I blinked, because surely I could not be seeing properly. Surely my fiancé was not exchanging tongues with Parvati Patil. Surely –
But eighteen blinks and a pinch later, I couldn't deny what met my amber eyes. There he was – all six feet of him, tall and lean as ever – pawing my former dorm mate in the center of Diagon Alley, with apparent disregard for the passersby with children, who eyed the pair threateningly.
And, oddly enough, I couldn't find it in me to be surprised. Worse, I couldn't find it in me to be truly sad. But I was very, very angry. Pissed, even – and that isn't a word that I typically make a habit of using.
How dare he! Oh, I knew he'd become much more attracted to the opposite sex, recently. He'd made very little effort to be discrete about his blunt flirtations and roaming eyes. And, really, I couldn't blame him for that because I'd found plenty of other men attractive and, perhaps, bed worthy – if I hadn't been engaged.
But Ron – Oh, dear Ron apparently lacked that restraint!
Fame had been polluting his head for months. It did wonders for his ego, and very little for everything else. Our sex life, for example, had suffered from his ego as well. Of course, his needs had been met, but that spoke nothing of my needs. He'd been strutting around like a peacock for the past three months, spawning from when The Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly first published the articles regarding Voldemort's defeat.
As expected, we – the so-called "Golden Trio" – had been quickly placed under a beamingly illuminated spotlight.
Harry politely shied away from it, because it wasn't all that new for him, really. The vigor of the reporters had dramatically increased, but the basic principle was the same: Harry didn't like reporters, and did all that he could in order to keep from speaking to them. The influx of women did not increase by very much, either, because he'd already been hounded by them since their graduation from Hogwarts two years ago.
Ron – politically uneducated as he was – flashed grins at the reporters and often stopped to idly chat with them, which, more than once, led to an uncouth article or two regarding something he'd said to them, forgetting to mention that it was "off the record". And along with his newfound fame came a horde of women "supporters". He often found cause to speak with them, as well, despite the menacing glares that I often sent him on such occasions.
I found it a tad bit more difficult than my fiancé to adjust to the men that suddenly seemed so very fond of me. I was sure that it was more for fame, more for glory than it was for my looks, although Ginny mentioned once or twice (or a few more) that I'd grown into my once plain body and that my wild mane of hair had calmed – at least enough for it to be pretty.
Nevertheless, I wasn't interested in a man that couldn't see past the magazine covers and book signings, or even – Merlin forbid – my looks. Myself as a person was more significant than myself as the world saw me. Not to mention I already had a bloke, who clearly did not care as much for the promise of marriage as I did.
I'd thought that I wanted Ron. Really, everyone thought that I did. And I think that I did want him, sometime before publicity became an issue. It took a while to adjust to his new behavior, and I thought that I could meld it in to our everyday life. I'm fairly sure that I was fully prepared to do that, and that I had already started to.
It wasn't until this moment that I realized that sometime in the past three months, my affection for Ron, my love for him had dwindled considerably. It hadn't vanished, of course… I'd been with him for two and a half years now – of course I wouldn't be rid of all emotions quite so quickly.
But my love for him had lowered to the point where I was not exactly upset, per se, about what I could see him doing right now, but I was absolutely furious that he thought he could treat me this way.
He most certainly could not, and he would be well aware of the fact come night's end.
Well aware.
I collected my shopping bags – ironically, I'd been hunting for a birthday present for him - - fat chance he'd get it after tonight – and Apparated back to our shared home outside of London.
Part of me – perhaps a larger part than I'd ever be willing to admit – wondered how I would get on without Ron to help me function. The thought entirely acted against my independent nature, and bothered me quite a lot, but it really was a logical question.
We hadn't moved in together right after Hogwarts; I had insisted on that, at least. But for the past year we'd been living together, and for the past four months we'd been engaged. It had not been particularly exciting, maybe, but it had been comfortable. It had been stable and steady and all that I had wanted.
It had been all that I thought he wanted.
Clearly I was wrong. Although, to be fair to my suffering sense of self, Ron had changed dramatically in the past three months. I'd been set to working around it, to mixing up our life style a bit in order to satisfy his newfound ego with our recent fame. And a past Ron might have accepted that – but not this new Ron.
And how absolutely shallow the new Ronald Weasley was!
I had given him a promise. I had given him my hand, despite how absolutely terrified I'd been. I'd given my word that I would walk beside him through all of our life trials. I had discovered within the past hour that perhaps this was not the man to give that promise to – but the man I'd known four months ago had given me no reason to hesitate.
Despite his recent changes, I'd never thought he'd lost his sense of honor. His dignity, maybe – drooling after women with slim waists and toothpicks for legs – and his sense of respect, obviously – because he'd taken to looking down on anyone who hadn't recently had their face published in the papers, and occasionally looking down on those who had had their face published in recent papers.
But I'd never thought for a moment that I should have been concerned about acts of infidelity. The act itself had always been deplorable to me, but at this moment I felt wounded.
I felt sick.
This was bigger than losing my fiancé. It was bigger than the fact that my lifestyle was about to drastically change.
Because I hadn't just lost my fiancé. I'd lost my closest friend.
It had been a long time coming, I now realized. He hadn't been my close friend for many months. But he'd been there, at least.
I stumbled to the sink, determined not to be sick but preparing for the nausea anyway. I splashed cold water on my face, hoping to force the feeling into retreat, but it refused. I dried my face with a clean dishcloth, and leaned my back against the counter, bracing myself by planting my hands on the granite to either side of me.
And the anger toiled away in the pit of my stomach, rising to my throat and leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
I could grant that a loss of feelings for me was acceptable, given the changes he'd made within himself. We were different people now. But what possibly made him believe that he had the right to curl into another woman's embrace while still formally engaged to me? Did he not owe me a proper severance, if not as his fiancé and girlfriend, then as his best friend?
And yet, that still was not the root of my anger.
Hadn't he the courtesy, at least, to keep his private affairs… private? Could he not leave me with a small sliver of pride?
A picture of he and Parvati would grace the tabloids by morning, I was sure of it. And who would suffer, then? Who would take on the brunt of sympathetic friends?
Bile threatened to expel from my throat, but I pushed it down with a strong effort and poured myself a glass of water. I gulped it down, fervently hoping that Ron would stay out long enough for me to collect myself. I was going to give him a show, and I wanted to be fully prepared to give it.
But I needed a minute.
My stomach still churned violently, but I forced myself to sit down at the kitchen table, and rest my head in my hands. I was not sad that I was losing my fiancé – I was sad that I was losing my best friend. And I was angry that he'd lacked the courage to break our engagement and confront me like the man that he'd once been. Further, I was angry that he'd not even been considerate about his romantic interests.
I deserved that, at the very least.
I gripped the edges of the wooden table and used the leverage to help me stand. I had a performance to give, and so help me if Ronald Weasley would not receive my very best.
He didn't saunter in until an hour later, and I had spent it pondering exactly what I would do to him when he finally showed his guilty, sodden face in our home again. My home. It would not longer be his after tonight.
"Hermione?" He called.
"Kitchen," I responded neutrally. I had carefully arranged myself around the dishes, washing them the muggle way – the way that I had been taught, the way that helped to settle my nerves. And the way that Ron Weasley knew meant that I was mad. It angered me that he draped his cloak over one of the chairs and walked toward me, but it pleased me that he did so with the utmost caution.
And he had good reason to be cautious.
"How was work?"
I wanted to chuck the plate that I was rinsing, and I wanted it to smash against his head. Oh, I was beyond angry – I was livid. Work? He wanted to know about work? Well – "Work was just fine."
He winced. He'd caught on to my message, then – work was just fine, so it had to be him that I was having an issue with. So he ended all interrogation efforts and pulled his hands down to his sides, away from my shoulders, which he'd been about to knead, I was sure.
"How was your day?" I asked casually, purposefully keeping my tone light and airy – and unaffected.
He sighed. "My day was fine – up until now," he pulled a face, which ended in a scowl. "Can you just tell me what is it that I've done to set you off this time?"
My mind sputtered with fury. How did he figure that he had the right to ask me that? After – after what he'd done!
I kept my voice carefully moderated, but allowed for all the ice in my heart to spill through it. "Why don't you tell me, Ronald?"
He didn't care for it an ounce, and flinched violently before straightening his back in a manner that I might have admired once before, but spoke to me with a tone that stole away any and all remaining respect that I might have had for him. "And how," he snarled, "would you expect me to know the answer? You're the one who called us out on our divination bullshit, if I recall correctly. You damn well know I'm not a seer."
A perfect opportunity for a shot at Parvati that I had not planned for, but could not refuse. "I'd thought that perhaps your girlfriend might have honed your skills a bit. No?" I asked frostily. "Pity."
I might have imagined it – in fact, I was quite sure that I did, because I knew it to be impossible – but I would have sworn to have heard the blood drain from his face. I turned around, pinning him with a glare that I'd never known I could create.
"Hermione, I – that wasn't – it isn't – how do you even – "
"Know, Ronald? How do I even know? Is that what that pathetically miniscule brain of yours is failing to articulate?"
I didn't continue. I decided that making him answer the question would put him through far more agony than if I had proceeded. I wasn't wrong. He nodded – a simple nod – but I could see the hesitation to do so, because it meant admitting to my implied accusation.
"Must I tell?" I backpedaled, working around the actual scene that I had witnessed – for the moment, anyway. "Must I really? Because to my eye, Ronald Weasley, I am not the one that needs to explain."
His jaw worked up and down, no sound spilling forth, reminiscent of the old Ronald Weasley – and I was hit by a brief wave of nostalgia before I forced it down and continued my prowl around him. I gave up on holding the scene hostage. "And you can imagine how starved I am for an explanation as to why I was subjected to witness you and Parvati Patil sucking face in the middle of Diagon Alley this afternoon, Ronald Weasley," I bit out coolly.
"I – I didn't – and it wasn't – but you… found out," he ended in a broken whisper.
I had to work to keep the frozen texture in my voice. I almost wanted to pity him – but that was something that I would do in our past relationship. Not now. Certainly not now. "It would be much appreciated if you could speak with an ounce of coherency." I snapped. "You haven't the right to evade this. You want to betray the promises we made to one another when you gave me this ring?" I chucked it at his forehead with incredible accuracy, and I mentally gave myself a pat on the back. "Then you damn well ought to be able to give some sort of reasoning behind it."
He sprang forth at the insult. "Oh, don't pretend you haven't noticed!" He growled. "Don't you dare pretend you haven't seen how things have changed between us since the battle!"
Oh, I'd seen. I'd seen and had been willing to work through it, but he apparently lacked the same perseverance. "A change in our relationship, Ronald?" I hissed quietly. "Or a change in you? I'd strongly argue in favor of the second, and perhaps agree that the former was a result of the latter."
"Of course you would," he retorted harshly. "It's just like you to not accept blame where blame is due."
I recoiled immediately. Me? He was honestly crediting blame to me? "Whatever you may or may not think," I said, unable to stop my voice's climb in volume, "I am not the one who fell into the arms of another to find my comfort, Ronald Weasley, so don't you even think to put this on my shoulders!"
He fell back to his former state of silent, stuttering paleness, until I severed the silence. "You could not have given me enough respect as your once best friend to have shown a lick of honor in this? Would it truly have been more difficult to break off our relationship than to create unnecessary drama and press by having a… a fling with another woman? Do you honestly have that little courage?"
He opened his mouth to protest, but I held my hand up, feeling the previous nausea attempting to rise from the depths of my stomach. And – a new symptom – I could feel my eyes stinging, and the sight of me crying was one that I would not grant Ronald Weasley tonight.
"At this point," I said quietly, "it simply doesn't matter. Pack your things, and be out of the house in an hour."
"But I – "
I frowned at him, and he snapped his mouth shut with an audible clack. I gathered my cloak together and Apparated to Harry's. He would know how to comfort me. He would know what to say. Or, even better, what not to say.