A Date With Disaster
It had been a bad idea from the start. She was neat and organized, his was sloppy and in love with disarray. She ironed her t-shirts, he threw his socks wherever he felt, he had even devised a point system for how creative their final destination was.
He was much too short for her; he stood only a few inches above the top of her head, bushy hair notwithstanding. His shoulders were too broad and his body too muscular, he was too much of an athlete, not the long languid body type she adored.
He had a lilting Irish brogue, when she was tired it lulled her to sleep. You're a charmer Seamus Finnigan, she would accuse him. His answer always the same, "Amn't".
Their flat was just above a pub; the noise was unbearable on the weekends, fight after fight broke out, insomuch that Seamus didn't let her leave the flat without him most nights.
They fought about this constantly, she was not a little flower she would remind him, she was fully capable of keeping hands off of her. He would merely raise his eyebrows, waiting until she finished her tirade to kiss away her anger.
Almost everything turned into an argument. He wanted marriage, she refused, he wanted children, she scoffed at the idea.
"Yer living in the past." He would tell her, painfully reminding her off all she had lost. Her friends rarely saw her, too swept up in their own lives, their own families. He was all she had and so she acted possessive and jealous.
He went for drinks with his coworkers once; there was a younger girl in the group, ten years his junior at nineteen. She was fresh faced and funny, she fit in well with the rowdy bunch. He had come drunk that night, yet another fight ensued.
"She fancies you." She had told him matter of factly.
He had gotten angry, "She does not!"
Hermione looked unimpressed.
"Yeh think I'm feaking her then? Doing a line on yeh eh?" He had looked wild that night, slamming every door in the flat.
When the anger dissipated she found him in the bathroom, his back against the wall and his head in his hands, crying.
"I can't believe yeh think that of me Hermione."
She hadn't known what to say then.
They just kept fighting, she was afraid she was going to lose him so she pushed him away and he fought like hell to hold on to whatever it was they had.
Then one day he was gone, and that was worse than she imagined. It was her own fault she heard her friends whisper, they were right. His discarded socks still lay about the apartment, she hadn't moved them, a box of condoms still sat on his bureau, just in case he came back.
She had followed him after work one night, she wanted to believe him, she really did, but she was so afraid of losing him she had to see with her own eyes.
He had caught her, she was ready for a fight, but his shoulders sunk down and all the life drained out of his eyes. He was done fighting for her if she didn't want him. So the next day he packed his bags and moved to Dean's.
She asked him how long he would be gone, the answer was indefinitely.
That had been four years ago, he still wasn't back yet. She heard he had begun dating the girl from work, serves me right she decided one night after a few too many drinks.
She hadn't dated since him; she went to work, came home, hid her wand and then got plastered. Harry and Ron had all but given upon her, they had kids and wives to worry about now, they couldn't run about playing saviors anymore.
She ran into the twins one night after work, they took her dancing, passing her between the two until they found a lovely pair of sisters and were whisked away. She ended up dance with Cormac McLaggen, his kissing skills had not improved she noted.
He took her back to his place, failing to mention he was subletting with Dean and Seamus. They had loud, angry sex and then she left, dragging her drunken self out of his room around four o'clock.
Seamus had been up for a glass of water when she stumbled by. It had been an awkward confrontation. She had looked ashamed, he was disappointed. It didn't change anything.
He had watched her stumble down the street from the window, everything in him wanted to go help her, but she had ruined him and he couldn't forgive her. He was nearing thirty-four and still single and childless.
He eventually married, the same girl that had caused their problems. They had four sons, Peter, Patrick, Ryan and Donald, all the spitting image of their father.
He didn't see her for a while after that, not until Ron's fortieth birthday party, Hannah had put it on for him and had invited all their friends. He was proudly showing off his wife and pictures of his son to friends when he spotted her.
She was smiling then, a hollow smile but a smile still. His stomach churned when he saw who she was with. The man had merely winked; he was sure at that moment loathing didn't even begin to describe how he felt about Blaise Zabini.
Hermione didn't look forty-one; she was still as pretty as she had been at nineteen, the age she had been when he finally gained the courage to ask her to go out sometime.
They had exchanged pleasantries that night and later when it came time to leave he kissed her, he didn't know why. He should have gone home with her right then and figured out what to say to his wife later, but they were too old for that and besides what would he say to her. He didn't see her after that, she had moved to Italy he was told.
He never threw his socks about his room at home and his wife never ironed her t-shirts. They didn't fight about silly things and then fall into bed for days, rediscovering parts of the others body.
They didn't have heat and passion, they had nurture and stability. Looking back he had accomplished quite a lot in his life, a strong legacy for the Finnigan name and a life that anyone would be proud of.
He still wished he had fought harder for her, wished she had not fought him so much. He wanted discarded socks and ironed t-shirts and a little flat above a rowdy bar with rusty pipes and sloping ceilings. He wanted her.