After the war, there was no whirlwind romance. In truth, they lived with a clinging desperation. They reached for each other in the night and called out in their sleep, and when fear fluttered its way back in like a vestigial wing, they stayed up together waiting for old enemies to emerge from the darkness.
That summer, they lived in a sort of suspended animation, aimless and idle, feeling like a guitar with too many strings. With no enemy left to fight, Ron and Hermione were left only with their grief. They mourned the fallen and, at times, raged against the unfairness of it all. But time, as it does, continued forward. And eventually, so did they.
Hermione completed her seventh year and Ron became an Auror. After the numbing summer, Ron not only craved revenge, but a distraction. And it worked, for a while. Ron had purpose. But after two years, when the remaining Death Eaters were rounded up and tried for their crimes, his restlessness set in again.
George offered him a job at the joke shop, and he took it. Peace, it seemed, finally found them. They traveled and laughed and loved. They ate dinner with friends and took leisurely walks through the countryside. Life was quiet and lovely.
Ron grew bored, as he did. He quit the joke shop and carried on through a series of odd jobs: Azkaban guard, apparition examiner, and magical security consultant. None seemed to hold his attention for longer than a few years. He decided to take some time to re-evaluate his circumstances and Hermione supported this decision. All she ever wanted was for him to be happy.
Eventually, Ron's increasing idleness gave way to his old insecurities of inadequacy. Paranoia and suspicion infiltrated their home life and Ron demanded to know Hermione's every movement. Once, while Hermione stopped by a street vendor for a bouquet of flowers in Diagon Alley, the shop keeper winked at her.
"For the sun, the flowers are free, as they cannot grow without your warmth." The wizard gave her a toothless smile.
Hermione thanked him and flicked the wand in her pocket to magical deposit payment into the till. It wasn't the first time someone refused to let her pay. She and Ron both received their fair share of fame after the war. There wasn't a place in town that wouldn't hold toast to their health and insist their meals were on the house.
After a few paces down the street, Ron pulled her into an unsuspecting alleyway. He integrated her about vendor. Who was he to her and why did he her free flowers? With calming placations, Hermione convinced him it was nothing. But his foul mood did not recover, and they ended up heading home early.
Hermione's career was taking off at the Ministry and with each promotion she could see Ron's jealousy increase. The more she tried to help him, the worse his temper became.
Then, on cloudy and unsuspecting night, Ron came home flustered, face red as if windburned. He barely made it through the doorway before the confession spilled from his mouth like rotten potion.
"I've slept with someone else."
"Who was it?" Hermione asked.
"Lavender Brown," Ron replied.
"When?"
"At the Summit for International Security and Muggle Affairs."
"That was over a year ago."
"Yeah."
"Was it only that once?"
Ron did not speak, his feet shifting as if on quicksand.
"This whole time?" Hermione's throat burned.
"Hermione, I'm sorry," Ron said. She heard it, in the way he said sorry. It was not the beginning of forgiveness; it was a period at the end of a sentence. The finality of the words palatable in the air.
She never asked him to leave. She wanted him to stay and fight for her. Even after such a betrayal, she thought they would work it out. They went to war together, battled side by side. They waded through the sticky aftermath with their sorrow thick as mud. They could make it through this, too, she thought.
But one minute Ron was standing in front of her as a husband and then the next he was leaving through the front door with a suitcase in hand and a hurried apology trailing in the wind behind him as he disappeared into the chilly night, once again.