Disclaimer: This is, if you haven't noticed, going to at some point evolve into a SS/HG ship. If you are not comfortable with that, you are welcome to leave. If you are going to complain about the ship, why in heaven and hell would you click on a ship you don't like? Oh, and another thing: this takes place in a bit of an AU. You'll see how it develops. Thank you very much, and do enjoy.

Nomos

Staring in the old mirror, in the old house, her hair is longer now, longer than ever. Her cheekbones are sharp, and on them draped her once glowing skin; the only pink hue on her face is due to the chill of winter, not from health. There are hints of what once was; her freckles have not slipped off, her eyes are still a hot flash of amber. Under her mess of long hair, collarbones slice into her frame, threatening malnourishment. Looking further down, her stomach was not yet showing. Too soon, too soon.

He left her that, that thing inside her, a wedding ring, and bubbling rage at his absence.
Nothing more.

Seven years since the war. Seven years since the end, since the raging tides of loss. Remus, Tonks, Fred…Checking over his black suit, which he would rather not be wearing, he shrugged his shoulders, trying to find some form of comfortable posture. "Ginny, how do I-"
"Smart, you look smart," the redheaded young woman, who had been silently crying, said, from the edge of the bed. Her outfit, also black, was of a solemn quarter-sleeved dress. "We're going to be late, if you keep fiddling with your jacket like that," she observed, nearly whispering. Harry took his face into his hands, rubbing hard across his brow.

.

Ronald Bilius Weasley, affectionately known as Ron, leaves behind his beloved wife, Hermione Jean Granger, as well as his parents, five siblings, and many loyal and admiring friends. His death was premature; services will be…

Abruptly folding the article, as a clock chimed, Severus took up a flask of blood-replenishing potion, as well as essence of dittany, which twice daily he endures. Reaching up, he fingers the black silk scarf, and under it a thick bandage. His wound still healing, after all these years, does not allow him the freedom of being far from his dark Spinner's End home. Clinging to his schedule, Severus arose to take his after-potion walk, to keep active and to easily digest his high in-take of medicinals.

As he walked down the street from his residence, he could not help himself from ruminating on the newly widowed Weasley wife. The last he'd seen of either Potter or Granger had been the gruesome night of his almost-death. Both their eyes, still innocent and wide as children's, looking at him, melting with fear, looking into his wounded neck…What did they think of his memories? Did they even bother to look at them? Perhaps they resent him even more so, now. Surely no one mourned the loss of him. Better off playing dead, he thought stubbornly.

.

Sitting at a pub in Godric's Hollow, per the suggestion of Harry and Ginny, Hermione and the remaining Weasleys sat, hushed and cramped. No one looked at another, after Ron's service. "It seems peculiar that we should be drinking, after having watched him drink himself to the beyond," Hermione choked, not daring to let a tear fall into her butterbeer. Arthur Weasley and Ginny, both sitting directly across from Hermione, looked up. "He got carried away. He didn't mean for this; he didn't want to leave you or us-"
"He didn't mean for this?" Hermione agitatedly quipped at Ginny, "We all miss Fred, but how did he let himself drown in misery? How could he be so selfish-" Hermione spat out the words, as Harry took gentle hold of her arms and coaxed her out of her chair. Outside, in the fresh evening air, Hermione refused to look at Harry. She didn't want to be harsh to one of her oldest and dearest friends, but she feared that looking at Harry's endearing and supportive face would destroy all her interior walls, and she would collapse into such a despair that she would die, too.

"Ginny and I have a room made up for you, if you'd like," Harry gently stated into the darkness.
"That's thoughtful, it really is. I just can't-"
"Hermione-"
"I can't, Harry. Alright? I-"
"Hermione, please. You're not watching over yourself. Look at you-"
"I'm perfectly capable of feeding and showering, Harry, I've done it for years," Hermione said sorely.
"You know exactly what I mean. As my best friend and sister-in-law, Hermione…I can't lose you, too," Harry sighed.
Shaking her head and biting her bottom lip, Hermione choked out, "I-I'll take care of myself."
Harry leaned in to hug Hermione; she shrugged away. "Please, I don't want to be touched right now. I'm sorry-"
"No, no, I get it," Harry studied Hermione's face, "if you need anything-"
"Yes, thank you, Harry," Hermione said, still not looking at her best friend and confidante.
"Is there something else, besides Ron?"
"No, no no no," Hermione said, nearly letting out a tired laugh, "I'm tired. All this business is just…Too much. I think I'll take off early, if you wouldn't mind letting everyone know?"
"Of course," Harry agreed.
"Harry, I do love you as a brother and a friend. Please know that," Hermione whispered, finally looking in the general direction of Harry.

.

Hermione did not have a precise assessment of how long she'd been in bed, at home, or when last she'd eaten. She did know, however, that Ron had borrowed several books on Auror history from a work colleague in Spinner's End, and he had needed to return them by today, or yesterday, or tomorrow. Either way, Hermione forced herself up and out of the house, books in hand.

It was a particularly brisk and active January, with a foot or more of snow consistently on the ground, and a freezing breeze. Wrapping the lower half of her face in a thick burgundy scarf, Hermione trudged down the street, toward a Muggle metro stop. Exhausted, and having had no appetite for several days, Hermione was too worn to summon the focus for an apparition. By the time Hermione found herself at Ron's colleague's house, she saw no evidence of occupancy yet. Surely the commute from the Ministry of Magic to Spinner's End is lengthy and harrowing; why on earth the colleague wouldn't be more centrally located, Hermione could not figure out. Rapping twice on the door, waiting, then twice more, Hermione sighed and conjured from her bag a crinkled piece of paper and pen.

Apologies for not connecting with you. Books on the porch.

Thank you for your understanding,

Hermione (Ronald's wife)

She didn't dare write the Weasley name; Hermione could not endure the marital name draped heavily upon her shoulders. Feeling slightly dizzy, and tired, Hermione allowed herself to slump against the wall next to the door of this stranger's house. Looking out into the grey winterscape, down at the very far end of the lane, she saw a dark figure bent against the icy breeze. She snorted at herself, at the certainly pompous idea that flirted in the depths of her imagination. Snape? Snape alive and walking? She shook her head. Certainly, she thought, her dizzy head and lack of any nutritional intake was altering her eyesight and sentimentality. Starting to feel nauseous, along with dizzy, pangs of pain vibrated through Hermione's stomach. Letting out a hiss of air, Hermione doubled over. Perhaps she could focus just enough to apparate home, she thought through waves of discomfort. Still leaning against the house, Hermione closed her eyes, both in agony and to aid her focus. She pictured her kitchen, the soft white-brick walls, grey counters and wooden cabinets; her treasured mug, a clay creation Ron attempted to construct, sat cleanly on a dish rack-

Black. Nothing but black.

.

Nearly to the end of the lane, in which his daily promenade was constrained to, Severus noticed a peculiar mass in the street. From his distance, it looked as though a waste-bag had been tossed without an encasing bin. Closer, he noticed distinct colors; certainly not a waste-bag. Closer still, he noticed a mass of hair, a deep red scarf. When he was a meter away, he noticed a faint scent which brought him to his internal knees: blood, blood and something. The mound of hair and scarf was, or had, or is, bleeding. Pulling back his woolen coat sleeves, he tentatively knelt beside the mass. A pulse. Turning over the mass, which weighed surprisingly little, Severus straightened in surprise, even in upset. Granger? Her pale complexion and sullen features would, from afar, have made her seem like a resemblance of herself. Yet, close up, Severus knew her distinct pattern of freckles, having seen it for a number of years. Letting out a heavy sigh in agitation, he so badly wanted to leave her. He wanted to remain enclosed and dead and far removed from Hogwarts and all of them, dead and alive. Yet, alerting a medic, Muggle or Wizard, would have her bleeding and freezing for much longer than she could conceivably handle. Swooping, as if he still wore his best robes, Severus lifted the unconscious young woman, and made way back to his residence.

Laying her on his sofa by a large stone fireplace, Severus immediately began stripping Hermione of her wet and cold outer-garments. Once removed, only a soft cream pullover and dark jeans remained. However, her jeans, he found, were saturated with blood, from the thighs and tapering down. However, Severus had no want of removing the young woman's clothing. Casting a cleaning charm, he attempted to eradicate most of the blood. Pulling a thick fur blanket off an armchair, he proceeded to wrap her in it. Straightening up, he gave all his attention over to examining Hermione for any more peculiarities. Once satisfied that her bleeding had all but stopped, and that she needed warmth and rest, Severus slipped away to brew a strong pot of tea.