Author's Note: This story is based on and has phrases marked by italics that are quoted from the poem To My Dear and Loving Husband by Anne Bradstreet. The poem was written in the mid-1600s so if you think the italicized bits are kinda dense, that's why. This is the first of a writing-prompt-thing I'm trying to do where I base a fanfic off of one poem by every poet in The Oxford Book Of American Verse. I really enjoyed doing this one, so we'll see where it takes me.
By the way, I really like this idea so I might make an actual long fic based on it. Let me know if you like that idea too.
Hermione touched her quill to the parchment and shuddered as she wrote the very first line. Her neat cursive handwriting spread out beautifully in front of her, and she thought, for just one moment, that this was quite romantic. She hadn't written much of anything since she'd left Hogwarts. She had missed it.
To My Dear and Loving Husband
She smudged some ink across her chin as she considered the words. Dear? Yes, he had always been most precious to her. Loving seemed almost a stretch, but she knew it was true. Deep down, surely. Deep down.
She found herself drifting to the far-off land of Hogwarts. Maybe it was the sensation of the quill, light and familiar in her grip, or the thought of Ronald. Either way, she remembered all that Ronald had meant to her, then. He was her other half, her everything. She remembered sitting with him on the green lawns of Hogwarts, watching the clouds. He had seemed so cheerful and creative then, picking out such unique shapes in the fluffy forms. She couldn't imagine anyone more jovial and youthful in character. He contrasted so well to someone forced to grow up just a little too fast. She smiled and a tear ran down her face.
If ever two were one, then surely we. If ever man were loved by wife, then thee; If ever wife was happy in a man, Compare with me ye women if you can.
This sounds like something I would have written before we were married, she thought. When did I stop writing with such a romantic ring? When did I stop writing? She shook her head softly side to side and hoped she could make her husband understand.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold, or all the riches that the East doth hold.
Another tear graced her cheek as she spoke to herself, writing each word with care.
"I promise I'm not... disappointed by our wealth, or by anything you have ever brought to me. You have brought me only joy."
She sighed and choked, second-guessing herself for just a moment before letting go of her fear and writing more.
My love is such that Rivers cannot quench, Nor ought but love from thee, give recompense.
"I know you love me. I'm sorry," she paused a moment, tears overcoming her as she half-whispered the words over choked-down sobs.
"I'm sorry."
The quill began to tremble in her frail-feeling hand, her heart beating heavy in her chest. Remembering what Ronald had done for her, all he had done for her, she continued.
Thy love is such I can no way repay, the heavens reward thee manifold I pray.
"I know," she continued, trying to sound strong, "but I cannot stay here only for love. I cannot stay here only to save your heart the breaking."
She leaned back in her chair for a moment, hoping the tears would not fall to the page and ruin the writing. When she had dried them on her long sleeves, she picked up the quill and wrote again.
"Please find someone else. Someone else special, that you can give your heart to. Keep loving, even if you cannot love me anymore. Learn to love once more, for me."
Then while we live, in love let's do persever, that when we live no more, we may live ever.
Time stood still a moment as she watched her quill move on its own, writing words that could only make her sobs ring out louder.
"Someday, perhaps, in another life, I'll see you once again. I love you. Goodbye."
She signed her name "Mione". She had done it. She had written her final goodbye to Ron Weasley. To the whole world. Silent tears still fell slowly down her cheeks, but her sobs were whisper-quiet as she folded the note, creasing it well. She standed and slipped the note into the hand of the young, bushy-haired girl who lie beside her on the floor, silent and still. A cadaver with enough magic tricks done over it could look like anyone. Hermione wondered how many wizards and witches like her had used the same spells for similar purposes. She adjusted the trilby over her new, sleek blonde hair as she stared into the mirror, glad tears couldn't smudge the magic that had changed her appearance so drastically. Wiping away the last of her emotion, she dropped her wand on the carpet floor. Too recognizable.
"I'll miss that thing," she said with sincerity as she walked out a front door that was no longer her own.
A young woman muttered to herself as she walked down the street, already forgetting the face of the girl called "Hermione".