A/N: I own nothing, save for my small collection of words and phrases. It all belongs to the creative goddess of our generation, which is sadly, not me.
The song which inspired this little ficlet is "Only in My Mind" and it belongs to Reba McEntire, from her 1985 album, "Have I Got a Deal for You." My thanks to her for its creation and unauthorized use here.
Thanks to Jollymonkee5613 for the phrase on Ron's tee-shirt. You are awesome!
This is un-betaed, so any mistakes are my own. See one? Please let me know.
The sun shone brilliantly in the July sky, beaming its hot rays through the fluffy clouds and down to the thick grass covering the lawn of the rebuilt Burrow. The gathered children were running around, shrieking wildly as they played with their siblings and cousins, causing some of the scattered parents to wince and grimace at the noise and others to smile softly at the happy antics.
Ronald Weasley was one of the former, while his wife, Hermione, sitting next to him on the bench in the shade of an old Beech tree, was one of the latter. They both dearly loved their children, but she had infinitely more patience with the raucous noise levels they all produced than he did.
Time had been kind to the couple; sixteen years after the war had finally ended, they had both matured, but didn't quite look to be in their mid-thirties thanks to the wonders of Wizards' aging.
Years of taming her wild bushy hair with Sleekeazy's Hair Potion had paid off, and while it would never be straight, Hermione now had a head full of long manageable curls, tied back in a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck for the day. Her nicely tanned skin and still-slim figure were shown off in white denim capris and a navy blue sleeveless top.
Ron still had yet to begin losing his hair, and he'd gained a Quidditch-player's physique over the years. His legs were well-toned underneath his khaki trousers, and the strong muscles of his chest and arms bulged nicely from the short sleeves of his "Can You Handle My Broomstick?" tee-shirt, all due to all the time he spent on his broom, maintaining balance as he flew and kept the opposing team's chasers from getting the Quaffle through the hoops. He'd been experimenting with facial hair recently, and there was a thin mustache above his lip, connecting to a short beard on his chin. Hermione had been after him to shave it off, but he rather liked the way it looked and so had been putting her off.
Ron was relaxed back against the bench, Hermione snuggled into his side, his arm wrapped loosely around her shoulders along the back of the bench. His unoccupied hand was at his mouth as he nibbled nervously at his nails. Hermione reached up and pulled his hand away, twining her fingers with his to keep him from destroying the nail beds again.
They sat for several minutes in comfortable silence, enjoying the soft breeze that was blowing. His foot began tapping unheeded, thoughts swirling unspoken through his mind.
Hermione leaned up and turned to face him, letting go of his hand as the angle made the contact awkward. "What's wrong?" She could see the whirl of activity behind his bright blue eyes, and wondered what was causing him such trouble.
He sighed and questioned himself for a moment if the time was right, but as the sun glinted off the white gold of the delicate chain around her neck, he gave in and asked the question that had been plaguing him for weeks. "Hermione, I'm not sure how to ask this nicely, so I'm just going to ask, and I want you to be honest with me."
"Alright."
"Have you ever cheated on me?"
There was a simple answer, and there was a complicated answer, and she wasn't sure which one to give him. Had she physically cheated? Had she kissed or slept with someone other than him? No, she hadn't. Mentally, however … well, that was a completely different story. In her mind, she'd cheated in every possible way, and her affections totally belonged to the person to whom she gave herself repeatedly in her dreams and in her fantasies.
The silence stretched between them as she mused, and as her mental infidelity glinted in her eyes, a flash of resignation sparked in his.
"Have you? Has there been someone else, Hermione? Someone you love more than you love me? Things haven't been right with us for a long time, and I'm not quite so stupid as to not realize it. I've been patient, trying to give you time to get over him, but you aren't forgetting about whoever it is. Maybe if we discuss things, if we can exorcise his ghost from our marriage and chase his memory away, then maybe we can move on and get past it all, but I need to know… Have you cheated on me?"
Her sad brown eyes rose to meet his again, and the only words she could utter were, "Only in my mind."
"Fuck, Hermione, I don't know if that's better or worse." He looked away from her, his anguish easily read in his face and body. "If you had, then at least you'd know how they were and once might have been enough to quell your curiosity, but knowing that it's all been in your fantasies … on the one hand, I'm glad that nobody else has touched you, but at the same time, you'll never know if they might have been better than me; more of what you wanted and needed than I could give you." His jaw was clenched, teeth grinding angrily against each other.
"I'm sorry, Ron. I never meant for this to happen, and I never meant for you to find out, especially this way." She pulled a packet of tissues from her pocket and swiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks, not wanting to cause a scene.
"Who is he? Can I at least know his name?"
She swallowed hard, color rushing up from her neck in a deep flush, knowing the next revelation would break him. "It's not a man, Ron."
He turned his head sharply, facing her again incredulously, the hand still draped behind her clenching into a tight fist. "Then who is she? Who is this woman you've fallen for?"
Her voice was barely a whisper as she breathed out her deepest, darkest secret, "Minerva."
He froze, mouth open and eyes wide. "Minerva… McGonagall? Christ, Hermione. I knew you had that thing for her back in school, but …still?"
She nodded slowly, unable to form any more words through the lump in her throat.
His voice thick with hurt and anger, he stood, saying, "I can't look at you anymore right now, Hermione. Gods help me, I can't, and so I'm going home before I say anything hurtful. Pull yourself together if you can, and if you can't, find somewhere you can go to do so. Don't let the kids see you like this, alright? We'll talk more after I've had a chance to cool off."
She nodded again and pulled out another tissue, trying in vain to clean her face up.
He jerked his chin in her direction tersely and spun on his heel, apparating away.
She pulled her knees up in front of her chest and buried her face in her knees, letting the white denim soak up the evidence of her sorrow. After a moment, a warm hand dropped to her shoulder, and she felt the comfort of her oldest friend radiating from the touch.
"Oh, Harry."
"Alright there, Hermione?"
"No."
Harry sighed. "What's he done this time?"
"Have a seat." He sat next to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and she snuggled into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. "It's not him this time, it's what I've done. Or not done? I'm not even sure anymore. But hey, listen, you remember when we were in school, I had that crush on Minerva?"
"Yeah. We took the piss out of you for that for the longest time. What's that got to do with Ron storming off today?"
"What you didn't know is that it wasn't entirely one-sided."
Harry's fingers had been lightly running over the warm skin of her shoulder, and at her statement, they stilled. She tilted her head up to see the shock wash over his face, his still-unruly hair waving gently in the breeze, pale lips slightly parted in surprise, and those deep pools of green directed at her, so like the ones she'd loved for what seemed like her entire life.
"It was never more than a confession and a couple of stolen kisses here and there, because she had her responsibilities and so did I, and it would have been unprofessional and irresponsible to go any further, but I loved her, Harry. I loved her more than I've ever loved anyone or anything… and she loved me back."
"It's from her, isn't it? All these years of teasing you about it, and it was from her, wasn't it?"
Her fingers absently rose to stroke along the delicate chain of white gold around her neck, playing with the rose-shaped pendant made of pink and white gold. Minerva had sent it to her, supposedly anonymously, when her daughter had been born, and though the accompanying note hadn't been signed, she'd known her mentor's handwriting immediately.
"Yes."
"And Ron's just found out?"
She sighed deeply. "He asked me if I'd ever cheated on him. I don't know where the question came from, or why he felt the need to ask me here, today, but he asked, and I truthfully told him that while I never have cheated in body, in my mind I've done it a thousand times."
"I think I understand him leaving now."
"Are you going to leave me, too, Harry?" She dabbed at the growing tears as she thought about both her husband and her best friend leaving her over something she'd never been able to control.
"We've been friends for twenty-three years, Hermione, and though we've had our rough patches here and there, I've never abandoned you yet; I won't start now. But you do need to talk to him."
"I know."
Harry leaned down and pressed a kiss against the top of her head. "Go ahead. We'll watch Rose and Hugo for a while. Merlin knows there are plenty of us around to do it. They can stay with us tonight if you need them to. I know James and Al and Lily would enjoy them being there, and they're never any trouble. Pull yourself together and straighten things out, okay?"
She squeezed him tightly against his ribs. "Thanks, Harry. You're a good friend, you know; the best."
"Don't I know it?" His cheeky answer brought a wry smile to her face, and she hugged him again before standing and casting a discreet glamour to cover the evidence of her crying jag. "I won't bother the kids with this. Just tell them I wasn't feeling well and that I'll see them in the morning."
"Sure thing, Hermione. I love you, you know."
Her watery gaze softened, and she smiled at him again. "Love you, too, Harry. Thanks again."
He nodded at her in understanding, and she, like Ron before her, turned and apparated away from The Burrow.
Seconds later, she appeared far to the north, in a field full of heather dancing in the breeze. With a whisper, she freed her hair from its potion-induced calmness and felt as the sleek curls tightened and frizzed, returning to its wild and unmanageable state, the way Minerva had always loved it.
Slowly and silently, she trekked across the field toward the small loch in its center. She reached the small white structure on its bank and stood stoically, her hair being pulled and tugged in the growing wind, nearly cold even in the heat of the summer, so far north in Scotland. There weren't many miles between this little lake and the northern shore of the main British Isle, but the area was pleasant and quiet and remote. Not far from the bank, there was a patch of blackened dirt, the last remnants of Minerva's childhood home. The only things left standing were the five stones here in front of Hermione, as she stood in silent contemplation.
Robert David McGonagall b 1900 d 1951
Isobel Kathleen Ross McGonagall b 1902 d 1951
Malcolm Walter McGonagall b 1928 d 1945
Robert David McGonagall Jr. b 1930 d 1951
Minerva Isobel McGonagall b 1925 d 2013
"Hello, Minerva." Hermione knelt in front of the white stone marking Minerva's place of rest, and pulled idly at the weeds, clearing her grave of all but the dirt and the grass.
"I told Ron about us today. Well, I sort of told him about us. He asked if I'd ever cheated on him – and I'm not sure why – but he asked, and the only words I could come up with were only in my mind." She huffed, a quiet sound of frustration escaping her lips. "If he only knew how many times I've been in his arms, trying desperately to make things work, only to find that the burst of passion I gave him came because I visualized you in his place. Oh, you know I love him, Min; I always have, but mercy, I can't help but think of all the ways I could have been different, better, if we'd just given in to ourselves and each other, told the rest of the world to sod off, and been together.
"I contented myself, over the years, with the letters we wrote, and with the memory of those few stolen kisses in darkened corners of the castle, but it wasn't enough, Minerva. It was never enough. And now you're gone and I'll never have the chance to find out. It's been so hard this last year without you. So hard.
"You were the one person, apart from Harry, that I felt like I came to the Wizarding world to meet. We were destined, you and I, and we threw it away for propriety's sake and for our responsibilities." Her fingers played with the rose pendant around her neck as she spoke, tears flowing unchecked. "Why didn't we give us a real chance? Because I didn't want to risk the alienation of the Weasleys? Because you didn't want to risk your career? Because fifteen years ago, it was still odd to hear about homosexual relationships?
"Well fuck all that, Minerva. In the years since we truly parted, I've come to realize that none of it mattered, not really. The Weasleys? They had long since accepted me into the family, and if I hadn't married Ron, they would have still stood beside me. Your career? You'd already given them forty-three years! Albus wanted you to be the Headmistress once the war was over; the Board would never have fired you for being in love, even if it was with a woman, not with his word behind you. And the strides that community has made since then! There was nothing in the way of us except ourselves, and I hate myself for giving in and not fighting for you, for us." She sat silently for a moment, gathering her thoughts.
"Gods, I miss our conversations. If it doesn't have to do with Quidditch or Wizards' Chess, he wants nothing to do with it. I miss the long discussions we used to have on the theory behind magic, how it worked and why this incantation was better than that one, or why that type of magic was classified as a Charm rather than a Transfigurative Spell, although the basics were essentially the same, and how the Ministry called this spell Dark while that one was Light or that this other one was Grey, depending on intent.
"They say that since your articles disappeared from Transfiguration Today last year, circulation is down fourteen percent. You were so brilliant, Minerva, darling, and I only hope that by the time I reach your age, I know even half as much as you did. Oh, I know," she said with a sad smile, "that I'm well on my way. You used to tell me that often enough that I half believe it, but I still have so far to go, and without you, I don't know if I can."
She lowered herself, laying her body on top of the packed soil and turf that covered Minerva's remains. The crown of her head brushed against the white stone of the marker, and the grass tickled at her wet cheeks. "I miss you every day, and I'm so sorry I gave up on us, that I didn't fight for you. I love Ron and oh gods, I love my children, but you were the greatest love of my life, Minerva, and I wish you were here."
Her long speech finished, she lay there with her eyes closed and let the scent of the heather wash over her and listened to the crashing of the waves against the shore of the loch. Her hair waved gaily overhead, tangling itself mercilessly in the wind, and for just a brief moment, Hermione could swear she felt the warm and comforting weight of a hand on her cheek, moving back to sweep the hair off her face and tuck a lock behind her ear. Her lips tingled just for a second or two, and she felt a deep peace flow over her, drying her tears.
She sat up, eyes fluttering open, lips forming a name without a sound to accompany it, but the presence was gone.
Hours later, in the growing dusk, she left the Highlands, pressing her lips to the cold stone that marked the resting place of the only woman she would ever love, and apparated home.
Ron was sitting on the couch when she walked in, and he looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. Combined with his swollen nose, she surmised that his evening had been spent in much the same way as hers – with many tears. She didn't look any better, hair wild and tangled, and tiny bits of grass and heather caught up in its strands.
"I suppose we need to talk, don't we?"
"Yeah," he replied, "I guess we do."
Alright, dear readers, I leave it up to you to decide what happens next. Maybe they reconcile, maybe they part ways. Maybe it's nasty and drawn out, and maybe it's quick and quiet. Personally, I don't see them staying together after this, but maybe you do. What happens next is all in your own imagination, as I won't be writing any more for it. I have far too many other irons in the muse's fires. Updates are coming soon for my WIPs. Thank you for reading.