Bend and Break

by Summoner Skye

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and everything related is copyright by JK Rowling, Warner Brothers, and other scary corporations that I really would rather not get involved with. Bend and Break is copyright by Keane.

Part 2: Breaking

The house was dark.

The living room was empty, strewn with remains from the party. A half empty bottle of wine sat on the coffee table amid cups and flowers and candles. Streamers hung from the ceiling, looking dejected in the darkness.

Hermione listened. It was quiet, too. The music had ended and everyone had either left or found their way to their rooms.

Everyone but Hermione.

Harry and Ginny had gone up the stairs together, hand-in-hand. Hermione had seen them go into Ginny's room together. And she did not think he would be leaving tonight.

That left Hermione here, in the living room, sleeping alone on the couch.

She kicked off her shoes and trudged to the bathroom. Her bare feet were silent against the aged wood; the soft green fabric of her dress whispered around her knees.

Hermione regarded herself in the crooked mirror. She no longer felt beautiful. Now Ginny's rouges and paints seemed gaudy in the stark light of the bathroom. She turned on the sink and scrubbed her face in the freezing water.

Blinking through the dripping water, Hermione again judged her reflection. She still had mascara smeared beneath her eyes, stark against her pale skin; skin, she now noticed, that took on a sickly hue against the pastel green of her dress.

Hermione rubbed at her eyes again. Why, she wondered, wasn't she doing this by magic? Why, after six years, did it not always come as first nature? But… no, her wand was in her room. Ginny had said to leave it, that she wouldn't need it. Ginny had said to enjoy herself, to forget, just for tonight.

She began to pull the pins out of her hair. The curls had begun to frizz and it was losing its shape. When her hair had all fallen down it lay at odd angles to her head, fluffed and smoothed in accordance to how the pins and sprays had held it in place. She considered brushing it, but decided against it.

"You are beautiful." Hermione told her reflection. She turned out the light.

A search of the cupboards proved how full the house was—all the spare blankets and pillows had been taken. Without her wand, Hermione couldn't do anything about that.

She sat down on the couch.

She vaguely considered going upstairs and taking the bedding from Harry's bed, which she knew must be unoccupied. But, no. Ron was up there, and Hermione had no desire to see him again tonight.

Hermione closed her eyes and tipped her head back, resting it against the warm oversized couch.

Why did everything her so much?

Maybe her heart was breaking.

Maybe it was just the combination of grief, stress, and a little too much butterbeer that was making her feel this way.

Maybe… Hermione couldn't think. But everything, everything, struck another blow towards her heart. Every word that Ron didn't speak, any small kindness lost. Harry and Ginny and how they were so damned meant-to-be. Every motherly act from Mrs. Weasley, reminding Hermione of her own mother shed seen so little of these past years.

Tears welled in her eyes, and Hermione angrily rubbed them away. Wasn't there anything she could do anymore but cry?

Hermione regarded the bottle of wine.

The clock struck once. The half hour. Half past four, or five?

Hermione picked up the bottle, then laughed at herself. Hermione Granger, budding alcoholic? The late hour and butterbeers gave the idea merit. She took a swig.

She didn't know much about wine (one of the few things, she thought, she could say that about), but it was good and it took the edge off her pain.

Ron, she decided, was a bastard. Not worth her time. If he couldn't get it through his fat head how she felt— No. He was worth her time.

She drank a little more of the wine.

Because she was in love with him.

Hermione was willing to blame this on the alcohol, but the thought wasnt accompanied by the usual peals of thunder and blind terror. Now it made sense. Even after this disaster of an evening. It… was a good thing?

Hermione stared at the bottle in her hand, now seriously depleted. Maybe she should do this more often.

She kicked her feet up on the coffee table, admiring Ginny's nail polish. Her eyes trailed up her bare legs, to the fluffy green skirts. Well, maybe she didn't look so bad. She ran her fingers through her hair, working out the tangles and smoothing the curls.

Behind her, there was a creak at the stair.

Hermione sat upright, suddenly ashamed with herself. She turned around and sought the figure out of the shadows. Her eyes, with difficulty, focused.

Ron.

A familiar emotion rose in Hermione's chest, that bittersweet mixture that always assaulted her when he was near.

His hair was tousled and he was yawning as he stepped off the last stair. He was wearing those awful pyjamas Hermione knew too well, the blazing orange ones that didn't come down past his ankles. He stretched, and his shirt pulled up a little—Hermione turned back around. She did her best to quietly set the now nearly empty bottle down, but suddenly she noticed her hands were shaking, and the bottle found its way to the table with a good deal more noise than she had intended.

The ongoing yawn behind her was stifled.

Then: "Hermione?"

Hermione slowly turned around again and feigned surprise. "Ron!" Then nothing. Her mind wouldn't work, no words would come. She clasped her shaking hands in her lap. The wine that had earlier freed her thoughts now clouded them. The room was spinning slowly.

Ron had walked over to the couch and was now staring at her over its back. "What are you doing down here?"

Hermione considered the answer for a moment. "Couldn't sleep."

She saw Ron notice her dress and dirty hair. He had a queer expression on his face. Then he wrinkled his nose. Hermione drew in her breath, and held it.

"Are you… drunk?" He asked, voicing the final syllable incredulously.

Hermione closed her eyes and rested here had against the cusions. They were soft, and provided comfort. "I think so."

Silence. He's gone, she thought, gone back upstairs because I'm stupid and drunk and… and in love with him. Shit! Why did it hurt again? Don't cry, she willed. Don't cry!

Then she felt herself falling slightly to the right, and the quiet sound of breathing.

Hermione opened her eyes, and found Ron's, pale in the dark room. In the moonlight she could see each and every freckle. He was so beautiful.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she screwed her eyes shut again. No, the wine hadn't been a good idea.

Ron cleared his throat. "A-are you okay? Hermione?"

Every syllable of her name, soft and distinct, suddenly beautiful on his voice. She decided to be honest. "No." she said, embarrassed at the thickness of her voice.

"Me neither." Ron sounded surprised at his answer.

Hermione opened her eyes. Two tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. She wiped them away.

Ron had turned away, looking at something on the other side of the room. Hermione studied his profile, the long slanting lines that defined his nose and forehead, the surprising roundness of his lips, the way his eyebrows had drawn together.

Hermione couldn't speak. There was nothing she could shape into words. Nothing to say while they still had this great void stretching between them. But her heart pounded and she knew her face was red and… There was nothing to say. And still she cried, great fat tears that rolled slowly down her face, salty when she caught them at the corners of her mouth. Thankfully—and she could think this—she didn't sob, or gasp, or shake. She simply cried. With astonishment she saw matching drops find their way out of Ron's eyes, to be hastily wiped away.

And there was nothing to say. So they sat, her knees inches away from his thighs, heads resting against the couch.

The clock struck. Six loud, deep reverberating beats that echoed through the dark house.

Hermione started. Had she been asleep? Dozing? Her face was tiff with dried tears. As she lifted her head she could feel the contours of the couch dented into her cheek. Ron was looking at here. She rubbed her face. Her legs had fallen asleep. She eased them out from under her, wincing at the sharp pains.

Hermione noted absently that her head had cleared a bit already. The room no longer spun. She looked towards Ron and briefly met his eyes, then turned away.

"Why are you down here?" she asked. Something to say.

He was quiet for a moment. "I was looking for Harry."

Hermione was silent.

"But," She looked at him and he looked at her, seeing her dress and knowing what it meant, "I think I know where he is."

This was a different boy than the one he had been only a year ago, Hermione realized. Even a few months before he never would have tolerated even the idea of… that, but now he was accepting and quiet and didn't even look angry. Last month had taken a lot of the… Ron out of him. She'd changed as well. Imagine, Hermione Granger, sitting alone and getting drunk in the middle of the night.

She made a noise—a laugh, a grunt, a sob. She didn't know.

Ron was still looking at her. Then he turned, and stood up.

"I'm going back to bed. Do you want to come?"

Hermione's breath caught in her throat.

"I mean, uh," he coughed, "you can sleep in Harry's bed."

"No." She said. "Thanks."

"Um, okay then. Good night."

"Good night."

Hermione resisted the urge to turn and watch him go up the stairs. Instead she laid down and tried to arrange herself comfortably.

Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten.

She was just drifting off to sleep when Ron came back down, a comforter heaped in his arms.

Hermione murmured her thanks as he spread it over her.

He may have kissed her on the forehead, she wasn't sure.

But then he was gone, and Hermione was left with nothing but a Chudley Cannons comforter and a vague feeling that though nothing had happened, something had.

Meet me in the morning when you wake up,

Meet me in the morning then you'll wake up."

- Keane, Bend and Break

A/N: Its good to finally have this finished. What actually happened at the wedding? Um… we'll just say that Ron was his usual self to Hermione. So… please review? Constructive criticism, please? Thanks much.

- Summoner Skye