Chapter 7: On the brink of dreadful speech and of dreadful hearing
TW: attempted SA
It was in the way she'd stopped writing in the journal, either in the part that she used to track her ovulation or the part where she'd started to track her husband's behavior.
It was in the way she started lingering in the loo for just a few minutes so she could be alone with her thoughts and she could allow her face to relax
It was in the way that she no longer to snipe back when Molly mentioned babies (although maybe she had given up on this a while ago and was only now noticing how quiet she'd become in the Burrow).
Hermione no longer bothered with any of this because she'd reached the unwanted, unfaceable, but undeniable truth that she no longer wanted to be married to Ron.
In moments of grace, she was able to say that her defection wasn't entirely his fault. Ron was no monster, he was just a man and all men were fallible. Ron's greatest strength had been willing things into being - that great determination and belief in others had bolstered her and Harry when they'd been on the run, but when that faith had been shaken (The Goblet of Fire, the Forest of Dean, when she'd walked into the Yule Ball on Viktor's arm) he'd always reacted with the type of cruelty that she knew was just covering up both great disappointment and great uncertainty. He staked his whole worldview on the strength of those convictions and she could appreciate how scary it would be to wonder if one was wrong.
And she wondered if he'd ever wanted something as badly as he wanted to be a father. The disappointment of not even a loss, but a lack, was surely a valid reason for a nontrivial measure of sorrow and anger.
However.
"It was an honest mistake," he non-apologized over breakfast. "My head is so full of the Felton case and the new filing protocols that I just didn't have room for remembering to pick up milk on the way home."
"I know it's just milk, but doing the things you promise me you'll do is important," she repeated for what felt like the thousandth time, an echo from past conversations. "I know you have a lot on your plate, but if you could just try-"
"I don't know what you want me to say, 'Mione," Ron said irritably. "I messed up, I apologized, I said I'd do better in the future. What else do you want?"
A dangerous question, she thought, and not one that she really knew how to answer. Instead, she ran a hand through her hair and took both their plates to the sink.
Unusually, he followed her. "Listen, d'you think that…" this was a soft tone, a tentative tone, something she didn't recognize and was instantly suspicious of. 'What a terrible woman, to be so suspicious of your husband being nice to you,' she scolded herself. "Do you think that maybe all this stress has been bad for you?"
"All what stress?"
"'Mione, look at your hands." She looked down and saw her knuckles white against the sponge as she viciously scraped crumbs of nothing off of a plate.
"Oh."
"Right."
She put the plates down and wiped off her hands, which he instantly took hold of. "I just think that things aren't great for you right now and maybe we should take steps to make them easier for you."
He was right, so right, but what steps could they take to possibly fix this?
"I think you're on to something," she said carefully. "Things have been…I've been feeling a little out of sorts lately, but I suppose I haven't known how to talk to you about it." She couldn't believe they were on the verge of a conversation about this, but part of her was cautiously optimistic even though it felt like pushing a small, wobbly boat onto a vast, uncertain sea. In hindsight, she realized, she shouldn't have had such high expectations.
He broke into a wide smile that seemed horribly out of sync with her own internal whirlwind. "That's great! I'm so glad you feel that way. I've been thinking for a while now that it would be better if you were home-"
"I am home, though?" she said, half in inquiry, not seeing where he was going.
"Right, well, I mean home more. The book shop isn't, well, it's not really serving you anymore-"
God, he was parroting the type of language that Molly Weasley had absorbed from Witch Weekly, the type of garbage about vibes and energy and toxic positivity that made her want to scream. This was so, so far from a solution for her actual problems that it was almost funny. Almost, but not quite.
Surely he noticed that the smile had dropped from her face and her posture had grown wooden and an icy chill was descending in the room, and yet he was still talking. "...not your fault, not really, but I just think we have to try everything we possibly can and Mum was telling me that stress is the worst thing for a witch's body, so just taking it easy is probably a good idea."
"Working at Flourish and Blott's is hardly stressful," Hermione said once she had counted to five and decided that she wasn't going to scream.
"I don't know, you haven't seemed happy since you started there," Ron said doubtfully.
"Do you think that maybe had something to do with you pressuring me to leave the Ministry and take up some menial job in a shop?" She was reconsidering the screaming.
Ron had the audacity to look offended at that. "George works in a shop, you know, and does very well for himself. I didn't realize you considered your job so far beneath you."
Hermione had the good grace to flush a little at that, but she went on doggedly, trying to find a way to make her husband understand: "I'm sorry, you're right, it's just that this isn't what I would have chosen for myself and it's hard to avoid feeling resentful. Can't you see that? What if I asked you to stop being an Auror tomorrow?"
"But me leaving my job wouldn't increase our chances of having a baby!"
"That's not the point! Does the baby matter more than my career?"
"YES!"
She took a step back, blinking. He was leaning forward, hands clenched at his side, breathing hard. She wasn't sure either of them had really expected him to say it out loud, but there it was.
"Yes," he continued more quietly when she didn't say anything. "I think, after nine fucking years of trying, that having a baby is the most important thing you could be doing and I don't understand why I even have to say that. Honestly, Hermione, I know you're brilliant and I've always been proud of you. After Hogwarts, I tried to stand back and give you your space to launch your career while also building our relationship. But you knew I wanted kids; family has always been the most important thing to me. And you never seemed as concerned about not having kids as I was."
Hermione had to admit that this was true. Ron was the one who had brought up marriage first and Ron was the one who had decided they were ready to have children. Of course she had always known that the Weasleys were very family-oriented and of course she had understood that children were inevitable, but they had always felt like an abstraction.
"I did want children," she tried to defend herself. "I did try, I tracked my cycles, I listened to all the things your mum told me to do, I don't know why none of it worked." There was a whiny edge to her voice and she ached with the feeling of failure that she'd carried for so long. It hurt that while she had always tried as hard as she could in everything she'd ever done, this was a thing that she couldn't overcome with natural ability or hard work or research or supplication to the gods.
Ron had been softening slightly, but her defensiveness set him off again and he spluttered back into a rage. "Yeah, well, it doesn't matter, does it? It didn't work and if you actually cared about starting a family you'd be willing to try this, too."
"I don't want to feel like I'm just some incubator to you!" Hermione cried, wringing her hands. She hated that she was losing control like this and she knew that raising her voice would only cause Ron to escalate further, but she just felt so desperate to be understood. "I'm a person, Ronald, and even if I can never have children, I can still be a contributing member of society!"
"That's not enough!" Ron shouted and it felt like she'd been struck by a thunderbolt.
"Not enough" was the feeling she'd always had when the children in primary school thought she was too boring or too strange to befriend.
"Not enough" was the feeling she'd had when, even though she was the first to master the Levitating Charm, she'd still overheard Ron saying she had no friends.
"Not enough" was the feeling she'd had when she was called Mudblood and Death Eaters attacked her and she realized that part of the wizarding world outright rejected her and thought she didn't deserve to live, much less have magic.
"Not enough" was the scourge she used on herself when she thought about how she should have figured out that Voldemort had left a Horcrux in the Room of Requirement and she should have stood up more for Harry during that terrible fight he had with Ron and she should have made a better argument for staying in her old job.
And there was a very small, primitive part of her that said that there was something fundamentally wrong with her body for not being able to do the one thing that females of all species had done since the dawn of time.
It's the people who are closest to us who know where we're the most sensitive and the worst kind of betrayal is when someone you trust deliberately tromps all over those vulnerable, secret spots in our minds.
"I think that was a cruel thing to say to me," Hermione finally said.
Ron wouldn't make eye contact and his weight shifting showed his discomfort, but he didn't apologize. "That's the way I feel, though," he huffed, bitterness in every syllable. "I'm just being honest."
"Well, if I'm being honest, I think you should go somewhere and clear your head because I don't think we're capable of having a productive conversation right now," she said. He rolled his eyes and scoffed at that, but didn't argue. Ron stomped over to the Floo and grabbed a handful of powder, although he muttered his command to the fireplace and she had no idea where he was off to.
Hermione was left alone to drift to their quiet bedroom and sort through her own thoughts (of which there were many) and come to her own conclusions (of which there were few).
Over the next few months, things did not improve in the Burrow. Honestly (since apparently everyone had been infected by a very pernicious spirit of honesty), things had gotten horrifically worse.
Sweet, bumbling Arthur hemmed and hawed his way through a mortifying conversation where he tried to pat her on the shoulder and tell her that all couples sometimes sailed through a bit of a storm but that they'd work things out. It was a kind sentiment, but then he told her that she'd settle down with time and little things (like her job! Her sense of identity!) wouldn't be stumbling blocks for her marriage.
Less sweet was the way Molly started to side-eye Hermione when she came home from work. The laundry was never quite fresh-smelling enough, the kitchen was never quite scrubbed clean enough, and there were endless queries about the lives (and children) of the other women who had been part of their graduating class.
Most troublingly, Ron had started to spend evenings out with "the lads" from work. These nights were spent at various pubs and it became more and more frequent for Ron to tumble out of the Floo smelling of ale and humming off key. At first, she found it endearing how he smiled sleepily at her as she put him to bed. He also wasn't as likely to start petty arguments with her as he fell asleep quickly and woke up in a quiet mood. But all of that changed during Arthur and Molly's fortieth wedding anniversary trip.
It was an unseasonably hot July in Ottery St. Catchpole; she'd piled all her hair on top of her head and was constantly having to recast Cooling charms as she bent over her little desk in the corner of their bedroom and composed a reply to Percy's latest owl.
He'd been gone for some time now and while she missed his presence at Sunday dinners, she was happy that his project was going well.
Both countries signed the agreement allowing Ireland to import enough British Wolfbane for a three month trial period, which was a big win Percy had written. We have one Potions Master signed on to our attache for now, but we may end up hiring another on the Irish end just to make sure the potions are stable after transit and to oversee the administration.
I've met the Alpha of the pack and a few of the other werewolves. It's taken a long time to establish that we truly want to help them and that they won't be trapped, harmed, or exploited. Fenrir Greyback did some terrible things that I won't share the details of, but he also managed to convince them that any outsiders would try to hunt them. We're still uncovering lies that they were told with the express purpose of alienating them from potential allies, but the Alpha has finally accepted what was done to their pack and is willing to listen.
Unlike when he first started his career, Percy no longer put himself forward; Hermione had to read between the lines and guess at how much he was actually doing, but she was certain that Percy was playing a key role in convincing the Alpha of the pack of the team's sincerity. Percy's letters mentioned that he was frequently writing to Bill to consult with him and that he'd shared Bill's story with the werewolves he was working with in Ireland. Hermione was doubly pleased that the project was having the additional, unexpected benefit of bringing Percy and Bill closer together.
Her own letters to Percy were cheery and full of casual gossip from the bookstore. She wrote almost nothing about her home life and he never inquired. She suspected he was doing his own reading between the lines and she appreciated that he didn't ask any questions that she'd have to evade.
There were relatively few things Hermione was able to appreciate anymore, but one other notable thing was that Molly and Arthur were away on holiday, their first in ages. They'd gone to stay at a beach cottage owned by some distant relative in celebration of their fortieth wedding anniversary. Being left alone in the Burrow with Ron was liberating in the sense that she no longer had to worry about her in-laws overhearing any arguments she had with Ron, and it also meant she didn't have to be quite so diligent with the housework.
But maybe she should have expected what ended up happening.
A sudden clatter at the fireplace startled her into making a splatter of ink on her letter; she Vanished it with a scowl and started to put her writing things away, already inferring from the noises downstairs that Ron would need some attention when he finally navigated the narrow stairwell.
"'Mione!" his slurring voice preceded his lumbering steps.
"In the bedroom, Ron!" she called, hurrying to put her unfinished letter in the desk drawer. It wasn't as if she were doing anything wrong, she told herself, but she had never mentioned to Ron that she was writing to Percy and she didn't know how he would react. Maybe it was just silliness, but it felt like every little thing she did (or didn't do) sparked a fight these days.
"'Mione," Ron called again, bouncing off the door frame a bit as he lurched into the room. He looked somewhat worse for wear and smelled like a distillery, she noted with a wrinkled nose. Usually he had maybe half a dozen butterbeers and came home in a jolly mood, but it seemed like the boys had been drinking something stronger tonight.
Ron clumsily tore off his robes before reaching for her. She winced as he crashed his mouth to hers, his teeth sharp on her lower lip.
"Ouch, Ron, be careful!"
"Don't wanna," he said petulantly, not letting her go. She struggled to gather her senses as he breathed hotly into her mouth, pressing wet kisses against her as his bulk bore her back toward the bed. She didn't realize what he wanted until the mattress hit the back of her knees and she teetered a bit before falling heavily onto her back, knocking the breath out of her lungs.
Ron fell with her, squashing her painfully, as his tongue continued to slither inside her and his hands fumbled around her hips.
"Ron, stop, just give me a second." Hermione was bewildered and overwhelmed; they still had sex, but it was infrequent and never like this. She was repulsed by the sound and feel of his sloppy tongue and the reek of hard liquor was acrid in the air around them. This handsy aggressor did not feel like her husband, and these too-hard, too-wet touches did not feel like intimacy.
"It's always no with you," Ron growled, and the voice didn't sound like her husband's either. "For just once, can you fucking shut up and make things easy?" His hand didn't stop and she pushed frantically against his chest to try to gain an inch of space so she could think.
"Ron, I don't want this," she said desperately, hearing how breathless she sounded and trying to firm up her tone. "Did you hear me? I said stop!"
"You're my wife, I don't have to stop," Ron's voice was muffled by her hair, but his intent was clear. That was the moment that Hermione truly began to panic and thrash beneath him.
In a strange way, as her limbs flailed and her neck wrenched as she struggled, her mind floated free and considered other matters. Hermione didn't know anything about wizarding divorce law (or any wizarding law, really), and she had no idea whether it was true that wizards were permitted to sleep with their wives, willing or not. She had no idea what public sentiment would be toward a woman who had said no. She wondered if anyone would believe she'd been unwilling. She faintly remembered reading something about assault victims dissociating as a survival mechanism and realized that that was what was happening to her right now.
Ron had worked one hand down the front of her pants by the time she snapped back into the present and managed to get a knee up between them. Her right hand scrabbled for something, anything, she could use as a weapon and landed on a water glass on her nightstand.
Her first opening came when Ron removed his hand from where it trespassed against her in order to lean back and unbutton his own trousers. Hermione tried to fling the glass at his head, but she was practically wild with nerves and it whizzed past his head, crashing through the window behind him. He gave an ugly laugh and then fell upon her again; she flexed her quad as hard as she could, bringing her knee up to smash Ron's bollocks. He was so drunk that it took a second for the pain to register, but then both hands went to his groin and his face scrunched into a howl as he slid off of her, falling off the bed entirely and hitting the floor with a loud thud.
Hermione sprang to her feet while Ron was still rolling around in agony and her wand from the bedside table as well as his robe. As she pounded down the stairs, she felt in the pocket of the robes until she found Ron's wand and transferred it to her own pocket, dropping the robe as she fled toward the fireplace.
"The Menagerie!" she whispered out Luna's address, then dove through the green flames.
She'd clearly surprised her friend with her sudden appearance, but to her credit, Luna greeted her with "Hello Hermione, would you like a cup of tea?" after only the slightest pause.
And yes, a cup of tea sounded lovely, Hermione had said through her chattering teeth, and she was only going to sit down for a minute - and also because her legs were turning to mush beneath her - and when Luna asked her if she wanted to talk about things, Hermione said no not really and then listened to Luna talk about full moons and mythical creatures and faerie rings as silent tears rolled down her face.
Hermione spent the night on Luna's couch, but slipped out in the morning to return home to grab the rest of her essentials and return Ron's wand. She Apparated to a spot just down the road from the Burrow and approached with caution, but the clock in the kitchen showed that Ron was at work, so she was able to go upstairs without fear. Their bedroom looked much as she had left it, she noticed with an odd sense of detachment, although it seemed like there should be some visible mark of the seismic disaster that had taken place not even twenty four hours before.
She was Summoning her clothes from the closet and charming them to fold neatly in piles on the bed when she heard the front door open. A shiver of dread filled her veins with ice and the bottom dropped out of her stomach - Ron was an Auror, of course he would know how to cast a spell that alerted him when she returned. Carelessly, she'd put her wand down on the bed and she scrabbled with numb fingers to try to dig it out from a pile of clothes so she could Apparate away.
"Hello? Is anyone home?"
Her first thought was that that wasn't Ron's voice, which allowed her to unclench her jaw.
Her second thought was that the terrible anxiety she'd been feeling must have made her go completely barmy because there was no way that Percy Weasley could be in the house.
And yet, the footsteps coming down the hallway weren't Ron's rushed stomp or Molly's flutter or Arthur's meandering. A light, quick tread paused for a moment and then Percy's thin, pale face rounded the corner as he hesitated in the doorway. She stared at him, wide-eyed and completely agog.
This was not the Percy Weasley she'd had coffee with back in March. His hair was longer now and rumpled as if he hadn't brushed it in days. He had a shadow of scruff on his face that made him look less like a diplomat and more like, well, a man who spent time in the woods with werewolves. His hands were still smooth and clean and tidy, but they were opening and closing and his eyes were as wide as hers, almost frenzied.
For one interminable moment, their eyes locked and then he crossed to her in one long stride and seized her in a way that should have been traumatic given the events of yesterday, but wasn't. She melted against those hands and everything from their torsos to their knees was pressed together and she was so close to him that she couldn't really look at him without going cross-eyed. She could feel his chest rising and falling quickly and smell something citrusy on his breath, and her senses registered a hundred tiny little details but her brain was frozen.
"I'm so sorry," he said in a voice that was hardly more than air, "but I just had to see you. My god, I had to see you."
He pulled back and she felt bereft of his warmth, but the heat of his intense stare made her blush. She held absolutely still as his gaze slid over every inch of her face; his fingers whispered over her hair in a touch so light she wasn't even sure he was really making contact with her. Reverent, awestruck, his fingers ghosted over her curls and down her arms; it was so silent that she could hear the clock downstairs ticking and her thundering pulse somewhere behind her eardrums. Neither of them said a word as he took another step back as his fingers reached her elbows before sliding down to her wrists. Still silent, he aligned their fingertips and pressed ever so lightly before folding those slim digits around her own. It said nothing. It said everything. The moment was so heavy that Hermione wasn't sure she could bear it.
"You're packing," he said simply. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Why?"
She couldn't answer and instead looked away, torn between loyalty to her husband, shame at what had almost happened to her, and a desire to share everything she had ever been with Percy.
He blew out a gusty sigh and dropped her hands, taking a few steps to the other side of the bed and running a hand through his hair.
"It's raining in Ireland," he said abruptly. She raised an eyebrow, puzzled, and he continued. "It's not as warm as it is here and it's raining." He gestured at her clothes on the bed. "Just so you know, you wouldn't need most of your summer things."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," she said, still confused.
"No, I'm sorry, I'm doing a poor job of this," he said, shaking his head. He muttered something under his breath and then looked at her with that intensity she'd come to expect from him.
"Hermione, this is the most impulsive thing I've done since I came to Hogwarts during the final battle, but I came here to ask you to, that is, to offer you a-" he threw his head back and groaned, screwing his eyes shut.
Hermione remained silent, a tendril of hope starting to bloom within her. "Percy, ask me."
One of his eyes cracked open and he seemed to stop breathing for a second, but his mouth finally opened. "Come to Ireland with me."
"What?" She wondered how he had found out that she was planning to escape. She'd had no idea where she would have gone after spending a few days imposing on Luna's hospitality and Percy bursting through the door at just the right moment seemed like, well, magic.
"Just listen, please? I had this whole speech rehearsed and now I've cocked it all up, but I'm going to try to get back on track. Back when the war was finally coming to a head, I was forced to reflect on all that I'd done over the years; I really thought I was making choices that would benefit both my family and myself. I put so much thought into developing this rigid set of rules and checkpoints for myself that I couldn't see beyond them that I was actually becoming a person that I didn't want to be, someone who was more concerned with form than function. Someone who ignored actual people in favor of procedures, and I've taken great care not to be that person anymore."
She realized she was crying again, but wasn't sure why.
"I've watched you wilt for years in this family. It's not been good for you, being here, and I hate it. I know that no one can understand a marriage except the two people in it, but it just looks really, really bad from the outside," Percy said baldly. "I didn't want to overstep and I know I've had a bad habit of dictating how I think things ought to work, so I didn't say anything. But this isn't right and you have to know that you have other options." He broke off and some of the intensity fled from his stare as he began to look uncomfortable. "Ah, I realize it's incredibly untoward to proposition one's sister in law, but I do rather think that observing the proprieties in this case would rather relegate me to-"
"How did you know I needed to escape?" Hermione blurted, stopping his flustered speech. "I mean, you're not wrong, but did Ron contact you last night?"
Percy had started to pace his side of the room, but at her question his movements stilled entirely; slowly, he turned his head to fix her with one beady eye. "Why would Ron have contacted me last night?"
Hermione realized her mistake too late. "Oh! No reason, I just- well, it seemed so strange that you appeared all of a sudden, that's all."
"I was just informed by Bill that Mum and Dad had left for holiday and it was just the two of you in the house," Percy said slowly. "It took me a few days to arrange an international Portkey, but I wanted to try to meet with you alone so you could speak freely."
"Of course, that makes sense," Hermione said faintly, sick with the knowledge that Percy had no idea what had happened between her and Ron. Inadvertently, her eyes darted to the broken window and his followed.
She could tell the instant he noticed the broken pane and she could feel the energy in the room change when he started to put two and two together.
"What happened here?" Percy asked, voice deadly. "Why are you packing?"
"I- I-"
"Did he hurt you?"
"No!" she answered automatically, mechanically. "I mean, not really."
"'Not really?'"
"Well, I stopped him before he could…" she trailed off, wringing her hands as she had the night before, full of agonizing agitation. It was so hard to talk about Ron's betrayal and she felt so stupid and so ashamed. She couldn't make eye contact with Percy.
She heard him approaching her slowly, as if he were afraid of spooking her. Percy had always moved slowly and carefully around her, she realized, always testing the air around her before he proceeded, always checking to make sure that she was okay, that whatever he was about to do was okay. That was another key difference between him and Ron, who would just barge ahead and do what he wanted and then apologize later.
It was such a simple thought, but it made everything clear. The most important truth right now was that she was just so tired of being hurt. Even if she didn't know anything else about herself or her marriage or her future, she could at least say that much.
So she did. "I don't want to be hurt anymore," she said as she looked up at Percy. She was surprised to see how close he was, just inches away from her. The look on his face brought tears to her eyes once again, which mortified her, but also made the chill in her bones start to thaw. "I suppose it all comes down to that, really."
Percy looked conflicted, but to her relief he didn't immediately demand any further details from her. He took her hands in his, watching her face closely for signs of rejection or discomfort while he did so. "I will make you two promises," Percy said after a moment of serious thought. "The first is that I will never, ever put my hands on you without your express permission, nor will I ever allow myself to be in a state where I am incapable of registering your consent. You will not have to fear for your physical safety while you are in my company. Do you believe me when I say that?"
Hermione nodded, transfixed by the way he seemed to understand exactly what reassurance she needed. Later, when she'd regained her sense of humor, she'd reflect that of course Percy Weasley's love language would be, well, establishing rules.
"My second promise is that I will do my utmost to be your intermediary between anyone who wants to get in contact with you. Even my family. Actually, especially my family. I mean it, Hermione, I won't let any of them badger you until you're ready to discuss things on your terms."
"Percy, I can't possibly ask you to damage your relationship with your family and you know that Ron will be absolutely furious."
"Fuck him," Percy said, in the shortest and most shocking statement she'd ever heard him make.
"I don't-"
"Hermione," he whispered, closing the distance even further until she couldn't even see his features anymore because he was so near. She could practically feel the movement of his lips, though, and the heat from his skin warmed her frozen face. "Come to Ireland with me. I'll keep you safe."
And Hermione, who was always the one to swallow her own needs and solve other people's problems, thought to herself I don't want to be hurt anymore and said yes.
A/N: Woof, this was hard for me to write for a few reasons. But I think writers have an obligation to try to humanize their antagonists or else they're just plot devices, so I've done my best to give Ron a decent origin story. I also grappled quite a bit with the SA scene, but I can assure you that there won't be any more of that for the rest of the fic.
