I Love(d) You (Once)

Chapter Ten: Moving On

Another day, another day of hell of dealing with one of the most incorrigible humans ever to have condemned (not graced) the earth with his presence. Three days past since the initial meeting with the Ackerly Brothers and there had been no significant advancement with the case. Not due to the lack of effort on her part though; she just didn't seem to have any time. Although Artie had managed to wheedle a grey file for her and He Who Pissed Her Off, they still had to meet their daily quota of blue-file cases. Since they refused to communicate with each other, things were inefficient, and with any definition of teamwork blasted into the next century, they turned from the fastest to the slowest unit in the department.

Hermione had –she really had—tried to hold a small olive branch to Draco. If they weren't going to be friends they could at least talk to each other on a basic level for work purposes... or so she had thought. Draco had promptly thrown her figurative olive branch into a wood chipper and screamed Incendio to said pieces in a spiteful blaze. That was fine with Hermione; she didn't want to deal with him anyway. Any time not spent with him was a solace to her. Whatever. She was tired. Tired of him.

As though the storm reflected her heart, the wind beat and pelted rain against her thin umbrella. She pushed against the wind as she made her towards home, and the metal skeleton of the umbrella braced against the fabric, looking like it would pierce the rayon any time. Of course she could have Apparated home, but having worked to the bone with entry-level tasks she felt as though she was not merely robbed of her energy and enthusiasm, but also a few IQ points and buckets of her emotional quotient; she had not been in any state to take herself home. She had also thought, rather incorrectly, a walk through a blistering storm would help rejuvenate her. Hermione did not feel rejuvenated with this connection with nature. She felt as though the sky was spitting bullets at her; rain-repelling charm casted or not, and walking against the wind only tired her out more. Of course she could at any time Apparate to the comfort of her home, but she had already committed to getting there by foot. Having walked more than half the distance, a stubborn streak of hers refused to take the easy way out.

Three-quarters of the way there, she felt foolish, but regardless, chose to press on and she continued to regret her decision until she finally reached her doorstep. She walked in, and the door swung shut behind her. The interior was pitch-black, warm and silent—a strong juxtaposition against the outside world. Her comfort. Sighing, she dropped the near-useless umbrella. It hit the ground with a thud and she drew out her wand to spread illumination into the house. By amazing coincidence, the little light at the end of her wand pointed directly towards Ron's chin, just below the wide-spread grin across his face. Hermione gave a surprised laugh as he pulled her into his arms and planted a sloppy kiss on the side of her cheek with a loud smack. "What's the occasion?" she asked, as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear for her.

"Although I have the emotional range of teaspoon, I do notice when my girlfriend is having a hard time at work," Ron said and he set her down onto a chair, pushing it towards their small dining table. On top of it was a feast fit for two, and Hermione could spot just from a glimpse it had been planned and made with her specifically in mind: on each dish, all her favourites, the topping spelt one letter. A three-worded sentence which never lost its meaning when said or written, notwithstanding it formed out of carrots, a drizzle of sauce, and icing on dessert. "I thought I would cheer you up with a little R n R: Ron and Relaxation. I read up on all the foods meant to give you extra energy and cheer. First on tonight's menu, a salad with potatoes, beans, mushrooms and spinach- folate-rich food, which reduces high levels of homocysteine that interferes with the flow of blood and nutrients to the brain."

"When did you become a nutrition expert?" Hermione grinned and leaned towards Ron, so the top-back of her head rested against Ron's stomach.

"Witch Weekly, courtesy of Ginny's coffee table. It only took me two tries to remember the little spiel." He squeezed her shoulders and bent down so that his face was levelled with hers. Cheek to cheek, he wrapped one arm drawing her close and pointed to a magazine beside the kitchen sink. The edition rested against a tall metal pot Hermione and Ron had dubbed as their bookstand—it had seen more use as its namesake than what it was designed for. Two jars of pickles, gherkin and peppers, again more present for its colour and its contribution to décor in the kitchen than for consumption, acted as paper weights on the sides of the magazine to keep it open.

"That's why I decided to date you," she said, between rather enthusiastic kisses.

"For my strong memory to remember quotes word for word?" he asked. "And all along I thought you were with me for my smile…"

When Hermione pulled him into a tight embrace and held Ron there for a long, long time, he smiled. After Hermione's vice-like hugs she would lose the tension in her shoulders, and her mood would gradually improve with the night. This had hardly been the first occasion when Hermione had been stressed. Each time it was Ron alleviated her stress. Her first semester finals in Salem came to mind as Ron's first successful attempt in making sure she kept everything in perspective. Hardly sleeping or eating, Hermione had been wasting away into a husk until Ron had invaded her flat, took charge and forced her to accompany him on a leisurely picnic. Apparently the magical formula fell somewhere in the spectrum of picnics, sandwiches and twine baskets, dessert, and casual dining.

"No, silly. Because you put so much effort in making me happy."

After some Ron and Relaxation, she finally felt like she could think again, though the cloudiness in her mind still clung to her train of thoughts like a persistent cobweb. She finally realised since she was at war with Draco, she didn't have to care or be concerned if he was buried in his pile of work. There was no need to check up on how he was doing, as long as she completed her own tasks. Her habitually caring nature had not been turned off even with their fight and she had routinely checked up on his progress—a task without his cooperation had been rendered time consuming and impossible. It was hard to let go, but when she did, she had spare time on her hands to start the Ackerly case after a few days.

And how here she was, one step ahead of the game. She gave a tired smile to the girl in front of her. Melinda Tipping looked like a girl who bullied others at school. She wore her hair in cork-screw curls and metallic pink lip-gloss glistened across her thin lips. Hermione shifted her eyes and Artie shuffled in his shoes. The woman made them relive their teenage angst with her demeanour. "Melinda Tipping?" Hermione called out, crossing her fingers and hoping it wasn't the woman wiping the tables in front of her.

"That's my name, don't wear it out, sugar!" she called back to them. The dirty dishes clanked against each other, and bits of spaghetti and tomato sauce flew onto the table as she slapped one on top of one another. Melinda strutted into the kitchen and when she came out to the front, her hands were on her hips.

Hermione cleared her throat. "I'd like to speak with you. When does your shift end?"

"Hun, I know I might look nice and all, but I have no interest in spending my free time with you. If you want to talk, there's no time like the present."

"Well, okay," Hermione said and it came out sharper than she intended. "Do you remember Ben and Jon Acklery?"

Melinda sank into one of the bar chairs and shrugged. "Yup, dated Ben for what, four months in my last year of Hogwarts? Then he pissed me off so much I burnt his house down." She smiled and her pointy incisors protruded out of her mouth. "Should've seen that place go up in flames!"

"We were wondering if you could tell us how you told them apart," said Artie, stepping in.

"It's been so long," Melinda sighed but tapped her chin when she took a look at Artie. "But you know, if you had some time after, I might be able to remember."

"I thought you had no interest in spending your free time with us."

Melinda blinked at Hermione twice. "I said that to you." She made a show of crossing and uncrossing her legs before she spoke, looking very pointedly at Artie, who gave an embarrassed cough.

"Please?" he asked, after Hermione nudged him not-so-delicately in his ribs. He gave a small smile at her for effect.

"Their personalities are different," she said. "Subtly so, but I could always tell. Ben was always more open-minded. Dated a muggle-born." She jabbed a finger at herself and continued, "His dad was against us, me being Muggle-born and all. It might've been the reason why we lasted so long, it drove his dad bonkers when Jon told him, said he was going to blast him off the family tree and all that."

Four months. Four months was long? "Anything else?" Hermione pressed.

She shrugged. "It's hard to explain."

"Could you identify them for us instead?" Artie asked.

"Ha! Not unless you could give me two million galleons."

Hermione almost let out her snort. "No thanks." Hermione turned her heel and left the restaurant. When she walked out onto the street, she huffed and scowled. "Good grief! I can't handle her type—" it was then she noticed Artie hadn't left the restaurant. Through the glass window, she saw Melinda lean forward and whisper something into his ear. He nodded as though he was grabbing onto every word she said and he left the establishment.

"She told me something extra. I don't know if it helps or anything, but Ben was real pretentious, when Melinda dated him, he was obsessed with magic tricks because he thought it was ironic for real wizards to perform fake magic."

"Yeah, real useful! We can have a contest and see who can pull a rabbit out of a hat," Hermione grumbled as they Apparated back to the company. She shoved passed a man and hissed at him like an offended cat.

"Steady on, Granger. Wouldn't want to turn someone into stone with that horrible face."

"If I could turn you into stone, Malfoy, you'd be the first statue in my collection," she snapped at the retreating figure. He wore a fancy (and totally impractical) suit-coat which fluttered in the wind as he walked. "Now that is pretentious," she said, pointing to Draco.

It took longer for Draco to travel to his destination than it did for Artie and Hermione and he used the extra time to wallow in his horrible predicament. Times like these served as a reminder of how close he had been to fulfilling his goal and how he had thrown it away for the likes of Hermione. Without the proper authorisation to access Ministry files, the questions plaguing him would remain a mystery for the rest of his life. Draco pushed his way through a couple holding hands and scowled at the restaurant. Its chequered floors and red leather seats looked tacky. He tapped one of the waiters on the shoulder.

"May I please speak to Melinda Tipping?"

"Oh, she's popular today. Melinda, someone's here to see you again!"

"Is it that cute guy from that firm?" Melinda's voice came from behind the kitchen doors.

The cashier gave Draco an once-over and hollered back. "He's not that cute."—and before Draco could be offended at the comment—"more of the broody type if you ask me!"

Blatant objectification aside, Draco's eyes narrowed at the cashier's comment. Someone had been there today. Hermione, with presumably Artie. Ugh, I have to keep on my toes or she'll leave me in her trail of dust. Whether he hated every particle of her or not, he had to admit she was good, and it was only two all-nighters did he manage to finish his tasks.

"Oh, a blond's come to see me this time." Melinda twirled her corkscrew curls and strutted over to Draco in heels so high, Pansy might have had trouble walking in them (oh, who was he kidding? Pansy the devil incarnate would have done fine). "You know what I think? Blonds have the most fun."

"They do," said Draco, giving her a sensible smile. "I know a few people have asked you about Ben and Jon Acklery. I want to know everything you told them… and more."

Melinda's eyes glinted and Draco remembered what Jon said to him the other day: If you thought a puppet had strings attached, you should see Melinda

"Please?" he asked with a pout. "I'm in a little competition and I don't want the uptight-witch to win."

"You know, I could identify them in person for a price."

Now we're talking. He smiled until his cheeks ached. "What would you like?"

The paperwork sitting in front of Artie grew forth and multiplied. It'd been a day since Hermione and Artie visited Melinda and when his superior decided to drop all communication with Draco, there was more work to do…. only Artie had to pick up their slack and fueled by animosity for each other Hermione and Draco rarely noticed anything amiss… which meant longer hours for him at the company. Ellen called him for sweet for staying behind. Martha called him an idiot. He wanted to believe what Ellen said, but was more inclined towards Martha's interpretation.

"Would you stop that?" snapped Draco. Hermione flashed her pocket mirror so light danced across his face. "Are you trying to blind me?" He selected a ball-point pen from his stationery stash. "This is your neck," he said, twisting the blue cap off the pen and glared at her.

Hermione ignored him and stared down at her piece of paper. Artie frowned at this unusual display. She'd normally snap back with something witty but right now she was quiet as though she was waiting for something to happen…

"ARGH!" screamed Draco. Artie's head snapped to his direction and he saw Draco throw the pen at Hermione. "What have you done?!"

And what heinous crime did he accuse her of? Artie craned his neck and saw the newest word on the parchment half written in red ink.

"You've taken this one step too far," Draco said, scowling. "You've made this personal. You better prepare yourself."

"Bring it on," she replied without missing a beat. She smirked at the blond, not the slightest bit intimidated. "What are you going to do? You have one word that's written in black and one is in red." Artie threw Draco his bottle of correction fluid and Hermione cackled. "But those official documents don't allow corrections! The words are magically attached to the paper and impervious to magic! You'll have to rewrite the whole thing!" she said with unfettered glee.

Draco scrunched up the parchment before stomping out of the room to get a new piece.

"You shouldn't have done that," said Artie, getting tired of his superior's antics. He was starting to feel like their superior! "You know how peculiar he is with those things."

"All the easier to prank," she said, her voice saturated with pure glee. "People like him are so easy to anger. They blow up over the smallest things."

Artie sighed. "No wonder why he has trust issues."

Hermione glared at him as though he dumped a bucket of cold water over her and popped her birthday balloons.

Their day continued to be dysfunctional and inefficient. After what Artie felt like a thousand years, the clock chimed five times. Hermione got up and stretched, she placed a report she'd worked on for the last three on the 'completed' pile and scowled. An identical report Draco wrote and time-stamped 'completed' two hours ago sat beneath hers. She stomped out of the corridor, into the elevator and passed Martha who waved at her.

"See you tomorrow, Hermione—whoa! What's up with her?"

Hermione ploughed through the foyer and stepped into the fireplace, a burning blaze of anger. "The Nest!" she yelled, throwing the powder at her feet. She punched the side of the fireplace hard when nothing happened and the powder landed onto her tights and shoes. She forgot their Floo had broken down, again. She kicked the powder off her feet and it left a green haze where she stood. She coughed, tears coming up in her eyes when she inhaled some by accident. "ARGH!"

"I know you visit brutish places," said the exact person she did not want to see. "But I'm sure 'ARGH' is not a place."

Hermione grabbed a handful of powder, not for transport, but as a projectile into Draco's face. Relishing Draco's face scrunched up, she Apparated onto her front porch and jammed her key into their small apartment. She frowned when she found it unlocked. "Ron," she said as she pushed the door open. "I told you not to leave the doors unlocked—hi, Molly!"

The older woman beamed at her, she wore rubber cleaning gloves and they dripped across the vinyl floor. "Welcome home, Hermione. Long story short, the oven and your dinner blew up so I came in as reinforcement."

"Oh god, never mind the oven, is everyone okay?"

"Alive and kicking," he confirmed. "Less could be said about your dinner though. Remind me never to cast any strong spells in its direction when it's on?"

"As long as you are all right," Hermione said weakly when she saw the charred metal lump where the oven used to be. Advances with technology and magic were being made every day, but such mishaps were not an oddity. With 95% success rate, there was always that 5% chance of technology and magic interacted dangerously with each other. They were lucky no one was hurt!

Molly sat her down on the table and Ron grinned at her. This is so good, he mouthed to her, with his mouth full of food he said, "Thanks Mom," said Ron as he tore through his slab of steak.

"Use your knife!" Molly and Hermione told Ron at the same time. Both women smiled at each other, and a lightbulb in Hermione's head lit. Who better to tell the difference between identical twins than a brother and their mother?

"Say, Ron. How did you tell Fred and George apart?"

Ron looked up at Hermione and shrugged. "I 'unno, just knew," he said, gnawing at the steak. Brown sauce trickled down his fingers as he ate. "Why?"

"It's just this case I'm working on."

Ron shrugged. "Maybe just ask them or something?"

"I know this sounds horrible as a mother," said Molly, drying the dishes with a cloth. "But I just took them a package deal."

"Maybe you can use Veritaserum," Ron said.

"Anything legal?"

"Pay them to tell the truth? What's up?"

"I'm not really allowed to say," she replied, and Ron nodded knowing that she couldn't disclose anything about her work to them. Hermione tapped her chin as she mused, "I wonder if they ever felt bad about being grouped together all the time though. It would drive me mad if I had to share my identity with someone."

Molly laughed. "I wouldn't know. But Fred and George never minded much. They were… they were close." Molly's smile faltered and she concentrated on wiping her hands. "That was who they were. Fred and George. There was never one without the other."

"Mum." Ron got out of his chair and gave her a hug and suddenly Hermione felt like an insensitive brick for bringing it up.

"I didn't mean to…"

Molly wiped a tear from her eye. Death often created a greater impact on a lives than the life taken ever could. "No, you didn't do anything wrong. Please don't think you did. I just miss him so much." She took a deep breath. "I think I'll excuse myself now. Enjoy your meal." She dashed out of their apartment complex, the door banging shut behind her.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, "I didn't mean to…"

"I know," Ron said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Don't worry about it… she just gets sad once every so often…" He placed his hand over hers and she could feel the grease on his fingers. She looked down at their hands and she tried her best not to frown. "Hey, I dunno what's happening at work. But you're smart, I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Hermione felt terrible and guilty for making Molly cry, and she knew she had already been in a terrible mood recently, and she really tried her best not to direct any of her negative feelings to Ron, an unlucky recipient.

But even so, even if she had been feeling all right, what Ron said, supposed to be an encouragement, really irked her."I dunno" or "I 'unno". When we first started dating, I thought it was cute, she thought. Not just that, but what he just said… 'You're smart, you'll pull through.' Those were the words of comfort he provided. She was supposed to handle everything herself because she was 'smart'. Whenever he said that she'd felt the uncomfortable sensation of being overrated. This was definitely not the first time she had such thoughts—in fact these worries had plagued her throughout the first year of the relationship, but upon schooling in Salem, the problem seemed to have had magically disappeared.

It raised again reared its ugly head again when she moved back to England, but she dismissed it, diagnosing the source of the thoughts as a product of her pessimistic mind in adjusting back to the new country. That too, had disappeared after a year or so. But now, she noticed the keen coincidence as to when, she or should she say who, was absent when she felt this particular brand of malaise.

"Do you really think I can handle all my problems myself?" she asked, trying to make her voice as even as possible.

Ron's lips twitched into a slight smile. "Of course! You're Hermione, and if I had to watch you in any fight and had to bet on a winning side, I would always choose you."

Because to Ron, she was a smart girl, a girl who he was really good at pulling out from a slump. To tell her things were going to be okay, because she could do it.

To Hermione, the words suddenly terrified her; she could always count on Ron to tell her things were going to be okay… but he could never be there to make things okay. That was all up to her. He was just there… and she loved him for that.

She did, really.

She didn't want to rely on anyone else but herself. But the things she valued most in life, to move forward, what was his place if he never inspired her to grow?

Standing right beside Ron, close enough to touch, his words that provided comfort but inspired no encouragement whispered an admonition to her heart. The person who challenged her, made her grow was not the one standing beside her.

And this really scared her. What made it worse was that she never so much noticed, and Ron had become the happy benefactor of the void filled, rather unconditionally by this specific person, who claimed no credit for such his role. In the times she had trouble or needed help, there was one person she would ask go to.

Weak at her knees, Hermione felt as though someone had just dropped her in the middle of the Pacific Ocean in a kayak without a paddle.

Her breath hitched. This was not a realisation she made for the first time, but somehow somehow, this time it meant much more to her than other times; maybe she was fast running out of excuses—it wasn't because their relationship was new—it wasn't because they were fighting—

"Hermione, what's wrong?"

"Ron, I…" Hermione said with a sense of helplessness."I need to clear my head. Get my thoughts in order." She grabbed her winter coat and her wand before Apparating away.

"Wait—" Ron said, and lunged at empty air. "What?"

When they fought, it usually ended up with Hermione leaving to 'cool off'. Sometimes she would come home after a few hours. Sometimes she wouldn't come home for days. But they weren't in a fight… so what was happening?

Astoria traced her fingers against the scarred trunk of a tree, where it and she stood in the garden frosted with snow. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was why she hated coming here, too many memories, and too much regret. But sure enough some moments thereon, beside the tree swinging to and fro, on the spot right next to her was a shadow shaped in her fancy—a broad set of shoulders and a beloved head full of dark brown curls.

She didn't dare to turn around, but said: "You're not actually standing behind me, I'm sure of it. How else could you get into this garden?"

Astoria wished there was no response, for the sound of his voice spurred a fresh brand of grief: "Because I'm always with you, so look at me," he said.

She turned her head an inch at a time, and saw the handsome face of Theodore Nott standing an arm's length away from her. She had not heard the sharp pop! of an Apparition, nor would there be an extra set of footprints marking his path towards her… yet there he was.

Warm tears leaked from her eyes, and she left him behind, treating him as a ghost (no, not a ghost because those could pass through you—that was how she realised the Theo she saw was not a ghost), but a spectre in the winds of her delusions.

"Astoria!" he called out to her, and she turned her head sharply; she wanted to jump into his arms and hug him, but she continued her rigid steps away from him, slowly, movements like a monolith of stone. She would not move closer, extend a hand and discover there was nothing in her belief. He too did not—could not move any closer, for she was the one who willed this to be so, out of her own volition or not, lest her dream should fade.

By the time Astoria felt calm enough to Apparate, her shoes were ruined from the slush and mud of the gardens. She shivered from the cold and pulled her jacket tighter around herself. As she crossed the road towards her apartment complex, she heard footsteps beside her. She glanced to her side to see Draco, taking one slow step at a time, matching her pace.

"You'll ruin your fabulous shoes like that," he joked. She couldn't even smile at him… and to her horror let out a small hiccup. Draco grimaced at the sombre look on her face; even the copious amount of concealer and illuminator could not take away the sleepless nights off her countenance. He said nothing, and took one of her cold hands, laced his fingers with his and put them into his pockets. Astoria sniffed, partly from the cold and from being moved to tears by this perfect gesture; years may have restored buildings and policies, but time only smudged the sharp pangs of loss and pain from the war.

Sensing she needed some time alone, Draco stopped right in front of her door to her ridiculously neat apartment. She hated disorder; a trait manifested when she had been forced to categorise what was real and what wasn't. He pulled her into a hug, and she held him as though her heart was a boat on the stormy sea and he was an anchor for her soul.

"Hey…" he said, and his fingertips ran through the length of her windswept hair. "I'm here for you."

'I'm always with you' and 'I'm here for you'. That was the difference between someone who you clung to for familiarity, who was always beside you; and someone you ought to choose—someone who could support you, who could get you to move on, to grow.

After a long, long time Astoria let go of Draco and studied his face; the low lighting illuminated his eyes, making them appear more silver than gray. "You're kind of beautiful," she blurted out. Then she realised how stupid she sounded. She hadn't done this romance thing in a long time.

Draco gave a low chuckle. "So are you, and I'm not saying that just to woo you, or to prove a point to anyone or anything…" he trailed off. His cheeks turned an unfamiliar shade of pink which suited his unexpected bout of ineloquence. He paused, having trouble conveying what he wanted to say, yet Astoria understood.

"There are people you like less when you get to know them better… and there are others you like more and more."

"Really? And which one am I?"

Astoria answered his question by kissing him, because she wanted to. And more than the physical act of walking away, more than putting anything in the form of words, she let go.

A/N: Happy new year and best of luck for 2016!