Warnings: vampire jokes, suicidal thoughts.
one: half-empty
Every morning, Hermione would wake with the expectation of groggy mumbling and a warm embrace. Every morning, she would feel the immeasurable sting of disappointment at finding herself alone and force herself from the confines of the cold blankets.
They were both creatures of habit. The alarm would ring and Hermione would sigh before gently turning the offending noise off. Ginny would roll over, consequently into Hermione, in order to continue sleeping and keep her lover in the bed with her. They would snuggle for a few moments, enjoying the warmth of their bodies, before Hermione would insist upon getting out of bed for coffee.
Today, there was nothing keeping her there but her own lack of comprehension about where Ginny had gone. And even that could not destroy the realities of being alone in her bed every morning, the coldness she felt there. The sheets still smelled of Ginny, her perfume and sweat. Their lovemaking. It was all there, on this bed they had shared.
Loneliness was enough to get her moving. She only let herself crawl into bed when she was unable to keep her eyes open anymore. The memories were too painful to continue going through. It was still so fresh and open.
Fresh enough to make her take two mugs out of the cupboard – always two. She would hold the extra mug in her hand and stare at it; feeling like a revelation should come from it. If she still took out two, would that mean that Ginny would finally come home? She hoped, as single lovers do. She hoped for some kind of miracle in the form of a cinnamon-colored mug.
Caffeinated, Hermione left her cup by the sink to shower, leaving the door open slightly as to not hear Ginny trying to be sneaky. The redhead would sleep through the first five minutes of the sounds of running water before she would creep into the bathroom and slink through the sheer curtain to allow the hot water and Hermione's body to finish what the alarm had started.
Alone, it took Hermione fifteen minutes. The water, turned hot enough, gave the illusion of fingers brushing across her skin, steam visibly rising and fogging the air around her. It helped take the edge from the chill she always felt now. Ginny had taken her warmth with her to the grave.
She closed her eyes while she washed her hair. Ginny used to do it for her; she would thread her fingers within the slightly curly locks and massage her scalp gently. Hermione reveled in the feeling. She paid special care to how she washed herself, trying to recreate the softness of Ginny in her hands.
Finding clothes to wear was a chore. She had yet to clear away Ginny's clothing; everything smelled like her, even freshly-laundered articles. She wanted to cry every time she opened a drawer.
Ginny liked helping her dress, liked helping her decide what to wear. They would speculate together; Ginny just wanted another excuse to look at her naked form before they would both have to dress and leave each other's company for a majority of the day.
Hermione dressed quickly and left the apartment.
…
Time moved like it didn't want her to ever leave her office. She turned her heart off and made Floo calls to distant international relations: school heads, ministry representatives, people with such thick accents Hermione was swimming in them. They were all to serve different purposes, but the underlying message was always clear: keep them chained to Britain.
She talked to a dragon specialist in Romania. She was afraid he was going to see her tears through the connection, become offended, never want to speak with the British Ministry of Magic ever again.
But it would mean that she would never have to think about Romania.
…
"It's just for a couple of days," Ginny told her, sending more socks into her trunk. They arranged themselves neatly on top of her jeans. "I'll be staying with Charlie and his new boyfriend."
"You'll owl?" Hermione asked her uncertainly, feeling heavy-hearted. Since their engagement, they hadn't spent any night apart. Despite her logic, her fear that something would take Ginny away from her was stronger.
Ginny turned to her and smiled crookedly before pulling the brunette into her arms. "I'll owl you every day," she promised.
…
Hermione shook her head free of cobwebs and turned to see Fleur Delacour waiting for her. She sighed inwardly. The French woman would not abandon her persistence; finding the energy to deny her was becoming frustrating.
"Lunch today?" Fleur asked, fiddling flirtatiously with a quill still black with ink. "You have denied me twice this week. Perhaps you could indulge me, just this once?"
She sighed outwardly. She was so empty; maybe she did need some company. Hermione realized, after some thought, that she hadn't even eaten in days. "All right," she heard herself say, half-wearily. "Just this once."
The café was crowded and loud. Hermione had become used to the deafening quiet she had surrounded herself with recently. She retreated slightly, unwilling to go through with the implied social interaction; ordering, small talk, Fleur's questioning: how are you holding up? Is there anything I can do? But the French woman pulled her closer, their arms touching, and led her to a two-chair table against a wall.
Trapped by surrounding tables and their occupants and a commitment to water and a hummus sandwich (which had been randomly picked off the menu), Hermione pulled in a large inhale to prepare for the slew of "too much information" questions to come. The pity. The sympathy. The condolences that meant nothing.
"She died in Romania, didn't she?" Fleur asked quietly, after nearly five minutes of complete silence.
Hermione dropped away without moving. "Yes." It was a hollow answer. It had become quite obvious to civilization that Virginia Weasley had died in Romania. It was less than obvious that Hermione had died there as well.
"You were together a long time," Fleur continued. There was no question mark. It was okay for Hermione to stay silent. "The paper said it had been five years."
Only five? Hermione wanted to ask. The ring on her finger had promised her an eternity. Where had that gone?
With Ginny, buried with red and orange tulips and Hermione's heart. Tulips had always been Ginny's favorite. There was a painting of tulips on the wall; a bright, sunny field of them under a blue sky.
The tulips were moving. Hermione closed her eyes briefly and saw an open road, Ginny driving them through the country, wanting to look at the stars. It had been a good day, full of loud music and sex in fields and random stops to take photographs, to sketch. Ginny said she loved driving, but was afraid to do it in the city.
"Hermione," Fleur said, voice dripping with honey-soaked concern. The blonde moved toward her across the table, hand outstretched to touch her. "Are you all right?"
No; this was all wrong. Hermione focused in on Fleur's eyes and saw them as light blue-grey, flecked with green. Smiling, happy eyes. Then she blinked again, and they were just grey. Just grey.
"I have to go," she said shakily, blinded by tears and the feeling that Ginny should be the one she was eating lunch with. But Ginny was gone; Ginny would never be with her again.
"Hermione," Fleur tried again. Pity and helplessness snuck into her voice. It grinded against Hermione's skin like rounded nails, pushing, threatening to break her.
"No." She was shaking her head. "I can't… I can't do this." She shoved back her chair and left the French woman alone to deal with her defeat.
She left a half-empty glass of water.
…
Where was Ginny? Why hadn't she decided to come back?
Hermione wandered around their apartment, unable to settle and unwilling to leave. The incident at the café was ages ago. She wondered what Fleur thought of her now; strong Hermione Granger, falling apart at the seams like an old rag doll. Every picture frame she fondled was a seam ripper to her skin, pulling out black thread.
She had thought that the first time she and Ginny had broken up that that had been pain. It had been the deepest form of heart-wrenching agony she had ever experienced. She had never stopped crying.
But what was this? It was like her soul had been ripped out. She had never felt so empty, so without purpose. So dead to the world.
She hated being here; she hated the complications of being alone. She hated that Ginny had left her to fend for herself, no heart to speak of. Hadn't the redhead understood that Hermione would be lost? How could she have just let her go like this? Why hadn't she come back yet?
How long had it been now? Three weeks; maybe four. Time didn't really matter. Hermione based her routine off of predetermined deadlines. She would be to work by eight. She would come home by six. She would fall asleep at ten. Her body had become so accustomed to this routine that she didn't even have to think about it. In reality, the only thing Hermione found comfort in was sleeping.
She wished she could fall asleep and never wake up.
She thought wildly about how maybe no one would really miss her. They would understand if she left, too. They would stare at her empty body with pitying eyes and understand that she left because Ginny was gone. It was madness, pure madness, which would take her down. The unyielding misery of grief, always present in the back of her brain. Love like that never disappeared or dissipated at all. She would be stuck in this hollow shell until the day of her death.
But Ginny would never forgive her for taking her own life. She could see the encounter, wherever they went when they died: Ginny's arms crossed, Hermione's wrists slit but no longer bleeding. Both of their forms would be solid with an ethereal glow; transcendent.
"What about everything we worked for?" Ginny would ask, eyes brimming with tears. She would clutch at Hermione's hands and run her fingers over the dried blood.
"It died with you," Hermione would try to explain, crying red tears.
Ginny would shake her head. Hermione would feel the weight of her disappointment like a mountain on her shoulders. "No, Hermione," she would explain, their eyes meeting. "It died with you."
She woke up to these dreams sometimes. They kept her alive. Alive, but barely breathing.
…
"I'll make you a sandwich," Harry said. He had appeared in her apartment like a shadow, his dark hair and brooding malachite eyes fitting for the scene. The rooms were dark, lit by the grey-purple light of dusk.
"I'm not hungry," flew out of her mouth like a bird let out of a cage. "Besides, I haven't invited you in."
Her best friend rolled his eyes, raising an eyebrow. "I know I'm pale, but leave the vampire jokes at the door," he told her.
"I wasn't joking," she said, bristling. She didn't want company. She didn't want to be fed. She didn't want to have friends or relationships. She simply wanted to be left alone.
Harry sighed sadly. His shoulders sagged slightly, but his resolve was fast. He walked to the kitchen and began pulling out the necessary ingredients from their designated spots.
She let him, feeling sorry for her actions, and rested her weight against the counter. Harry loved Ginny, too. She opened her mouth to apologize, but found herself unable to speak. Her emotional disposition was even more fragile than a wine glass balancing on the edge of a knife; as Harry worked to create her sustenance, she felt the wine glass slipping down the blade.
Ginny; she missed Ginny so much. Harry was like a representation of loss as a whole. The Boy Who Lived had seen far too many die. One minute, she felt infinitely desolate; the next, she felt selfish and naïve. Why should she cry for one person, when Harry had been seeing his loved ones die since his birth?
She was a wretched teenager again; but no, that brought back too many memories. Her first kiss, sloppy and wet, with a boy who could barely pronounce her name. The second, the third, the fourth, every kiss after that was delivered by the most desired girl in the school. Studying by the lake, the breeze billowing their skirts up, exposing milky calves and the briefest glimpse of a shapely thigh. Her first sexual experience was in a broom closet. They had been too afraid to paw at each other in the public eye.
Then all she could see, in the brightest clarity, was a sixteen-year-old Ginny in her Hogwarts uniform, close and looking up at her shyly. Hermione's blood roared in her ears. She watched this memorized Ginny's lips move, form the words "I love you." It had been the first time Ginny had said that. She knew it better than she knew her own heart.
"Hermione?" Harry asked, shaking her shoulder gently. She abandoned the image of Ginny and looked at him with widened eyes. He frowned sympathetically, setting the sandwich on the counter to be dealt with later, and pulled his best friend into his arms. "Hermione…" he said again, lacking the quixotic tone of its predecessor.
She cried into him for a long time. She understood that this was what she needed to do. He did nothing to move her, to calm her down; she appreciated the fact that he was there because of that. Despite his gender's natural clueless state when it came to women, Harry was surprisingly empathic.
When she finished, finding little to no strength left to release the grief she still felt, Harry smiled at her half-heartedly and re-offered her the sandwich. She took it with a small smile of her own and slowly began to eat; she hadn't even realized she was hungry.