Lyrics are from the song "Little Lion Man" by Mumford & Sons.
Weep for yourself, my man,
You'll never be what is in your heart
Weep little lion man,
You're not as brave as you were at the start
Ron slowly pushed open the creaky, wooden door of the little apartment, all but holding his breath in the effort to keep silent. It seemed as though each floorboard squeaked louder than the last as he backed his way in, as though specifically designed to announce him to the figure he hoped would be asleep in the adjoining bedroom. No, not just hoped—prayed. He prayed she would not wake up, not wait up. Shutting his eyes, he took a deep breath and turned, eyes fixing on the battered sofa that served as a living room.
She was there, her head in her hands. Though her eyes were averted, studying every detail of the floorboard beneath her feet, Ron could feel the resentment, the judgment, the anger radiating from her. Her mere presence sent a wave of shame rushing over him, flooding his brow with nervous sweat and temporarily blocking his brain.
She knew.
Rate yourself and rake yourself,
Take all the courage you have left
Wasted on fixing all the problems
That you made in your own head
Hermione stared at the floor, fighting back the tears that were rapidly swelling in her eyes. She didn't want to look at him, not ever again, yet something was pulling her gaze upward. His footsteps, audible despite his attempts at silence, had ceased. As she lifted her head, she saw him standing, silhouetted against the dark wood of the apartment door, like a newly carved statue.
His hair was ruffled, his clothes disheveled, his chin filled with an orangey-brown five o'clock shadow. But it was far later than five. Hermione had needed neither the visual clues nor his strong odor of firewhiskey to know where he had been. The clock had made that plain.
She did not speak, not yet, at least, for no words came to her usually agile mind. Her analytical thought process had faded, giving way to raw sorrow, raw anger, raw emotion. Hugging her knees to her chest, she sank deeper into the sofa, breathing deeply a in an attempt to keep from crying. She could do nothing more than look at him across the tiny apartment.
How had he the audacity to meet her gaze?
But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear?
Didn't I, my...
"H-Hermione," he stammered, choking on the name he had uttered so many times. "What are you still doing—"
"You said you were going to Harry's." Her tone was sharp, yet hollow as she cut him off. It was not a question.
"I—"
"It's three o'clock."
He now dropped his eyes, rubbing his forehead. Part of him wanted to make a feeble attempt to excuse his actions, but he knew it would be of no use. Her patience was broken.
"I'm sorry."
"Are you though?" Her voice wavered, a sob threatened in her throat. "Are you really?"
"Yes. I'm so sorry," he whispered back.
"You were sorry the first time." Her words bit into him like venom. "And the second, and the third, and…" she trailed off as a tear slid down her cheek. Tremble for yourself, my man,
You know that you have seen this all before
Tremble little lion man,
You'll never settle any of your scores
He remembered all the times he was the one to brush the tears away, to tell her everything would be alright, but now he could only stand rooted to the spot. He wished, at that moment he could find something eloquent to say, but no words could be found.
"I went alone, you know," she sniffled.
"What?" He couldn't bear the accusation in her voice.
"To my parents' house," she exclaimed, raising her voice in tearful disbelief. "How could you forget?"
"Shit," Ron muttered under his breath. Hermione had been planning their dinner with her parents for a month now, and in one night he had ruined it for her. Not just one night, one instant—the moment he had pushed open the door of The Dancing Prince and sat down at the bar.
"And do you know what I did, Ron?" she continued. "I lied. I told my mother you were sick, that you were in bed, that I couldn't stay long because you needed me."
"I do."
Your grace is wasted in your face,
Your boldness stands alone among the wreck
Now learn from your mother or else spend your days
Biting your own neck
"You have a funny way of showing it." Hermione stood and crossed to the kitchen area, turning her face away from his as she did so.
Ron was again struck silent. He tried desperately to form a sentence, but each time the words stuck in his throat and he was forced to dispatch them with a painful swallow.
Pouring herself a cup of tea, she turned back to him. She leaned against the kitchen counter, face now streaked with the trails of tears. "You shouldn't have bothered coming back."
But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear?
"So that's it then?" Ron asked, stepping towards her. "You want me to go?" He could see the conflict raging behind her eyes.
Indeed, Hermione couldn't think of a time she had been so completely torn in two opposite directions. How could he call on her to make this decision now? Her head said had long since packed his bags and sent him back to the Burrow, but her heart was clutching his wrist as she pushed him out the door. She couldn't do this. "W-we'll talk about this in the morning," she stammered, attempting to brush past him into the bedroom.
"No, god damn it, we will talk about this now!" Ron yelled, catching her by the arm. "I'm not going to sit on that sofa, waiting for dawn so that I can hear how the rest of my life is going to turn out."
"It would do you good!" she shouted back, turning to face him and yanking her arm from his grasp. "Then you would understand what it's like to be me. You would understand how it felt all of those nights I sat up, waiting for twelve, when I could climb into bed and make the mental mark of another night alone."
"I always came back," Ron snarled. "Always. This is different."
"How was I supposed to know that you would?" she cried. "When I turned out that light I had no certainty that you'd be beside me when I woke up the next morning."
"Didn't you trust me?" he demanded, feeling the tears threatening his own eyes.
"I trusted you when you said you were ready for this," she said, a sob escaping her lips. "I trusted you were mature enough, that you were ready to be a man. I can see now that I was wrong." Hermione began to make her way towards the bedroom again, but Ron was too fast for her, blocking the door. "Move," she commanded.
"I'm not a child," he said icily. "The least you can do is act like the adult you are and have a discussion with me."
"You're drunk," she accused.
"Not for hours, sweetheart." The term of affection dripped with a malevolent sarcasm. Then, softening, he added, "Please, talk to me."
"Fine," Hermione conceded, drawing a deep breath. "I'm leaving you."
But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear?
Ron's mouth dropped open and a tear rolled down his cheek as Hermione turned from him, grabbing her coat from a hook on the wall. "You're…you're making a mistake," he choked.
"The only mistake I ever made," she whispered slowly, deliberately, "was believing you loved me enough to respect me." Her hand went for the knob of the door to the apartment, but Ron was there, pushing the door closed.
"You think I don't love you?"
"I-I think you don't know how."
"Maybe I don't know," he admitted, taking his hand from the door. "But I want to."
"I can't keep doing this, Ron," Hermione told him, their eyes meeting. "I can't keep waiting. I can't keep wondering where you are, which bar you're slumped on, or whether you'll be sleeping in another's bed. I can't keep waking up to you climbing under the covers, putting your arm around me and wreaking of whiskey. I can't keep fighting with you. I can't do it."
"Hermione, please, I love you so much."
Tears were cascading from both pairs of eyes now, streaming down two sets of cheeks and generating two sets of sputtering sobs.
"I love you too."
"Then don't go," he begged her, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
"I-I need some air," she told him. "I'm going for a walk."
He did not stop her as she opened the door to the apartment and stepped out into the hall. He could not stop her.
As she was closing the door on him, on their apartment, on that silly, cramped representation of their life together, she was filled with a reluctance to leave. "I'll come back," she whispered, knowing not whether her words were the truth, only that they raised questions for each to face, each to answer. Alone.
Didn't I, my dear?