A/N: Thank you to the wonderful distant millennial for beta-reading this, my friends Greta and Marshall for supporting me, and everyone who's taken the time to read this. :)

This story is NOT abandoned. I've just finished revising chapter 3. I've also edited chapter 1 about a thousand times, probably, whether for grammar mistakes, Americanisms, or coherency. Also note that I've made some major changes to the story since this was first posted.

(Most recent edit: 3 April 2017)

Warnings: Depression, emotional infidelity, and generally just a lot of angst.

There were certain things in life Hermione had seen over and over again. Some of those things, like birthdays, weddings, or children, she'd seen in different places, with different people, on different faces. The rest kept happening in the exact same way. The birthdays and weddings and children were a line of houses that all looked the same. She could count them. She could have even told them apart if she'd wanted to. The time she'd spent bent over paper, writing music was a single house that kept moving. That time seemed like separate memories - separate houses, but it wasn't.

Music had been a part of her life since she'd been little. She couldn't remember what exactly had led her to it in the first place, though. It could've been her father's dreadful but constant singing. It could've been her mother's lullabies. It could have been how regal she'd felt whenever the skirt of her favorite pink dress would drape prettily across the piano bench. It could have been the fact that music, unlike any other art, had a definite structure – had objective rights and wrongs – and yet the world never seemed to run out of rights. It'd probably started when her aunt had bought her a viola for her tenth birthday, though.

She still used that same viola after all these years, partly because of its sentimental value, but mostly because she couldn't afford a new one. It was far too small for her now, and the strings needed badly to be replaced; the wooden surface was lined with scratches from being dropped so many times, and she was fairly certain there was something stuck inside - the thing had been rattling for months.
And Hermione loved it. Loved that stupid piece of rubbish.

She traced an ink-stained finger over the paper she'd propped up against the piano, running it along each note. They were mostly neat, save for a few scraggly lines.

She'd scribbled down a melody earlier. Four bars. Alto clef. B-flat major.

She wasn't sure why she bothered, though. It wasn't like anyone besides Ron was going to read her music, and she never played any of her songs again after composing them. She always folded them up and tucked them between the pages of books. They were organised by key. Every key was assigned to a different book. B-flat major compositions were put in Gulliver's Travels.

She stretched, lifting one hand in the air and placing the other on her neck. Her back was aching. How long had she been sitting there? She reckoned she could use a break.

She sat up, pacing back and forth through the kitchen, looking at the clock every few seconds. She drummed her fingers on the counter. She peered out the window. She looked at the clock again. She kept pacing for a good ten minutes, before she heard the low hum of an engine outside, shortly followed by the light click of a door opening.

With that, Hermione straightened out her skirt and headed to the foyer, only stopping to check her dress—and the white fleece cardigan she probably should have taken off—for any ink spots.

When she reached a familiar gangly figure, she couldn't help but to stop in her tracks. He looked tired. Sedated, even.

His face was red.

This was the fourth time this week he'd come home crying. The who-knows-what-th time in the past few months.

She placed a hand on his cheek. A wet cheek. "Ron...are you—?"

No, he obviously wasn't okay. "What's the matter?" she asked instead. He took in a deep breath before running fingers through his obnoxiously orange hair.

"It's—don't worry, it's nothing," he insisted, gently pushing her hand away. I think I'm just coming down with something." No, he wasn't. She wanted to ask him if he thought she was daft - if he truly thought he could fool her with that. But she put her pride aside and pretended, just this once, that, sure, okay, he was sick. If he tried that again, though…

He wasn't looking at her - just staring at the floor. Had he looked her in the eye once since he walked through the door? Her hand moved from his cheek to his shoulder, and her eyes stayed locked on him.
He finally looked up at her.

"Really, I'm fine." He must have picked up on her doubt, because he added a soft smile at the last second. She still didn't believe a word of it. Not for a minute. Why couldn't he just let her help him?
"You've got ink on your hands," he noted, reaching for one.

"Oh, er—yeah, I was just writing…" she trailed off. He cupped her face this time. It made her want to cry with him.

"Show me."

But she just took his hand and led him to the piano.

"The one on the left is - " Ron sniffed. Hermione felt her skirt and curls twirl as she swiveled on her bare feet, furrowing her brows. He shrugged at her as if to say "See? I'm definitely sick."

"Should...should I run by the chemist's and get you some medicine?" He wouldn't let her comfort him, but she would find a way to help him, or at least pretend she was helping. Some way to show him she cared.

"Yeah, sure." No smile. No eyes. Nothing.

She headed back towards the front door to grab her coat off the rack, and as she slipped on her mary janes, she heard his footsteps trailing behind her. She spun around, raising her eyebrows in a silent question. Ron crept closer toward her, wrapping her in a hug and kissing her forehead. This, too, made her want to cry. Before pulling away, he said,

"You're too good to me."

The town centre wasn't too far from Ron and Hermione's house, no more than two blocks away. All kinds of shops lined the streets - boutiques, bakeries, butcher shops. It wasn't that late, but it was dark enough so that the insides of the shops were brighter than it was outside, and the honey-coloured light that leaked out into the blue evening made Hermione's heart float. As she walked along the pavement, she peeked into some of the display windows, eying flashy jewellry and blinding-white wedding dresses, when she heard a series of 'oohs' and 'aahs' coming from nearby.

She spun on her toes to find the source of the noise. There was a small crowd gathered around a young man. He didn't seem to be doing anything spectacular, but, then again, she couldn't quite see from where she was standing.

So she moved closer.

The first thing she noticed was how young he looked. He had a rosy complexion; colour dusted across the protruding places in his face - his cheeks, his nose, his chin were all pink, and it made the bit of fringe poking out of his cap look ever whiter than it would've on its own. He wasn't a particularly large man. His oversized trousers - held up by braces - seemed to be wearing him. He had a cigarette tucked between his lips, and it muffled the words she wasn't listening to. It was lit, a twirling line of smoke streaming out from its tip, but he didn't seem to be smoking it at the moment. He was simply holding it there.

He asked a fair-skinned woman to open her hand. She revealed a small yellow ball, which had the audience whispering amongst themselves through their applause, as some of them reached out to toss coins in a little tin cup by the blond man's feet. Hermione had missed most of the performance - didn't even know what they were so impressed by, really, but she found herself clapping along.

Then he looked straight at her, as if he could hear every set of hands in an applause, as if he was familiar with each pair, as if he could recognize a newcomer just by the sound of their palms beating together.

The blond man proceeded to pull an apple out of a satchel lying on the pavement and showed it to the crowd, dramatically gesturing towards it with his free hand. He then offered the apple to Hermione, bowing towards her. "Miss, would you take a look at this for me? Feel around it," he said. So she did, running her fingers across its smooth green surface, looking for any poked holes or hollowed out spaces.
"Is there anything off about it?" he asked.

The stem was missing.

"No," she said with a polite smile, "I don't think so." He thanked her as she handed it back to him. His fingers practically danced around the object, extravagantly flipping it over and tracing circles around its curves.

"No, I don't think so, either." He sounded serious, but she swear she caught a small smirk on his face before he held a finger up in a wait-one-minute fashion. He then sprawled his fingers out around the apple—in a strangely graceful manner—and pulled, splitting the apple clean in half. Cheers and claps erupted from the small group, and she fought an eyeroll

The audience was once again in awe. Complete and utter awe over a child in braces. And yet she still applauded along. She wasn't completely sure why. Maybe she felt obligated. Maybe she was too polite. Maybe she felt it was the proper thing to do.

The blond man began packing up, and once it was clear he wasn't prepping for another trick, the crowd began to scatter.
She stayed, though, and when he slung the bag over his shoulder and turned around, he noticed she was still there. He took the cigarette out from his mouth, smacking his hands across each other a few times, before acknowledging her with a sigh.

"Look," he said. "If you're going to ask me how I did it - "

"Wha - no, " she said, waving the notion off. "I know how you did it." He narrowed his eyes at her - almost scowled. Like anyone could possibly figure out the secret behind his brilliant apple-splitting. He said nothing, though - only stared at her coldly. He might have walked off if she hadn't spoken up. "It's just - it's hardly a magic trick, don't you think?"

"Who said I was a magician?" She rolled her eyes this time. Did everyone in the world suddenly think she was daft?

"You're a magician," she said with knitted brows and a tolerating - but amused - smile, "what with the tricks and the posh hand gestures and the cards - "

As Hermione spoke, the blond man lifted his jaw and straightened his shoulders - an unmerited suggestion of victory - and gave a smirk that brought her attention back to the colour in his cheeks.

"I didn't have any cards," he pointed out.

"You might as well have," she pointed back.

"Do you have something against magicians? Or...whatever I am?" She wondered if he was joking, because he was being awfully funny.

"They're liars," she said, jutting her head out for emphasis.

"What's wrong with liars?" His eyes wandered, and he kicked at some dried leaves that'd found themselves on the pavement. No, he wasn't joking, she figured; he was afraid of being wrong.

"You're a bit full of yourself, aren't you?" she asked with a cock of her head. He looked back up at her, eyes narrowing even tighter, as if he were squinting, trying to get a better look at her.

"What do you do?" he asked with a finger pointed at her, ready to accuse. He took a couple steps towards her, probably trying to intimidate her.

"What, for a living?" As he grew nearer, she took in his appearance more carefully. He was just as thin as Ron, but wasn't quite as tall as him. He was still noticeably taller than she was, though - enough so that she had to lift her jaw up to look him in the eye.

"Sure," he said, tucking in his lips and shrugging, "or in your free time." She noticed he used his hands when he talked. If his mouth was moving, his hands were moving too. Neither ever seemed to stop.

"Does it matter?"

"If you're going to insult what I do, yes."

"Okay," she said with a deep inhale, "I write -"

"What do you write?" His facial expression was hard to read. It looked like a mix between childishly sneering and holding back laughter. She wouldn't have been surprised if he'd only cut her off in some sort of attempt to get the upperhand.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to interrupt?"

"No. What do you write?" he repeated, leaning back against the brick wall of the flower shop behind him.

"Music," she said. He chuckled.

"Well, there you go." Another I-know-a-lot-of-things-even-though-I-look-like-I-just-crawled-out-of-the-ground expression crept onto his face. He was still trying not to look defeated, though. So arrogant.

"Excuse me?"

"Musicians are the biggest liars out there," he started before his impulsive motions halted. His eyes darted up, as if he were looking for something. "Sorry—what's your name?"

So personal.

"Hermione."

"Her...what?" She suspected he hadn't really misheard her—that this was just another way to toy with her, but she played along.

"Hermione. H-E-R-M-I-O-N-E," she spelled out patronizingly. "Hermione Granger." He laughed again.

"I don't see how anyone in their right mind could marry a man named Granger. It's such a—"

"It's not my husband's name."

"Look who's interrupting now," he said with raised eyebrows on an otherwise blank face, fiddling with his nails. "What is it, then?" Had he not been listening? Probably had been, which made his question all the more worthy of another eyeroll. She didn't let one out, though.

"It's mine," she said, trying to sound as flat as possible - not hesitant, but not offended, either.

"Yours?" She wasn't sure if his face was twisting out of disgust, confusion or both.

"Mine," she said once more, as he looked at her like she was out of her mind, brows furrowed and his forehead creasing. Maybe rightfully so, though. It wasn't exactly normal, keeping her maiden name.

She'd felt a twinge of hesitance when she'd first suggested it, but Ron insisted, only half-joking when he said she couldn't go around with a name like Hermione Weasley. He wasn't wrong, after all.

"How...progressive of you," he said, with much less life in his words now. She wrapped her cardigan tighter around her, suddenly feeling sheepish.

"What's yours?" she asked after a moment.

"My what?" Hermione sighed.

"Your name," she said, folding her arms. "What is it?"

"Draco. D-R-A-C-O." He was clearly mocking her, though his voice was more bitter than impersonating. "Malfoy." His tone had softened then, and as he reached out a hand for her to shake, she realised this was the first time she'd introduced herself to anyone in...years, was it?

And as she shook his hand, she realised this was the first person she'd touched other than Ron in months.

"Right," she said with her eyes on the pavement, her lips barely moving as she spoke. "What were you saying about musicians?"

She'd had to end her conversation after a few minutes, afraid she would forget why she left the house in the first place. It was also in part because of how the in-denial magic man had overstepped his boundaries, perhaps inevitably so.

After setting a paper bag on the kitchen counter, she found Ron sitting at the piano, playing a familiar tune.

Gloomy Sunday. No, he was definitely not okay . She'd heard him play the tune a couple months after his older brother Fred passed away. He played it when he couldn't fall asleep.

He'd play it whenever he felt lonely.

And he played it. All. The time.

Her heart sunk at the thought - at how many times she'd allowed him to feel down. She tried to help, sure, but he would never let her.

"Angels have no thought of ever returning you," she sang along as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind. "Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?" Ron looked behind his shoulder and smiled at her. He struggled, as though the corners of his mouth were heavy.

"A bit off-key, but I'll take it," he said, palming his face and yawning.

"Shut up." She laughed and lightly hit his shoulder before sitting down on the piano bench. He gave her his right hand, and his left kept playing. "I'm sorry I took so long," she said, curling her fingers around his. "There was this street magician, and I stopped to look. Wish I hadn't though. He wasn't very good."

"Oh, don't worry." He tapped away mindlessly at the ivory. "I almost didn't notice."

"But...you did notice?" Hermione wanted slap herself across the face as soon as the words had left her mouth.

The music stopped.

He looked at her. He looked hurt.

"Hermione, of course I noticed. " His voice came out in almost a whisper, and held her face again. She let out a breath of...relief, maybe?

No, not relief. Not quite. She was uneasy. Something was clearly taking him over, and, as it pulled at his strings and clawed at his skin, it kept a hold on her heart.

She was about to tell him she loved him—loved him so much it hurt sometimes—but a moment before she opened her mouth, he spoke.

"Listen, what do you think about having dinner with the Potters on Saturday?" She felt her face light up, and resisted the urge to blurt out "'YES.' Yes yes yes yes yes.

"Oh, Ron, I'd love that," she said dreamily. "I haven't seen Harry in ages. Ginny, either." Harry was an old friend of theirs. The only friend of theirs. Ron's parents had taken him in after his parents died, and Hermione lived a few doors down from the Weasleys. They were all practically siblings, which made it all the more strange that Harry ended up marrying Ron's sister.

"Yeah, I talked to Harry at the office today. I hadn't even realised how long it's been." A lot of things had been going over Ron's head lately. Last week, he'd stayed up till morning listening to the radio. He hadn't had a clue until Hermione walked into the sitting room and pulled the curtains back.

"Hm," she managed, only willing herself to stare at his hands. Even those massive, freckled, gentle hands were beginning to look tired lately.

Use your words , she told herself, but nothing. She tried over and over again to think of something. "I looked at some of your old writing the other day." Thank god. She didn't have to.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, felt like reading, you know."

"Sure."

Hermione looked at those pale, beautifully ungraceful hands again. He'd stopped playing, but his free hand was drumming against the keys. Not pushing. "They're all in strange keys."

That was true. She didn't have a book saved for B minor compositions, after all. She'd never bothered.

"Well, yeah, " she said, pursing her lips and looking down at her lap, then him. "What of it?"

"It's just...you could write something in C major. Something not so difficult. It could be just as lovely as anything else you've written." His hands stilled now, and he looked at her.

"Ron," she said, slumping her shoulders and grabbing his hand insistingly. "Why does it bother you so much?"

His eyes trailed away from her again. "Why do you always make things harder than they need to be, Hermione?" He softly, slowly, shakily pushed down on three keys until a C chord came out. "Don't you ever worry you're wasting your time?"

As she tried to answer, Hermione thought back to something that blonde man had said, something that'd made her want to run away - run home to her beaten, bruised viola and beat and bruise it a bit more.

"What were you saying about musicians?" she'd asked.

"They're liars, too. The best of 'em."

"You really think that?"

"I know that. They like to tell people - like to tell themselves, that what they do is art, but they're really just wasting their lives away making noise."

"I've...got to go."

"I suppose I like to challenge myself." Her eyebrows were raised, but her expression was concerned. "It's more...fun that way." He shook his head with a half-hearted smile.

"Is that why you married me?" The words cut into her furiously, each one taking a turn stabbing her before courteously handing the blade to the next in line. She told herself he'd been joking, but she had an aching sense that he hadn't been.

"Ron," she chuckled anxiously. "Don't be stupid." She waited for him to say that she was right, or to argue his point, or even to return her nervous laugh.

He was silent.

beta-read by distant millennial