These characters are not mine, no matter how much I wish they were. I
promise I will put them back where I found them when I am done!
"You're late again, Ron," Hermione whispered as he planted a sift kiss on her cheek. "The longer I'm away, the longer they have to find me. Honestly, I feel like a monkey in a zoo." She peered around him to the restaurant window.
"Hermione," Ron said, reaching across the table to cover her hand with his. He had a callous on one finger from holding a quill, she knew from memory. "Aren't you, sort of?"
She snatched back her fingers and smoothed her hair back with the other hand. "I am not. I am myself, and they have no reason to follow me around -- "
"Don't they? Coffee, tea, and some biscuits, please," he said to the waitress. He turned back to her. "After all, you're married to-"
"I know who I'm married to, Ron. You don't have to tell me. Everyone knows who I'm married to. And they have photographs to prove it." She waved one hand wildly at the windows of the café, where photographers would soon begin to congregate.
"Say his name," Ron said. "Tell me his name."
"Ron, I ." She stared at her cup of coffee, valiantly trying to ignore him.
"Why won't you say his name, Hermione? Go on, say it."
"Harry!" she hissed, as the waitress brought the coffee. "Harry Potter." She pulled the ring she wore on her left hand off and set it on the table, staring at it intensely. His hands on hers felt the way Harry's had once, concerned and tender, even trembling a bit as he pushed a simple band over her knuckle, sending shivers down her spine with everything it signified and insinuated. "I know my own husband's name."
They had married almost straight out of school, at a time in both their lives when a shared fear of their professors, love for Gryffindor, and easy, childish affection had been enough to create a bond that they thought could outlast anything. They had moved to the magical part of London, where Harry, the youngest Quidditch player in a century, lived in a dreamy wizarding world. Hermione had taken a job as a research assistant in a teaching hospital near their small apartment. Harry had had trouble with her choice, but if Muggle job was good enough for her parents, it was good enough for her.
"We're not doing anything wrong, Ron," she stated, as a matter of fact.
"Oh yeah?" The young Weasley picked up his teacup and took a sip. He, too, watched the ring on the table, as if he expected it to grow legs and billet off the table, but it just sat there, a plain gold band in true Muggle fashion: they both had insisted on unenchanted rings. "Then why can't you use his name? And why is your wedding ring sitting on the table instead of on your finger?"
She snatched up the tiny circle and shoved it back on, all the way against her palm where once there had been a band of pale flesh, but now was all congruous. She hated this conversation: it was cyclical, like a bad telly episode she would have watched at her parents' house. And she could never, ever win, even if it was against Ron Weasley.
The music that had been conjured for the bar paused between songs, and Hermione could catch Harry's name in the announcement. To her, the Boy-Who- Lived would always be just Harry, her best friend and husband. She exhaled sharply and jutted her head in the sound's general direction. "I hate those things."
She took a sip of her coffee. It was too hot, but she refused to let that show on her face and swallowed. Ron looked away from her. "We can't go on like this, Mione."
"Like what?" she snapped reflexively. He didn't move.
"Like this, like what we're doing." His voice was high, plaintive. "We just can't. Even if we both are in London now."
"Ron, you're crazy. Nobody really thinks anything's going on, just whoever writes the headlines for the Daily Prophet. And nothing is going on, right?" Ron still hadn't looked up at her.
Ever since he had gotten a job at the Ministry and moved to London, the two of them had spent more and more time out together while Harry was at his games, slowly getting more and more clandestine as the reporters caught on to what was going on.
The steam from her coffee was making loops across her view of Ron. He was right, of course. This wasn't just two friends from school meeting for the occasional cup of coffee. At least for her, it was becoming the most important part of her life, and a large part of her couldn't forgive herself.
He wasn't talking: he hadn't even bothered to argue with her. "Well, if you're just going to sit there and not even talk to me, I'm leaving." Her chair squawked loudly when she pushed it away from the table as she rose.
"Hermione," Ron said, standing up to look her in the eye. "It's just not fair to Harry."
He kissed her then, no mere peck on the cheek, and the scent of Muggle chemicals and day-old perfume filling him as he said goodbye to her. He had always loved that smell, even before he could stand her, and he was going to miss it.
"Goodbye, Mione. Owl me when you get it figured out."
And so she was left when she had meant to leave, her mouth still itching from where his moustache had scratched her.
She came home that night to find Harry on the thoroughly Muggle sofa they kept in the living room for when her family came to visit. All the lights in the apartment were out, and he must have cooked dinner the Muggle way some time ago.
"I might not have been much of a student, Hermione," his voice penetrating the imposed darkness. "But I am bright enough to figure out that something's going on," he said, pausing harshly, as if the next words were too bitter to speak. "Even if Ron hadn't called for you."
That was the night they had decided to separate. She would always love Harry Potter, but it was simply not meant to be. She cast a spell quickly over the room to separate his from hers (the coffeemaker was hers, of course) and pressed his ring into his palm: he kept the apartment in London with her blessing - she'd never liked London much, anyway - and they separated. Amicably, of course: or so they said, for they'd been friends far too long to stay angry.
Sitting in her parent's study, she wrote letter after letter, some to Harry, some to Ron, some to herself, and some to Professor McGonagall, with whom she had maintained sporadic contact.
"He'll never be the typical Quidditch player, with the groupies, and a different woman every night," she wrote. "But I know he's been dating. In a little way, I suppose it makes me happy. After all, neither of us dated much at Hogwarts." She could hear McGonagall's voice in her head as she wrote. What about Viktor Krum, Miss Granger? Obviously, that had never gone anywhere. Besides, she didn't like a man with too many muscles.
Most of them she kept to herself, in a desk drawer, and but these she sent, tied to the leg of an owl, never telling her parents what she was doing. Later, she wrote:
"I had considered moving back home with my parents in Surrey permanently, but as you remember, they just don't understand what it is I do. They love me, yes, and they always thought Harry was a 'nice boy,' but really, they have no way of understanding what it's like to live with someone like Harry Potter. He gets so wrapped up in his games that it's like I don't even exist, like I'm not there, like I don't matter. I suppose that should have been in past tense ."
She had begun to realize how desperate she was sounding. "I've quit my job at the research facility. To easy not to use magic. I may never fit into the Muggle world. What ever shall I do?"
She sent that owl and it returned a few days later with a reply, an invitation to teach at Hogwarts. It seemed a position had recently opened up.
"You're late again, Ron," Hermione whispered as he planted a sift kiss on her cheek. "The longer I'm away, the longer they have to find me. Honestly, I feel like a monkey in a zoo." She peered around him to the restaurant window.
"Hermione," Ron said, reaching across the table to cover her hand with his. He had a callous on one finger from holding a quill, she knew from memory. "Aren't you, sort of?"
She snatched back her fingers and smoothed her hair back with the other hand. "I am not. I am myself, and they have no reason to follow me around -- "
"Don't they? Coffee, tea, and some biscuits, please," he said to the waitress. He turned back to her. "After all, you're married to-"
"I know who I'm married to, Ron. You don't have to tell me. Everyone knows who I'm married to. And they have photographs to prove it." She waved one hand wildly at the windows of the café, where photographers would soon begin to congregate.
"Say his name," Ron said. "Tell me his name."
"Ron, I ." She stared at her cup of coffee, valiantly trying to ignore him.
"Why won't you say his name, Hermione? Go on, say it."
"Harry!" she hissed, as the waitress brought the coffee. "Harry Potter." She pulled the ring she wore on her left hand off and set it on the table, staring at it intensely. His hands on hers felt the way Harry's had once, concerned and tender, even trembling a bit as he pushed a simple band over her knuckle, sending shivers down her spine with everything it signified and insinuated. "I know my own husband's name."
They had married almost straight out of school, at a time in both their lives when a shared fear of their professors, love for Gryffindor, and easy, childish affection had been enough to create a bond that they thought could outlast anything. They had moved to the magical part of London, where Harry, the youngest Quidditch player in a century, lived in a dreamy wizarding world. Hermione had taken a job as a research assistant in a teaching hospital near their small apartment. Harry had had trouble with her choice, but if Muggle job was good enough for her parents, it was good enough for her.
"We're not doing anything wrong, Ron," she stated, as a matter of fact.
"Oh yeah?" The young Weasley picked up his teacup and took a sip. He, too, watched the ring on the table, as if he expected it to grow legs and billet off the table, but it just sat there, a plain gold band in true Muggle fashion: they both had insisted on unenchanted rings. "Then why can't you use his name? And why is your wedding ring sitting on the table instead of on your finger?"
She snatched up the tiny circle and shoved it back on, all the way against her palm where once there had been a band of pale flesh, but now was all congruous. She hated this conversation: it was cyclical, like a bad telly episode she would have watched at her parents' house. And she could never, ever win, even if it was against Ron Weasley.
The music that had been conjured for the bar paused between songs, and Hermione could catch Harry's name in the announcement. To her, the Boy-Who- Lived would always be just Harry, her best friend and husband. She exhaled sharply and jutted her head in the sound's general direction. "I hate those things."
She took a sip of her coffee. It was too hot, but she refused to let that show on her face and swallowed. Ron looked away from her. "We can't go on like this, Mione."
"Like what?" she snapped reflexively. He didn't move.
"Like this, like what we're doing." His voice was high, plaintive. "We just can't. Even if we both are in London now."
"Ron, you're crazy. Nobody really thinks anything's going on, just whoever writes the headlines for the Daily Prophet. And nothing is going on, right?" Ron still hadn't looked up at her.
Ever since he had gotten a job at the Ministry and moved to London, the two of them had spent more and more time out together while Harry was at his games, slowly getting more and more clandestine as the reporters caught on to what was going on.
The steam from her coffee was making loops across her view of Ron. He was right, of course. This wasn't just two friends from school meeting for the occasional cup of coffee. At least for her, it was becoming the most important part of her life, and a large part of her couldn't forgive herself.
He wasn't talking: he hadn't even bothered to argue with her. "Well, if you're just going to sit there and not even talk to me, I'm leaving." Her chair squawked loudly when she pushed it away from the table as she rose.
"Hermione," Ron said, standing up to look her in the eye. "It's just not fair to Harry."
He kissed her then, no mere peck on the cheek, and the scent of Muggle chemicals and day-old perfume filling him as he said goodbye to her. He had always loved that smell, even before he could stand her, and he was going to miss it.
"Goodbye, Mione. Owl me when you get it figured out."
And so she was left when she had meant to leave, her mouth still itching from where his moustache had scratched her.
She came home that night to find Harry on the thoroughly Muggle sofa they kept in the living room for when her family came to visit. All the lights in the apartment were out, and he must have cooked dinner the Muggle way some time ago.
"I might not have been much of a student, Hermione," his voice penetrating the imposed darkness. "But I am bright enough to figure out that something's going on," he said, pausing harshly, as if the next words were too bitter to speak. "Even if Ron hadn't called for you."
That was the night they had decided to separate. She would always love Harry Potter, but it was simply not meant to be. She cast a spell quickly over the room to separate his from hers (the coffeemaker was hers, of course) and pressed his ring into his palm: he kept the apartment in London with her blessing - she'd never liked London much, anyway - and they separated. Amicably, of course: or so they said, for they'd been friends far too long to stay angry.
Sitting in her parent's study, she wrote letter after letter, some to Harry, some to Ron, some to herself, and some to Professor McGonagall, with whom she had maintained sporadic contact.
"He'll never be the typical Quidditch player, with the groupies, and a different woman every night," she wrote. "But I know he's been dating. In a little way, I suppose it makes me happy. After all, neither of us dated much at Hogwarts." She could hear McGonagall's voice in her head as she wrote. What about Viktor Krum, Miss Granger? Obviously, that had never gone anywhere. Besides, she didn't like a man with too many muscles.
Most of them she kept to herself, in a desk drawer, and but these she sent, tied to the leg of an owl, never telling her parents what she was doing. Later, she wrote:
"I had considered moving back home with my parents in Surrey permanently, but as you remember, they just don't understand what it is I do. They love me, yes, and they always thought Harry was a 'nice boy,' but really, they have no way of understanding what it's like to live with someone like Harry Potter. He gets so wrapped up in his games that it's like I don't even exist, like I'm not there, like I don't matter. I suppose that should have been in past tense ."
She had begun to realize how desperate she was sounding. "I've quit my job at the research facility. To easy not to use magic. I may never fit into the Muggle world. What ever shall I do?"
She sent that owl and it returned a few days later with a reply, an invitation to teach at Hogwarts. It seemed a position had recently opened up.