She would remember, later, that she'd only looked up because the sound of his chewing was unbelievably galling.
"Ron," she started, intending to ask him, in as polite a manner as possible, to please masticate with his lips closed, but the expression on his face made the words wither and die in her throat.
He swallowed the mouthful of curry (take-away from her favorite Indian place, a birthday treat she hadn't expected from him). He looked as though he might be ill.
"Are you all right?" she asked, but her stomach was already knotting with dread.
He blinked. His head was hung so low that the tears in his eyes splashed directly onto his plate.
She can't make you happy. You know it and so do I. That sloppy, indolent scrawl.
"Ron?" The knot tightened.
He sucked in a breath. "I think..." And stopped.
The box in the attic. Sheets and sheets of parchment tied haphazardly into stacks, some of them wrinkled, as though they'd been crumpled and then smoothed out again. No signature, but she recognized the handwriting. Ronald Weasley. Chatterford End, Basilton. Deliver after dark. Always the same. Deliver after dark.
After she'd read the first letter, she knew why.
He reached over, covered her hand with his. "Hermione - " His voice was shaking. "I think I'm - "
She snatched her hand back, shoved her chair back, stood. "It's okay," she said. Her voice sounded unfamiliar, shrill and bright against the sudden oppression of the kitchen. "It's okay. I know."
"You found them." It wasn't a question. He began to cry in earnest then, the heels of his hands pressed to his forehead.
"Yes." Her eyes felt gritty and hot.
You know you imagine me. Think of what I could do to you. With you. For you. Words she couldn't bear to read, words that sliced through the core of her.
She thought of every time he'd kissed her cheek and rolled away, leaving her aching and empty. She thought of pale hands laced through her husband's freckled ones.
"I'm so sorry." He was gasping now, his apology soggy with guilt. "I'll go."
But she couldn't bear the thought of him on Draco's doorstep.
"No." She took a step back. Another. "No. You stay. I'll - " She couldn't finish.
His broken gaze clutched at her, but she went anyway.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
She had her broom in the little beaded bag; she could have flown. She walked instead, and the feeling of the cement beneath her sneakers was brittle and tragic. Severus's house was thirteen kilometers away. She got there just before ten.
"Hermione." His brow creased. "What's wrong?"
"Oh," she said thinly, letting him pull her inside, "everything." And began to cry.
He led her to the couch and sat next to her, only moving away once, to get her a box of tissues. In waterlogged half-sentences, she told him about the letters. About Ron's long weekends in London, the way he smiled at her and kissed her so sweetly when he returned. About how she'd known for nearly a year and had said nothing.
"I'm an idiot," she said bitterly.
He snorted. "Hardly."
"It's my fault." She swiped at her eyes with a tissue.
He stood up, leaning heavily on the arm of the couch, and limped over to the kitchen. "Hm. If you think that's true, perhaps I should rethink my assessment of you."
She pulled her bare feet up on the couch and rested her forehead on her knees, rocking gently against her own misery. Listened to the sounds of him moving awkwardly in the other room: clink of glass, the pop of a cork. She looked up when she heard his uneven footsteps coming back toward her.
"Here," he said, holding out a glass of wine.
She took it and sipped, grimacing. "Dry."
"Blame Minerva," he said, "she seemed to think it'd be an excellent birthday present."
"You don't like fizzy anything." She swirled the prosecco.
He arched an eyebrow and raised his glass at her. "Ill-suited for both of us, then," he said. "Seems fitting."
She leaned against him, the bell of her glass cupped loosely in her fingers, and closed her eyes. "Cheers," she muttered.
"Hmph," he said, but he was a little heavier against her, then.
When the wine was gone, she set her empty glass on the coffee table. "I suppose I should go," she said. She could go to Harry and Ginny's; they had a guest room.
"Hermione," Severus said, and his voice sounded so odd, or was she drunk? "You can stay here."
She looked at him blankly. "Sev?" Because it wasn't like that. They weren't like that.
He interrupted. "I love you," he said bluntly.
Her mouth fell open. "I - " she started, but he reached up and touched her face. So gently, but it sent shocks of electricity through her. And he was looking at her as though she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Fuck all, she thought, and kissed him.
She felt his low groan as her lips hit his and it was so strange, kissing someone who wasn't Ron, kissing Severus. Whom she loved, yes, and oh, she was confused and wanting, and she thought that he might be able to take away that empty desperate feeling -
She thought he might ask if she was sure, but his mouth was hot and hungry and he wasn't that much of a gentleman. She stripped off her jeans and pushed his robes away, shoved him back onto the couch, straddled him. He bucked against her frantically, his muscles taut and trembling.
"Hermione." His hands shook. He clutched at her.
"Yes." She sank her teeth into his shoulder, hard enough to make him cry out. Reached between her legs and wrapped her hand around him.
He was breathing hard now, small sharp gasps with each furious upstroke of her hand. "You'd better - " he managed to say.
"Yes," she said again. She spit on her palm, and slicked him down, and filled herself with him.
He came hard, his hands curled into the sweater she hadn't bothered to shed, his breath hot against her neck.
Oh God, she thought. What have I done.