Chapter 35

The next morning, Viktor sat on the rim of the bathtub, clad only in faded jeans (and looking absolutely scrumptious, in Hermione's opinion). He was watching her attempt to tame her wild curls. He was so glad she was growing her hair out again. He loved to tug the curls and watch them spring back into place, brush his cheek against her hair, see the wind blow it.

Of course, he was thinking about her hair so that he wouldn't think about what she was doing. He didn't want her to go talk to her husband or go to her old apartment by herself. The man was cruel and violent. He wanted to be there to protect her, not to mention crush the irritating little redheaded idiot. He knew she wouldn't like it if he insisted he go. She felt like she needed to do this herself.

Viktor, he told himself, the girl battled Voldemort. Don't you think she can handle one sniveling boy?

It wasn't that she couldn't handle him; it was that she shouldn't have to. He was her man now; he should do it for her. He should be beside her, taking care of stupid little boys who wanted to hurt her. He was hers.

"You vill not let me go?" he asked softly, one last time. He'd been asking most of the morning.

She smiled at him. "I need to do it, Vitya. Besides, if you go, he'll think I'm leaving him because of you, and I'm not."

"I understand that…I just vorry."

She let go of her stubborn hair and came over to him. He wrapped his arms around her waist and laid his cheek against her soft stomach. She played with his hair. "I'll be fine, love. I can handle him, and I'll keep my wand close in case I need it." She cupped his cheek and tilted his face up to hers, gazing into dark, concerned eyes. "Thank you for caring enough to worry, though. I love you, and I'm coming home for good. You'd better make some closet space for me," she joked, trying to alleviate his worry. "I can't keep wearing your clothes forever."

"I vould not mind. I like you in them. And out of them." He gave her a soft spank, and she laughed and went back to her hair. He tried to bury that worry. She was a grown woman, and she didn't need him for this. Tonight she would come home to him. After practice, he'd get to work on that closet space for her.

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Hermione stood outside the apartment she'd shared with Ron for the past five years, dreading going inside. She'd been here ten minutes, thinking, wishing she could avoid it and go back to Izbor.

She felt like a different person since she'd chosen Viktor, a happier, more confident person, and she liked the feeling. Being around Ron made her feel...small, like she wasn't worthy. She remembered a time when he'd cursed Draco Malfoy for insulting her Muggle lineage; now he did it often himself. Viktor, who didn't have anyone in his family who wasn't pureblooded, didn't care. Viktor, who'd gone to Durmstrang--where only purebloods were admitted--, loved her despite her heritage. Despite her know-it-all tendencies, despite her crazy curls, despite every flaw she felt she had, Viktor wanted her.

Logically, she knew that Ron cut her down to make himself feel more important. Emotionally, it was harder to write off. Ron had been one of her best friends all though school, even though they'd fought quite a bit. He had fought in the war beside her. He'd been a part of her life for years, and now, he wasn't. But then, he wasn't Ron anymore, either.

She couldn't be married to someone who hurt her anymore, whether that pain was physical or emotional. She realized that now, understood that she wouldn't let herself be treated like that. It didn't matter if the marriage had failed; it wasn't her fault. They had married young; they'd changed as they'd aged, and being on the front lines of a war hadn't helped. Ron had always had a fierce drive to prove himself; finally it had defeated him, pushed him into a deep envy of anyone who had succeeded.

Hermione took a deep breath and stepped up to the door. Thoughts of Ron, the real reasons she had to end her marriage, filled her head as she turned the knob.

The apartment, so filthy it was unrecognizable, was empty. She was glad; she'd have some time to pack before anyone came, if anything she'd had was worth packing. She made her way to the bedroom, carefully picking her way around the beer bottles and cigarette butts littering the floor.

She opened her keepsake trunk, glad she'd used a locking charm Ron couldn't break to seal it. Her memories were in there, safe. Childhood keepsakes, her teddy bear, the plastic princess from her sixth birthday cake, the Mickey Mouse ears from a trip to Disneyland. Photos of her parents, keepsakes, her father's favorite tie, her mother's perfume. The collar Crookshanks, her cat, had worn. Letters from Ron and Harry when they'd been apart during the war. Letters from Viktor, tied together with the ribbon from her Yule Ball dress. She smiled as she sifted through these things, glad she had kept them, thankful Ron hadn't figured out a way to break the charm. Her dresser drawers had been dumped on the floor; her desk had been turned inside out. Most of her clothes from the closet were on the floor, filthy, probably used by whatever woman Ron had brought home with him. She salvaged what she could, packing it in the trunk. She had just muttered the locking charm when she felt someone in the doorway.

She turned around, and Ron was there. Her wand was in her sleeve, where she'd promised Viktor she'd keep it. It was an old trick from the war that Ron had never remembered to do; she hoped, if things got bad, he'd forget it today as well.

"I wondered when you'd turn up," he said. His voice was clear; he wasn't drunk yet today.

She sighed. "I'm packing what's left of my things, Ron. I'm filing for divorce when I leave here."

He reached into his pocket, and she watched his hand closely, suspiciously. She didn't want him to get the best of her. She didn't think he could, but he had been good once upon a time, before their life soured.

He pulled out a packet of papers and tossed it on top of her trunk. She picked it up; the edges were worn, as if it had been in his pocket for quite some time.

"Divorce papers?" she asked, voice soft. "When did you get them?"

"I've been waiting for you to decide; I knew you would eventually. I got them the day after your trip to Bulgaria. The day after we made love for the last time." He sighed, and his voice softened. "The night you called me 'Vitya'."

Her eyes widened with surprise. She'd been fantasizing then, yes, but she hadn't known she'd done that. No wonder he'd thought she was cheating. She hated that she'd hurt him. She supposed that when relationships end usually both people wind up hurt in one way or another. The pain tended to go both ways.

"I'm sorry, Ron," she whispered.

"It's that damned Bulgarian bastard, isn't it? I didn't realize it then, not until the night at the club. It's your nickname for him or something."

"I'm not leaving you because of him or anyone else. I'm leaving because of you. I won't hang around to be hurt anymore."

"It's because of him that I--"

She cut him off. "No, Ron, it isn't. Don't bother trying to lie; you'd already been sleeping around when that happened, and drinking, too. It's because of your damned ego. You can't stand the fact that other people are achieving their goals and you haven't."

"You've never thought I was good enough for you! No one has!"

"Ron, you've always been good enough for everyone except you, until you turned into an entirely different person."

"Even my family can't stand me anymore! You've probably turned them against me; next thing I know Viktor Krum will be sitting in my place at Mum's table."

"Stop drinking, sleeping with everything that moves, and teaching foul language to two-year-olds, and maybe you'll be welcomed back. But, Ron, this has been too much for me. I'm leaving, and I won't be back. Where do I sign these papers?" She was amazed at how calm she was. It felt like a business meeting. Shouldn't she feel something?

As she walked out of the apartment, trunk rolling behind her, papers signed, Hermione did feel something: completely free.

And as she stepped into her new bedroom in Izbor, and Viktor, grinning, showed her the drawers he'd emptied for her, she felt something else: perfectly, amazingly happy, and incredibly, intensely loved.