This is a breakup story. If you stick with me long enough, it will be a love story. Romione moments (angst, m-rated, etc.) promised ahead.


"Damn him!" Hermione muttered tersely as her anxious eyes scanned the Evening Prophet. The shaggy hair she knew so well she could practically feel the ginger locks between her fingers had been shorn. His face was set as stone, hollow eyes blinking heavily. Hers busily scanned the page closer to take in his locked jaw, shadow of stubble, smudged hands, face flinching slightly as the harsh camera flashed.

With a deep sigh, the brunette witch sat down heavily in her favorite overstuffed reading chair, ignoring the grey ministry owl that sat patiently at her windowsill awaiting the five knuts owed for the paper.

"Aurors Unearth Dozens of Dark Artifacts in Macnair Lair" brazened the title, describing in excruciating detail the horrific evidence of muggle torture left in the unassuming house nestled deep in the marshy Scottish moorland belonging to the elusive Death Eater. Hermione remembered with a shiver the hooded executioner from her childhood, whose bloodthirst had been nearly tangible. The story detailed the string of hexes that had made the mission nearly impossible, requiring four aurors to report to the scene as backup when a particularly nasty hex had nearly drowned Ron's colleague. The reported had not explicitly named Ron the hero, but Hermione knew just from reading the statement made by the head of the office ("…the injudicious yet valiant decision to ignore common sense and rescue his fellow auror…") that her suspicion was likely correct. The hair on her neck stood on end when Hermione read that the Death Eater was not captured. Mission failed yet again. She was surprised the Prophet had been permitted to post that bit of information.

"He's alright. Calm down," Hermione muttered quietly, pausing to finally appease the little owl who nipped lightly at the corner of the paper. After paying the owl and reading through the brief article twice more, she removed the page and folded it with shaky hands, placing it in a shoebox housed on her bookshelf. Eight other clippings were already placed inside, all referencing Ron Weasley's unit over the past two years.

Hermione drew a bath, hoping the tension from a long day at the ministry and subsequent scare following the news of the intense mission would wash away with the steam. Crookshanks rubbed between her shins as she sat on the edge of the tub, debating between an unopened Lily of the Valley soap her mother had bought her or a charmed white tea bath bomb that promised an hour of fizzy bubbles.

A pitiful meow caught Hermione's attention. The orange half-kneazle lifted its pinched face, meowing again. The movement set off the soft tinkle of the silver bell Hermione had fastened around the collar on his thick neck.

"What is it, Crookshanks?" Hermione crooned, rubbing behind his ears affectionately. She would be foolish to think the cat she had owned for nearly ten years now hadn't been an immense comfort to her. He had been a constant shadow, independent and adventurous while she was at work and cuddly when she returned home to her London flat. Thankfully she rented on the first floor, allowing the ginger cat the freedom to explore the alleyways and neighbors' scarcely overgrown city gardens. She never worried for Crookshanks' safety – he had the keen ability to judge the intentions of creatures, wizardfolk, and muggles alike. Hermione could trust him to look after himself.

Deciding that he was probably just eager for attention, Hermione rubbed the ginger cat until he perked his ears and sped off, clearly hearing something his owner couldn't perceive.

The bath had finally cooled enough for her to sink her body in slowly, relishing the stinging sensation as the hot water made contact with her skin. The tiny flat had an even tinier tub, and she barely was able to fully extend her legs out in front of her. Despite every protective fiber of her being screaming to let her mind go to that place, she wondered how Ron would fit if he tried to bathe here.

No. Think of something else. Her angry survival side went into action, the part of her she had kindled and encouraged and relied on to get through endless day and nights of torment. Quickly she brought to mind the usual distractions: what was due at work tomorrow, who did she need to network with in order to push forward her latest policy, how did her last case go? Her mind rapidly flew through each question and she was left again with a lingering temptation to think of him. To think of the person who had left her when she was most vulnerable, fragile – when she even confessed to him that she did in fact need him.

Then he had left her all alone.

Hermione angrily grabbed her flannel, dunking it into the soapy water and lathering her arms roughly. Think. Of. Something. Else. Her thin arms stung as she rubbed the fabric forcefully up her shoulders, the water about her waist sloshing with the movement.

But her curious mind won over survival mode. Was he also washing the misery of today off his body? Why had he cut his hair so short? Was it required now?

"Stop!" she cried, throwing the flannel across the tub to land at her feet and leaning her head back against the firm porcelain. Hot, angry tears leaked out despite her best effort to control her emotions. Defeated, her heart clenched forcefully within her chest, hands clasping her knees tightly as she fought to regain control.

Crookshanks' bell chimed lightly as he appeared at the entryway of the bathroom, his fluffy tail inching up the doorpost. Hermione sniffed and reached out a wet hand, grateful to feel Crookshanks' solid form as he walked under her hand, stretching his spine beneath her. Hermione turned her head lazily towards him, meeting his piercing yellow eyes. They were slightly thickened with cataracts now, though they sparkled with usual curiosity.

The minutes passed and water turned cold before Hermione found the motivation to move, drying off and making the short walk to her adjacent bedroom. Her large, immaculately white duvet was pulled back and she slipped inside, shivering as she draped it back over her naked body. The bath had made her bushy hair curl tightly, though she couldn't find the energy to retrieve her wand and cast a drying spell to prevent the inevitable frizz. Without effort anymore her body woke around 4am each morning, alleviating any need to set an alarm.

Her ever-faithful pet jumped quietly to the foot of the queen bed, turning in circles before curling up into a fluffy orange sphere and purring softly. She knew he would only stay there a short while before pouncing noiselessly to the floor to roam the living room. She'd caught him on more than one occasion in the middle of the night sitting by the window, staring out at the street as though standing guard.

The lights in her bedroom were still on as she closed her eyes, unable to sleep without the reassurance that the darkness wouldn't allow her to slumber deeply enough to dream of him.


It was an unusually warm spring night, though the wind was beginning to pick up as he pulled his hood over his head. It still took him by surprise when he brushed his hand through his short hair, a habit formed from years of letting it grow till his mother fussed that it needed a cut.

Each step hurt as he fought his way through the busy streets, keeping his blue eyes fixed on his trainers in case anyone recognized him. Witches and wizards had long since moved on from the fanaticized reactions following the fall of Voldemort, but occasionally an especially grateful well-wisher would call out for a photograph or handshake. These days, most people would simply stare and offer diminutive smiles.

In truth, he much preferred his hair long, but felt that his look needed a bit of an edge. Harry had kept his raven hair wild as usual, but had grown in stature and confidence. Ron couldn't help but smile lightly to himself, grateful his best mate was enjoying the life he'd built since the war. But that was quickly replaced with the familiar sinking feeling in his stomach that grew and knotted until he couldn't take it anymore.

Dipping into the nearest pub around the corner from the ministry, Ron was glad to see that it was mainly filled with strangers. When thoughts of her entered his mind, it was much easier to down pints by himself than risk someone asking him why he was so surly.

The gruff witch asked his order as he took a seat at the bar, her voice croaking with age. His sore arms and legs pulsed as he sat forward, wrinkling his forehead as he debated whether he wanted to start with a beer or go straight to whiskey. The witch didn't give him time to decide and whisked off brusquely, tending to the loud group that just entered the pub.

Ron rubbed his tired eyes and suppressed a yawn, but was jolted to attention as a hand lightly tapped him on the shoulder. Without warning his hand leapt to his wand, brandishing it as he spun off the chair and faced his attacker. He was appalled to realize the person standing before him with arms held up was none other than Padma Patil, looking confused and frightened at the reaction from her former schoolmate.

"Ron Weasley! Put that thing away right now – surely you remember me!" she screeched, dark eyes trained on Ron's wand hand. It took him a second to respond to her words, taking in her lovely dark hair that fell nearly to her waist and smart dress robes. She looked great, despite the irritated look on her face.

"Er, sorry 'bout that," Ron muttered, tucking his wand away and nervously glancing around the dimly lit pub. A few people cast edgy looks his way and the bartender eyed him uneasily.

"Any trouble, miss?" Padma shook her head and looked pointedly at Ron, who could feel her heavily on his reddened face.

"How…how've you been, Padma?" Ron managed to ask, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. They simultaneously moved towards the closest empty table, choosing seats across from one another. Padma graciously smiled at him, appearing much more at ease as the redheaded man rubbed a hand over his stubbly cheek.

"Just fine, Ron. I'm engaged – he's from Australia, an arithmancer. Met when he came to London for a seminar," she beamed, unaware of Ron's unease at the mention of that godforsaken country.

"This one's on me, yeah?" Ron asked as he stood to order, not bothering to ask Padma if she wanted anything other than the strongest swott malt.

"Engaged…wow," Ron answered in a deadpan voice, pushing a glass of the golden liquid towards her. Padma smiled back at him, swirling the drink around before taking a tentative sip. "That's great. Cheers."

Padma sweetly shared about Marcus (or was it Mark? Angus?) as Ron slipped into drinking idly and pretending to listen. Halfway through telling sharing about their great debacle of where to live once married, Ron signaled for another round.

"I mean, Melbourne is alright and all, but – oh, no thank you, Ron. One's enough for me!" Padma answered as Ron gestured to the drink before shrugging his shoulders and downing another drink. The welcomed buzz was beginning to settle in, but it wasn't quite enough. The conversation was bound to take an unpleasant turn, no matter how hard Ron deviated.

"Well, enough about me! How's Harry? And Her-"

"What about Parvati?" Ron interrupted, starting to feel desperate. He needed to leave this pub now.

"Oh, how sweet of you to ask, Ron. She's doing much better…really enjoying her work as a mediwitch. She said she treated your colleagues, actually, when you all got into that nasty scuffle at The White Rat," she said hesitantly, the surprise not hidden from her voice."

"Oh, shite…no, I knew that. Just forgot is all," Ron stammered awkwardly, embarrassed that he'd forgot that Padma's twin had met them at the scene of a raid just weeks ago. They hadn't had much conversation, though it was nice to see her doing well.

Padma gave him a forgiving grin until Ron ordered yet another drink, downing half of it with one swig. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, avoiding eye contact.

"You know, it's getting late, Ron. I better head home soon," she said politely, reaching into her bag.

"No! Please, on me," Ron shook his head erratically as Padma fished out a few sickles. "Gotta save it for the wedding, right?" He gave a lopsided smile, hoping that his former Yule Ball partner would overlook his overindulgence in spirits and leave soon so he could stop feeling guilty about it.

"That's kind of you, Ron. Next time it's my treat and I get to hear more about you," she winked, standing to part ways. Ron got to his feet, unsure if he should offer a hug or shake her hand. Both felt weird.

Padma answered by kissing his cheek quickly, but before walking off, turned to ask him a question.

"Wait! Ron, before I go, I meant to ask…are you still with Hermione?"

Merlin. Just hearing her name was like an unpleasant splash of cold water across his face. He just stood there, unsure of what to say. His heart thundered in his chest, anxiety prickling every nerve ending in his body. He felt bile begin to rise in his throat.

Forcing the word, he looked Padma in the eye and icily uttered a single word, the answer that pained him more than he ever dared admit to himself.

"No."

Padma must have realized her mistake, because she backed up a few steps and apologized for asking. Ron shook his head and waved her off, forcing himself to breath and part ways. Pay and get out. Walk and forget this happened.

The night air was a welcome relief as he ducked out of the pub, ignoring the sounds of happy patrons all around him. His stomach rolled with alcohol and lack of food. He made it two blocks and stopped in another bar, nodding to the familiar bartender and gulping down another two beers. He finally felt it – the warm feeling that erased his concerns, even if fleetingly. No, never quite erased. Subdued. Fuzzied. Muffled. His blood thundered but the rest of his body felt light. His sore muscles crying out for relief were nothing compared to the need he felt to override the ache in his heart, the anger and regret and sorrow when he was reminded of her. Which was every blasted minute of his damn life.


Hermione woke suddenly, her throat tight with thirst. As she suspected, it was barely past midnight. She threw on her dressing gown and padded down the hall. She'd left the lamp on, which cast a glow about the room, illuminating Crookshanks. His tail waved lazily in the air, eyes affixed to the street outside. As the witch busied herself with pouring a glass of water, a plastered young man paced back and forth outside across the road, concealed in the shadows by all except the ginger cat.


A/N: To be continued! Follow for more.