hand in his. "You won't even look at me. Just look at me, Ron."
"I…"
"Please, Ron."
His Adam's apple bobbed heavily, as if trying to swallow his courage, before lifting his head.
For the first time in what must have been months, his eyes caught hers and the emotion in them caught her breath: sadness, frustration, fear, adoration, guilt…but the shame was the most poignant of it all. She wanted to leap into his arms and hold him, tell him that he had nothing to be ashamed of. She had always believed she knew Ron more than almost anyone else, and the proof of it was right here.
And in that moment, Hermione understood.
He was carrying a disgraceful burden—or at least what he thought was a disgraceful—and had avoided her eye because he didn't want her to know.
Hermione placed her free hand to his warm cheek, holding his gaze as he leaned into it. Now that Ron had looked at her, he seemed unable to look away.
"I let you down, Hermione," he said, his voice thick with emotion as he grabbed her hand tight.
She shook her head. "You haven't done anything of the sort."
"But I have!" He seemed half-lost, half-disgusted with himself. "I promised I would take care of you when I married you, but I can't even get us a decent house to live in or a good meal every night. I want to be the kind of husband you can be proud of, Hermione. That's the kind of person who you deserve. Not … not this. Not some kind of worthless loser."
He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the kitchen sink, staring into the drain as if wanting to throw himself down it. Normally, she'd be annoyed at him telling her what she and didn't deserve—she was fully capable of figuring it out for herself, thank-you-very-much—yet, the anguish in his voice tore her heart too much. She hadn't known—hadn't even guessed—that he felt as just as much of a failure as she did. Perhaps even more so. She could take care of herself—he knew that—but Ron still felt a responsibility for being sure she had…well, everything really.
Hermione walked to him and gently tugged Ron towards her, willing her love to shine in her eyes as much as it was glowing inside her heart. "I've always been proud to be your wife, Ron."
"You shouldn't."
"Why not? Is it where I thought I would be three years ago? Of course not. But we can live here for the rest of our lives for all I care. I love you. You're what's most important to me."
"But—"
"No buts!" She poked him gently in the chest. "I've been in love with you too long to start letting go now, Ron Weasley."
He stared at her for a long minute. Soon the expression relief and amazement and joy told her that he finally believed her. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
"I didn't tell you this to make you feel guilty," she assured, smoothing the front of his shirt with her hands. "I just want to make sure you know. And I want to hear the same thing from you."
"I love you more than anything," he told her immediately. "I'm sorry I … I wasn't showing it."
That was the breaking point. At long last, she kissed him in a way she hadn't done in months, kissed him so that all the love and longing for him poured from her being to his, if only he'd accept it.
He did. She felt it in the way he attacked her lips like starving man. In the way he wrapped himself so close it was though he wanted to absorb her into his skin. In the way he moaned her name as her fingers teased him. But most of all, in the way he poured his adoration and love for her in every touch and breath.
"I love you," he sighed between nibbles of Hermione's favorite spot on her neck.
She took his face in her hands, staring into his lust-filled eyes. They were a blazing summer sky, and she felt glorious electricity travel through her. "Show me now," she demanded. "Show that you love me as much as I love you."
He didn't need telling twice. With a grunt, he began tearing off her clothes with unabashed fervor, seeming unconcerned about where he took her.
It was just as well. She didn't either.
And as the couple ravished each other in their old, peeling kitchen, the heartroot plant was steadily growing to the ceiling, exploding with a wave of thick, fresh leaves and large white flowers.
For love—the strongest emotion a witch or wizard can feel—was so thick that the very air was wafting with it.