.
***** HERMIONE *****
A week had gone by, and the pouring rain had finally had eased to a drizzle. I had spent a fitful week not sleeping and listening to the storm rage outside each night. My irrational fear of thunder had me curled in a ball buried beneath the covers, and the light left on.
My first morning in my little place of refuge had been spent on the couch reading, with a half-eaten piece of toast on the coffee table and a cold cup of tea beside it. My appetite had not returned, and the toast had been an internal fight with my conscience. I knew I had to eat, but nothing had any taste, and the way my stomach churned at the thought of food, I wasn't sure I could keep much down anyway.
And I had not improved over the course of the week. Surviving on little more than tea and water and the occasional bite of toast. And the weather wasn't helping. The tension that had begun to leave me when I had first arrived, had built back up – I hated thunder – and I had begun to question whether I had actually made the right choice. The days were fine, but the nights were my own personal hell.
But as the storm eased, and the rain turned to mist, I felt the sudden urge to go outside and feel the wind on my face. I put my beanie on – rueing the fact that Molly had been the one who had knitted it for me - pulled on my coat and I hauled myself out of the cottage. I took the steps slowly, but despite the rain soaking them to a slippery hazard, I wanted to get to the beach.
The air was fresh, made clear by the rain, and the wind was like ice as it flicked against my face. I breathed it in, the salty tang of the sea air filling my lungs and burning my chest.
I slowly made my way down the stairs, slipping about halfway down, but I refused to give in and turn back. I wanted to get to the beach, needed to get to the beach. I took each step one at a time, and when I finally stepped off the last wooden plank, I let out a shaky breath. The sea was choppy and angry, as if it was waiting for me to make my way to the beach and could show me that it was sympathising with me.
I felt tears slip from my eyes, again, and I wiped them away. I wouldn't allow the hurt and pain I felt come with me, wouldn't the angry beauty of the sea in front of me be entwined with the memory of him.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and wandered along the wet sand to the jagged outcrop of rocks at the end of the beach. I took in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, as if clearing the negativity from my soul. I stood watching the sea for several long minutes before turning and following my footprints back along the sand. Halfway back I stopped and plonked myself down, kicking off my canvas shoes and pulling my knees to my chest, and wrapping my coat tightly around me. I closed my eyes and just breathed. The wind, and the waves, and the occasional seabird were the only sounds I could hear. The seclusion settled my frayed nerves, and I felt like I was the only person on the planet.
And I hoped that the seclusion would help me find the calm I needed to clear my head. I wanted to put Ronald Weasley behind me, but it was still so raw and the hurt I felt was unlike anything I had ever known. And I was embarrassed by my own naivety, the whole truth gnawing at me and causing me to question how I had been so stupid as not to see it.
We had argued constantly about how he wanted to live in the spotlight, but how I hated it. We argued about work and marriage, and how he wanted to start a family, and how I wasn't ready for any of that. In fact, we had argued more often than not in the past year, but I told myself that it was normal, that we'd been together for six years and that there were bound to be hiccups.
And the most heartbreaking thing of all was that I had been so committed to Ron that I had been oblivious to the signs. Signs which were so obvious in hindsight. More and more late nights at the office; more and more overnight travel with the Aurors; more and more 'strategy' meetings that included dinner, but not wives or girlfriends. And the biggest clue? About a year before, Ron had started using condoms again. And I blindly accepted his explanation that since I was the one that had been so against starting a family, he was simply following my wishes and ensuring that I wouldn't become pregnant before I was ready.
I had thought it incredibly considerate and thoughtful. And rather stupidly, it just made me love him more.
And of course, the worst part of it all was that I had believed him. Had believed that he was faithful and committed, despite the disagreements we had had. I had believed him when he had said he would wait until I was ready.
And then I walked in on him doing the exact same thing I had asked him to do with me. Sex on his desk; sex on the couch, sex in the shower; sex anywhere else but the bed. But he had refused, asking me what would happen if we were caught. And he wasn't just worried about being caught at work. In his mind, anyone could walk into our house, at any time of the day, and if we were on the couch naked, what would they think?
I had relented and gave up trying to make him more adventurous, settling for just unsatisfying bedroom sex, believing his stories of being shy and reserved, of being cautious. And believing his romantic lines – at least I thought they were romantic at the time – of not wanting to even take the chance of anyone else seeing me in the way that only he wanted to see me.
I had gone over and over that fateful day – more times than any sane person should – and what I came up with was anger. Anger at myself for being so blindly stupid, but mostly anger at him. And I had asked myself repeatedly, why? Why would he do that with her, and not me? Why did he not think of me like that, even though I had made it perfectly clear that it was exactly what I had wanted?
But I also told myself that my obliviousness to his infidelities were nothing on his ignorance when it came to the attention I received. I may have been completely blind to his actions behind my back, but the one thing I hadn't failed to notice was the sidelong glances and stares whenever we were seen in public. I knew how other men looked at me, and on more than one occasion I had had offers, but I had dutifully ignored them since I assumed that Ron was as committed to me as I was to him.
My friends all told me not to blame myself, but I couldn't stop. And I didn't want to torture myself over it, but it was who I was; the obsessive, the planner, the over-thinker. I never acted on impulse, and I hated surprises. It was maybe why I acted as I did when I found him.
My friends had also told me (to the point where I had become sick of it) that they would have sent him flying through the nearest window. But none of them had been there, none of them had experienced it, none of them knew the gut-dropping sensation I had felt when I had walked into that room.
And I say gut-dropping because that's what it was. There was no heartbreak, no sense of wanting to cry, just the instant rush of adrenaline that made me sick to my stomach, and I instantly understood the fight or flight reaction that naturally occurred within the body. There had been no question as to what my response would be, and maybe he had known it. I had stood up and faced more in my short life than anyone should have, but in this instance, flight had been my only instinct.
And when the truth came out – the whole truth - and numerous women were lining up to be known as one of the women who had been just another of Ronald Weasley's conquests, I had been physically ill.
One woman I could have accepted - I would never forgive him of course - but if the woman I had caught him with had been the only one, I could have walked away with my head held high. But as the number rapidly grew and rose above double digits, I just looked more and more pathetic.
I was the woman who failed to see her boyfriend's wandering eye. I was the woman who had failed to notice the growing number of late nights and weekends at work. I was the woman who had failed to notice the lack of affection being shown to her at home – or anywhere, for that matter. All the classic signs and I was too blindly stupid to see them.
I opened my eyes, resting my chin on my knees and looked back out over the water. My tears had returned, but this time I let them fall. I felt lost. Completely overwhelmed and struggling to keep my thoughts lined up. A deep seated ache had built up within me, an ache that seemed to have set in and I wondered if it would ever leave.
I dug my toes into the cool sand, feeling the rough grains rub against my skin. I wasn't sure how I would do it, but I had to find a way to move forward, to forget the pain and the hurt and the betrayal.
I looked out over the sea, and whispered a quiet help. There was something, something calming and peaceful about the raging water in front of me. Maybe it would take away my anger, take away all the bitterness, all the hurt. I could scream at it, toss all my feelings into it, and the tides would carry those emotions away.
I picked up the small white pebble that was lying beside my foot. I ran my thumb across the smooth surface and closed my eyes, "Please," I whispered and got to my feet. I walked the short distance to the edge of the shore, the icy water lapping at my toes. I looked at the pebble and whispered please help, please take it all away, and reached my arm back, and then I flung the tiny stone as far out into the sea as I could.
I wasn't sure what I was asking, or if I was going insane – which was more likely - but somehow the simple act of throwing a tiny pebble into the sea had made me feel lighter. I exhaled. I didn't care if the feeling lasted for only a minute. I would take it.
And if throwing stones into the sea each day was the act that took the hurt away, I would spend my days down here, on the beach, tossing my life into the water, and hoping that the water would give me something beautiful in return.
******* DRACO *******
I blinked my eyes open, the room was still dark, but the sound of the rain had finally ceased. My week had been hellish, to say the least, and my temper had flared more times than it had in months, which had left me feeling exhausted and my nerves frayed.
I hauled my sorry arse out of bed and threw back the curtains, and was pleased to see that a light drizzle had replaced the steady rain. I stretched my arms over my head, curling my neck from side to side, pulling the remnants of sleep out of my body.
I looked down at myself, and smirked. Another brilliant reason to not have neighbours; I could stand naked in front of my windows and not have to worry about being seen. But then again, maybe I wouldn't really care.
Deciding not to roam around naked – I never knew when Blaise or Pansy would just show up - I pulled on a pair of flannel sleep pants and a t-shirt and made my way downstairs. I started coffee and opened the fridge, standing there for half a minute, before deciding there was nothing I wanted and shut the door again.
It was through Grangers' influence that I no longer had a house elf, and I had learned to take care of myself. My fantasy of being with her had caused many changes in my life which at one time I would never have thought possible. Of course I would never admit it was her doing, so I had made up a story of how I wanted no part of my father's influence, and I refused to live in the manner with which he had poisoned my mind. It had been a complete disaster at first, but my stubbornness and sheer determination had seen me through. I learned how to cook, I could clean and I could take care of myself. But on mornings like these, I wished for someone to do it all for me
I took my coffee to the window and looked out, enjoying the quiet moments before the inevitable panic of the week from hell set it. The sky was still dull and overcast, the low clouds indicating that the storm was nowhere near finished, and my initial thoughts of maybe going for a run to clear the fog in my head were pushed aside. If the storm did kick up again, I didn't want to get caught out in it; pissed off and drenched was not something that I wanted to be.
Movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention and my gaze drifted down the hill. A small figure – female if the pink woollen hat was anything to go by – was making its way slowly down the steps that led from the deck at the back of the cottage to the beach below. I watched with baited breath, as she took each step carefully - the planks of the stairs were steep and precarious enough when they were dry, they would be a near death trap after the storm – and winced as she slipped and almost lost her footing midway down. She gripped the railing and paused, and I could almost read her thoughts. She wasn't giving up. She was determined to reach the bottom, and the wet stairs wouldn't stop her.
I let out the breath I was holding when her feet finally hit the sand, relieved that she had made it safely. I wasn't sure why I suddenly felt that way; a week ago I would have happily let my neighbour slide on her arse all the way to the bottom, and probably laughed gleefully at her misfortune. But there was something, something I couldn't quiet place. She looked tiny and fragile, and the way she was curled into herself, gave me the feeling that she was not some tourist that had come here to find herself, but someone who was completely lost, and had no idea where to start looking.
I watched, like some weird, creepy stalker, as she paced first up and then back down the sand, her head bowed and her hands gripping her jacket tightly around her, before plopping down and curling even deeper into herself. And she sat like a statue, not moving, just staring out over the water. But I had become the same. My coffee long forgotten, my body as still as stone, as if even the sound of one breath from me would disturb her.
And she sat frozen for what seemed like hours. I couldn't see anything that had drawn her attention, no unmoored boats, or even some stray sea creature that had lost its way, just the wide open expanses of the sea.
The urge to pull on my running gear, to make a show of not noticing that she was there as I ran along the shore, was overwhelming. But I resisted. She was obviously here alone, and there must have been a reason for it. And she certainly didn't need some weird stranger running past her and scaring her senseless.
And then she stood, suddenly, surprising me out of my stupor. She walked towards the water and stood motionless for several seconds, and then lifted her arm and flung it at the waves. She turned and made her way back up the steps, taking her time. Her head was still bowed, so I couldn't see her face, not that it would have made any difference. From this distance her features would all be a blur.
She stopped when she reached the deck at the front of the cottage and turned back to the water. The drizzle had become rain and had gained strength, but she didn't seem at all bothered by it at all. She pulled the pink hat off her head and tossed it into the sky, and I smiled as the wind picked up her hair, blowing her dark locks across her face.
She raised her face and I watched as she lifted her arms in some kind of benediction to the sky. Whatever she had thrown into the water had clearly had an effect on her, as if she had just ridded herself of some weight that had been holding her down.
Her head shifted and she looked up towards my house. I doubted that she would see me watching her from where I was, but I instinctively took a step back from the window.
I wasn't sure what had happened, but a sudden need to help her washed over me. And I wasn't sure how I knew it, but something had happened in her life that had caused her great distress, and all at once I wanted to rush down there, to knock on her door and let her know that I was here if she needed anything. It was a feeling that was almost foreign, and it was a feeling that I had seldom felt – if ever.
I shook my head and told myself to calm down, to not be that crazy neighbour who I was just last night telling myself not to be.
I peered back out the window and she was gone. I sighed, my disappointment heavy. I didn't even know her; in fact I had made it my mission to avoid being seen by her. For all I knew she was some crazy tourist out here to find her inner goddess. But something about her, about her fragility, about her stature, about her awakening that had occurred on the deserted beach intrigued me.
And my neighbour, who this past week I had no desire to meet, suddenly became my focus.
I had to find out more.