Title: Dismantle the Sun
Author: Kitsuko-san
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, and any related entities, are property of J.K. Rowling and various corporations who make a profit. Me? I'm just a lowly fan, thanks very much.
Pairing: George/Hermione.
Rating: A light teen. This is mild as anything. I'm being overcautious, I think.
Summary: I know.
Warnings: Angst. Some talk of sex, but not anything graphic. Affairs? Post-war, but not spoiler-tastic. Honestly, I think I've only given away one thing, and it's a rather tame one. Mildly DH-Spoilery.
Genre: Angst. And angst. Oh, did I mention angst?
Author's Notes: Five drabbles. My attempt at humour digressed into an angst-fest of [bracketed [DOOM. Not sure how I managed that. Title? Inspired by W.H. Auden's Funeral Blues. I think, because, this is about the end of something. [The poem's a personal favourite, actually. Second delving into the field of George/Hermione. Hopefully I've done it well?
I.
There are days when she hates him, and hates what she is with him. The brief moments spent with him drive her to recklessness; she wastes hours in his bed, letting him take her pain away. In the public eye, Hermione Granger is seriousness and practicality; she is all a war hero should be. On her own time, she is a wanton woman who loses herself in her husband's brother, and she is a woman in love with the Weasley brother she shouldn't. She almost believes what she does is okay. She almost believes that he loves her back, too.
II.
She married Ron out of young foolishness, out of the idolatry that he was her one true love. When he sleeps beside her, and when he tells her that he loves her, she is ashamed of the time she spends with George. When she spreads herself out in front of her lover, when she pants his name and chokes on sobs, that shame flies out of her head quicker than the breaths that leave her lungs. When she comes, it is with an ache she cannot heal with Ron. In those moments, she tells George of her love for him.
III.
The end comes on a sad day. She finds George in the flat above the shop, a bottle of Ogden's finest on the table. "I can't do this anymore, Hermione." His voice is harsh and rasping, throat raw from the alcohol. She sighs, "I know." He wants her to himself, even if he doesn't love her the way she loves him. He can't love anyone like that. That slice of his heart is reserved for Fred alone. "I love you, you know," she tells him. "I know." She is aware he can't love her back. That part hurts the most.
IV.
They tumble into one another for one last time, and it is full of teeth and harsh caresses. She spills her unhappiness into this, because she needs it more than anything to get her through future nights with Ron. She needs fantasy fodder to fuel her imagination and drive away the emptiness that she feels when he's inside her. He pours his loneliness into her body; it fills him like liquor in a glass, and burns just as sweetly. They're both crying, and it's impossible to tell their tears apart. "I love you," she screams. "I'm sorry." He means it.
V.
When Ron sleepily asks where she's been, she cannot lie. Her practicality has come into play, and she tells the truth. It's surprising how quickly the words tumble out, and apologies fall from her lips faster than she can keep up. It's even more surprising when he turns to her. "I know." He tells her to come to bed, they'll discuss it in the morning, and when she says how sorry she is, the acceptance is overwhelming. Ron understands, more than she's ever seen him do. He knows that she's sorry. She means it more than anyone. And he knows.